Gatz's "important" matter was truly just cornering Indy and forcing her to help them decide which silk vest to wear to the auction: which were largely the same, except for minute details like trim and embroidery that Indy hurt her eyes squinting at. They asked nothing about the conversation they had just pulled her from, and Indy was glad for it. It allowed her to forget for a moment that it happened at all.
Now, she has not seen Percy since this morning. Dusk is settling beyond the window, the sky mauve and reticent, and downstairs is a symphony of clinking silverware and rapid footsteps and somewhere, a string quartet tuning up. The evening stirsânot yet awake, but on its way there. Indy stands in the guest room's mirror and passes a hand over the ruched blue silk of her dress, borrowed from her mother. She's had to pin the front to keep it from slipping, and the sharp metal pokes her if she breathes too hard.
She shifts her weight, as if trying to manually shake the awkwardness from her shoulders. She knows Percy, she knows this house, but she doesn't know this crowd. She's a fraud, an undercover agent yet to realize she's in too deep.
Two soft knocks on the door. Sylvia doesn't wait for a response, just pokes her head in. "You ready yet? People are getting here. You should see this shit. It's like the fucking Grammy's."
Indy sighs, hoping the breath comes out steady, though the last thing she feels at the moment is steady. "How so?"
"So many limos and everyone's trying too hard."
Indy gives the bedazzled purple suit Sylvia's wearing a brief glance. It's all she can give it; like the sun, the glimmer of it threatens to blind if she looks any longer than that. "You'll fit right in then, disco ball."
Sylvia swats Indy's shoulder. "I hate you," she says casually, then links their elbows. "So, what do you say? Are you ready?"
As I'll ever be. But Indy just nods her head.
The first thing to shock Indy when the two of them step out into the hall is the noise, the cloud of senseless babble bouncing off the walls, rising up and mingling with the crystal chandeliers. She catches mere threads of conversations, about vacations and new neighbors and zen yoga, interspersed by laughter far too loud to be authentic. The second to shock her is the artificial brightness of it all: a manufactured daydream, but with none of the whimsy, everything sterilized. Every light in the house is on at full brightness. The entire house blazes in dazzling gold chrome.
The last are the smells. Designer perfumes hang in saccharine clouds among the attendees. Alcohol sweetly stings her nostrils. As Indy and Sylvia reach the base of the stairs, two men in tuxedos carry a painting past them, and for a moment it is all oil and sugar.
"Indy," Sylvia says, gripping her arm tighter. "You with me?"
"Barely," she answers. She has the thought to look for Percy, but takes one look at the thick crowd mingling in his foyer and realizes she'll never find him, and perhaps that's for the best.
"It's so Real Housewives in here," Sylvia says, and Indy traces her gaze, finding Percy's mother in a circle of women near the door, all of them with their statement necklaces and pin curls. Neither Sylvia nor Indy seem to have gotten this memo. "So? What do we do?"
Indy has no idea, but she would never admit this.
"We find the Dobbs family," she says to Sylvia. "What else?"
Gatz has learned the hard way that rich people eat terrible food, for some reason. They loiter by the hors d'oeuvre table in the middle of the foyerâwhich is big enough, truly, to resemble a rotunda in a natural history museum. The appetizers, slowly spinning on a rotating display, are all small and cubical, sitting on even smaller, polished white plates with just a drop of some unidentifiable, suspiciously colored sauce. Gatz bites into something that has the taste and consistency of freshly cut grass. This is going to be a long night.
They lost track of Percy probably twenty minutes ago, and since then they've stayed where they are, watching as more and more attendees file in through the white double doors. At first, they're looking for blond hair and wary eyes and anything else that might indicate some relationship to the late Elizabeth Dobbs, but they quickly get distracted by the glitz of it all, the silken gowns and the dangling earrings, hair pieces crusted with mermaid pearls. Gatz remembers, very vaguely, standing in a shimmering crowd like this when they were very young, clutching at their father's pant leg. Though they're sure it was some event for their father's art, they can remember little else. So much of what they know of their father are memories that could just as well have been dreams.
"Gatz?" says a voice behind them that nearly makes them jump from their patent leather shoes. "Is that you?"
Gatz whirls, none too gracefully. "Dr. Clover?"
From what Gatz has seen, most people give off at least a slightly nuanced vibe when they're wearing formal wear versus not, but the professor is the same frumpy, tired-eyed man even in a tux. He wears a matching black hat angled on the top of his head, standing with his hands in his pockets, wisps of silver at the edges of his chin. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Are you bidding tonight?"
Gatz smiles. "Funny joke, Professor. Every piece up for auction tonight probably starts at three times the cost of my tuition, at least. We're just here with Percy."
Dr. Clover's face brightens with surprise.
