Which just proves, Lu thinks, how very good she is at compartmentalizing.
AJ-of course-managed to have an original midlife crisis: at age forty-four, he shucked his gorgeous, funny, brilliant wife of ten years, headed out for a wanderjahr, returned and fell in love with a mousy yoga teacher. Lu still finds it hard to reconcile herself to this. Lauranne is a drag. A drag on conversation, a drag on meals-a vegan alternative always has to be provided and is never quite right. Yet AJ remains smitten. Lauranne represents the new life he created for himself after walking away from Lehman Brothers. Granted, he walked away in 2006, excellent timing on his part. Two years later and his fortune would have walked away from him. He divested himself of most of his material goods-although only half of his considerable cash-telling his first wife, Helena, that she could have the house in Greenwich, the apartment in New York City, the beach house on Cape Cod. He then made his own Eat, Pray, Love pilgrimage around the world, although ascetic AJ skipped the eating part. He found Lauranne in some yoga class along the way and eventually brought her to Baltimore, where they became pioneers in urban gardening, something that Lu and her father privately find hilarious. “AJ didn’t even like cutting grass as a boy,” her father says. “Now he’s practically a farmer.”
AJ’s embrace of simple living has only made him richer. He wrote a book about his travels that became an unexpected hit in paperback, the sort of thing that book clubs love. The book made him an in-demand speaker, someone hired for $10,000, $20,000 a night. A local radio show on AJ and Lauranne’s locavore life ended up being nationally syndicated. Three years ago, he even was named a MacArthur fellow, receiving one of the so-called genius grants. The couple still lives in Southwest Baltimore and AJ is often photographed outside their home, a simple redbrick rowhouse. Photographers and reporters are never allowed inside, however. Luisa suspects this is because AJ and Lauranne actually own three rowhouses, reconfigured inside so that there is an open courtyard with a pool bracketed on three sides by the two end rowhouses, a walled garden at the back of the property. Lu has to give AJ his due; it is still a pretty scruffy neighborhood and he is cheerful about the price he pays to live there-graffiti, vandalism, petty larcenies. And he is doing something incontestably good, helping families in Southwest Baltimore grow their own vegetables and learn to cook and eat seasonally. He, in turn, credits Lauranne for much of his success, but Lu cannot bear to ascribe anything positive to her brother’s second wife. To her, Lauranne is just a lucky hanger-on.
She misses Helena. Funny, bright, a lawyer. AJ says they broke up over the issue of children, yet AJ and Lauranne don’t seem to be interested in having children, either, although she’s still just young enough, in her thirties. But Lu can tell, by the way she interacts with Penelope and Justin-which is to say, the way she doesn’t interact-that Lauranne has no desire to be a mom. Fair enough. Let her eat vegetables and tie her body up in knots and live forever. AJ seems happy, which is all that matters.
Just before 7 P.M., as her father begins to fret on the timing of his meal, AJ and Lauranne arrive in their Subaru Forester. His anti-midlife crisis seems self-conscious to Lu at times, as if AJ thinks everyone is forever paying attention to every choice he makes. At least he hasn’t started wearing all hemp. Fit and lean at the age of fifty-three, he favors T-shirts and jeans, which favor him. Balding, he has gone whole hog and shaved his head. Go figure, he looks great. Lu still can’t help wondering why he was blessed with their mother’s cheekbones and large eyes, while she had to favor the Brant family tree, which runs to freckles. He hugs everyone with great enthusiasm, while Lauranne offers glancing embraces so weak and watery that it amazes Lu those same arms allow her to do headstands.
“Lu has her first murder,” their father says as they all sit down. The twins don’t even look up.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about your mother’s new job?” AJ teases.
Justin shrugs. Penelope takes a long drink of milk that allows her not to answer. She plays it for laughs, holding up one finger to show that she’s busy.
“They’re so young,” Lu says quickly. She cannot bear for anyone to tease her children. And she doesn’t want them to dwell too much on what she does. They are prone to nightmares, apocalyptic scenarios in which they lose everyone they love.
“You were, what, five when I tried Sheila Compson’s killer?” their father says. “And you begged me for details. Of course, back then, there was a sense of propriety. Newspapers and television stations didn’t feel they had to report every lurid detail, thank God.”
AJ and Lu share a look over their father’s use of “back then,” a trigger phrase for him, a sign that he might hold forth on the way the world has changed. AJ steps in, trying to keep the conversation from heading down that track.
“I suppose it’s an interesting one if you’re taking it, not foisting it off on one of your deputies.”
“Are you calling me a showboat?”
“More a little prancing pony.” Only AJ can get away with that reference to Lu’s size. As a child, she sought out books about girls who were short, sturdy, freckled. Laura in the Little House books. (She hated the TV show, but loved the books.) Pippi Longstocking. Later, although not as late as one might suppose, Helen in The Group. And although her hair was more sandy than carroty, Lu always had a soft spot for Anne of Green Gables. But she never wanted anyone else to note her resemblance to these fictional alter egos.
Lu fills AJ in, sketching out the details of the woman’s life, the innate sadness of her situation. Dead for a week and no one noticed, not until she missed a day at work. It’s a rehearsal, in a sense, for the opening statement she will make before a jury.
“And the defendant still may request a competency hearing.” That’s their father. “But Lu doesn’t think he has a chance on those grounds.”
“No, although he has been institutionalized a time or two. But if he was judged healthy enough to be in a group home, then I don’t think they’ll have any luck. Not that he would stay in the group homes. He used his SSI to stay in motels, slept outside when it was warm enough. He’s probably going to claim he broke into her apartment after she was dead. After or before, coming and going when she wasn’t even there. He’s been canny enough not to commit to a specific date.”
“A lot of people are on the streets who should be in care,” AJ says. “Schizophrenics. People with severe mental illnesses.”
“And there are a lot of people on the street who aren’t schizophrenics. You know that, AJ. A diagnosis of mental illness isn’t enough to avoid consequences for one’s actions.”
“Maybe it should be. He at least could enter a defense of-what’s it called?” AJ went to law school, but never bothered to sit for the bar.
“Not criminally responsible,” their father answers. He assumes all questions are intended for him.
“God, I hope I don’t have anyone like you on my jury, AJ. Anyway-the guy did something very strange, after the woman was dead. He left the little balcony door, near where she was lying, open, then turned her thermostat down. I think he hoped the cold would make it harder to determine exactly when she had died. Does that sound like someone who’s mentally ill?”
“That reminds me,” Lauranne says. “We’ve had the most depressing vandalism in some of our community gardens. Can you imagine someone crawling over the fence into a garden just to break things? I mean, it’s just empty containers this time of year. What goes on in the mind of someone like that?”