Read Online The Emperor of Ocean Park by Stephen L. Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen L. Carter
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before . . .”
She trails off and turns away, because it is not the habit of our family to share our deepest pains, even to each other. She covers her eyes. I consider walking around the table, crouching next to my sister, slipping my arms around her, offering what physical comfort I can, maybe even telling her that the Judge telephoned me, too, although, in good Garland fashion, I was too busy to call him back. I envision the scene, her response, her joy, her fresh tears: Tal, Tal, oh, it’s so good to be friends again! But that is not who I am, still less who Mariah is, so, instead, I sit still, preserving my poker face, wondering whether any reporters have gotten hold of the story, which would only be a fresh disaster. I can see the headlines now: DISGRACED JUDGE MET WITH ACCUSED MURDERER DAYS BEFORE HIS DEATH. I nearly shudder. The conspiracy theorists, for whom no famous death ever flows from natural causes, have already started to work, granted time on the wilder radio talk shows (“Rats,” Kimmer calls them, who has a way with acronyms) to explain why the heart attack that felled my father is necessarily a lie. I have scarcely noticed their antics, but now, imagining what some of the callers might say if they heard about the Judge’s meeting with Uncle Jack, I begin tounderstand the strange turnings of my sister’s paranoia. Then Mariah makes it worse.
“That isn’t all,” she goes on in the same flat voice, her eyes on something beyond the room. “I talked to him last night. To Uncle Jack.”
“Last night? He called? Here?” I should be proud of myself, managing to ask three stupid questions where most people could squeeze in only one.
“Yes. And he gave me the creeps.”
Now it is my turn to be set back. Far back. Again, I search for something to say, settling at last on the obvious.
“Okay, so what did he want?”
“He offered his condolences. But mostly he wanted to talk about you.”
“About me? What about me?”
Mariah pauses, and she seems to wrestle with her own instincts. “He said you were the only one Daddy would trust,” she explains at last. “The only one who would know about the arrangements Daddy had made for his death. That was what he kept saying. That he needed to know the arrangements.” The tears are flowing again. “I told him that the funeral was Tuesday, I told him where, but he—he said those weren’t the arrangements he meant. He said he needed to know about the other arrangements. And he said you would probably know. He kept on saying it. Tal, what was he talking about?”
“I don’t have any idea,” I admit. “If he wanted to talk to me, why didn’t he call me?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is too weird.” I remember Just Alma. He had plans for you, Talcott. That’s the way your daddy wanted it. Is this what Alma was talking about? “Just too weird.”
Something in my tone gets a rise out of my sister, as something in my tone often does. “Are you sure you don’t have any idea, Tal? About what Jack Ziegler might have wanted?”
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know how you’d know. That’s what I’m wondering.” As Mariah glares her distrust, I feel, rising between us, the shade of our lifelong argument, Mariah’s sense that I am never there for her, and mine that she is far too demanding. But surely she does not believe that I would somehow be involved with . . . with somebody like Jack Ziegler . . . .
“Mariah, I’m telling you, I don’t have the slightest idea what this isall about. I don’t even know the last time I heard from . . . from Jack Ziegler.”
She flips a hand, brushing this away, but makes no verbal response. She is not saying she trusts me; she is signaling a willingness to call a truce.
“So, all he asked about was . . . arrangements?”
“Pretty much. Oh, and he also said he would probably see us at the funeral.”
“Oh, boy,” I mutter, in an awful stab at sarcasm, wondering if there is some way to
She trails off and turns away, because it is not the habit of our family to share our deepest pains, even to each other. She covers her eyes. I consider walking around the table, crouching next to my sister, slipping my arms around her, offering what physical comfort I can, maybe even telling her that the Judge telephoned me, too, although, in good Garland fashion, I was too busy to call him back. I envision the scene, her response, her joy, her fresh tears: Tal, Tal, oh, it’s so good to be friends again! But that is not who I am, still less who Mariah is, so, instead, I sit still, preserving my poker face, wondering whether any reporters have gotten hold of the story, which would only be a fresh disaster. I can see the headlines now: DISGRACED JUDGE MET WITH ACCUSED MURDERER DAYS BEFORE HIS DEATH. I nearly shudder. The conspiracy theorists, for whom no famous death ever flows from natural causes, have already started to work, granted time on the wilder radio talk shows (“Rats,” Kimmer calls them, who has a way with acronyms) to explain why the heart attack that felled my father is necessarily a lie. I have scarcely noticed their antics, but now, imagining what some of the callers might say if they heard about the Judge’s meeting with Uncle Jack, I begin tounderstand the strange turnings of my sister’s paranoia. Then Mariah makes it worse.
“That isn’t all,” she goes on in the same flat voice, her eyes on something beyond the room. “I talked to him last night. To Uncle Jack.”
“Last night? He called? Here?” I should be proud of myself, managing to ask three stupid questions where most people could squeeze in only one.
“Yes. And he gave me the creeps.”
Now it is my turn to be set back. Far back. Again, I search for something to say, settling at last on the obvious.
“Okay, so what did he want?”
“He offered his condolences. But mostly he wanted to talk about you.”
“About me? What about me?”
Mariah pauses, and she seems to wrestle with her own instincts. “He said you were the only one Daddy would trust,” she explains at last. “The only one who would know about the arrangements Daddy had made for his death. That was what he kept saying. That he needed to know the arrangements.” The tears are flowing again. “I told him that the funeral was Tuesday, I told him where, but he—he said those weren’t the arrangements he meant. He said he needed to know about the other arrangements. And he said you would probably know. He kept on saying it. Tal, what was he talking about?”
“I don’t have any idea,” I admit. “If he wanted to talk to me, why didn’t he call me?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is too weird.” I remember Just Alma. He had plans for you, Talcott. That’s the way your daddy wanted it. Is this what Alma was talking about? “Just too weird.”
Something in my tone gets a rise out of my sister, as something in my tone often does. “Are you sure you don’t have any idea, Tal? About what Jack Ziegler might have wanted?”
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know how you’d know. That’s what I’m wondering.” As Mariah glares her distrust, I feel, rising between us, the shade of our lifelong argument, Mariah’s sense that I am never there for her, and mine that she is far too demanding. But surely she does not believe that I would somehow be involved with . . . with somebody like Jack Ziegler . . . .
“Mariah, I’m telling you, I don’t have the slightest idea what this isall about. I don’t even know the last time I heard from . . . from Jack Ziegler.”
She flips a hand, brushing this away, but makes no verbal response. She is not saying she trusts me; she is signaling a willingness to call a truce.
“So, all he asked about was . . . arrangements?”
“Pretty much. Oh, and he also said he would probably see us at the funeral.”
“Oh, boy,” I mutter, in an awful stab at sarcasm, wondering if there is some way to
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