What You Don't Know

by Merry Jones

  The others positioned their chairs in a circle and talked in hushed tones that no one would hear, especially the children, not that the children were listening. They—all of them, including Ellie—were preoccupied with their construction project in the sand box.

  “I don’t get it,” Katie said. “Even if she was depressed, that’s not a reason to kill yourself. You see a shrink. You take pills. You don’t drive into the river.”

  “Wait a second, what did I miss?” Alex added ice to her mimosa. “Does everybody agree that she was depressed? Because I don’t. She seemed to love life. And she had everything.”

  “She seemed to have it all, but maybe she didn’t.” Patty shrugged.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just saying I don’t think Barbara liked herself all that much. Like, she was always trying to improve her looks. The boobs. The lips—”

  “She did her lips?” Katie’s eyebrows lifted.

  “You didn’t know? Last winter. Remember, for a while they looked inflated? Kind of like Polish sausages.”

  “No,” Katie frowned.

  “I remember,” Alex said. “I thought she had herpes. Cold sores.”

  “No, uh-uh.” Patty shook her head. “It was lip enhancement. I think she got a tummy tuck, too. She never actually said, but nobody who’s had two kids has a stomach that tight.”

  “She looked perfect,” Katie added. “She had money. Her husband was about to be a Senator so she’d meet everybody—The President. The who’s who of money and power. My God, the parties she’d go to. Tell me, what did she have to be depressed about?”

  Alex dabbed her eyes, sniffed. “No idea. None.”

  “She looked like she had everything, but I’ll tell you one thing she didn’t have: self-confidence.” Patty squeezed sunblock out of the tube.

  “Please.” Katie searched for her sunglasses. “Are we talking about the same Barbara?”

  “I’m serious. Barbara never went to college. I don’t think she ever once read the book club books. She wasn’t sophisticated or intellectual.” Patty slapped sunblock onto her legs. “And then her husband starts pulling ahead in the polls, so she would’ve been thrown into the country’s most elite circles. Like you said, Katie—the who’s who of power and politics. I bet she was

  terrified.”

  “Terrified of what?” Alex looked skeptical. “It wasn’t like people were going to quiz her. Men became idiots around her. She was flat out stunning. That was enough.”

  Patty shook her head. “Maybe it wasn’t enough for Barbara. Maybe being stunning was her way of covering up her feelings of inferiority.”

  “Bullshit. I can’t believe that she didn’t feel good about herself.” Katie took the sunblock tube from Patty. “It wasn’t just her body that was perfect. Look at her house, clothes, jewelry, cars, kids. And my God, her husband. Paul’s rich and powerful. Not to mention that he looks like Brad Pitt—”

  “Brad Pitt?” Alex interrupted. “No way. Paul Ellis is much more refined looking. His features are elegant and chiseled where Brad’s are blunt—”

  “I don’t believe you don’t see it. They definitely look alike. Paul could be Brad’s brother.” Katie was adamant.

  Nora thought they were both right. Paul was longer and leaner, but, yes, she saw a definite Brad Pitt resemblance. She shifted in her chair, imagining Brad Pitt drugging and pawing her, felt her stomach churn. She turned her attention to the kids, focusing on small bodies in motion.

  “Anyway, Katie, how can you assume that being married to Paul meant she felt good about herself?” Alex scolded. “How we feel about ourselves isn’t determined by who we’re married to.” She swirled her drink. “Patty’s right. Deep down, I bet Barbara didn’t feel worthy of Paul and all his trappings. We all know how she grew up with nothing and went to work in the casinos. Between us chickens, I’ve always suspected that her past was, well, a little sordid.”

  “She was a blackjack dealer,” Katie said. “What’s sordid about that?”

  “A dealer?” Alex’s eyebrows rose.

  Patty struggled again with her hair. “That’s what she claimed. But I’m with Alex. I think the dealer story was a cover. I always thought she was an escort.”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Katie looked at Nora for support. “You’re ripping Barbara to pieces. We were supposed to be her friends. And she’s dead. Am I the only one who’s devastated? Can’t you show some affection? And respect?”

