Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 7

  As she spoke, I thought: Of course. Marina and the Senator had never admired the restaurant Philip built from scratch. They acted as if it were an eccentricity to be tolerated. To brag to someone who showed an interest would be irresistible to Philip.

  Iris rested her chin on a hand and gazed into the middle distance. For someone pregnant by a married man who was avoiding her phone calls, she didn’t seem bitter. Her voice was caressing, even proud. One night, she said, he was there late when she had to close. He stayed upstairs. She pretended to leave with the line cooks, and snuck back in through the service door. She waited for the bartender to close the registers and lock up. Then she climbed the back stairs, so excited it felt like sickness. Philip was at his desk, a bottle of booze glowing amber in the light. She went to him and he touched the hem of her skirt, just above the knee, and said they were both making a mistake.

  My hopeful kernel of doubt was gone. I knew the Philip she described. I knew how his attention rested on your face like a touch. I understood how he could maneuver her, as though he were being pulled along in spite of himself, as though she were in control.

  “Weren’t you afraid you’d get caught?”

  “Who would catch us? We went to my apartment or hotels.” She dropped her napkin on the table. “I knew he was married.” She picked up her fortune and twisted the paper into a ring around her finger. “Talk to him for me. Please? Tell him I’m not upset. I just need to see him.”

  “He won’t leave Amabel.” I tried to sound certain.

  Iris rolled her eyes. “You can love your children more than anyone else. But you never really love them more than yourself. And it’s for himself that Philip will leave.” She patted her belly. “Not even for my baby. But because he wants me.”

  “If that’s true, why is he ignoring you?” I was having trouble concealing my dislike.

  Her chin quivered. “Ouch.” She pressed her fingertips to her cheeks, catching phantom tears. “I obviously understand it’s not easy for him. I don’t mind waiting. I just need to hear from him.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because you’re smart. You know he’s stupid to avoid me. If he doesn’t want me, I won’t want him, either. Or his baby. I can say that, because I know it won’t be true.” She was radiant. Defending her love had brought color to her cheeks, and tendrils of her hair floated free of her bun as if electrically charged.

  Right now, the Martins would be in their living room. The evening news on. Philip reading the paper, ankle on a knee. Amabel chattering about her day. Marina sipping wine, making brittle comments at the TV, shushing them when the Senator’s ads came on. Philip staying quiet. Reading the words on the newspaper page? Or staring at the margins, thinking of Iris?

  Maybe he’d slept with her once or twice, and lost interest. Or he’d gone back again and again, each time telling himself it would be the last. I wanted to shake him, slap his face.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said, and Iris reached across the booth and locked my pinkie in hers.

  9

  Since my earliest days of working for the Martins, I was fascinated by Philip. I sniffed out information about him: his history, his interests, likes and dislikes. No detail was too trivial. Evenings, jolting along on the broken elliptical machine in my apartment’s gym, I’d go over my findings carefully, like a magpie arranging shiny scraps.

  Philip was the second son in the Martin family, born to James (“Jim”) Martin IV and Lillian Martin (née Park). The Senator’s webpage provided a bio of the first James Martin, who made his fortune in railroads. In a sepia portrait, he was a frowning, reedy man with a face like a worn baseball glove, a testament to the hardness of his time. In one of the Senator’s famous speeches, he’d speculated as to what James Martin I would think if he could see Arizona now—sprawling cities, crystalline swimming pools, the miracle of air-conditioning—an oasis attainable by anyone willing to work.

  Philip’s older brother, James V, inherited the family name. The Senator’s biography mentioned James lovingly. A good son, a patriot, Eagle Scout, National Merit Scholar, West Point graduate summa cum laude. His photograph showed a handsome kid in uniform. I recognized it with a jolt. The same portrait was framed on Marina’s dresser.

  One afternoon, I hit a jackpot, an old photo album on a shelf. Amabel and I sat on the couch to flip through it. Ammy was soon restless, but I was fascinated. Philip’s childhood, captured in gaudy Kodak color. Jim, unbelievably young, with a full head of hair. Philip’s mother, Lillian, a chic brunette with a penchant for dangling earrings. Philip was exactly the same, blond and charming, with a ready grin.

