Name Not Taken

by Madeleine Henry

Trees flank us on both sides of the longest driveway yet. At the end, his parents’ house glows in the sunset. My chin retreats, though I’ve already pored over photos of it online: a ten-bedroom Tudor estate. It’s so grand—with several chimneys, an army of shuttered windows, and a stone turret—that I feel as if I’m looking at a surrealist work, an illusion created by carefully placed mirrors. I’m not that kind of painter, but the house is so improbably vast that these are the images that come to mind. I imagine the Belmonts climbing staircases that lead up to where they begin.

My chin retreats?

He still asks me what I see, as if my lens is special. He hands Vanessa cheese on a cracker. “How funny,” she says, taking it. “Didn’t you used to date someone at Colby?” “Did I?” Richard asks. “Yes,” Vanessa says. “You met her on that trip we took with the Cabots—you know, the Boston Cabots? They’re old friends.” The aside is for me. Richard did mention he’d been to Colby before.

Cheese on a cracker? Random What is funny? No one was talking about Colby. Unless she’s referencing the cheese?

imagine Vanessa and Oliver sitting side by side on the sofa in the kitchen, the grandfather clock in the corner keeping time.

Sofa in the kitchen

She always sat at the head of the table. I’d claim the other end, the view that hid the most. Another one of her strange beliefs, fostered by alcohol, was that refrigerators aren’t as harmless as people believe. She didn’t trust them—or microwaves, or any other box where you closed the door and momentarily lost sight of your meal. So she kept all our groceries on the counter. A small city of Tupperware was visible over her shoulder.

That doesn’t sound like an alcohol thing……

It was brilliant sushi, while staring at Picassos.

It was brilliant sushi while staring at Picasso ?! What?!

At one point, I thought he was going to reveal something—and give me an insight into his personal life—when he asked, You know what I need more than anything? But the answer turned out to be an umbrella stand.

An umbrella stand? He lives at home. I do not understand so much of this author’s word choice

After Clarke in the serving line, I load my plate as full as his. We file into the dining room and find our seats. Richard winks at me from across the table—too bad we can’t lock ankles from here. I raise my water in time with their wine. Then I swallow lump after lump of—pearl onions? Unrendered fat? The sauce makes everything hard to identify.

They have place cards for seating at the table but pile dishes in a buffet line?

Sure, all Clarke did was point out my plate, but that means people really are talking about what I’m eating and whether it’s the right amount. I don’t like these lurking suspicions—about my food. It’s invasive. Because when they debate my meals, they’re hashing out what happens inside my body. It’s not far from debating my blood or a cross-section of my thigh. I help ferry in forks, knives. I might be the guest in this dark estate. But they can’t choose what I eat.

debating blood? Cross section of her thigh?

hear her talking—she’s telling me that she’s going to start soaking her fingers in nail polish remover so that she stops biting her pinkie nails. She asks me if I have any bad habits. I excuse myself and head upstairs to Richard’s room, where I shut the door and sit on his bed. Oliver and Richard creak up to the third floor, where the game room awaits.

V asks about bad habits and D just walks upstairs?

Close to home, I stop in a coffee shop and order a hot matcha latte. When the barista says that will be $5.50, I do a double take.

What did she think? A matcha in NYC would be way more than that though

Usually, Richard wears Allbirds to work—and on some Fridays, Crocs—but today, he’s in shiny loafers.

He would not wear CROCS to work

She looks polished but approachable, with her silver-streaked hair in a loosely assembled low bun. Her oxford shirt is cuffed up to her elbows—the way I wear mine at home. I push that thought aside. I don’t want to feel comfortable with her and accidentally reveal too much, sending us all down a rabbit hole into my childhood traumas. Gretchen: Thanks for coming across town to my little office. Me: Richard: Thank you, Gretchen, for making the time and having us on short notice. It’s really nice of you to work us into the schedule. Gretchen: Happy to help. Why don’t we start with a little about you two. Where are you from? Me: Richard: I grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut. What about yourself? Gretchen: I’m from Florida, but let’s keep this focused on you, if you don’t mind. So, how did you two meet? Me: Richard: Devon and I met a couple years ago at a Jasper Johns exhibit. I was on the other side of the room when I saw her staring at an American flag. She was beautiful in a way that was very . . . strong. I kept checking on her, and she didn’t move. She was just standing there, staring at the painting. You know how most people in museums take a photo and move on? Or they’re in a group, sort of gliding by everything?

