The Cruelest Stranger Page 3

  I tried.

  “H … hi, Mr. Schoenbach.” She stutters when I make her nervous. My father had a soft-spot for her. Now I’m wondering if he had a hard-on for her too. She’s completely incapable of doing this job. “I … I was just finishing up …”

  I check my timepiece. It’s a quarter ‘til eight. Her coffee is filled to the brim and her computer monitor is pitch black. Her orchid-colored lipstick is faded, like she’s been engaging in recent idle chit-chat.

  Liar.

  She follows my gaze, her lips teetering as she searches for a response, but I walk away before she has the chance.

  On the way to my office, I count four people whispering, six people staring, and one sad sap from accounting who dares to make conversation with me at this ungodly hour.

  I’m sure they’re all wondering why the hell I’m here on the heels of a family tragedy.

  Unfortunately for them, it’s none of their fucking business.

  I shut my office door and take a seat at my desk, turning to face the cityscape outside my windows. The Chicago skyline is surprisingly in clear sight today, the sky behind it a surreal shade of vanilla-orange dreamsicle.

  If I were a mawkish man, I’d be drowning in a puddle of tears over the fact that the sun rose this morning without Larissa.

  But I’m practical.

  And I’m well aware that life carries on with or without us.

  We’re nothing in the scheme of things.

  And this is just another January sunrise.

  Another Friday.

  And I’m just another Schoenbach, ready to bury myself in meetings and paperwork until it’s the appropriate hour in which a man can enjoy two fingers of Scotch, and then I’ll show myself out—taking the back stairs so I don’t have to make awkward, have-a-good-weekend small talk with the suits and skirts on my payroll.

  I’m certain the majority of my staff despises me, never mind that I anonymously cover Yuri’s daughter’s private school tuition, privately donated a Toyota Camry to our most tenured maintenance man when his Pinto could no longer reliably get him to work. Never mind that I make donations in all of their names to the Halbrook Heart Disease Foundation every January. Forget that I secretly paid off Margaux’s mortgage the first year I took over, when her husband lost his job (and his battle with lung cancer six months later).

  I’m self-aware enough to comprehend that working for me is no walk in the park, so I try to soften the blow when I can. Privately. Anonymously. Always.

  I’ve no need for karma or accolades.

  I’m seven answered emails into my morning when Margaux rings my desk phone.

  “Yes?” I exhale into the receiver.

  “Mr. Schoenbach? Your mother is here.”

  Lovely.

  “Send her back.” I hang up and finish composing my last response, managing to hit ‘send’ the instant Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach strolls through the double doors.

  I rise to greet her—not out of respect but because I’m not in the mood for the passive aggressive guff she’ll give if I don’t.

  “Darling.” She makes her way across the room, her thin red lips puckered into a faux pout, her arms outstretched. Leaning across my desk, she cups my face in her gloved hands and kisses the air beside my cheek. “Thank you so much for handling the preparations last night. I was in the area this morning. Thought I’d come here to check on you. How’d it go?”

  After leaving the funeral home last night, I’d meant to text her Saturday’s details, but instead I texted Deidre-from-6A and had her come over for a nightcap—and to suck my cock.

  “Fine, Mother. The memorial is Saturday morning. Eight to ten.”

  “Such a tragedy, isn’t it?” She clucks her tongue, staring toward the scenic city abyss behind me. “Honestly, it was for the best.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Since the moment she came into our lives, she’s caused nothing but trouble.” She keeps her voice low despite the fact that this office is sound-proofed and a world away from anyone else who may or may not be nosy enough to listen in. “You know, I never liked that girl.”

  “You don’t like anyone.”

  It’s an incurable sickness.

  Bred into the Tuppance DNA.

  Passed down generation to generation like a genetic defect.

  We don’t tend to care much for anyone unless they’re serving a direct and useful self-serving purpose.

  “Fair to assume you won’t be attending?” I lift a brow.

  My mother gasps, a hand splayed across her heart. “Can you imagine what people would say if I didn’t? My God, Bennett. You know how they talk around here. Would I rather be meeting the ladies for brunch at The Marigold that morning? Yes. Of course I would. But not going isn’t an option.”

  A simple yes, I’ll be there would have sufficed …

  “Your honesty is … refreshing,” I say.

  “It’s much too early for sarcasm, darling. Please. Enough.”

  “Have you spoken with Errol yet?” I change the subject.

  Tugging at her pearls, she draws a resigned breath. “I have. He’s aware of Larissa’s untimely passing, and he plans to attend her memorial, but he won’t be bringing his wife. We both know that’s a good thing. Larissa and Beth never got along. Oil and water, those two.”

  It probably didn’t help that my mother poisoned their relationship early on, pinning them against one another like some sick and twisted game solely for her own amusement.

  All of their differences aside, Beth and Larissa never stood a chance where my mother was involved.

  She’s a destroyer, that woman.

  She destroys all that is good in this world, whether she means to or not.

  She destroyed our family, her marriage, my father …

  It’s as if she can’t help but to meddle, to ensure everyone else is as miserable as she is.

