Confessions of a Murder Suspect

21

When I walked in on Harry in his bedroom, I saw that tears streaked the sides of his face. He was awake, lying spread-eagle in his big platform bed, looking up at the trompe l’oeil painting of a domed and gilded ceiling that was open at the center to a pink sky. Angels peered over the rim and looked down on him. Seven Angels, to be exact—one for each member of our family. He’d painted them himself. How strange that Malcolm and Maud were staring down at him right now.…

I sat on the side of the bed. “I brought you some lunch, okay?”

“I can’t eat.”

“It’s very nice, Harry. I tasted it. No poison, I promise. Chicken with orzo and a touch of cilantro. Malcolm made it. I just found it in the fridge.”

“Maybe we should freeze it. A keepsake. A memory.”

“You know he wasn’t sentimental like that. He would want you to eat it now.”

Harry sat up and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. Then he leaned back against the bed and ate the soup. Some of it, anyway.

“Come on, bro. You have to eat. Buck up.”

That was what our parents used to say. I wished I hadn’t said it.

“I’ll tell you what’s killing me, Tandy.”

“I’m listening.”

“They never loved me.”

“Come on. They were different, that’s all—”

“One day I was going to prove myself to them. I never had the chance to do it before they died. They died thinking I was useless.”

“They loved you,” I said, hoping that Harry could find a shred of conviction in my voice. “They withheld praise. From all of us. You know that. It stunk, but it’s how they raised us.”

“Painting is for sissies. Piano is for wimps. Singing is for girly-men. I’m quoting them now.”

“Did you actually believe them when they said that, Harry? They bought art and went to the opera. They let you paint and sing and play.”

Harry paused, pondering yet another of Malcolm and Maud’s puzzling contradictions. He finally shook his head.

“Remember when I played Carnegie Hall?”

“The first time? When you were ten and the youngest piano soloist at Carnegie Hall ever? You were amazing. I’ll never forget that day, Harry. The audience rose to their feet, and must have applauded for at least five minutes. They totally adored you, and it was an audience that knew what they were listening to.”

“Malcolm came late. Maud left early.”

“But they had a party for you, remember?”

“I was ten. The guests were their age. Don’t make excuses for them. I have to come to grips with this now and forever.”

I took the soup bowl out of his hands and put it on the floor, then got into bed beside him. He rolled toward me and cried on my shoulder. It really hurt to hear Harry cry.

But I had to ask him. I had to. He was very creative, and I was pretty sure he could come up with a way to do the impossible and never get caught.

“Did you kill them, Harry?”

He drew back and looked at me, his eyes switching back and forth across my face.

“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t kill them, Tandy. Did you?”

It’s one thing to ask someone if they’re guilty. It’s another to be asked. I was nonplussed.

“Because, Tandy,” Harry went on, “I know what they took from you. I know we don’t talk about it—about him. About the incident. But I’ll never forget. How much it hurt. Both of us.”

I just stared at him.

“Have you forgotten, Tandy?” he asked. “Have you?”