“And anyway, I don’t think it’s going to go very far. It’s just a stupid rumor,” Charles said as they swept past a large vacant lot that sold Christmas trees in December. “You know how kids talk.”
They turned up the winding street that eventually led to Sylvie’s house. She had invited them over for dessert that evening. Charles had announced the invitation only an hour ago upon coming home from work: a sharp contrast to the protocol by which Sylvie usually summoned them for visits—e-mailing them days ahead of time, negotiating both their schedules to see when was best for all. Sylvie wasn’t the type to demand they come only when it suited her. That was Joanna’s mother’s territory. If Joanna had to make a guess—and she always had to guess because none of the Bates-McAllisters would ever tell her directly—she’d say that today’s invitation was a response to whatever the situation was with the wrestlers.
Joanna sat back in the passenger seat, letting the iPod she’d been fiddling with fall to her lap. “So what happened, anyway? How’d the boy kill himself?”
“I don’t know,” Charles answered.
“Your mom didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t think she knows, either.”
“Was there a suicide note?”
“No. They don’t even know if it’s a suicide. They’re doing an autopsy to find out.”
Joanna paused, considering this. “My mother says Scott should talk to a lawyer.”
“You talked to your mother about this?” His face registered annoyance.
“It just slipped out on the phone today,” she admitted.
“You had to run and tell her, didn’t you?”
“It just slipped out,” she repeated defensively, adjusting her seat belt. “So, do you have any idea who’s supplying these hazing rumors?”
“No.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and ran it over his head.
“Who could it be?”
“Joanna, I don’t know.”
“Why aren’t you curious?”
“Why are you?” But he said it quietly, almost tepidly.
The trees formed a canopy over the road. Small green buds dotted some of them, but others were bare. “I just worry, that’s all,” Joanna said. “Your poor mom. After your dad and all … she doesn’t need this.”
Charles pulled the lever for the wiper fluid. The windshield wipers made a honking sound and slid the liquid across the glass. “Probably not.”
“And I think you should help Scott. You’re his brother, after all. Don’t you think you should?”
“Well, he hasn’t asked for help.”
“People don’t always ask,” she reminded him.
“We don’t know that he’s done anything wrong.”
Joanna touched the smooth, slick buttons on her jacket. She was tempted to ask Charles if he really believed that.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Charles said, putting on his turn signal. “It’s not a big deal.”
They were at the turnoff to his parents’ house. It was so ensconced by trees it was easy to miss. Charles pulled up the long, winding drive. A pine near one of the turns had fallen against a few other trees, reminding Joanna of a drunken girl propped up by her friends at the end of a long night. They pulled into the circular drive behind Sylvie’s car, the barely used Mercedes she often parked outside, and Scott’s car, the slightly older Mercedes that Sylvie had given to him, which was always outside. Scott’s Mercedes had dings on the side, worn tires, and a speckled half-moon of rust across the front bumper. The back bumper was plastered with stickers, many of them angry. One bumper sticker near the window read FREE MUMIA; it featured a picture of a black man with a beard and dreadlocks who’d been wrongfully imprisoned. According to an article Joanna read on Wikipedia after first seeing the sticker, this Mumia guy had been accused of committing a crime because of preconceived notions about his past, his looks.