Monday afternoon
THE LITTLE CHURCH ON 108TH BETWEEN AMSTERDAM AND BROADWAY reminded Olivia of the one Carlotta went to in the Bronx, the same painted plaster crucifix behind the altar, Jesus’s eyeballs rolled heavenward, blood dripping from the nails in his hands and feet, a crown of thorns keeping his long wavy hair in place.
The AA meeting in the basement wasn’t starting until four; most people were gathered by a table with a coffee urn on it and a tray of Lorna Doone cookies. The snapshot of Grant was in her purse. What she was about to do was exactly the sort of thing everyone at Al-Anon meetings gave her grief about, how she had to stop being Grant’s watchdog. Still, she wanted proof that something Grant had told her about last Monday was the truth.
“Olivia?” a man filling up a Styrofoam cup of coffee said. His silver hair stuck up in a quasi-punk way.
It was Chris Butler’s dad. “Uh, hi, Mr. Butler.”
He didn’t seemed embarrassed or even all that surprised to see her. She was mortified.
One time last year she’d been over at Chris’s, the week of spring finals, Mr. Butler had come home unexpectedly. She and Chris were stark naked. Mad scrambling to get dressed, open textbooks, smooth the bed and appear to be studying when Chris’s dad knocked on the door and poked his head in to say, “Hi.” It was only after he left, saying, “Glad to see you’re both working hard,” that they noticed neither of their flies was zipped.
“Your first time at this meeting?”
“Uh, yes.”
“It’s a good meeting. Very basic.” Then he cocked his head. “Can I treat you to a cup of this swill they call coffee?”
She laughed nervously. “No, no. That’s okay. Actually—um—I may not be able to stay.”
“Look, don’t leave ’cause of me. How long are you in the program?…You know that whatever’s said here stays here.”
She wet her lips. “I’m not exactly in AA. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“But you didn’t wind up here by accident?”
“No. It’s kind of complicated.”
“Listen, completely up to you, but”—he gestured with both hands out, one holding his Styrofoam coffee cup—“there’s still about fifteen minutes before the meeting starts. If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
Olivia swallowed. Up to now she’d spoken maybe ten words to Chris’s dad in her life. Nevertheless, she found herself saying, “Yeah, maybe I would. It’s about my brother.”
They sat on two folding chairs by a sign saying, “First things first.” She told him all about Grant, everything. “Grant said he came to this AA meeting before going to Chaps. I brought a picture to see if anybody recognized him.”
“I’m not sure I follow. If he was here, that would prove—what?”
“Grant lies so much, I just want something to be the truth.”
“You know, we have a saying here. ‘Let go and let God.’ It works for people like you who care about alcoholics or drug addicts. It works even if you think God is the greatest hoax ever perpetrated on mankind…what your brother does is out of your control.” Chris’s father frowned for a moment, then stuck out a hand. “Lemme see the photo. I was here last Monday…. It’s not like I’d be breaking his anonymity.”
While Olivia fished for the photo in her bag she explained how Grant had wanted to make amends to Tut.
Mr. Butler glanced at the photo. “Yeah, he was here.”
“Did he seem, you know—okay?”
“Are you asking, ‘Was he high?’ I don’t think so. He looked okay to me.”
Relief washed over Olivia.
“So where does that leave you?” He handed back the photo and rubbed his chin and mouth. There were tiny flecks of silver stubble on his face. “You know, the point of making amends is to take responsibility for your actions. And I gotta say your brother’s not doing that. He should tell the cops what he saw.”
Olivia nodded and left before the meeting started. Upstairs, the church was empty, so she sat in a pew with her cell out. Maybe all the millions of prayers people had offered were still floating around and would rub off on her phone call in a good way.
The person who answered at Windward shouted, “Werner, it’s your sister.”
“Whazzup?”
“Look, Grant. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. You have to tell the cops what you saw.”
“Hold on.” There was a pause, then Grant whispered, a frantic undertone in his voice, “That’s crazy! And I don’t know anything.”
“You were there. You heard Tut with somebody.”
“And I have no idea who.”
“It was probably his killer.”
“Olivia, you’re the one who said it’s me plastered all over the newspapers.”
“But you didn’t do anything.” Right?
“I’m a recovering addict. Tut got me thrown out of Chaps. And I suddenly happen to show up at Chaps right before he gets murdered. You do the math.”
“Grant, it’s not right—”
“And the first thing they’re gonna ask is how come I waited so long to come forward.”
“You tell them the truth. You were scared. Listen, you wanted to make amends. So—so, going to the cops is like doing that.” She wished Chris’s dad were here; it sounded so much more convincing when he said it.
“Going to the cops won’t do squat for Tut. He’s dead.”
Grant was still whispering; even so Olivia could hear his voice turning icy. “What I need is to concentrate on staying clean. Got that?…That’s what Tut would want.”
Grant was great at twisting stuff to make it mean whatever he wanted it to.
“Will you at least think about it?” she asked.
Silence. “Are you gonna go to the cops if I don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.” She’d already lied once about the phone calls. Not telling the police about Grant being at school wasn’t lying. It was worse. But she would never rat out her brother. And Grant knew it.