  There was another boy, older, dark-haired like Lillian and large-eared like Jim. James. Blowing out birthday candles, swinging at a ball on a tee, dressed in a Scout uniform. He stood two heads taller than Philip, but they were obviously close, pictured together digging in the sand, tossing a football, James driving a Mustang with Philip riding shotgun.

  “What are you two doing?” Philip came in, sunglasses on his head. I feared that the album might be off-limits, but he seemed wistful, not angry. “That’s me and my brother, James.” His voice was warm and casual.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother,” I lied.

  “I want a brother!” Amabel shouted.

  Philip gestured for me to pass him the book and flipped through it slowly, telling little stories. “James loved camping. He was an Eagle Scout. I hated it. Look at my face . . . Here’s my trumpet concert. I was terrible. James was the talented one. I was always getting into trouble, and James, never. Well, once, he tried to teach me how to bike and I broke my arm . . . Look there. That must have been the summer before he left for West Point. See how he cut his sleeves? Showing off. He spent the whole summer doing push-ups.” He laughed.

  I watched Philip’s face as he looked at his big brother, frozen decades younger than he was. I wanted to say I was sorry for what had happened, but I couldn’t without betraying my knowledge.

  Philip shut the book. “Swim?” Amabel cheered.

  I put together their childhood in pieces: the album, the anecdotes Philip let slip, Bryant’s longer knowledge of the tension between Philip and his father, and something else—a feeling I had of knowing Philip.

  While James was disciplined, diligent, inclined to pleasing others, Philip enjoyed what came naturally to him—math, gym, friends—and avoided anything difficult. Their father (alderman since Philip was three, county supervisor when Philip was nine) ran a tight ship. Church every Sunday. B average, minimum. He signed his son up for football hoping to instill discipline, but Philip slacked off, hating the drills. By thirteen, he was openly rebellious, smoking pot, dating girls, sneaking out at night.

  Meanwhile, James excelled at West Point, graduating with honors and completing military training enthusiastically. When he came home for two weeks’ leave, he was an adult, strange to Philip.

  Jim was exploring a run for Senate, and he treated James as an equal with Lillian, the three poring over procedures and guidelines at the dining table, analyzing the expenses and the messaging, the time commitment and the odds. Philip glazed over, bored, forgotten.

  In late summer, James was deployed overseas. Jim and Lillian worried. There was talk of war in the Middle East. They took comfort in the news anchors’ refrain that the fighting wouldn’t last more than a couple of weeks.

  Philip was oblivious. He’d never even heard of Iraq until James went to fight there. On TV, jets shot across the sky with a ripping sound, and tanks rolled over gray sand. It was like a movie, but boring. Philip imagined his brother in a bunker somewhere, perhaps standing over a huge map, moving pieces around, like a game of Risk. It never occurred to him that James was not remotely safe.

  The news came on a Wednesday. Philip was pulled out of gym class and sent home wearing his smelly uniform. His mother wrapped her arms around him and clung. It was the first time an adult had ever hugged Philip to get comfort for themselves, and the pressure
made him quake.

  The family reeled. Lillian went to bed; Jim haunted the house. At the funeral, James’s girlfriend, their pretty blond neighbor, broke down and was escorted out by a throng of wet-eyed girls. Later, at the house, she showed Philip a pinprick diamond ring. They hadn’t told anyone their plans; she was only eighteen. Philip found letters in a box under James’s bed and returned them to her. He didn’t see her again for over a decade.

  Jim rallied first. He threw himself into the Senate race. He spoke eloquently about losing James, his sorrow and pride. He earned a reputation as someone who had sacrificed. A patriot. A family man.

  He won.