  Alex spoke up. “We’re all upset, Katie. We’re just trying to sort it out. Okay?”

  Nora’s head throbbed. She rubbed her temples. “Honestly, nobody should give a rat’s ass about her past. She was our friend.”

  “The point is,” Patty’s voice tightened, defensive, “we’re trying to figure out why she’d kill herself. And I’m thinking maybe it’s about her past and low self-esteem.”

  Katie squinted in the sun. “So, you’re suggesting she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t?”

  “Possibly.” Patty sipped her mimosa.

  “But lots of women have low self-esteem. We all think our bodies suck and we’re fat or ugly.” Katie jiggled the flab on her upper arms. “Look at these. Plus, my thighs are pure cellulite—”

  “No, they’re not, Katie,” Nora cut in. “You have an adorable figure.”

  “No,” Katie said. “It’s sweet of you to say so, Nora, but I don’t. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know it. I’d only see the flaws because like most women in our screwed-up culture, I never feel good about myself. We all feel like we aren’t good enough. But we don’t do what Barbara did.”

  Right, Nora thought. And neither had Barbara. But she couldn’t tell them that, because then she’d have to explain about Paul, about what she knew.

  In the yard behind them, the children played tag. They ran and squealed and seemed to be having fun, not focusing on death. Nora watched them, imagining Tommy in the backyard, catching bugs.

  She tried to relax, to let go of both Tommy and Barbara. She got up to admire the foliage edging Patty’s deck. Rosebushes. Boxwood hedges whose dense, shadowy branches almost hid a giant black spider in its web.

  “I just don’t see it.” Katie picked up the conversation where they’d left it. “To me, Barbara was more confident than any of us.”

  “Okay. Then maybe it wasn’t about who she was,” Patty suggested. “Maybe she killed herself because of something she did.”

  Alex blinked. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something scandalous. Like having an affair.” Patty took out her thermos to refill mimosas.

  “Seriously? Married to Paul Ellis?” Alex shook her head.

  “I agree. She’d never,” Katie said. “If you have a man like Paul Ellis, you’re not looking at anyone else.”

  Nora sipped her drink. What would her friends say if she told them that Perfect Paul had been abusing Barbara? That just last week, he’d turned Barbara’s arm purple and blackened her eye? That he’d had Barbara followed and photographed while he was out of town, that he’d made her call him every two hours to report her whereabouts? Or that, when Nora had gone to see him, Paul had assaulted her? Would they believe her? Doubtful. To them, Paul was a superstar, the ideal man. They giggled in his presence like gawking, star-struck teenagers. Nora tried not to wince, recalling his slithery hands on her thighs. She crossed her legs, folded her arms. Couldn’t stop the images. Blood pouring from his forehead. The walls wobbling as she inched toward the door. The anger, the entitlement in his voice, Come back here, you pathetic cow!

  Her friends had gone quiet. Kids voices made background sounds. Nora imagined Tommy wandering off near the bushes, gazing at beetles or bees. The spider spun its web. On the trees, leaves fluttered in the breeze.

  “Then again, it might not have been suicide.” Patty said. “Might have been an accident.”

  Or murder. Nora sipped her mimosa.

  “But how?” Alex said. “The car w
ent all the way from the street, through the parking lot, across the pier, and into the river—how could she go that far by accident?”

  “And besides,” Katie said, “if it was an accident, like the car went out of control and she tried to stop, they’d have found skid marks, right?”

  “Says our resident CSI,” Patty smirked. Her hair had come loose yet again, locks falling around her face. She undid the rubber band and tried again to make a ponytail with hair that was too short.

  “I learn a lot from TV shows, Patty. Skid marks would mean she tried to stop before she went into the water, which she wouldn’t do if she was committing suicide.”

  “But I guess they didn’t find any.” Alex reached for the pitcher and refilled everyone’s glass.

  Nora took a sip, leaned back, closed her eyes. Saw Barbara’s car careening into the water. There have to be repercussions, don’t you agree? He’d killed her. He’d done it, somehow, with or without skid marks.

  Katie began talking about suicide, people she’d known or heard of who’d killed themselves. A former neighbor had shot himself, a classmate had taken pills.

