When We Were Bright and Beautiful(11)

And yet, for all his success, Lawrence is a humanitarian at heart. Losing a father so young left him with the persistent need to be loved and do good. So, he was lucky to find Eleanor, with whom he shares a social conscience that informs their life choices. About six years ago, Lawrence started to sour on politics. The country’s economic divide sickened him, but so did getting paid to write blustery speeches filled with false promises. When Eleanor encouraged him to switch careers, he decided to use his talent, experience, and influence to benefit those less privileged. I was still in high school when he created the first blueprints for the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, a private nonprofit devoted to wealth redistribution. His big idea is to pair corporate dollars with underserved communities and create social welfare programs at the neighborhood level. (I said it was a big idea, not a novel one.) Lawrence genuinely wants to help people; he also wants never to go back to Pittsfield. To see his youngest child locked up in the middle of nowhere must feel like a cruel twist of fate.

A sharp tap on Lawrence’s window startles me. I look up to see a Black man peering through the glass. He raps again, this time with the tip of his rifle.

“You’re on private property,” the man says. His grin is menacing, but it’s his teeth, broken and caked with yellow debris, that shake me up. Once again, I’ve underestimated the danger factor. Like Lawrence, I have blind spots where trouble seeps in. Next thing I know, I’m in over my head.

“Yes, sir.” Lowering his window, Lawrence offers a five-hundred-watt smile. “Good morning!”

“State your business.”

“We’re meeting my son’s attorney.”

“Now? It’s Sunday. No one gets in or out Sunday. Unless you have cause to be in my driveway you need to turn your vehicle around.”

“Dad, let’s go.” My brother is annoyed. “Cassie, tell him.”

“Give me a minute, Nate.” Lawrence starts to open the car door, but the guard lunges forward. “The fuck you think you’re going?”

Flustered, Lawrence holds up his hands in surrender. His voice drops conspiratorially. “Listen, my boy is inside. May I ask one question?” He hesitates, and for a horrifying second, I’m afraid he’s about to offer the guard a bribe—cash, his Mercedes, me.

Lawrence isn’t a foolish man, but he does act impulsively, and I can’t bear to watch. Until this weekend, our only experience with law enforcement has been speeding tickets (mine), and a few driving citations (also mine), including failure to wear a seat belt (true), failing to yield (true), and recklessness (untrue). Sure, there were dustups. In high school, Nate got caught “mischief-making” with toilet paper and shaving cream. Billy once threw a baseball glove so hard he bruised a kid’s head. But nothing serious and certainly nothing criminal.

“Lawrence, come on.”

“Cassie, I just want to ask a question.” On his phone, Lawrence pulls up his favorite picture of Billy, a candid shot from the Lewis School where he volunteers. In it, he’s helping a little boy read. Billy’s sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loose. He looks patient and caring as he points to a book while the kid sounds out a word. “That’s my son,” our dad tells the guard proudly. “William Quinn. He’s with his lawyer, right at this very minute. I’m hoping to see them while they’re together.”

“That ain’t a question.” The guard trains his eyes on Lawrence. “Turn around and go.”

“Look, sir.” Lawrence’s smile is back.

“He said no!” I grab the phone, which dings with a text. “We’re sorry, Officer. We’re leaving.” I scan the screen. “Look.” I shove the phone in Lawrence’s face. “It’s the lawyer. DeFiore. He’s not even here! He’s down the hill at a diner.”

Lawrence nods and thanks the guard. “Appreciate your time, my brother. We all do what we can.”

The second he closes his window, I blow up. “My brother?” I’m so angry I’m shaking. “What the fuck? It’s so disrespectful.”

Nothing ignites my fury like Lawrence’s man-of-the-people routine. Case in point: He had a cancer scare a few years ago. The day of his biopsy, I bit his head off for flirting with the female med techs. Maybe I overreacted, but he kept making comments about one’s “unusual green eyes” and another’s “stunning red hair” like they were sorority girls in a bar instead of hardworking professionals at a hospital. “I’m just a friendly guy, Cassie,” he said in his anesthetized haze. “I can’t help it.”

We head down the hill, the guard watching us go. My phone dings; it’s Nate texting from the backseat.

you’re too hard on him Cass

he’s impossible

he’s scared, dipshit

Chastened, my face grows hot. We’re at a light, and Lawrence takes off his sunglasses to clean the lenses. Sunlight filters through the windshield, illuminating the fine lines around his eyes and lips. He looks fragile, like an old man, and I have to turn away. Otherwise, I’ll think about his corny puns and small kindnesses, which he offers even when I’m a brat. And then I’ll remember his heartbreak about Yale, but how he still acted the proud dad. And then I’ll remember how he played hooky from work, drove me to New Haven, and took me out to a celebratory lunch. And then I’ll be flooded with love from my knees to my neck; and I’ll wonder if a PhD is worth six years of my life, or if it’s a selfish indulgence when he needs my help with the foundation, and now, with Billy.