  “All right, well.” She rises, straightening the hem of her boucle jacket. “I’ve got a million little things to do this morning and I’m sure you do as well, so I’ll leave you be.”

  Thank God.

  My email chimes with Margaux’s expense report—fifteen hours late.

  “And Bennett?” My mother stops at the door, turning back to me. “Call your brother. You two haven’t been on speaking terms for years, and I’d hate for things to be awkward Saturday morning.”

  “Will do,” I lie.

  Whoever said death brings families closer never met the Schoenbachs.

  5

  Astaire

  The sound of children laughing and shuffling down the hallway Friday morning is my cue to silence my phone.

  I tuck it into my top drawer for the day and reach for my coffee, stealing a few more sips before the craziness of the day ensues.

  I found the Schoenbach obituary—if you can call it that—earlier this morning. The funeral home posted it sometime last night.

  Her name was Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach, and she was twenty-seven when she passed. It mentioned no family, no cause of death, no photograph. Nothing more than a birthdate and a single line about a private sunrise memorial service tomorrow morning and the words INVITATION ONLY in bold red letters. All caps.

  I spent a few minutes Googling “Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach” earlier this morning. But I couldn’t find a thing.

  No social media.

  No LinkedIn.

  No archived newspaper articles of any kind.

  No graduation archives; high school, college or otherwise.

  It’s as if this woman never existed.

  “Good morning, good morning!” I take my place at the front of the room, grinning and waving and trying to psych them up for the day. Fridays are hard. The kids are exhausted, attention spans are waning. My students hang their jackets and bags on their hooks and then make their way to their assigned square on the rug. “Happy Friday!”

  I maintain the smile on my face, sing our morning song, and begin the day’s lesson, but today I can’t h
elp but feel like I’m merely going through the motions. My mind is fixated on that man from the bar last night—and the mystery woman he’s burying.

  With the hyphenated name and similar age, it’s fair to assume she was his wife.

  At first I thought it seemed odd that she’d have a private sunrise memorial service, but maybe sunrises were her thing? And maybe her passing was so tragic and unspeakable that all he wants is to protect her privacy?

  By the time the kids head out for first recess ninety minutes later, I’ve concocted a beautiful love story for the two of them. I’ve imagined a passionate, love-at-first-sight romance.

  Trips to Paris.

  A sunset proposal.

  Slow dances in empty bars.

  Lazy Sunday afternoons sipping tea and trading poetry.

  Saturday strolls in Lincoln Park.

  New Year’s Eve kisses on snowy hotel balconies, her lashes covered in snowflakes as he wraps her tight to keep her warm.

  In my heart of hearts, I want to believe he was beautifully, wonderfully kind to her.

  That he loved her more than anything in the entire world.

  That her death shattered his heart into a million, irreparable pieces.

  I want to believe that that was the cause of his cruelty last night.

  That he’s simply angry at the world for taking the love of his life away from him.

  Death and loss can do a number on you. It can change your entire personality if you let it. Some of my darkest days came in the months following Trevor’s passing.

  I want to believe Bennett has friends and family getting him through this, but last night, Eduardo mentioned that when Bennett stops in, he never talks to anyone—which leads me to assume he only comes solo.

  Maybe he’s painfully private?

  Maybe she was his entire world? All he had?

  Maybe they’d had a falling out and weren’t speaking when she died?

  The kids return from recess, peeling out of their scarves and gloves, cheeks flushed and eyes wet from the cold. Making my way to the front of the classroom to start the next lesson, I decide to do what Trevor would do if here were still here: I give the cruel stranger from last night the benefit of the doubt.

  And then I carry on with my day.

  * * *

  The final bell of the day chimes at 2:55, and I walk my class to the bus line.

  Five minutes pass, then ten, and by the time the buses and jam-packed mini vans and shiny Suburbans, Denalis, and Escalades are long gone, I’m left with one remaining student.

  “Guess it’s just us,” I say to a despondent-looking Honor Smith. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time she’s late being picked up. “Why don’t you come back to the classroom? We can wait for Lucy there.”

  “Ms. Carraro, can I sit in the special reader’s chair? Please, please, please?” She slides her hand in mine, twirls a shiny dark wave around her little finger, and grins as we walk back. Her spirit has changed from dejected to upbeat with the realization that she won’t have to share the secondhand beanbag all the kids fight over.

  “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

  I don’t favor students. Ever. But I love this little girl to pieces. In some ways, when I look at her, it’s like my entire childhood is staring back at me.

  Honor’s newest foster mom fosters four other kids, and after-school pick-ups involve dashing from one side of town to the next, from primary schools to junior highs and high schools, and praying to the traffic gods that there are no delays or surprise detours.

  I was about her age when I was placed in my first home.

  Little did I know, it’d be my first of thirteen.

  I had so much hope, so much trust in the grown-ups enlisted to care for me. The years that followed were a cocktail of everything that is right and wrong in this world, but in the end, none of it broke me—and much of that I owe to the beautiful woman who adopted me when I was a rebellious, smart-mouthed, fourteen-year-old know-it-all.

  In many ways, she salvaged my life.