  Small hands landed on Nora’s stomach. Her eyes popped open. “I’m thirsty,” Ellie said, and before Nora could stop her, she picked up Nora’s glass.

  “Wait!” Nora reached for it, but too late. Ellie drained the glass.

  “Your juice was sour.” Ellie set the empty glass on the table and hurried back to the game, still somewhat steady on her feet.

  Nora sat with her mouth open, staring after Ellie. And then because she didn’t know what to do, she copied what the others were doing. She laughed.

  Wednesday, August 15, 2018, 4:30 p.m.

  D

  ave greeted them outside. He seemed almost normal, actually glad to see them. As he hugged the girls, he said, “I’ll grill burgers, Nora. Go relax.” He didn’t talk about how he’d spent his day.

  Maybe cooking was his way of apologizing for his gruffness that morning. Maybe he was feeling better. She tried to read his face, but he kept moving, not staying still long enough for her to get a good look. While he unloaded the car, he assigned tasks for the girls: helping him peel the husks off corn, forming hamburger meat into patties, setting the table. He had everything under control. Nora went upstairs and took a shower, thinking about Barbara, about drowning. She held her face under the shower head and let water stream into her eyes, inhaling it into her nose until she began coughing. She imagined not being able to pull away, not getting air.

  When she came downstairs, Ellie was folding napkins.

  Dave came in with a platter of burgers and corn. “Chow’s on,” he said. But he didn’t say anything about his day.

  During dinner, he chatted and made small talk. And still didn’t say what he’d done all day.

  He helped the girls melt marshmallows over the dying coals. Ran their baths and tucked them into bed, addressing the girls’ inevitable questions about Aunt Barbara.

  Sophie’s chin wobbled. “Graham said she’s dead and never coming back.”

  Ellie curled into a fetal position and chewed her fingernail.

  Dave dabbed at their tears. Nora backed away, letting him take over, not sure she could handle the conversation. She didn’t know what her daughters understood about death. She’d never discussed it with them, even though Mindy’s dog and a number of people close to them were dead: Dave’s father, both her parents and her brother. But Ellie and Sophie had never really known any of them. So whatever they’d learned about death had been indirect—from television or stories, maybe from other kids. Or maybe they knew about it innately without having to be told. Maybe all animals did.

  Dave talked gently, his voice fluctuating in singsong. Nora leaned against the wall and didn’t interrupt or join in, even when his explanation veered far from what she’d have said. Heaven, for example. She didn’t believe there was such a place. She and Dave had a policy of not lying to their daughters—not even about Santa or the Tooth Fairy. But now, Dave was elaborating about how Aunt Barbara was happy and safe and with God and the angels. Really? Was he abandoning their honesty policy? Or did he actually believe what he was saying? Either way, how was it that she didn’t know? Why hadn’t they ever shared their beliefs about death, let alone how to discuss them with their children?

  Dave described heaven as a perfect place where people never had to worry, and Nora imagined Barbara flitting around with a newly-fitted pair of designer wings, an 18-karat halo shining on her head. Would she have to wear a white robe and plain brown sandals? Were there no glam heels and sleek tight pants in heaven? What would she do all day without mani-pedis, tennis games, personal trainers, and happy hours? Sing? Is that what they did in Dave’s heaven? Sit on clouds and sing? Dave couldn’t possibly believe what he was telling the girls. Could he? Did he also believe in a fiery hell with Satan and legions of demons? How could she have lived with the man for over a decade and not known these fundamental things about him?

  Unless she did know. Of course she did. Dave was probably just comforting his little girls with a story in which Aunt Barbara was okay. His voice was like a nursery rhyme. When he finished, and she went to kiss them goodnight, Sophie’s tears were dry and Ellie was calm.

  But even then, when they were back in their room, Dave didn’t say anything about his day. He took a shower.

  Nora sat in bed, waiting, debating what to talk about first. She wanted to ask if he even remotely believed what he’d told the girls about heaven. She also wanted him to explain why, that morning, he’d closed the study door in her face. Most of all, though, she wanted to tell him what she suspected about Paul. But she didn’t talk about any of those things. Because, when he came out of the shower, Dave finally talked about his day.

