“Miranda,” he said carefully, “it can be really confusing when someone close to you dies.”
“What are you saying?” I wished those words hadn’t come out so defensive.
“Do you think possibly you’re trying to give your uncle’s death meaning?” Jay reached over and stroked my cheek. His expression was close-lipped, full of pity.
“I know my uncle,” I said assuredly. Did I really, though? I hadn’t seen him in sixteen years. I knew nothing of his life after us, whether he’d had a family of his own, if he continued to live in Pasadena. Still, the card he’d sent, The Tempest... I knew he was leading me somewhere.
The waitress brought over the check and Jay unearthed enough crumpled bills from his pocket to cover the bill.
Outside, the humidity assaulted us. We stood in the doorway, allowing our eyes to adjust to the blinding afternoon.
“What did your mom and uncle fight about?” Jay asked.
“My uncle missed my birthday party, but it was more than that. I just don’t know what.”
“Your mom never told you what happened?”
“Billy became something we didn’t talk about. It was like he never existed.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s just the way it was.” Every family has its unspoken stories. Billy was ours. It didn’t matter whether or not it was sad.
“Did you tell your mom about the card?” I didn’t like the condescension in Jay’s tone.
“It’ll just upset her,” I said.
“You should tell her,” he insisted.
“Please don’t tell me how to handle my own mother,” I snapped. “You’ve only met her once.”
During my parents’ most recent visit to Philadelphia, the four of us had gone to dinner. Over small plates, Jay had talked to Dad about baseball and Mom about the gigs her all-girl rock band had had on South Street in the ’70s. After dinner, as we’d strolled down the cobblestone streets of Old City, Mom belted the closest thing her band had had to a hit, a rare performance emboldened by the two neat bourbons she’d ordered to impress Jay. Her voice was phlegmy from the liquor but still silky enough to send chills down my arms. We—and other passersby—stopped to applaud her. Jay had thought this was Mom, an impulsive woman who drank whiskey and sang whenever she felt like it, but this wasn’t Mom. This was only a role she played because she knew it would make Jay like her.
Jay kicked at the sidewalk, obviously upset over what I’d said.
“I didn’t mean that.”
He pulled me to him, and I hugged him back, trying to ignore the gnawing disappointment that we wouldn’t continue to fight.
I started to follow Jay back to our block, but I wasn’t ready to return to our smelly, filthy apartment. I told Jay I was going for a walk, and he pretended not to be hurt that I wanted to be alone.
At Walnut, I turned toward the river. The moist, hot air provoked beads of sweat that ran down my thighs and collected behind my knees. From the steps at the Great Plaza, I watched joggers and rollerbladers race down the path that followed the Delaware River. I found my phone in my purse and searched “Billy Silver, Los Angeles, seismologist, obituary.” I couldn’t think of anything else to include about him. It was enough for the Los Feliz Ledger, which had published a brief obituary for Billy that morning. It described the loss of Billy Silver, LA native, seismologist and earthquake chaser, owner of neighborhood staple Prospero Books. The obituary included a somber quote from the store’s manager, who vowed to keep Billy’s legacy alive through the bookstore and a listing of the funeral, set for Tuesday afternoon at Forrest Lawn.
Prospero Books. I should have made the connection the second I realized the copy of The Tempest was from Billy. Of course any reference to the play was also a reference to Billy’s bookstore, where books were prized above dukedom, where he’d taken me countless afternoons as a child and told me to pick a book, any book. Somehow, the copy of The Tempest Billy had sent had to do with his bookshop.
I took The Tempest out of my bag and reread the story Prospero told Miranda. Prospero needed Miranda to know how his brother had betrayed them in order for her to understand why he’d created the storm that stranded Antonio on the island. It’d been years since Billy sent me one of his riddles, yet I could still read his coded messages. Thou must now know farther, Prospero’s words. Understanding prepares us for the future, Billy’s. Like Prospero, Billy wanted to tell me of his betrayal, the event that had exiled him from our family. And also like Prospero, Billy had planned his return, wielding not spells and incantations but the magic of his clues, of the adventures he’d plotted for me in my youth. I wasn’t a child anymore. Still, I could feel the rush of Billy, the exhilaration of the first riddle, how it always led to another clue. This time was different, though, the excitement bittersweet. This was the last time Billy would reach out to me. My last chance to discover the story Mom would never tell, the truth of what had driven them apart.
* * *
My schedule was wide open for the next two and a half months, so I booked a flight for Monday, home in time to make Billy’s funeral. I had to go. Not just because I wanted to find the next clue. It was the right thing to do. I’d loved him as a child. I would go to his funeral. I would honor what we once were to each other.
Jay lay across our bed, watching as I packed the bulk of my summer clothes.
“Do you have to bring so much?”
I zipped my suitcase and hopped onto the bed beside him. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were going to miss me.”
“Of course I’m going to miss you.” He rolled me over and lay on top of me, his face so close to mine I could see stubble erupting along his jawbone.
“It’ll just be a couple of days.” I hadn’t bought a return ticket, but I hadn’t spent more than five consecutive days in LA since I’d left for college. If I was right and Billy had left me another clue, it wouldn’t take more than a few days to uncover the secrets he wanted to tell me.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come to the funeral with you?”
“You’ve got camp next week.”
“It’s only soccer.”
“Only soccer? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” I was still getting used to the way that word felt in my mouth.
He ran his hand through my hair in the way I didn’t like, unfurling my curls. “You don’t have to go alone.”
“It’s just a few days,” I said, shaking my hair free of his touch.
Jay insisted on driving me to the airport even though he had to get a zip car and it would have been cheaper to call a cab. He pulled up to the terminal and walked around to the trunk to get my bag.
“Call me when you land?” He placed my rolling suitcase on the curb. I expected him to tell me to hurry back, but he said, “Take the time you need. You’ll regret it if you rush back and aren’t there for your family.”
“Who knew you were such a sentimentalist?” Jay turned away, clearly hurt. I was tempted to tease him again for being too sensitive. Instead, I kissed him intently, giving him something else to return to in the days we were apart.
* * *
On the flight across country, I tried to decide what I should tell Mom about The Tempest and the clue Billy had sent. When I’d told her I was coming home for the funeral, she’d asked, Why would you want to go to that? with such disbelief, such utter bafflement, I didn’t know how to respond.
You aren’t planning to go to Billy’s funeral? I asked her.
Why would I be?
Because