Chapter 85
Quill
No
Playing Mr. Ganz
Carlos Rafael Rivera
How I had ended up in the park with the very person I kept the most secrets from in this town? Well…
Just a moment ago, I had been sitting with Thomas by a tree, watching the hordes of reporters from D.C. and surrounding areas interview readers who claimed to know who Atrianima was.
“I know you know who it is,” Thomas had said, and I had smirked as I had gazed into the distance across campus.
Toward the man in the matte-black three-piece suit and dark blue winter coat, who had lightheartedly walked past the groups of students completely engrossed in the latest drama, heading toward the philosophy department.
“I know that you know who it is,” I had replied and jumped to my feet, proud of Davian and all that he would yet achieve if he actually published a second book.
I would devour it, every word, and use the privilege of knowing the author personally to analyze and understand the book down to its core.
The man I loved was Atrianima. It was as if two essential things in my life had fused together, which, in a life full of conflicts and struggles, resembled heaven on earth.
I had followed him, ready to pull him into a side corridor and shower him with kisses once more, until he felt in every nerve ending of his body that he was loved, that someone wanted him to find his inner peace where his heart and his passion lay.
But I had paused at the corner when I had seen Davian standing in front of Monica’s office. His face ashen, his body frozen in place.
I had heard every word my father had said, had retreated into the shadows as he, without noticing me, had walked past the side corridor, a triumphant smile on his lips.
That asshole.
Davian had also disappeared down the hallway, and I had been torn between rushing after him and confronting Monica, but I hadn’t wanted to risk sitting down next to him on a park bench, in full view of everyone, and taking him in my arms.
And so I had ended up in Monica’s office.
She had looked just like Davian. Not just her posture…
I had been searching for traces of him in her, to confirm that I hadn’t just imagined the conversation they’d just had. And I had found them. Her eyes, certain features…
She had turned away from me, had walked over to the window, tears in her eyes, and had asked me to leave her alone, but I had told her that I had overheard everything and that she could talk to me if she needed to.
In short, she had said yes, and now here we were, in a park, far away from the one where I had seen Davian disappear into, dressed in our winter coats.
Returning To Methuen
Carlos Rafael Rivera
“I betrayed his trust.”
Monica’s voice sounded hoarse yet toneless as she stared into the distance with reddened, glassy eyes and walked slowly beside me.
“Over a difficult decision,” I reminded her.
No, I didn’t think it was right that she had lied to him all those years. But who was I to judge someone for long-kept secrets?
I wanted to understand Monica, wanted to hear the whole story.
“He’ll hate me, never speak to me again…”
“Monica”
I stopped, turned to her, and touched her arm.
“I promise you, he’ll talk to you. I will…
” I bit my lower lip, grateful that she was staring desperately down at the ground and not at me, until she eventually looked up.
“…try to explain it to him. I know how much he appreciates that you’ve been there for Lara and him all these years. He won’t just forget that.”
I gently stroked her shoulder with an encouraging smile.
Everything about her desperate smile, hidden behind a wall of tears, told me that she not only wanted the best for Davian, but that she was also deeply attached to him and Lara.
Now it all made sense.
She touched my arm and prompted us to continue walking.
“You’re a sweetheart, Quill, but I can’t and won’t burden you with this. I’m glad you two get along so well, but I’d hate for you to worry yourself sick over our problems, child.”
The fact that she saw me as a child bothered me.
While I often behaved like one, because I hadn’t been able to be one for far too long and would probably never outgrow that part of me, no matter how old I became, an uneasy feeling in my stomach told me she would never see me as an equal to her son.
Too young, too inexperienced, a girl who still needed help herself and didn’t have her life under control.
Because I was barely strong enough not to let that thought get the better of me, I tried to change the subject.
“Why Rydell?”
As far as I knew, her last name was Berger, and Davian had never told me about a father.
It was as if I could see panic flit across her expression, which immediately hardened as she stared into the distance.
“I wanted him to be able to start over. Far away from his roots. From his families.”
His families.
“So that’s not his father’s name?”