Gatz frowns, resting an elbow on the stationary part of the display. "Don't tell me you didn't know who his parents were, Professor?"
"I don't make it a habit of prying into my students' personal lives; it's not my business."
"Yeah, but I meanâ"
"Though," Dr. Clover interrupts, picking up one of the hors d'oeuvres, something small and cakey and radioactively orange, and scrutinizing it. "Maybe I should've connected the dots."
Gatz chuckles lightly. "You said it, not me."
Dr. Clover bites into the appetizer, before he makes a face and sets it down again. "So who else is here?" he asks Gatz, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. "You mentioned a we."
Gatz waves a loose hand in the air. "Indy and Sylvia are around here somewhere. Indy grew up not far from here, so I think her family might be here, too."
"It's nice of you all to come keep Percy company," Dr. Clover says. "I'm sure he appreciates it."
Gatz pauses, their mind floating away from them for a moment as they drag the edge of their nail back and forth across the table. They'd watched Percy's shoulders the entire drive here, the way the tension in them coiled tight and close until it looked like he was straining under some unimaginable weight, Atlas cowering beneath an invisible world. There is something here. Something about this house, about these people. Something Percy won't say and something none of them will ask.
Before Gatz has recognized the silence stretching between them and the professor, a stranger approaches and claps a friendly hand on Dr. Clover's shoulder. Gatz's eyebrow raises, slightlyâthe guy looks like some retired wall street tycoon, gray eyes crinkled with crow's feet and white hair slicked back thinly over his spotted scalp.
"Isaiah!" the man greets. "There you are, man; I've been looking for you for the past hour. Were you hiding from me?"
"I got here late," Dr. Clover replies, sheepish. "The roads back this far aren't very well lit. I took a wrong turn."
"Oh, Isaiah, you know this. You'll always have a spot in my limo if you want it."
Gatz fights the urge to roll their eyes. It is a very real and very violent fight.
"Thanks, Aiden," Dr. Clover says. He nods his head at Gatz, gesturing in their direction. "This is one of my students, Tayvon Gatley. Everyone calls them Gatz. They're a truly talented painter."
"Alright," Gatz says, waving the sentiment off. "Save the praises for my essay, Professor."
"A painter, are you?" asks the man, Aiden. "Are you showing anything at Dr. Clover's showcase?"
"He certainly wants me to," Gatz answers slowly, "but we'll see if I can actually produce anything in time."
"Nonsense." There is earnestness in Dr. Clover's voice; he truly believes the words he speaks. "There is a natural creative light in you, Gatz. I'm sure you can do it."
Gatz pauses, momentarily disarmed by the words, and the fear that rises as a result of themâbut what happens if that light goes out?
"Isaiah, let's grab a drink," says Aiden, and turns away from the table, angled towards the glittering crowd. He pauses, however, fishing a small card from his inside pocket and flicking it onto the table. "Gatz, is it? Call me if you ever wanna talk business."
Dr. Clover ducks his head in a goodbye as bright-eyed, wide-smiling Aiden whisks him away, and Gatz picks up the business card left behind with only mild interest.
Aiden Ovenshine, the name reads. Art curator.
The voices waft up from downstairs in an amorphous cloud of noise, so much so that it's almost dizzying. Percy stands at the top of the stairs, just inside the hallway so he's out of view of the congregation, preparing to throw himself into the jungle. He can already catch glimpses of it: the bared fangs in the shape of smiles, the shimmering nails curved like claws, the glass-shattering laughter like the ceaseless humming of a forest, alive and inscrutable and ugly. As long as he's lived, he's never understood why his parents continue to welcome something so wild into their home.
"Percy?"
Percy turns at his brother's voice; Harvey stands in the threshold of his bedroom, his silhouette outlined in the gold light from within. He looks perplexed and a bit unnerved, as if he's just discovered not Percy, but something vaguely Percy-shaped. "What are you still doing up here? I thought you were downstairs."
"Same here," Percy says.
"I was trying to decide which tie to wear," Harvey answers, and then he frowns, thick eyebrows furrowing intensely for a moment before he spins Percy by the shoulder. He yanks on Percy's tie, and Percy coughs. "Speaking of which, this is all sorts of uneven."
Percy groans, but stands obediently still as Harvey adjusts the fit of his tie, an emerald green color he thinks looks tacky on him, but their mother insisted flatters him quite well.
"There." Harvey pats his brother's shoulders. "Now what do you say we go before Mom notices we're not there and pops a blood vessel?"
Harvey leads the way into the light of the chandelier and down the staircase, though Percy waits a moment before he follows. He imagines putting on a coat. Unzipping it and knocking away the clingy dust, stepping into it like a separate skin.
When he feels new again, he follows.
