Page 33 of We Fell Apart
Beechwood Island loomsinto view slowly, a dark shape before us like a variation in the black of the sky. At first I think it’s only my imagination.
Meer circles it. The rocky cliffs give way to more approachable land, and I can make out some shapes that might be houses.
We come to a long wooden dock that sits at one edge of a cove where there is a sandy beach. A large sailboat is docked there.
Meer cuts ourlights.
Part Four
Beechwood
23
A brick chimneystretches more than three stories high, but the walls of the great house no longer stand. The shingles at the base are burned black. The beams are intact in some places. Here and there, an empty window frame. Some parts are nothing but piles of rubble on the ground.
In the charred yard, a tree has burned. Its sad arms arch wide across the lawn. A tire swing, mangled and melted, lies below it.
Everything smells of firewood and charcoal. Under that, the smells are chemical and sour.
“I’m gonna look for the pool,” says Brock. “This is too mother-effing dark.” He has been fidgeting as I stand still in thought. Meer and Tatum are walking slowly around the wreckage.
“M-kay,” I say, and Brock takes off to the bottom of the yard, where a wooden walkway stretches into the still-standing trees.
We stare at the wreckage. The back of my neck tingles.
“This is bad,” says Tatum, looking at the scorched earth beneath his feet. “We shouldn’t have come.”
Meer blinks. “I’m sorry. It’s worse than I thought.”
“It’s thesameas I thought,” says Tatum.
“I had this idea—I didn’t know it would feel so sad,” says Meer. He turns to me. “Do you want to know about the people who live here? The Sinclair family.”
“Livedhere,” says Tatum. “Past tense.”
“They still live on the island,” says Meer. He walks over and touches the tree. His hand comes away covered in soot. “Most of them survived. And their other houses are fine. The fire didn’t get near them. It said so in theGazette.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“A super-old family. And the grandpa, Harris Sinclair, he’s a publishing boss guy up in Boston. He owns newspapers and magazines. And he’s got a brother or two, and three grown daughters. The daughters each have a house on the island. This”—Meer gestures at the wreckage—“this was Harris Sinclair’s house.”
“I’m out,” says Tatum. “Gonna find Brock. And the pool, if there is one.”
“Wait.”
Tatum stops.
“I’m sorry,” says Meer, looking flustered. “I didn’t think about—I didn’t think about your— Are you upset because of—?”
“My parents?” says Tatum.
Meer nods.
“My parents died in a car crash,” Tatum says to me, sharply. “On the Vineyard, driving home in the snow. They swerved to avoid a deer, people think. But they were also high. My dad was driving high. They were high a lot. Anyway, their car caught fire in the impact.”
My chest floods with unexpected sympathy for him. He’s an orphan.
I should have guessed that, given that he lives with June and Kingsley, but I’ve been too caught up in myself to wonder about Tatum’s history. “That’s terrible,” I say, feeling like any words I say will be inadequate.