Why the weird screen play writing suddenly?

We stop short at a red light. I lurch forward a few inches, without my seat belt on to catch me. Meanwhile, Richard’s holds him securely in place. My heart hammers as a man in a bowler hat crosses ahead of us, biting into an apple. He glides past a group of pigeons pecking the curb without disturbing them. Our car speeds up again.

Bowler hat with an apple — like Magritte’s painting

As he checks the time on his watch, it slides off his wrist, hits the floor.

Dali

Paper clips slide into dark buttons and a five of spades playing card.

As far as I can tell, there’s nothing else strange about this room. I can’t see any reason for the brush. Did Vanessa plant it here, toying with me?

She’d plant a paintbrush in a desk drawer that she’s not supposed to be looking in?

“Did she go for a walk?” I ask. Clarke stops short. Richard’s head swivels slowly. “What did you say?” Clarke demands. “I-I . . . ,” I stammer. It’s the most harmless explanation. She goes for a walk every morning like clockwork. What if today’s went long? Maybe Vanessa bundled up for a stroll and then had more energy than she thought. Instead of walking the usual route around the neighborhood, she decided to go an extra mile or two. “You’re right that her sneakers aren’t by the front door,” Clarke says, looking at me funny. “But she’s not on a walk, Devon. If she were, she would’ve taken her phone, and she would’ve been home two hours ago.”

“When did you scratch yourself exactly?” he asks. Most likely, it happened during therapy. I remember warning Gretchen They’re desperate to disturb me before catching an early bus home.

Warning her? Desperate to disturb her? Weird choice of words

“Also . . . ,” he starts slowly, lowering his gaze. “Dad wants to have a family meeting this morning—just the kids. He said that last night when you were asleep. He wants privacy . . . I told him that you and I are the same person, for all intents and purposes, but he’s falling apart. He wouldn’t listen. I’d fight him on this, but it’s not the time. We don’t have time.” When he lifts his eyes, they’re pink and innocent. So, I should leave—now. The suggestion is clear. I toss the covers aside, hurt but helpless that Clarke would actually kick me out. Why is he treating me like an intruder? Through Richard once again? Engaged isn’t married. I know that. We aren’t legally united yet, but aren’t we committed to be? “I’m part of this family,” I say. “I know that.”

But she’s NOT

Last night, the Belmonts were tied more tightly together than I’d ever seen them. They were so connected on their mission I could almost see the strings between them. Richard drank out of Oliver’s water glass several times, and his brother never corrected him to say it was his. They’re coming together so fast I can’t see them leaving space for anyone else.

The water glass comment?

“What kind of paint is that?” he asks. “You know paint?” “I’m a quick study. It looks . . . thick.” “It’s oil. Lots of oil.” He looks skeptical.

Why skeptical? What’s the point of this?

Eventually, I notice the man behind me. He has a birdcage on his lap. His coat spreads over the top, shaped more by its edges than his body. It looks like the cage is part of him, the steel bars his thin and curling ribs.

Richard showed me a few photos of her, but in person, she’s even warmer than I expected. She’s bosomy with soft arms. Her face is freckled with age spots, brightened with coral blush and lipstick. The cheerful palette is distinct on her pale skin. This is Vanessa’s mom? The only resemblance is in their blue eyes. Grammy’s have faded, but the color is there, linking them across generations. “My, my,” she says. “You came all this way?” “Grammy! Of course.” “Welcome home.” She waves me into a hug that smells like over-perfume.

Devon never met her before, but Grammy acts like she knows Devon.

I step up to a photo in the mosaic: it’s Richard and me outside Colby. We sent them this one over the summer. In it, our hands interlace in the foreground, where our ring catches all the light. I can’t believe Richard and I haven’t visited here before. I know it’s been complicated for him to stay close with his grandparents when Vanessa doesn’t do the same. But it’s achy to think about this room going empty.

I don’t get the last sentence?

We chat about the rest of her day as I call an Uber. Pops should be up shortly, and if he has the energy, they’ll go for a walk. As we hug goodbye, I face a cuckoo clock on her wall and watch the pendulum swing. The rod looks warped, holding a subtle curve. She waves to me as I slide into the back seat of a black Toyota. She’s still waving as she fades in the rearview mirror.

