The Memory Key (8 page)

“What did Keep Corp think about that?” I ask.

“At first I always referred to her as an anonymous source, though she never said anything negative about the company. We both thought it best. But they tracked her down somehow, and told her if she was going to talk to the press she'd have to go through PR training. So she did.”

“They weren't angry?” says Wendy.

“If they were, she never mentioned it. Jeanette was happy there. She loved her work. She was a loyal employee,” he says. “Now let me ask you something—what are you after? These questions about Keep Corp, what's it about?”

Wendy looks at me and I look at her. I raise an eyebrow. She shrugs ever so slightly. I speak carefully: “I think there's something strange about what happened to my mother.”

“You think the car accident was not an accident,” he says.

“Is that what you think?” I say.

“No, I thought that's what
you
meant,” he says, but I don't believe him. He had spoken too fast, as though the suspicion had long been waiting on his tongue, ready to leap forth at the first opportunity.

I sit up straighter and nod at Wendy. She takes out her sketches of the two strangers. “Do you know these people?” she asks.

He studies their faces for a long time before shaking his head. “Who are they?”

“I read your article about people angry at Keep Corp over privacy issues. Do you think their anger could have been directed at my mom, since she was a public face of the company? There's a guy you interviewed who sounds kind of fanatical. Jon Harmon?”

“Jonnie? No, no, Jonnie's a good guy. Passionate, not fanatical, though I admit it's a thin line. But he wouldn't have done anything to Jeanette. In fact, she's the one who connected me with him.”

“Why did she do that?” I say.

“Especially if she were such a loyal employee,” Wendy adds.

“Jonnie is smart and fair. Jeanette knew the other side had to be given a voice, so she wanted someone good to do it, someone who wouldn't take cheap shots or try to stir up groundless hysteria,” says Carlos.

“Sounds like my mother,” I say with an almost-but-not-quite smile. “How did she know Jon Harmon?”

“You don't know?” He lifts an eyebrow.

“I was just a child,” I say, grimacing. “You think she told me everything?”

Carlos smirks. “Jonnie was married to Jeanette's sister. The congresswoman.”

“Austin Lee?” I say, tongue stiff with shock. Wendy grips my arm.

“Yes. Jonnie Harmon and Austin Lee used to be married.” Handsome Carlos Cruz smiles handsomely.

“HE'S SO MYSTERIOUS,” WENDY SAYS WHEN WE'RE IN THE CAR
again. “Like a tortured hero in a movie. Don't you think so?”

“Carlos is too old for you.”

“I know, I know. Besides, he's in love with your mother.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“A tragically doomed love. I wonder if they—” she says, then stops.

But I know what she was going to say because she's my best friend and I know how her brain works. Her brain works like an old black-and-white film where the lovers can never be, so they muster bravely on, exchanging meaningful looks from across the room. I hate the thought. I hate Wendy for thinking it. I hate myself for thinking that she's thinking it, for wasting time on an idea so absurd.

“I don't like him,” I say. “He's weird. And his house was filthy.”

“He's probably too tortured to spend much time cleaning.”

“There was a moldy smell,” I say.

“I didn't notice a smell.”

“I think he was lying about not recognizing the people in your sketches. Did you notice how long he stared at their pictures?”

“You think he knows them?”

“I don't know, but I don't trust him. First he said he can't get any information out of Keep Corp. Then he said he's heard about a new line of keys. If security is as tight as he claims, where's he getting his information?”

“Well, it's his job to know stuff like that.”

“Exactly! I'm sure he's still charming or bribing something out of someone.”

“I didn't know your aunt was ever married. What happened?”

I tell Wendy what Dad told me, about them being young and in love, then growing apart and going in different political directions. “I wish I knew more,” I say.

“Maybe Jonnie can fill us in.”

“You think we should talk to him?”

“Aren't you dying to meet your aunt's ex-husband? Your ex-uncle?”

“I don't think he's my ex-uncle since they divorced before I was born,” I say. Though of course I'm curious about Jon Harmon. Even if I worry it would be disloyal of me to seek out Aunt Austin's former spouse.

“Details, details,” scoffs Wendy.

“Okay, let's do it,” I say. Then I turn the radio up loud,
and for the rest of the ride home we scream along to the music with the windows all the way down, and the breeze whipping through the car, twisting our hair into knots.

As soon as we get back to Wendy's house, we look up Jon Harmon, but the internet keeps disconnecting and we can't figure out if it's a problem with the electricity, or the modem, or the computer, or what. We unplug then re-plug all the cords and wait for everything to come back on.

When we finally get online, we find a dozen Jon Harmons in Middleton alone. Plus ten listings for
Harmon, J
.

