by Merry Jones
Nora bit her lip, picturing how it had been for Barbara. The car flying off the ramp, the splat of impact, the gurgling and gulping of the river. Barbara strapped in behind the wheel, cold and wet, watching dark water rise. Had she struggled to get out? Seen Paul watching from the riverbank? Begged him for help?
“They’re wrong.” Nora frowned. “He killed her. I don’t get why, though. Because even though he wanted to punish her for having an affair—he called it retribution—Paul was adamant about wanting his marriage to survive.”
Dave said nothing, didn’t move.
“Dave? Forget the affair. What if Paul found out she was leaving? Because if he knew—Oh God. She said he’d never let her go. Maybe that’s why he killed her.”
“Christ, Nora.” Dave sat up. A hand went to his forehead. “Don’t you think I’ve agonized over that possibility? What if he found out she was leaving because I slipped up somehow?” His voice was thick. “Her death would be on me.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” Damn. Why had she said that? “It’s on him, only him, no matter what set him off. Dave. Please. Don’t blame yourself.”
She reached for him, but he walked out of the room. She heard his footsteps going down the stairs. A moment later, the study door clicked shut.
Thursday, October 29, 1993
T
ommy had retreated into his attic dark room. Nora sat on her bed, listening, waiting for Marla and Philip’s squabbling to transform into snores. Even then, she waited a while longer, making sure they were deeply asleep. Not that they’d get out of bed to ask what she was doing, not that they’d even hear her moving around. Still, she wanted to be sure that no one knew, that no one would notice even a footstep.
While she waited, she kept replaying the day. Annie’s coldness, her ultimatum, her threatened consequences if she didn’t get the pictures. Nora’s life would be hell. She’d go to the cafeteria at lunchtime and see Annie sitting with all the glittery popular girls, and nobody would make room for her to join them. Nora would stand, tray in hand, having nowhere to go. Would she have to sit alone? With dorky kids she didn’t even know? Or with Natalie and Charisse and their dweeby, immature friends from elementary school? No way. She’d sooner throw her food out and skip lunch altogether, forever.
For sure, Nora needed to get those photographs. Without Annie, she’d be as friendless as Tommy. Her tears dropped onto her pajamas. It was so unfair that he was her brother. Weirdo. Creep. Freak. Because of Tommy, Annie was slipping away.
Or already had.
But with any luck, she could fix it. She wiped her face and got out of bed. Cautious and silent, she crept down the hall to Tommy’s room. The door, of course, was closed. She knocked softly, making sure he was still upstairs, and when he didn’t answer, she tiptoed inside. The stale air, the heaviness of his scent, almost made her gag. Being there, invading his private space, felt wrong, even shameful. But hell, he’d invaded her privacy, hadn’t he? He deserved to be invaded back.
Nora snapped on the lamp. On the desk, she scanned clusters of broken insect parts, loose pins, a stack of small foam boards, the microscope. If she were Tommy, where would she stash the pictures? In the overflowing dresser? The cluttered closet? In the mini freezer with his bugs? Under the mattress or the bed? He had a thousand possible hiding places. She turned in a circle, trying to choose.
She started with the dresser and opened drawer after drawer, feeling the contents for pictures or negatives, anything that wasn’t fabric. She touched his T-shirts and sweaters, his underwear. Felt something smooth among his socks, pulled at it. Strange. An old stretched out pair of Marla’s pantyhose must have gotten tangled in the laundry. She threw them back into the drawer and kept searching.
In his closet, she stepped over a mountain of blue plaid shirts and found a shoebox stuffed not with shoes, but photographs. Jackpot! She almost screamed with joy, certain that she’d found what she was looking for. She took the box to the lamp and began going through it.
The photos were extreme close-ups of grasshoppers, flies, moths. Cicadas. Nothing of her and Annie. But there had to be. She dug deeper, pulled out more. Found shots of Marla. Candid shots of women Nora didn’t know. Close-ups of women’s hands, earrings, eyebrows, shoes, hair, lips.
But not one of Nora and Annie.
