Founder, Installment 5
Chapters 9 and 10
Chapter 9
A Funeral, July, 2006
Details of the accident came in fragments. Much of the information Hugh pieced together from snatches of telephone conversations between Maggie and the Sikstand investigators. Once or twice, he caught a look at documents Maggie forgot to put away, though he later wished he’d never seen them. In fact, Maggie showed more curiosity about the circumstances of the car crash than he did, which Hugh later attributed to his shock from the loss. In an unexpected twist, the shock of his parents’ death swept away his anxiety and OCD, and for several weeks after the accident, he suffered no panic attacks at all. Instead, he existed in a sort of twilight world, where feelings of any sort seemed to have died inside him. It was not until he moved in with Maggie that the anxiety returned, and with it the endless tics and compulsions. The voice nattering in his head was the worst part, though, with its constant rhyming. When his anxiety came back, that voice returned with a vengeance; but that was later.
For the first two weeks after the accident, Maggie lived with Hugh in Gloven, spending his days poring over the Warding family finances, planning the funeral, dealing with the Sikstand investigators, and packing for Hugh’s relocation to North Campus Augustus. To his credit, the old man never drank during the day and went about his tasks with grim determination. He kept a close eye on his nephew during that time. Hugh could tell from the look in his eyes, though, that Maggie was as scared of being a guardian as Hugh of being alone in the world. Neither of them knew how to interact with the other. Maggie dealt with Hugh as one might handle a kettle of boiling water; and Hugh avoided Maggie altogether. When his uncle made any request of him, Hugh would grudgingly comply, with no effort at civility. Even in those earliest weeks after his parents died, he looked forward to the day he could be free of the old man.
The accident on Halendana Hill seemed to perplex the Sikstand, or at least challenge their attention spans. At first, investigators speculated that Hugh’s father had been blinded by the brilliant sunset and missed a turn on the steep hill. But it was later determined that, by 9:15, when the restaurant manager said Hugh’s parents left, the entire southwestern slope of Halendana would have been nearly dark. The pavement may have been slick from the rain, it was speculated, or maybe a deer darted out of the pine forest onto the road. After the accident, Maggie occasionally referred to an official inquest; and it was a copy of that inquest report that Hugh discovered lying on his mother’s desk one afternoon. It was there, in six paragraphs of 12-point Times New Roman type, that he saw his deceased parents described like a pair of dummies in a crash simulator.
Tipton Caudwell Warding, aged 47, died instantly from blunt trauma to the skull.
Amelia Marston Warding, aged 44, died from crush injuries to the chest and pelvis.
With the toxicology analysis completed, the Sikstand were able to rule out intoxication as a factor: neither victim’s blood alcohol level exceeded the legal limit of 0.5 mg/ml per litre. Hugh knew, of course, that his safety-conscious parents never would have driven drunk, and the mere implication infuriated him. All the Sikstand could say for sure was that, at approximately 9:22 PM, a 2004 Renault Clio, registered to Tipton Warding and traveling at approximately 56 kilometers per hour, veered off the Halendana Road near marker 12.6, rolled 120 meters down a steep ravine and wedged itself between two large trees. Both driver and passenger were killed immediately. Sikstand investigators did not believe anyone witnessed the crash. Though the report referenced a second car on the road, it declined to speculate if the car had been involved. Constantly frustrated by the Sikstand’s lack of thoroughness, Maggie complained that they probably never even tried to find the second car. When the investigation ended, the report concluded that the accident had likely been a result of distracted driving—Hugh’s dad might have changed the radio station or looked sideways at the wrong instant. Hugh dismissed that conclusion as well; his mum would have never let his father be distracted, especially on that road.
Whatever the cause, the Pombresan Borough Council installed a guardrail on Halendana Road just a month after the accident.