  “You what?”

  “I reached out to a guy in homicide.”

  “Homicide?” So Dave agreed that Barbara was murdered.

  “Informally. Lou and I have known each other for years. He’s arrested a number of my clients, but I still say he’s a good guy. So, I bought him an omelet and asked his opinion about a

  hypothetical case.”

  “Hypothetical.”

  “Completely.” Dave crossed his legs and spoke like a lawyer. “‘Imagine it, Lou,’ I said. ‘A well-known politician is secretly a wife abuser.’ He was intrigued. So, I told him that the hypothetical politician’s wife is so desperate to escape him that she’s going to the extreme of planning her disappearance.”

  “Did he know which politician you were talking about?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe not yet. I said, ‘Let’s say, he notices something’s up with his wife. He has her followed and mistakenly concludes that the something is an affair. In reality, the guy’s just a friend, but the politician becomes irate, promising he’ll deal with it. The very next day, the politician’s wife is found dead—an apparent suicide.’”

  “So? What did he say?” Nora swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat hip to hip with Dave.

  “He didn’t say anything. Actually, he laughed.”

  “He laughed?” What kind of laugh? Was it a dark, ironic chuckle? A stream of knee-slapping giggles?

  Dave flopped back onto the mattress. “He said I had to be joking.”

  “And when you said you weren’t?”

  “He basically said I was out of my gourd. ‘Effing Paul Ellis?’” Dave imitated Lou’s south Philly accent. “‘That’s who you’re f-ing talking about? You gotta be f-ing kidding me.’ He went on to say that Paul Ellis is the darling of the state, that no one would ever believe my bullshit. And there’s no way Barbara Ellis’s death was anything but a suicide. Then he sees how I’m not smiling. And Lou knows me. We respect each other. So he says, ‘Look. I don’t know about any domestic abuse.’ And if there had been complaints on file in such a high-profile case, he’d know.”

  “Of course there were no complaints. She didn’t dare report him.”

 
“Bottom line, there’s no record of abuse.” He stared at the ceiling.

  “But what about the bruises on her arm? They must still be there. And her black eye?”

  “There’s no proof that Ellis ever touched her. But there is proof that Barbara was taking anti-depressants and drinking. And testimony stating that she was desperately lonely with her husband gone so much.”

  “Testimony? From whom? Anyone besides Paul? Because that’s bull. She was thrilled when he was away.”

  “Nora. Paul Ellis is a rock star. Women swoon when he walks by. Men admire him. Publicly, he promotes his beautiful wife, happy marriage, and loving family. No one’s going to believe that his wife despised him.”

  “What if I tell Lou what she told me about how controlling he was? How he hurt her. How terrified she was of him.”

  “You’re all alone with that assessment, Nora. Her other friends would swear she was gloriously happy. And they’re not alone—the whole damn state believes that.”

  Dave was right. Paul had created an impeccable public image. Nora remembered his hands between her legs. She pictured Barbara’s car plunging into the water. Had Paul been there? Had he watched from the road?

  “So that’s it? Lou won’t do anything?”

  Dave sighed. “I told him she’d been so scared that she’d hired me to help her with logistics—the new identity, the move, financial details. I gave him my files.”

  “And?”

  “And he took them. Made some notes, but that was it. Lou’s attitude was that lots of marriages end with lots of tragedy—even suicide—and that this one was sad but not noteworthy.”

  “But he’ll look into it, won’t he? You showed him that Paul had motive.”

  “The cops are convinced Barbara was a troubled woman who killed herself. And Paul Ellis would be crazy even to sneeze in the middle of his campaign, let alone murder his wife. I’m sure my file is in the bottom of Lou’s junk drawer.”

  “So he won’t even talk to Paul?”

  Dave’s jaw tightened. “Lou already talked to him. He said Ellis seemed completely blindsided and messed up over his wife’s death. Which, he reminded me, had occurred while she was alone, driving her own car. So, while he thought it was interesting that she planned to divorce her husband, that fact changed none of the evidence surrounding her death. They’re convinced it was suicide.”