Immediately his father catches his eye and sweeps an arm around Percy and Harvey both. With a boisterous laugh, Lawrence ushers them into a banal conversation (school, romantic prospects, what happens after school and romantic prospects) with an even more banal man, who Percy sort of remembers is a realtor or an insurance broker or some other loosely-veiled con artist. Soon after, his mother drifts by and drops a glass of champagne in his hands for him to hold like a prop while she stands there and brags about him to her friends, who are all so shiny and so dull at the same time.
Percy catches a flash of light blue movement out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze follows it, traces the flutter of the soft periwinkle silk against the floor, up to the syrupy drape of it around her hips, and up further, to her face, where he realizes it's Indy and realizes at the same time that the wind has been knocked from his chest. He doesn't think about it, doesn't think about the woman she's clearly in conversation with. He just says, "Excuse me, Mom," and returns the champagne to Tina, kissing her on the cheek before he flees.
By the time he realizes his mistake, it's too late to alter his course.
"Oh, Percy!" Indy greets. Percy senses her sending some nonverbal message with her eyes, but whatever it is, the meaning of it is going right over his head. Indy's earrings are the shape of raindrops. He's trying to remember if he's seen them before. "There you are. Mrs. Dobbs and I were just talking about you."
Percy's breath hitches like he's just been punched. He hides it with a smile. "Is that so?"
He could've, perhaps should've, guessed before Indy even mentioned her name. He's seen only grainy photos of Elizabeth Dobbs, but the woman before them now still resembles her clearly: a round, nearly cherubic face, blondish-brown hair in big curls toward it, eyes downturned and introspective and speckled with uneven eyeliner. Those eyes turn toward him now, friendly but cautious as she says, "She was telling me you two have been close since you were kids. You're at the same college now, too?"
"Yes ma'am," Percy says. "At Proudley."
Something in the woman's expression shifts. "I see."
"I'm very excited for the auction, Mrs. Dobbs," Indy interrupts before the air can shift any further. "How long has your family been in the art business, curating and everything? Is everyone in the family involved?"
Percy touches Indy's back. Maybe she hasn't crossed a line yet, but he knows her; he can sense her toeing up to it.
"Please. Veronica is fine," she replies, and sighs, as if preparing for a long speech. "And no, it's truly just my husband and I. My son got involved in Wall Street, and my daughter was a lawyer."
The silence settles between the three of them. Percy watches Indy's face.
"I've heard about what happened to Elizabeth. I'm very sorry for your loss."
Veronica says nothing, but there is something about the look on her face, the flat line into which her mouth is pressed, that makes Percy figure it's not because she has so little to say but rather because she has too much.
"After Lydia, too."
Percy looks at Indy sharply.
"Lydia?" Veronica snaps. "What do you know about Lydia?"
Percy puts on the most placating voice he can, hoping to diffuse a situation that's already detonated. "Sorry, um, Veronica. She's justâ"
"Oh, I'm sorry; that was inappropriate of me. I just heard that she went missing and I can't imagine how hard that must have been for your familyâ"
"Damn right, you can't imagine it." Veronica's face is beginning to turn a mottled and angry shade of red. "Don't you dare talk about her, or Elizabeth. I don't know what sick game you've come here to play, but watch yourself, or I will have you shown out."
"I think I'll decide who gets shown out of my house," Percy says, calmly. Veronica sputters, her face even redder. "We were just trying to express our condolences. I'm sorry we offended you."
Veronica just gapes, open-mouthed, before she curves her hair behind her ear and turns. "The auction should start soon; I hope you both enjoy. I'm going to get a drink."
She walks off towards the champagne tower, not noticing the gentle tink of the metal chain slipping out of her pocket and landing at Indy's feet.
Indy bends to pick it up, its thin gold thread looping over her fingers, but neither she nor Percy get a chance to glance at it, or get Veronica's attention. The boom of a mic thuds over a well-hidden speaker, and the hubbub falters slowly off into silence. His mother stands beside a tall, older white man in a suit whom Percy assumes must be Veronica's husband. The auction must be starting, Percy thinks, but before Tina can begin to bring the mic to her mouth and say so, every light in the house shuts off.
It's like a curtain has been dropped over Percy's eyes; pitch black, impenetrable darkness cascades over him and over the room. There's a mutual gasp of confusion. Whispered voices. The general mood is concern, maybe, but not fearâno one except him is afraid. This is a darkness he knows, one he has met and touched before, one that dug its claws into him when he was much younger, much frailer, but whose scars he still bears.
"Percy? Percy, are you okay?"
He thinks he hears Indy's voice, but nothing is real.
Percy tries not to panic.
Percy can't try anymore. He crumples. Disappears.
He sinks to his knees.