Drowning Instinct(28)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Dr. Kirby saw it, too. ―I was just leaving,‖ he said, bullying his way out the door and practically lunging for the stairs. ―Jenna, tell your parents good-bye, all right?‖

―Hey,‖ said Mr. Anderson as Dr. Kirby clattered down to the foyer. Mr. Anderson started for the stairs. ― Hey!‖

I found my voice. ―Mr. Anderson, I—‖

―Stay here, Jenna, just stay here!‖ And then he was banging down the stairs after Dr. Kirby.

I took off after them both. By the time I hit the foyer, Mr. Anderson was already out the front door. I heard shouts. The cook came scurrying out of the kitchen in a flutter of white apron. ―What—?‖ she began.

―Get my parents! Get help!‖ Then I was out the door, too.

b

Our driveway‘s gravel and Dr. Kirby bobbed and lurched, slipping and skidding on loose stone. He was faster than I thought he would be and he might‘ve gotten to his car if Mr. Anderson wasn‘t a runner. In six lunging strides, Mr. Anderson closed the gap, snagged Dr. Kirby‘s collar, then whipped him around like a sack of laundry. Dr. Kirby gave a startled yelp and half-turned, his arms flailing, but Mr. Anderson was strong. Dr. Kirby‘s feet left the ground as Mr. Anderson slammed him against a minivan. The van rocked and then there was the keening wail of an alarm, and Dr. Kirby was screaming the same high note, swatting at Mr. Anderson, trying to land a punch. Mr. Anderson‘s fists bunched in Dr.

Kirby‘s lapels and then he was cursing and smashing Dr. Kirby against the van once, twice—

―What the—‖ Someone swore, blew past me: my father. I didn‘t know he could move that fast. In another second, he and another man had Mr. Anderson‘s arms and were dragging him off: ―Break it up, break it up, break it—!‖

That pretty much killed the party.

c

Afterward—after Dr. Kirby realized he had a split lip and started howling about suing Mr. Anderson, after my father got Dr. Kirby ice for his lip, after the guests spawned for their cars—the adults went into my father‘s study and talked for twenty minutes. I waited in the kitchen and watched the catering crew clear dishes until my father called for me.

My father‘s study is paneled oak and red leather and framed diplomas and pictures and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather volumes he‘s never read. The room smells like oranges from the oill the housekeeper uses on the wood. My father was sitting behind his desk, a massive mahogany antique like the kind the president uses. Mr.

Anderson and Dr. Kirby were in the wing-backed chairs my father reserved for visitors.

Meryl and my mother perched on a small love seat to one side. My mother was wringing her hands and her skin was so pale her eyes looked penned on with a Sharpie. Meryl just looked disgusted.

Mr. Anderson stood as I entered. The reddish-blush of a bruise stained his right cheek, but no one had bothered getting him any ice. ―Take my seat,‖ he said.

―She‘s fine,‖ said my father.

Mr. Anderson gave him a searching look, then shrugged but stayed on his feet, moving just a little closer to me. After an awkward pause, my father—annoyed—said,

―Jenna, do you or do you not have money Dr. Kirby gave you?‖

The hundred dollars. I‘d completely forgotten. The bill was still crumpled in my breast pocket. I nodded.

―There, you see?‖ Dr. Kirby‘s lower lip was the size of a sausage. ―I told you, Elliot,‖ he said. ―I was giving her a tip—‖

―That‘s not what it was,‖ Mr. Anderson interrupted.

―—just like I‘ve done before,‖ Dr. Kirby continued. I couldn‘t think of any time before that he‘d ever given me any kind of tip, but he pushed on: ―Elliot, for chrissake, I‘ve known Jenna since she was a baby. Can‘t a godfather give his goddaughter a tip for all the hard work she‘s done this evening? We were just giving each other a little hug good-bye and that‘s all. Now I‘m willing to let this go—‖

―I‘ll just bet you are.‖ Mr. Anderson‘s voice was low and I was standing next to him, so I was the only one who heard.

―—because there‘s clearly been a misunderstanding. I‘d hate for this to come between us, Elliot.‖ Dr. Kirby spread his hands. ―I mean, we have to work together. We‘ve got the office to think of.‖

―And you have your daughter,‖ Mr. Anderson said to my father. ―Think of her.‖

―Oh, believe me, I do.‖ My father‘s tone was brittle as dried leaves. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. ―Listen, I appreciate you showing an interest in Jenna, I really do.

Heaven knows, she needs people to help her negotiate life. You‘re probably not aware but before Turing, she had . . . well, problems and—‖

No, please, don’t say it. I saw my father‘s lips moving but heard nothing over the sudden thump of my pulse. I wanted to melt into the carpet. The earth shifted, a dark chasm opened, and then I was falling and I thought, Good, fine, swallow me up.

―—so I think you can understand that she‘s got some special needs,‖ my father was saying. ―After her hospitalization, we‘d hoped that Turing would be a way for her to start fresh.‖

―This has nothing to do with any of that,‖ said Mr. Anderson. ―We‘re talking about this guy molesting your daughter. Jesus, are you blind, or just stupid? Look at her blouse.

Look at her.‖

―That does it. I‘ve had enough.‖ Dr. Kirby grunted his way to his feet. ―Elliot, I‘ll admit to a bit too much to drink and a misunderstanding, but that‘s all. Now I‘m going home. Tomorrow, I‘m going to sleep late, read the paper, drink coffee, and forget about this. I‘ll see you in the office.‖ He nodded at my mother. ―Emily.‖

When he was gone, Mr. Anderson looked at my father. ―She‘s your daughter.‖

―Yes, she is.‖ My father stood and leaned across his desk to offer his hand. ―I can‘t tell you how grateful I am that you‘ve taken such an interest. Not enough teachers spare the time these days.‖

Mr. Anderson didn‘t move. ―But she‘s your daughter.‖

―Yes. Well.‖ My father‘s smile wobbled and he took back his hand. ―I‘ll just say good night.‖

d

Mr. Anderson asked me to walk him to his car. My father opened his mouth to say no, but then he looked at Mr. Anderson just daring him to do it and so my father, for once, shut up.

Our feet stirred stone as we crunched down the gravel drive toward the road. The night was moonless, and Mr. Anderson only a shadow gliding alongside. It was also colder than I remembered, and an easterly breeze made the bare branches chatter. I shivered and hugged my arms.