New tears welled up in Monica’s eyes, as if the subject was weighing on her and pushing her to the brink of a breaking point.
Damn. That hadn’t been my intention.
I was just about to change the subject when she began to speak.
Secrets and Lies
Atli ?rvarsson
“My father was a Nazi, obsessed with Nazi ideology, and close friends with the other Nazi families in town. On the outside, he was a friendly, sociable man. At home, he was strict; expected his entire family to conform in order not to attract attention, because he feared the consequences of his war crimes.”
I listened intently, hanging on her every word, eager to learn more about the origins of that man I couldn’t stop thinking about, even though I already suspected his roots were just as corrupt as mine.
“Mother did everything for him, and my siblings – just like me – were willing to excel in school and blend into society flawlessly, as was proper. My sisters had been eager to marry into other like-minded families in town after graduating from school, and back then every girl my age raved about entering into an advantageous marriage and enjoying a life as a housewife.”
She snorted quietly and began to fidget with her hands. Something I hadn’t seen her do before.
“Not me. Ever since I was ten, I’ve looked up to my brothers, both of whom studied law.
I never gave marriage a second thought because I saw how it restricted my sisters and how their husbands treated them.
I didn’t want to be dependent on a man, nor did I want to be beaten.
I wanted to be respected the way my brothers were respected, to achieve independence, and to learn a profession with which I could help other women. ”
Monica smiled, but the sadness that lingered in it made the smile fade.
“Not many women studied law back then, which was why it took me two years to muster the courage to make studying law my goal. However, it had been a mistake to tell my friends at the time about it. They told everyone, and soon after, I had no friends left.”
It sounded as though the young Monica and I were alike, even though she had been intelligent and hardworking.
I would have loved to have met her back then, even though I was grateful for not having to live in such a restrictive time for women.
The fact that Maplecrest still had no female law students at the turn of the millennium was questionable enough.
“I always kept quiet when the boys in my class made fun of my goals, let all the comments roll off me, didn’t tell my family anything about it, because I wanted to wait until I was eighteen and then get out of this town.”
Her fingers fidgeted more and more nervously until she shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“But Father found out and slapped me. It bothered him that his daughter didn’t want to submit. So he took me with him to one of his evenings with his closest friend. Arnold. He was supposed to talk me out of wanting to study law.”
Any last shred of ease vanished at the mere thought of all the harassment she’d had to endure in this town, just because she hadn’t fit into the townscape.
“We had been at Arnold's. Joseph and his father had been there. And Joseph just sat there and listened with an expressionless face while our fathers and Arnold made fun of me, and Arnold told me where women belonged in society.”
I stared at the walkway, disgusted by these men and their ways. By their very existence.
How had Monica been able to maintain a good relationship with my father when he was part of the very system she was trying so hard to reform?
“I was fifteen. To this day, I wonder where I found the courage to start a discussion with Arnold, even though I knew how conservative he is. I’d been stupid and naive, should have kept quiet and just disappeared from Maplecrest at eighteen.
But I didn’t keep quiet. I told those men my honest thoughts and that I was going to study law, knowing full well that my father would discipline me for it at home. ”
I clenched my teeth.
Monica hadn’t been stupid. She had been brave.
“I’ll never forget how Arnold looked at me. As if I were a thorn in his side. As if I’d upset him.”
I didn’t want to be reminded of Arnold, because every time I thought of him, images flooded my mind. Images of blood. Images of a boy with his eyes wide open. Lifeless eyes.
“The Richters left at some point, and when my father wanted to leave with me, Arnold stopped us and said to him: ‘Let me show your daughter what a lawyer’s work is like, and I promise you, she’ll never even think about studying law again.’”
My stomach turned.
What did all this have to do with Davian?
“Father stared at him. And I still have that image of him in my mind's eye. The moment when my father had been so eager for his daughter to submit to him that he just nodded and told me he’d wait for me in the car.”
I didn’t like how detailed her account of this evening was. That her father had simply left her in a murderer’s house.
Hope is Missing
Atli ?rvarsson