  Things changed quickly. The family moved to a big house surrounded by a high fence. Philip’s new school had a standout football program. At tryouts, instead of blowing it off, he worked. He woke early for conditioning runs. He threw until his arm moved seamlessly. He did drills up on his toes. In his uniform, he was camouflaged: just another player, no longer the Senator’s son, whose brother had died in an exotic war. He felt good hitting, and being hit. At the end of the day, he slept without dreaming.

  He made the team. At practice, his mind ground down to a fierce blank into which no thoughts of James could intrude. He was aware of every muscle in his body, first because they ached and eventually because they were strong. His coaches singled him out with praise; his teammates loved him with an easy vulgar banter. Girls adored him. He kept up his bad habits, learned to vault the high fence to meet an idling car at midnight.

  The Senator was wrapped up in work, but in Philip’s senior year, he attended a few games. Already he seemed awkward outside of a suit.

  When Philip graduated, his parents bought him a red Jeep. He’d landed a place on the football team at ASU, Jim’s alma mater. At a celebratory dinner, the Senator spoiled the mood by warning Philip to focus on classes over the playing field. Dismayed, Philip felt the heavy mantle of the Martin family legacy settling onto his shoulders. He missed his brother in a new way, as not only a lost companion but also an imagined adult, the man who might have kept their parents happy, married his girl, had children, followed Jim into politics.

  High school games, their piddly bleachers and tinny marching bands, hadn’t prepared Philip for college ball. He ran onto the field beneath a mountain of fans. Fireworks flashed and boomed. Cheerleaders whirled in red and gold. The crowd booed and cheered, the noise inhuman in its magnitude.

  The first game, Philip was dazzled. Then he learned to shut it out. He kept getting faster, stronger, better. There were moments when he felt sure he couldn’t fail, when everyone else on the field was laughably slow and the ball spiraled in a big, beautiful arc he knew would connect even as his heart flew through the air with it.

  I liked to imagine Philip then. He was at his strongest ever, physically, and he’d abuse his body as kids do, exercising all day, drinking and smoking all night. He was beautiful, almost too good looking, the sort of handsome that made people shy. He walked with a swagger, because he was the leader of the football team, because he was Philip Martin. His skin was covered in bruises and little cuts; his hands were calloused from lifting weights, tugging ropes, throwing. After a game, he shuffled into the shower and stood there like a penitent, steam pounding his back and water catching the fine golden hairs down his chest.

  People asked him his secret. Found excuses to touch him, his bicep or his back, like he was a lucky rabbit’s foot. He felt twenty feet tall. He was happy, purely happy, as if he had escaped the quiet cold house of his childhood forever.

  He hadn’t, of course. He was invited to dinner every week, and even though he was frequently out of town or at practice, or invented another excuse, he still had to go, sometimes. The sad gloss of Lillian’s violet eyes compelled him. They ate in the frosty, silent dining room. The Senator carved, Lillian passed the plates. Her brittle, quivering anxiety both held the men in check and set them more on edge. They were usually polite, but then the Senator would make some condescending remark (He’s just a boy, he doesn’t know what he wants), and Philip would snap. He accused the Senator of wishing Philip was James, and the Senator accused Philip of selfishness.

  Falling in love with Tina settled Philip’s anger, gave him a glimpse of a different future.

  They met when he was a sophomore, she a freshman. Tina was a cheerleader studying to become an accountant. She laughed at Philip for not knowing what he wanted, when he had everything. She said she’d been lucky to get a scholarship. This was her ticket to a good job, the adjective emphasized and underlined, the way she’d grown up hearing her working-class parents say it. (The way I still heard my parents say it: When will you get a good job?) She danced in the mirror as she lectured Philip, and he didn’t believe she meant a word of it. Just watch how she moved, her whole body taken up by the music. She couldn’t be trapped behind a desk, bending her pretty face over a calculator. (Philip still didn’t believe he’d end up an adult, either.)

  They argued about everything: the proper amount to tip a waiter, how fast to drive, did they have time before class to make love, should she dance with other guys at bars, could he be trusted while on the road, would they end up together forever, did he really love her, was he just using her to get back at his father?

