The Truth Commission (18 page)

But Officer, We're Art Students

Truth aftermaths continued to unfurl all over school like trees coming into leaf. Mrs. Dekker telegraphed her moods with her choice of outfits: if she had on her poncho—beware; if she was in her sundress—draw near. Aimee continued to text Neil every hour or two. She was so caught up in her relentless confessions, she didn't even notice me when she approached him in the hall to complain that he wasn't responding. Neil was holding my hand, so her oversight was egregious.

“Aimee? This is Normandy.”

“Oh, hey,” said Aimee, not looking at me. “Look, is everything okay with you? Since last night I've sent you at least five texts and I'm just getting this feeling like you're not that interested and I hope that's not true because frankly, I'm extremely interested and thinking about getting more work done and this is a demanding time for me right now and—”

She continued in this vein for a while. I tuned out and took back my hand so Neil could deal with her. I thought about what I should—scratch that—what
we
should do now that we were going to look into the situation with my sister. The
we-ness
of the plan gave me strength. If it had just been me, I would probably have kept my eyes shut and hoped things would just resolve themselves.

But now that Dusk and Neil were on board, I wouldn't be allowed to retreat.

I wrote down the To Dos in a fresh new notebook:

1.Figure out where Keira's new place is and why she hasn't told us about it.

2.Investigate the teacher who assaulted my sister and turned her life upside down.

3. Convince Keira to bring charges if that will help the healing process.

4.When she is feeling more stable, tell her how I feel about being in her comics.

4a. If that goes well, ask her to consider killing off my character.
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In history class, where half the people were talking about treaties and the government's dirty dealings with First Nations, and the other half were drawing historically inaccurate pictures of voyageurs, cowboys, and aliens locked in mortal combat, I noticed Lisette DeVries joyously putting up her hand and correctly answering every question. Her knowledge of Canadian indigenous history was encyclopedic. And massively impressive. A twinge of regret about my Facebook message pinged through me, and I hoped again it hadn't gone through.

It was one thing to ask the truth of people who wanted to tell it. It was something else entirely to pry the truth out of liars, delusionals, and sweetly committed pretenders who weren't hurting anyone with their delusions.

The only time I really focused on the task at hand was in creative writing.
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Ms. Fowler had us answer all these questions about the protagonist of the last story we wrote. We were supposed to know the following: Who is this character? What does she/he want? Why does she want it? How does she go about getting it? What gets in the way? Does she succeed or fail?

Needless to say, I had no idea how to answer the questions. Why did my character want to have a top-quality compost? Good question. I'm pretty sure the answer wasn't supposed to be “Because it would be cool.” I wasn't even sure I could answer those questions about myself.

So I was intellectually engaged during that class, and I figured out that in my fiction I am embarrassingly transparent, psychologically speaking. Or fertile. Or a stinking mess. Depends which way you look at it. And for some reason that felt okay.

When the bell rang, I met Dusk and Neil out front and we walked toward Nancy. The autumn air smelled of wood smoke. The leafless trees looked like charcoal etchings against the light gray sky. The three of us stopped when we saw an old Bronco pull into the parking lot. Luke and Tony, the two elite Nordic skiers, sat in the front. Prema ran out of the school, clutching a portfolio, a gym bag, and what appeared to be a small loom. She ran toward the Bronco, an expression of what can only be described as pure, two-boy-loving joy on her face. Luke, every bit as lean and agile as Prema, jumped out, threw open the back passenger door, took the loom and other things from her, put them inside. Then she
kissed Luke
(on the cheek, but still! Exciting!) and jumped into the front seat. He got in after her. He sat there while she
kissed Tony
(also on the cheek. I should admit for the purposes of accuracy that I can't tell Tony from Luke, but I am almost entirely certain that one of them was Tony and the other one was Luke
). Then they drove off looking fit, competitive, and unstressed.

“Holy man,” said Dusk.

“Truth Commission has set off a wave of whatever it's called when a woman has two husbands,” said Neil.