  Or saved it.

  I want that for Honor. I want someone to teach her that her past doesn’t have to dictate her future, that she’s worth it.

  Last I knew, her place in the system is temporary. Lucy mentioned to me one day in conversation that Honor’s mom had gotten into drugs and prostitution and she wasn’t sure how long she’d have her, but that was months ago, and she hasn’t mentioned a word about any of it since.

  If things were different—if Honor was adoptable and I wasn’t living paycheck-to-paycheck, I’d make her mine in a heartbeat.

  Until then, I have her from 8 AM to 3 PM five days a week, and a handful of minutes after school when Lucy’s running late.

  Honor reads quietly to herself and I find myself thinking of Bennett Schoenbach again.

  I pull up Larissa’s obituary on my phone one more time.

  I put myself in his shoes.

  And I decide that he was nothing more than a good person having a bad day.

  Had we met under different circumstances, I’m sure I’d have found him to be nothing but lovely.

  6

  Bennett

  I’m in a mood Friday night so I blast Chopin so loud the aging socialite next door will be calling the building manager any minute, and then I pour myself two fingers of single malt Lagavulin.

  The world outside went dark hours ago, as it does this time of year, and I’d go out for a drink or two, but Larissa’s memorial is in the morning and I won’t punish myself by suffering through it on little-to-no sleep.

  Sinking into a leather armchair in my study, I reach for my phone and scroll through my missed calls, stopping when I get to the night Larissa died.

  Twelve.

  She called me twelve times, most of them a minute apart.

  She called a dozen times before she gave up on me.

  I’d never known anyone as needy as her. It was always something. She was always involving herself with nefarious types. Always finding comfort in the arms of users and abusers. I stopped bailing her out years ago.

  I gave up on her first.

  Only I never explicitly made that clear, I suppose.

  I simply stopped taking her calls.

  Stopped wiring her money.

  Stopped bailing her out of jail.

  I figured the message was loud and clear, and besides, actions always spoke louder than words. No need to sit down and explain my decisions.

  Having to stare at her pale blue body on a frozen slab of stainless steel at the city morgue this past week and confirm that she was, indeed, Larissa Schoenbach, was the first time I’d seen her in seven years.

  I don’t know what she wanted the night she died.

  All I know is someone took her life outside a seedy strip club on the south side of Chicago.

  Police think it was a drive-by shooting or drug deal gone bad, and she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—which is ironic because her entire life could be summarized like that.

  She was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Becoming a Schoenbach was the worst thing that could’ve happened to her.

  She was too soft in the middle.

  Too weak.

  Too gullible.

  Too trusting.

  She was never one of us.

  My mother had just undergone an emergency hysterectomy and overnight it became her life’s mission to have a daughter. But she didn’t want a baby. No. She didn’t want to deal with diapers, potty training, snotty noses, or humiliating public tantrums.

  Larissa happened to be in the system and available for adoption.

  Like I said … wrong place, wrong time.

  She was nine when Mom brought her home, and looking back, I’m positive she took her to Neiman’s or Saks beforehand because the girl was dressed like a show poodle … satin bows, fluffy hair, big pink dress, shiny patent leather shoes with ribbons for laces.

  My mother par
aded her around the grounds, showing her off to every gardener, maid, chef, and butler before the two of them joined us for a formal five-course dinner where Larissa burped between bites of steak au poivre, picked at her roasted parsnips, and attempted to eat sans utensils.

  In the matter of a single hour, my mother’s brand new pride-and-joy turned into sheer horror.

  I’m not sure what my mother was thinking, adopting a child. She could hardly love the two children she brought into the world—how she thought she could love a stranger’s child is beyond me.

  The first year was the hardest to watch. Painful, really. There was no bonding. No love.

  Not that any of that came as a shock.

  Before anything was finalized, Mother refused to “send her back,” fearing how it would reflect on her. Knowing people would talk. Worried everyone would think she got a “dud.”

  Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach was married to one of the wealthiest men in Chicago, lived in one of the most expensive estates in the area, drove the priciest vehicles, took the most luxurious vacations, and gave birth to two beautiful, strong, healthy, athletic, intelligent boys.

  God forbid she attach her reputation to anything subpar.

  Truthfully, I think she was terrified the world would see her for who she truly was—a self-involved, miserable, coldhearted, materialistic woman with a narcissistic streak a mile wide.

  So she kept Larissa.

  And as soon as she found an opening at the prestigious Betancourt Boarding School five hours away, she shipped her off with two suitcases and a trunk filled with all of her pretty things. Her bedroom door was locked, not even the staff were allowed to enter. It was as if my mother preferred we pretend Larissa never happened.

  After that, we strictly saw our new kid sister for major holidays and summer breaks—when the Betancourt school was closed.

  With Larissa home, it was never like having a sister—it was like having this person that your family was financially obligated to support, this person who made your stiff and awkward family gatherings that much more stiff and awkward.

  Bizarre little crew that we were, I never bothered getting to know her any more than necessary. I never went out of my way to spend time with her or wish her happy birthday or any of those time-wasting, ingenuous exchanges.