twenty

The library is the newest building in Reeve’s End, as nice as any small town could want. We appreciate the government funding that built it. We’d just appreciate it a lot more if they’d included money for decent computers or books people might actually read.

I walk past the Kids Eat Free sign out front. It’s a double-duty campaign—feeding their minds and their bodies with something healthy, which, sadly, they may get little of at home, on either count. I head straight for the computer terminals, two old Dells, both in use by kids playing online games.

Before I can even turn around, the librarian—Ms. Dermody—is there, saying, “Just hold on, Winter.” She walks to one gamer and says, “Mikey? I think that’s enough. Winter needs to do her schoolwork. You can come back this afternoon.”

I thank Mikey and Ms. Dermody, take a seat, and open a browser window.

I know Jude and Lennon are from Kentucky. I know they went to a private school, come from old money, and their father is a VIP—someone whose children could be targets for kidnapping. That last part isn’t terribly helpful. He could be anything from a famous opera singer to a drug lord. But it’s additional information that I can use to winnow down a search. And winnowing down that search is critical, given the excruciatingly slow speed of our local Internet.

The most useful information here is also the most basic: their names. There can’t be a lot of brothers in Kentucky named Lennon and Jude, not ones who are important enough to warrant a mention in the media.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, I get a page of results. I presume most are mis-hits, but one catches my attention as I remember something else Lennon told me.

I click the link.

It’s a newspaper article in the online archives. I recognize the town name—it’s not far from here.

Crash Claims Lives of Young Local Couple

The headline says it all. A twenty-year-old married couple died in a car crash—hit-and-run on a one-lane bridge through the mountains, which sent the couple’s car through the guardrails, plunging into the gorge and then the Red River. While the reporter’s tone is factual—almost clinical—there’s this one line where he says the coroner’s office “cannot confirm” whether the couple died on impact or drowned, and that matter-of-fact tone makes it even more chilling, as if the writer sees nothing wrong with even speculating on the possibility that this poor couple survived the fall, only to be trapped upside down in their vehicle as the water seeped in….

I swallow and skim down to a line written in that same chillingly factual tone.

The couple leave behind two sons, Jude, 16 months old, and Lennon, 6 months old.

I type faster now, whipping through keywords and then tapping the desk impatiently, waiting until I get a full page of results, most dated about ten years ago. The articles center on Congressman Peter Bishop, one of Kentucky’s congressional state representatives. His district is the sixth, geographically just above ours. The articles date back to his initial election, and my search caught them because they mention his family…including his adopted sons, Jude and Lennon.

With that I have no problem finding more. The fact that their father is a congressman doesn’t make them celebrities by any means—I can’t name the kids of any politician other than the president. But Jude and Lennon get their fair share of ink. A state representative is up for reelection every two years, and trotting out Peter Bishop’s family for public inspection seems to be part of that process. With many teenage boys, I suspect their father would be scrambling to shove them under the carpet until they outgrew surly, acne-plagued adolescence. Not Jude and Lennon. These boys are glowing reflections of Congressman Bishop’s abilities as both a parent and a humanitarian.

Every election, articles rehash the boys’ tragic backstory—not only did their parents both perish young, but the boys came from extreme poverty, with chronically ill grandparents. When the Bishops heard of their plight, they adopted the boys, and from there, the brothers flourished, like rare flowers rescued from the refuse heap. Oh, of course none of the articles say that, but I catch the implication. Take two boys from backwoods Kentucky, give them every advantage, and watch them bloom, strong and hardy examples of our strong and hardy state.

You don’t get much more well-rounded—or successful—than Jude and Lennon. Star athletes, top scholars, community activists. Jude, the intense musical prodigy, a future concert pianist. Lennon, the affable debate-team captain, clearly destined for politics. According to one article, the boys’ achievements were so evenly matched that when their school had to pick a top student for any honor, the principal joked they’d just flip a coin to choose between the brothers. If that wasn’t enough, these weren’t arrogant rich kids. “Refreshingly down-to-earth,” reporters said. “Just great guys,” according to their peers. Lennon was charming and outgoing, Jude quiet and thoughtful. No one had a bad thing to say about either.

They were also photogenic—every article included pictures of the boys, as they went from adorable children with mops of dark curly hair and bright blue eyes to young men with the maturing good looks that had even female journalists commenting in a slightly creepy way. The brothers weren’t movie-star gorgeous but—as one article said—they looked like members of a boy band, seriously cute in an approachable guy-next-door way.

As I flip through the photos, I notice that Lennon’s expression never changes. It’s the grin I remember, a little devilish, a little angelic, one that makes you want to smile back in spite of yourself. Once Jude reaches early teens, though, his smile dims and his gaze shifts to the side, as if he just wants the photo shoot to be done and he’s already mentally moved on.

By the last election, just over a year ago, Jude looks very different, both in expression and appearance. After the boys reached high school, their hair was cut short, as if what looked cute on a preadolescent might seem too rebellious on a teenage boy, at least in the eyes of older voters. But in the last photo, Jude has let his hair grow. There’s not even a hint of a smile. And if he looked restless before, his expression now holds angry defiance—just snap your damn picture and go away. For the first time, I find photos of Lennon without Jude. I imagine their mother saying to the photographer, “Oh, Jude? He’s very busy. Piano. Or football. Or maybe he’s volunteering today. Yes, that’s it—he’s busy volunteering.”

I look at the last photo of Jude, at his expressionless face, and deep in his eyes, I see more than defiance.

I see rage.

“Questions answered?” a voice says behind me, and when I turn, Jude’s right there, as if I’ve conjured him from the screen. He has that same empty expression, his eyes equally flat, giving nothing away.

He gestures at the monitor. “Got your answers?”

I want to flip off the monitor as if I’ve been caught spying. Behind him, Ms. Dermody looks concerned. I wonder why, but that’s because I’m remembering the boy in those photos. What she sees is a very different young man. Jude isn’t scruffy or unkempt enough that I’d cross the street to avoid him, nor is he burly enough for me to do the same, but put those things together, and I understand why the librarian seems ready to intervene.

Jude notices and glances behind him, trying to see who’s making her nervous. It can’t be him. The congressman’s straight-A son. The piano prodigy. The quiet one. The thoughtful one. But that confusion only lasts a moment before he realizes it is him, and there’s no flash of consternation at that. He just nods.

“Small town,” I say. “We aren’t good with strangers.”

I don’t know why I explain. I’m certainly not inclined to cushion his feelings. He gives a shrug, as if this goes without saying and he doesn’t really give a shit either way.

He jerks his chin toward the window and says, “Five minutes.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer. Clearly I will obey, because he is Jude Bishop.

For that very reason, I’d love to ignore him. But considering what I’ve just found out, I do want to speak to him.

I check a few more search terms. I don’t want Ms. Dermody to think I’m following the disreputable stranger. As I go to leave, though, she says, “Winter?”

I walk over.

“Who was that?” she asks.

I shrug. “He wanted to use the computer. I didn’t recognize him. Passing through, I guess.” I look around, as if searching for him. “Guess he didn’t want it too badly.”

She nods, and I take off.