The memorial service took place a week after the accident, at Wilkins & Beheun Funeral Home, a shabby storefront operation in north Gloven. The turnout was respectable: about three dozen people all told—some from DHL and some from the university, where Hugh’s mum worked as a benefits administrator. Three members of his father’s darts league showed up to pay their respects, as did a handful of women from the fitness club where his mother took classes on Tuesday and Thursday. Immediately following the service, a few of the mourners met at a pub around the corner on Hanover Street, to drink a pint in honor of the deceased. For the first few minutes, Maggie guided Hugh around the pub, introducing him as “Tip and Amelia’s boy.” One of his hands rested on Hugh’s shoulder, the other held a glass of whiskey. The people all nodded as if they knew Hugh and gave him the look adults reserve for the children of tragedy, a mix of concern and pity—the look that says, This poor jimmy doesn’t stand a chance.
After Maggie finished marching him around, Hugh found his way to the bar, where he spun himself lazily on a barstool and drank Coca Cola. At one point, perhaps a half-hour later, Maggie ambled over and sat next to him. He’d dressed up, in a brown tweed sport coat, a narrow black tie, and a white shirt that hung loose about the neck. He hadn’t shaved, but he’d showered, at least; and with his hair combed back, and the deep lines on his forehead stretching from temple to temple, he looked surprisingly wise, though the glint in his eye suggested he was already half in the bag.
After he sat down, Maggie smiled buoyantly, as if he’d forgotten the occasion for the get-together. Then he studied Hugh for a moment and leaned in close. “How about a beer, Hughie? You’re ol’ enough, yeah?”
Hugh briefly considered the offer, then said, “Yeah, sure,” because his parents allowed him the occasional beer at a football game or a birthday party. He only hesitated because his mother wouldn’t have liked him drinking at a funeral.
Maggie waved the barman over and ordered a half-pint of Thomson’s for Hugh and another round of whiskey for himself. Then he squeezed Hugh on the shoulder and said, “There you go, jimmy. Bottoms up,” and he wandered back to the fireplace where he’d been chatting with three men Hugh didn’t recognize.
About ten minutes after that, when Hugh had drunk half his beer, a pretty middle-aged woman in a blue dress caught his eye from across the pub. She’d been standing with a group of his mother’s work friends and every now and then would glance meaningfully at him. He was in no mood to talk to more adults, however, so he avoided making eye contact. At one point, the woman must have decided the time was right, so she excused herself from her group and made her way over to him. She had an honest, unenigmatic quality to her—round, dark eyes, auburn hair braided Bressen-style behind her head, a sturdy figure. When she stood before him, the woman offered Hugh the standard sympathy smile, and he forced himself to smile back. Then he looked away as if they’d concluded their exchange—to say, You really don’t need to check on me. But the woman was undeterred.
“Hugh?” she said, her cheerful face hovering in his line of sight like a harvest moon. “You don’t know me, but I worked with your mum at the university.”
“You’re Ava, yeah?” he replied.
“I am!” she exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“Mum talks about work a lot.”
The woman laughed. “Well, I hope she didn’t complain about me too much.”
“You’re her boss?”
She looked at her feet as if he’d wounded her feelings. “I was, technically. But we were more like friends.” With that, her eyes began welling up. “We got to be really close, actually.” The next thing Hugh knew, big, sooty tears were trailing down Ava’s cheeks. He considered saying something consoling but was too wrung out. So he watched and waited as she searched for a tissue in the pocket of her dress, then wiped her eyes and cheeks. She didn’t speak right away, but she kept her eyes locked on him, as if he might run off when he got the chance. After a second, she said, “Your mum told me so much about you, Hugh.”
He forced out another compulsory smile.
“She told me about your pet lizard and how you held a funeral when it died.” When he tried to look away, she lowered her head to catch his gaze. “That’s a lovely thing to do—and so compassionate for a boy your age. I hope you never lose that quality.”
“Thanks,” was all he could think to say. Then he finished his beer and slid the glass toward the barman, as he’d seen his father do. Ava shot a disapproving look at his beer glass but said nothing about it.