Cuckoo description?

open the door to find the detective standing closer than I expected. Was he listening in? I picture his ear to the wood, absorbing every faint vibration. If he was eavesdropping, he doesn’t look morally conflicted about it. His expression is aggressively clean and mildly impatient: shaved chin, spirited eyes.

There’s nothing to eavesdrop because she’s there alone and not speaking

I know you took a train here. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you would after everything that’s happened. It’s really nice of you to show up like this, but . . . we think it’d be best if it’s just family when she comes home.” The sentence is repeated with the exact same intonation. The words don’t feel like his own. I want to debate him. This isn’t right. We’ve spent two years in each other’s heads. No matter how bad it got, we never shut the other person out. I want to be here for him, the way a wife is for her husband. We haven’t said our vows yet, but the commitment remains, doesn’t it? “Richard, I want to stay.” “It’s not about what you want—” “But—” “It’s about what’s best for her.” He interlaces his fingers and tugs his hands in two directions. “Devon, I’m sorry, and I love you. I’m just very confused by everything you did while she was missing. Dad and Oliver saw photos from your show too. We just want Mom to feel supported right now. We don’t want there to be angst in the house. This morning, she was tied up in a basement. She was . . .” He glances over my shoulder, then down fast. I turn around as if there’s someone behind me, but there’s only the Belmonts’ backyard. Headlights illuminate the covered pool in the distance. This must be the window that Vanessa knocked on earlier today. This is the view that elated and terrified him. I look for any smudge of her knuckle, but the panes are clean.

That totally makes sense to me. She’s not family.

Painting my birds, I ruined some khakis beyond redemption. One hem ripped clean off. Another was stiff and maroon even after rounds in the wash. So I ordered replacements. I open the box and lift two pairs of heavy black cords. Not khakis? I check the name on the packing slip and then, the order below it. According to this, I hold khakis in my hands. What do you see? Richard’s old prompt comes back like a challenge. I run my fingers warily over the cords and feel the ridges push back. I know what I see. I call customer service. After I explain the problem and email Sandra photos of the pants, she asks me to stay on the line. At that moment, Hunter walks fresh faced into the kitchen in her clothes from last night. I smile and point to the bag in front of me, shaped around the curling bulge of her croissant. I point next to the Keurig, then the cabinet filled with mugs. Hunter seems to understand my signing and gives me a thumbs-up in return. “Thanks for holding,” Sandra says. “We’d be happy to send you a return slip. You’ll get a full refund as soon as we receive your return.” “No, I don’t want to return them. I’d like a refund.” “Happy to help, ma’am. We’ll just need the items back first.” “Sorry, I don’t want to create a problem here, but I didn’t buy these. So how can I return them?” Over by the Keurig, Hunter appears to be listening. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Sandra tells me she doesn’t. The pants below me are arranged in a looping dark nest. “Again, I don’t ...

WHAT?! I am so lost. Khakis/cords. Who cares? What does this show?!?!?!

The city grid breaks down in this area. Uptown is a matrix with streets in numerical order. But here, the roads wind with unpredictable names. I pass a cracked watch on the pavement. Views of the Hudson River leak between buildings.

Cracked watch on the pavement?

The article claims that Vanessa Belmont was killed outside her home. She was apparently hit by a car and then discovered at the scene today by one of her children. Was it Oliver? Or Richard? I imagine him at the end of their driveway—or wherever it happened—and raising a horrified hand to his mouth. The New York Post runs the same story under a different headline: Connecticut Mom Murdered on Family Lawn. Included with that article is a bird’s-eye view of the Belmonts’ estate on a glorious day. In the photo, their pool is uncovered—I’ve never seen it open before. It’s a dazzling aquamarine in the shape of a capital letter T. Stripes in the lawn show where it was recently mowed. Overall, the house has never looked better. It feels a little strange that they paired her story with such a magnificent shot.

Over his shoulder, I notice a forgotten serving bowl in the dining room. I hurry toward it, to find a fruit salad with notable variety—not just melons but tropical wedges and unexpected slices of pear. It looks freed from constraint, almost anarchic.

What?!