“And we don't even know if he still lives around here,” I say.

“Carlos writes for the
Middleton Tribune
, right? So he must interview Middleton residents. It's only logical.” Wendy prints out the list of Jon Harmon phone numbers.

“It's totally
illogical
,” I say. “Don't you know anything about newspapers?”

“Of course. I'm a journalism student, remember?” She grins as she picks up the phone. She dials. “Mr. Harmon? I'm a student at Middleton University. I'm interested in starting a group to promote campus activism and someone suggested I call you for advice.” She pauses to listen.

“No? Sorry to bother you,” she says, and crosses out the top number.

“You're so good at this,” I tell her. “It's almost scary.”

“Thanks.” She tears the list in two and hands me one.

I retreat into the corner of the room with my cell phone.
There's no answer when I call the first number. I leave a message, a modified version of Wendy's speech. A man picks up at the second number. I give the speech and am informed I have the wrong Jon Harmon. Same thing happens when I call the third, fourth, and fifth numbers. No answer at the sixth, so I leave another message.

Wendy and I put down our phones at the same time. She shakes her head. I shake my head. We throw ourselves across her bed and lie there, sighing.

I close my eyes.

My mother is in the kitchen, going to answer the back door. Two strangers stand there, a man and a woman. A blue-sleeved arm reaches out and takes hold of my mother's elbow.

“Wait, I know! Let's ask Carlos for Jon's number,” says Wendy.

“I don't want to ask him for anything.” My eyes are still closed. I know I'm here, stretched out on Wendy's mattress, but I'm also in the kitchen, watching my mother disappear through the door. I examine her face: her pale lips pressed together, the droop of her eyelids. I'm missing something. What am I missing?

“You know what would make us feel better? A snack.”

The mattress bounces as Wendy jumps off. She grabs my limp hands and hauls me up from the bed and down to the kitchen. There she takes out an orange block of cheese, a knife, a box of crackers, and two small plates. She glances at me. “You okay? You look tired.”

“I'm fine.” I reach for the knife, but she gets it first. It's better that she does it, anyway—she's always reprimanding me for cutting things the wrong size and shape. As an artist, she has strong feelings about size and shape.

“Should we call the J. Harmon numbers next?” She slices the cheese into thin squares that match the crackers exactly.

“Not today. I've had enough for today,” I say.

The front door slams. Tim stalks into the kitchen. His face is flushed. His dark hair is crooked around his ears. “I hate my job,” he says.

“You don't mean that. You love your job.” Wendy waves the knife at him.

“Lora,” he says. “Hi.” He smiles.

I set my gaze down on the table. “Why do you hate your job?” I ask.

“My supervisor is a maniac.” He grabs a fistful of cheesed crackers from Wendy's plate. She smacks his arm and reaches to retrieve her food. But he's already taking long strides out of the kitchen, and a second later he's gone, along with most of her snack.

Wendy scowls. She slices some more cheese, wielding the knife with a viciousness that is slightly alarming. But then she grins. “Here's our chance,” she says. “Tim just said he hates his job. Let's ask
him
about Keep Corp.”

“He didn't mean it. You even said he didn't mean it.”

She shrugs. “He'll help us. He's my brother.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I have no good excuse. I settle for a bad one.
“Not now. I've got to get home for dinner,” I say.

Wendy shrugs again, her mouth too full of cracker to argue.

I go upstairs to retrieve my things from her room. I slide my notebook into my backpack and zip the bag closed. When I look up, Tim is standing in the doorway. He has changed out of his work clothes and into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. His hair is still crooked around his ears.

“You're leaving? But I just got here,” he says.

“Yeah, I have to go,” I say.

But I make no move toward the door. Because Tim is standing at the door. He takes a step into the room, then another, then another, until he's close enough that I can smell the laundry-soap clean of his shirt. Close enough that I can see the flecks of lighter brown in his dark brown eyes. Close enough that it would require only the tilting up of my chin and the tilting down of his chin for our lips to touch.

I step backward and bump into Wendy's bed.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I say, totally nervous.

“Nervous about leaving home. Starting college. It's a big change,” he says.

I blush, I glare, I remember that night. Because of course I remember the conversation we had that night. But I never thought he also remembered.

“You're going to love it,” Tim says. “College is much better than high school.”

“I have to go,” I say. But I don't move.

“Lora, I've always felt bad about . . .”

“Bad about what?” I say sharply.

“I didn't know . . .”

“Didn't know what?” I say sharply.

He doesn't answer.

“Didn't know what?” I say again, softer this time. I want to be angry at him but it's impossible to be angry at him when he is gazing at me the way he is gazing at me, his eyes steady, his face hopeful. Something inside me unfolds.