“She was so focused on your future,” she continued. “Did you know that? She talked constantly about her plans for you and how you’d maybe go to university someday. She said you’re smarter than any boy she ever knew, and that you have such good judgment. She said once you make up your mind, there’s no stopping you.”
“All mums say that stuff,” he mumbled.
“Maybe so,” said Ava. “But your mum was very clever herself, and I don’t think she was exaggerating just because you’re her boy.” She reached over and put her hand on his forearm; he could feel its warmth through his shirt sleeve. “She saw so much in you, Hugh. She was even exploring…where you come from. All about your family and your history. She thought it was important for you to know about that.” She gave him a searching look with her dark, round eyes, but he looked away again, toward the window.
“I know all that stuff,” he said. He knew, after all, that his mother was interested in their family history. Every now and then, she showed him a photo on her laptop of some ancestor from the last century. It didn’t interest him much, but he always tried to show enthusiasm because it meant so much to her.
“Maybe so,” replied Ava. “But she seemed to think there was…” Her voice trailed off. “More to know.” Then she smiled, wiped her cheeks again, and said, “I hope your uncle helps you learn more about yourself—that’s really important in life.” Her face grew unexpectedly grave at this point, and something in her expression made Hugh’s chest tighten.
Mean that.
Bean that.
“Thanks,” he said.
Ava started to leave, hesitated a second, then turned to him and asked, “What was its name?”
“What’s name?”
“Your lizard. The one that died.”
“Pagos,” he replied. “He was a bearded dragon.”
“Ah!” said Ava. “That’s a wonderful name for a lizard.”
He told her he’d named the lizard after Loistávis, whose name was Pagos Abra before he became Consul and the Senate granted him his title. “I like history stuff,” he confessed, feeling suddenly ashamed of his earnestness.
Now Ava laughed exuberantly, her smooth, white chin tilted toward the ceiling. “You are a clever boy!” she cried out. “My boys would have named him something from Star Wars, but you pick a consul from a thousand years ago. That’s brilliant.” She gave him one, final look of approval, reached out and patted his arm, and left.
Hugh watched her return to her friends, wine glass in hand, the red braid coiled at the back of her head. She was nothing like his mother, but then a great deal like her. Perhaps it was a maternal thing—how she looked at him with intensity but not judgment, how her hand felt warm on his arm.
Right then he got a crushing, lonely feeling, and his ribs tightened up again.
Clever boy.
Clever roy.
Eventually the spasm of loneliness eased and, since no one seemed to care, he waved to the barman for another half pint. He was just taking a sip when Maggie sidled up to him again. His cheeks were redder than the last time he came by, and there was a surprising brightness to his eyes. “You ready to clear out, Hughie? I could stand a bite.”
Hugh nodded.
“Who was that ripe little masie you were talkin’ to?” he asked, scanning the pub.
“She knew Mum from work,” Hugh said.
“Ah.”
“She said Mum talked about me a lot,” he went on. “She knew that Pagos died.”
Maggie raised his eyebrows.
“My lizard.”
“Ah,” said his uncle.
“She said I’m clever.”
Maggie smiled. “You like hearin’ that, yeah?”
“All mums say that stuff,” he replied.
“Oh I dunno, Hughie,” he said. “Your mum was as clever as they come—and it takes one to know one.” Then he slapped his hand on the bar and added, “Let’s go fin’ some dinner.”
Chapter 10
School Day, May 2012
“Hugh-boy, d’ya check the post?”
Maggie’s voice came from inside his studio where he’d been painting since 5:30 or 6 that morning. He never bothered to say, good morning or how’d you sleep, or much of anything pleasant in the morning. Maybe he didn’t know how to be that civil, or he’d forgotten how. Hugh had been living with Maggie for five years by that time and was no longer fazed by his uncle’s abrupt manner, or by anything Maggie did or didn’t do. Seated at the harvest table in the kitchen, Hugh briefly looked up when he heard Maggie’s voice, then resumed eating his muesli. He almost always ate a bowl of cereal before school, most of the time alone.