We shook our heads in unison, looking a little polygynous ourselves.
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While Nancy's engine whirred and ground and gasped to life, Dusk asked Neil if there was any update from Tyler.

“He waved when I saw him heading to his pod this morning. Said he'd be in touch soon. Said he's been thinking.”

“We don't want him
thinking
. We want him telling us the truth,” said Dusk. “We want to know if a single female Truth Commissioner with a thing for old shoes has a shot.”

“Even if he's outer far gay on the sexual continuum, I'm sure he'd consider it,” said Neil reassuringly.

“Aw, thanks,” said Dusk.

Their banter was soothing, but my nerve endings still felt electrified at the prospect of invading my sister's privacy. You'd think there was a shock collar around my neck the way every part of me cringed at the idea of doing something Keira wouldn't like.

Walking down Fear Street has never been a favorite activity of mine. I'm more of a noticing Fear Street and then ducking down Oblivion Avenue sort of person.

I didn't say any of this to Dusk and Neil. My guess is that they knew.

“So we're looking for her police car?” said Dusk.

“It's not actually a police car. It just looks like one. It's a white Crown Vic.”

“Norm? Should we use another vehicle? Nancy's kind of distinctive,” said Neil.

“Plus, there's the breakdown factor. Which is fun when we're heading for school, but if we're in hot pursuit or something, it could be a problem,” added Dusk. “My car is one of several thousand Honda Civics in the north end alone. The top person at the CIA wouldn't be able to spot my car.”

I drove us to Dusk's, and we switched into her car. My passivity might not make me a very good character in fiction,
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but it made me feel very warm and supported as a person. Having Dusk drive also left me free to watch other vehicles. We drove past my house. Keira's car wasn't in the driveway.

“So,” said Dusk, as we headed downtown. “Where do famous graphic novelists hang out when they disappear?”

“Her agent said something about a new place,” I said. And each word felt like a stabbing betrayal of my sister's privacy, and also like I was becoming pretty good with a knife.

“What kind of accommodations would she like?” asked Neil.

I thought. What kind of place
would
my sister like? She was a creature of retro vehicles, minimalist clothing, custom furniture, and closets. “I don't know,” I said finally. Honestly. “It's hard to say.”

“No problem,” said Dusk, seeming to understand that it felt sad to admit that. “We'll just drive.”

xxxxx

That afternoon we drove aimlessly around the Brooks Landing area, which doesn't seem that big until you start looking for a specific car parked somewhere in or around one of the many apartment buildings, town houses, and motels.

At first, Dusk just slowed as we passed the many apartment buildings, most of which were three or four stories. They tended to be clustered near one another, so we cruised the block like gangsters seeking drive-by opportunities. People on the sidewalk stared suspiciously. The pedestrians were mostly women over sixty-five, so they didn't seem like a threat.

“You know,” said Neil. “Most of these places probably have residents' parking in back.”

“Or underground,” mused Dusk.

I'd been thinking the same thing and hadn't mentioned it. Why not? I guess there was part of me hanging back. Ready to call it a day after a solidly cursory effort. I like to think the ability to sometimes do things in a halfhearted way is part of my charm. It's definitely part of what makes me different from my sister.

“We're going to have to be more methodical,” I said reluctantly.

“We'll take turns,” said Neil. “Dusk, you pull over near the building. Norm and I will get out and check front and back.”

“Yeah,” I said with no enthusiasm.

So we did that until someone called the police.

Turned out there were some limits to how honest we as Truth Commissioners were willing to be.

The patrol car was parked behind Dusk's when Neil and I emerged from the alley where we'd been checking the parking lots of identical salmon-colored stucco buildings.

The officer, who stood between Dusk's Civic and his vehicle, watched us emerge. His right hand was at his hip. Not in an “I'm about to shoot you” way. More like a “Great. What now?” way.

He was attempting to keep us all in sight at once, and the effort was costing him.