“I'm sorry if I hurt you,” he says. “It was just bad timing, you know, I was going away, and you were still in high school, and my sister's friend, and . . .” He looks away.

That something inside me folds up again, and I find the anger I'd been looking for. “Forget it. It's in the past. Water under the bridge. Water over the dam. What's done is done.” I tick off these clichés, lies burning my tongue.

Then I step around him, race out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and through the hallway. I shout a good-bye to Wendy without waiting for an answer. And finally I'm outside, and finally I can breathe.

I unlock my bike with shaky hands, blinking hard as I get on the seat, blinking hard as the memory approaches, and I grit my teeth and shove it away; I grit my teeth but I can't shove it away; all I can do is keep pedaling and pedaling, until I've pedaled my way into the past, to that night two years earlier.

It's late, almost midnight, almost past my curfew, and I'm leaving Wendy's house just as he comes home. Tim.

We meet on the front steps. I know he was at a graduation party because Wendy told me that's where he was. She asked if we should go crash. I said no. I had spent a long time wanting Tim, but had finally begun caving under the weight of his indifference. So I let go a little, and found myself living easier. Then I let go a little more. Wendy is dating a singer in a rock band and she set me up with the drummer. And for once I actually like the guy.

Hey
. Tim sways toward me and places a hand on my shoulder. I can tell he's been drinking, I can smell the alcohol-sour on him, but even so my heart thrums as his palm heats my skin.

How was the party?
I ask.

Same old people, same old party. Where are you going?

Home sweet home
.

Don't go. Stay with me awhile. Talk with me awhile.

I remind myself I'm over him. I try to picture the drummer's shy smile in my head. But all I can see is Tim.

We sit on the porch swing. It rocks gently from our weight. The moon is a sliver in the sky, but the stars are bright.
Are you nervous?
I ask.

Nervous about what?

About graduating. Leaving home. Starting college. It's a big change
, I say.

Yeah, I'm a little nervous. Kind of makes me miss being a kid. Remember how we used to play in the sprinklers? Then we broke one and my dad got so mad?

I remember
.
I remember you making fun of me all the time. I hated you
.

You did?
He leans forward to stare intently at me.

Remember that time you stuck gum in my hair?

That was an accident! I'm sorry.
He is still staring intently at me, gaze steady, eyes gleaming. I look away, blushing, hoping it's too dark for him to see.
You don't hate me anymore, do you?

Of course not. I probably didn't really hate you back then, either
, I say, and even if he can't see my blush in the dark, he can surely hear it in my voice.

Good
, he says. Then slowly, slowly, slowly, as if he's moving underwater, his face drifts toward mine. I'm holding my breath, as if I'm underwater too. His lips settle on my lips. He tastes of salt, and a slight beer-bitterness. My head is spinning. I am so happy. I am so scared.

Then a truck roars down the street and we jolt apart. We both laugh, and I know the moment is over. But I don't want it to be over.

That was nice
, he says but leans back against the swing, apparently uninterested in repeating that nice thing. I'm confused, then embarrassed, then a little angry.

I should go
.
It's past my curfew
, I say.

Tim walks me to my bicycle, and pats my arm before I go. That's all. Then I'm pedaling home.

Now I'm pedaling home. And I almost fly off my bike, startled first by the howling chorus of car horns, second by the fact I'm in the middle of the intersection, riding the wrong way at the wrong time.

The horns keep howling and I keep going because I can't
turn back, it's too late to turn back, but as soon as I make it across I roll onto the sidewalk and stop. There I catch my breath. I could have been hurt, I could have been killed. My head is throbbing.

Carefully, I bike the rest of the way home. I concentrate on the traffic and the traffic lights, the street and the street signs; I concentrate on my hands on the handlebars and my pedaling feet; I concentrate only on the present.

I concentrate as I come into the house, as I call out to my father and receive no answer. I concentrate as I swallow two pain pills, and two more. I concentrate as I go into my bedroom and shut the door. But then I rub my mouth with my fingers. I can still feel Tim's lips on mine, even though it was two years ago. Even though the kiss hadn't meant anything.

The next time I saw him, Tim acted as if that night never happened. So
I
acted as if it never happened. Until I got home. Then I cried. And cried. A week later, he started dating a girl from his class, some pretty, popular girl who was also going to the university in the fall. I was heartbroken. No, I am heartbroken. No, I'm not heartbroken now. It's my stupid key that's got me confused. I'm not heartbroken because I don't care anymore, I don't care at all.

I pick up my phone and dial. “What are you doing tomorrow? Want to go see a movie or something?” I ask when he answers.