“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s here.”
Now he heard Maggie’s feet treading on the newspapers he used to cover his studio floor. A second later, the old man came into the kitchen and stood opposite the harvest table where Hugh was eating. The table was long and narrow and battered by the years, its top cluttered with art books, potted plants, dirty dishes, and jars of ballpoint pens and colored pencils. Briefly scanning the tabletop, Maggie leaned forward and snatched up a stack of mail at Hugh’s elbow. He examined each of the envelopes, then threw all but one into a rubbish bin. This last envelope he tore open, then pulled from it a pale-blue check. He looked the check over, folded it in half, and tucked it in his shirt pocket.
“Don’t drink it too fast,” said Hugh.
“Just eat your breakfast,” replied Maggie, turning to go.
Hugh lifted another bite of muesli to his mouth, pausing with the spoon at his chin. “I’m serious,” he said. “There’s nothing to eat around here.” And, as far as a 17 year-old was concerned, there wasn’t, except for the food Maggie liked—tins of sardines, German black bread, a brick of cold Leberkäse, none of which seemed remotely edible.
Maggie glared at him from across the table. “What’s the matter, Hughie?” he asked with a leer. “Wake up in a pissy mood?”
Hugh gave him his best go bugger yourself look, then thrust the spoonful of cereal in his mouth and crunched it with exaggerated enthusiasm. Maggie had on his usual paint-spattered clothes. His white t-shirt hung loosely on his angular shoulders; at the hollow of his neck, strands of gray chest hair poked up toward his Adam’s apple. He snorted and headed back toward his studio.
“By the way,” Hugh called after him. “You owe me 30 bone from last week.”
Without turning, Maggie shouted, “I’ll deposit the check and you’ll get your scaper.”
“It’s all my scaper.”
This stopped the old man in his tracks. He reached into his shirt pocket with a dramatic flourish, unfolded the check, and waved it at Hugh. “You see your name on this, Hughie boy?” he said. “That’s my fuckin’ name there… ‘Payable to Maghil A. Wardin’… not to jitter-boy over there who’d just smoke it with his jimmies.”
This last remark was a low blow, even for Maggie. Not because the subject of Hugh’s anxiety was off limits—both of them suffered from panic attacks, after all—but because, if Hugh wanted to smoke weed, or have a pint down at The Plough, or do much of anything fun, he had to rely on the generosity of his friends, which cost him scarce social capital. Few things were worse in secondary school than being known as a mooch, and Hugh blamed his questionable social standing—and an assortment of other problems—on Maggie.
“You wouldn’t get any of that Ministry scaper if it wasn’t for me,” Hugh muttered. “It’s supposed to be for dependent care, old man, not so you can play big dog at the pub.”
This was by no means a new criticism. Hugh often dropped a snarky aside when the Ministry check arrived—to get a rise out of the old man. Now he could see Maggie’s eyes trained on him from under eyelids lined with broken capillaries. “At least my friends say thank you every now ‘n then, yeah? That’s more ‘n I get from you…”
“I bet they thank you,” laughed Hugh.
Maggie looked poised to reply but then turned and went to his studio. When he’d disappeared around the corner, Hugh heard him mutter, just loud enough to hear, “Entitled bloody chudge,” and slam the door.
A few minutes later, Hugh rose from the table, placed his cereal bowl in the sink, and slipped on his backpack for the walk to North Campus Augustus Secondary School. Graduation was only three weeks away, a terminus he viewed with both relief and apprehension; NCASS wasn’t the sort of place you got nostalgic about. Like most students there—lower-class figans like him and newta kids from Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria and other places—he just wanted to get secondary school over with. Few NCASS graduates would continue on to university; Hugh’s immediate goal was to start earning money so he could move out on his own.