I froze. Was I supposed to put my hands over my head, or lie facedown on the crispy brown lawn? I felt an instant and absolute sympathy for anyone who had ever been arrested.

Neil, however, was unconcerned. His father is a wheeler-dealer, after all. Perhaps the ability to speak extemporaneously to just about anyone on just about any topic is genetic.

“Officer,” he said. “How goes it this afternoon? Can we help you?”

The officer sighed and I calmed down enough to see past the uniform. He was probably in his mid- to late twenties, but had adopted the exhausted air of a seasoned detective who'd been working the hard streets of Chicago or Detroit for thirty-plus years and was counting the days until he could retire to his fishing cabin. The attitude was an odd fit with his R&B boy-band looks, complete with carefully shaped hair and brown skin as smooth as a cherub's butt.

“What's going on, kids?”

“We're just looking for someone,” said Neil. “We can't remember where she lives, so we're checking cars.”

“We've had three calls on you. Reports of kids behaving suspiciously.”

Neil laughed. “Do we look suspicious?”

The cop tilted his head. He really should have been inflaming teenagers with his sultry crooner-ness, rather than rousting them. “Yeah. You kind of do,” he said.

Dusk got out of the car, and the cop held up a hand to indicate she should get back inside. But before he did so, he did the requisite double take. Nothing new there. No amount
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of peculiar fashion could hide the beauty of the Dusk, not even a shiny purple jumpsuit.

“Please stay in the car,” he told her. When she got back in, he continued to stare at the place where she'd been, as though she'd left behind an afterimage.

The cop shook his head briefly. “Yes,” he repeated. “You do look suspicious.”

I thought we looked like art students, but to the untrained eye we probably looked like people who had been abducted by aliens on their way to prom in 1985 and spit out again in 2012.

“I promise you, Officer,” said Neil. “We are as pure as the driven snow.”

I wondered if it was a good idea to mention snow, because that is well known to be a code name for cocaine and maybe it would get the cop even more suspicious.

“Names?” asked the officer, who'd moved to stand by the driver's-side window.

“Dawn Weintraub-Lee,” said Dusk.

“Neil Sutton,” said Neil.

“Normandy Pale.”

“I'd like to take a look in your car,” said the cop. “You two stay where I can see you.”

He glanced at Dusk and then into the front and backseats. Our portfolios and bags were piled in the backseat.

“I'm going to need to take a look in those,” he said.

I could only see the back of Dusk's head, but I could guess the expression on her face.

“Officer, we're art students,” said Neil.

“Oh, yeah? You go to Green Pastures?” he asked.

“That's right,” said Neil, becoming animated. “Do you know about it?” Like all socially gifted people, he's always looking for shared experiences and knowledge.

“I have a nephew who goes there,” said the officer.

“We probably know him!” Neil was so pleased, you'd have thought we were having this conversation on the outskirts of Iceland's most remote village rather than one mile from Green Pastures.

“You can open those up and I'll just have a look.” He stood back while I leaned in and opened the portfolios and project boxes.

“What's your name, Officer?” asked Neil. “If you don't mind my asking.”

“Jones,” said the cop, tapping his name badge.

“Are you Tyler Jones's uncle?” Dusk exclaimed.

The officer had obviously concluded that we were not members of the Mexican Sinaloa Cartel and so it was safe to give us a bit of personal information.

“My sister's kid. He's a great artist.” Officer Jones shone his flashlight into the bags, pausing on one of my embroideries, stretched on the frame.

“What's this?” he asked.

“You can pick it up if you want,” I said.

He lifted it out. “Wow. This is made by sewing?”

“Stitching,” I said.

“That's unbelievable. The detail. You'd never think you could make something so realistic with thread.”

He put the frame down, and shone the light into Dusk's workbox, which she'd pulled out of her medical bag. Inside were some of the tiny furniture and accessories for the taxidermied shrew's mobile home. There was a tiny flat-screen TV showing a soap opera, a minuscule can of Raid, a mini tray of Shake 'n Bake chicken, and a light blue sectional sofa.