  Because, from the very start, the Senator hated Tina.

  Lillian brushed it off. They’re young, don’t make it more serious than it really is. But it nagged at him. How wrong she was for him, clearly—and he for her! When she came over for dinner, he was sure she gaped at everything, stunned by the niceness of it. Whenever Philip looked at her, she flashed a manipulative bright triangle of teeth.

  “Not everyone,” the Senator warned Philip, “is Martin material. Not everyone is up to the challenge.”

  And Philip fired back, “Including me.”

  In Philip’s junior year, the Senator’s pressure intensified. He took Philip out to dinner. Spoke of law schools, maybe out East.

  Philip ate with a thudding anger in his chest. He concentrated on the bustle beyond their table. The waiters who appeared and vanished like genies, the bartenders’ rhythmic alchemy, the useless beauty of the food’s vertical arrangement on the plate. The conversation between father and son remained polite, as if the heavy linens absorbed their tension, and the rich sauce stuck harsh words in their mouths.

  Back at school, Philip worked out until an exquisite exhaustion knitted through his limbs, an endorphin high, a feeling of worthiness. James hadn’t been the only good son, the only talented one.

  My first months working for the Martins, I’d go to the university library on weekends and dig out Philip’s old yearbooks. The football team’s candid photos spanned several pages. Philip posed with a football, elbow drawn back to throw. His blond hair was long and wavy, his face smooth and open. He seemed sculpted from gold. A shot of Tina, jumping with her knees bent and white sneakers kicked up, poms spangling in the air. Her legs, slim and bronzed, stretched for ages, vanishing under a skirt the size of a dinner napkin. Her dark hair was cut in a thick, bouncing bob. (In the background, the other cheerleaders’ ponytails hung like ropes.)

  On the computers, I found a database of old college newspapers. Philip’s name appeared often, in gushing recaps of victories. I was scrolling through these when I came across a different sort of headline: Star Quarterback Benched After Accident.

  Suddenly I was holding my breath.

  In the Arizona Republic archives I found more details.

  Senator’s Son Involved in Fatal Accident on South Mountain.

  Student Dead After Football Team Party.

  Senator Martin Pledges Full Cooperation in Investigation of “Tragedy”

  D.A. Announces No Charges in Football Party Fatality.

  Grainy old photographs, backlit by a white desert sky. A Jeep tumbled on its side, windshield shattered.

  I read the stories rabidly, with a morbid excitement.

  The next time I saw Philip, I felt ashamed, dirty. After all, I
kept my own history a secret, tamped deep down.

  Still, I had a vivid picture of the accident—as if I’d been there.

  Saturday in October. An afternoon game won by a hair. Philip was drained, unable to shake off frustration at his own mistakes. Now a senior, he felt reality breathing down his neck. The calendar pinned to his fridge listed all the games he had left. How many minutes was that? How many plays? How many more times would he have the moment of agonized stillness when everyone lined up and waited for the snap? How many more wins, the glorious rush of being a hero?

  That night, the usual crew was heading out to party. Philip almost skipped it. But then he remembered the ticking clock, the end of everything approaching, and he took a cold shower and headed out.

  The party was on South Mountain. Philip drove Tina in his red Jeep. The mountain rose ahead, ugly, like a vast heap of dirt, brown and unevenly shaped. It was a state park, left largely wild, one paved road branching into dozens of slender, twisting dirt roads. No guards, no gates.

  The party was waiting for them, guys from the team, girlfriends, cheerleaders, a couple of the more attractive band geeks, the coach’s nephew who was always hanging around. Music pumped from a car’s souped-up sound system. People danced, unsteady on the pebbly ground.

  Dusk fell quickly, smoothing the uneven, rolling terrain into a stretch of darkness. A bonfire lent the party flickering light. Smoke hung overhead, thickening the air.

  Philip lingered on the fringes of the action, going over the game again, erasing every mistake. Thinking about football too much was his problem, and also his balm. He felt dizzy, standing near a sharp drop. The stars floated above the city as though communing with the lights below.