Since his parents died, he’d grown nearly a foot taller and filled out in the chest and shoulders. The acne on his forehead had mostly cleared up, and the peach fuzz on his lip and chin had developed into a scruffy beard. Between his beard and the dark hair he wore down to his shoulders, he’d cultivated a Keanu Reeves vibe that seemed to go over well at school. On the chubby side as a 12 year-old, he now tended toward gangliness, which prompted him to start lifting weights twice a week at the borough community center. At NCASS, where social taxonomies were cut and dry, long hair meant you were either a weed smoker or a metal head, or both. But Hugh didn’t fit neatly into either pigeon hole. He started smoking weed shortly after he moved in with Maggie but found he had to limit himself to a couple hits or risk setting off his anxiety like fireworks. Nor was he a metal head, really—he favored old school Seattle grunge over Euro-Metal. His Keanu Reeves look attracted girls, for sure, but usually the wrong types—black-haired goths sometimes, or izzies, the hard-partiers who never seemed to have parents at home. Girls like those expected him to be edgier than he really was, and then ghosted him when he turned out to be a history keener with cool hair. The girls he fancied—the smart, pretty ones like his mum—tended to date jocks or boys with university ambitions.
After Hugh had been walking down Pembroke Street for a few minutes, he turned onto the NCASS Esplanade, a long parkway of crabgrass and ragweed between parallel strips of crumbling asphalt. He’d walked half a block along the esplanade when he spotted his friend Louis Gergits just ahead and called out to him. Seeing Hugh jogging toward him, Louis turned squinting in the morning light, and waited for him to catch up.
As Hugh approached, Louis asked, “You get it finished?”
“Yeah,” replied Hugh. “You?”
“Nah. Fell asleep halfway through.”
A short, pudgy kid in jeans and a Pokemon t-shirt, Louis was teased at school for the way he walked on his toes. He and Hugh had been friends since they met in first-year algebra and Hugh offered to help with some of the trickier homework assignments.
After a minute of walking together, Louis asked, “You probably got it done in like 10 minutes, yeah?”
“Nah, Lou,” laughed Hugh. “It took me at least 15.”
Louis shook his head and muttered something about failing the class.
“Just ask for an extension,” suggested Hugh. “She’ll give it to you.”
Louis kicked at an empty Coke can on the sidewalk. “I know she will, but my dad is up my ass about not finishin’ my homework—says I must have narcolepsy or somethin’ and that I’ll never hold a job down.”
“That’s harsh,” laughed Hugh.
“It’s fuckin’ harsh, yeah?”
By this time, the NCASS building had come into view, a drab cinder-block complex, expanded haphazardly over the decades and surrounded by asphalt parking lots, athletic fields, and chain link fencing. All along the esplanade students of every description were making their way toward the school’s front entrance. By the curb outside the school, at least a dozen yellow school buses were releasing their human cargo one by one, then roaring away in clouds of exhaust.
Louis sighed as they approached the entrance. “Fuckin’ Nack-Ass,” he muttered. “I won’t miss this shithole.”
“Oh, yeah you will,” replied Hugh, eyes dead ahead.
“The fuck I will,” insisted Louis.
“What, Lou?” asked Hugh. “You think things get easy after this?” He chuckled sardonically then gestured at the school the way an estate agent might at a house for sale. “Ten years on this’ll look like paradise, yeah? Two of us’ll be washing dishes at Niedermeyers’, talking about the good ol’ days at Nack-Ass when we didn’t have bills to pay.”
“Maybe you will,” countered Louis. “I’m gonna make a shitload of scaper and get the fuck out of Bressen.”
“Yeah?” laughed Hugh. “You gonna be a highly-paid mattress tester?”
Louis smirked and raised his middle finger at Hugh.
A moment later, as they crossed the street to the school, they found themselves surrounded by a horde of backpack-wearing students, all jostling their way to the front door. Mounting the steps to the entrance, Hugh poked Louis in the arm “Don’t fall asleep in class,” he chided.
Louis stepped through the front door, glanced back at Hugh, and shouted, “Blow me,” then disappeared into the throng.