She was still rifling through the photos when the ceiling creaked. Tommy was moving around upstairs, probably closing up his darkroom. Nora hurried, tossed the photos back in the shoebox and shoved it into the corner of the closet where she’d found it, behind the pile of laundry and a Lord and Taylor bag with something dark—maybe a shiny purple scarf—rumpled on top. Weird. Never mind. Tommy was clumping down the steps. She darted for the door, quietly shut it, dashed to her room and jumped into bed where she remembered that—oh God—she hadn’t turned off Tommy’s desk lamp.
She lay on her bed, listening, waiting, listening to see if Tommy noticed the light. If he’d accuse her of going into his room and snooping. Minutes passed. When he didn’t burst into her room, she began to relax. Except not really, because she hadn’t found the photos, and Annie’s party was just a day away.
Sunday, August 19, 2018, 1 p.m.
B
arbara’s memorial service was standing room only, packed with politicians, judges, community leaders, business executives, state and local VIPs. The governor was there, as was Henry Brady, the incumbent senator Paul hoped to replace. Throngs of people gathered in the foyer of Langston Memorial Chapel, buzzing around the widower like a hive, offering condolences, embraces, kisses and whispers amid competing clouds of importance and colognes.
Barbara’s boys, Colin and Harry, wore somber, dark little suits, ties, and shiny shoes. They behaved perfectly, seated in the front row with their nanny and some tanned, silver-toned people Nora assumed were their grandparents.
Enlarged photos of Barbara in an evening gown graced aisles and entrances. Attendants handed out prayer cards with her
picture on the front.
Katie and her husband, Stan, had arrived early and saved an entire pew for their friends. Nora hadn’t seen the husbands in a while. When Stan greeted her, she was startled by the dark gray curls sprouting on the outer edge of his ears. Alex’s husband Ed had changed, too. He looked worn, his eyes sinking into sacs of dark, ashy skin. Did Alex notice those sacs? Did she worry about Ed? They all said it had been too long, things like that. And Patty’s big husband Ronny was reaching to hug Nora. He didn’t look like himself, either, sporting a ginger-gray beard. Ronny shook Dave’s hand, then rotated his shoulders, visibly uncomfortable in a suit.
“Barbara never acted like she knew so many big wigs,” Patty said. She held an embroidered handkerchief on her lap, prepared for tears. “Look. There’s Jim Slade, the news anchor. And the guy from Channel 3—what’s his name? Oh look—that’s Mayor
Weber!”
“Barbara didn’t actually know all these people,” Alex said. “Paul does.”
“But she didn’t care that he knew celebrities,” Katie said. “Barbara would have married Paul if he’d been a street sweeper. They were so in love, a perfect couple.”
Nora glanced at Dave, his tightly-set jaw. They’d discussed the service, how there would be endless, unbearable praise of Paul, the devoted husband and father. Dave had promised not to react, but she could already feel him tense.
“Poor Paul,” Alex sniffed. “Look at him. Even with all those people around him, he looks so lonely without her.”
“You can almost see her by his side, even now.”
Nora said nothing. What was the point? Dave shifted in his seat, looked at the ceiling. Nora squeezed his hand.
“Is that a bandage on his head?” Katie leaned sideways to get a better look. “I wonder what happened.”
Patty and Alex strained to see, but people blocked their views.
Nora didn’t have to look. She knew what it was and exactly where it was. She wondered how ma
ny stitches he’d needed, what excuse he’d given for the injury.
For a moment, their row sat quietly, women beside their
husbands.
“Where is she, anyway?” Katie piped up again. “Isn’t her
casket supposed to be here?”
Stan put a hand on Katie’s shoulder and gestured toward the front of the chapel. “See that golden urn?”
Katie gasped. “No.”
He nodded. “Barbara’s ashes.”
“She was cremated? Already?”
“Shh!” Patty frowned, signaled that the people in front of them could hear.
“The lilies are lovely, aren’t they?” Nora tried to steer the conversation, make it normal.
Patty commented on the boys’ suits. Alex pointed out the mayor’s wife, how nice she looked.
Ed spotted Henry Brady. “Now that’s class, forgetting about the campaign for a day.” He leaned forward to connect with Stan, Ronny, and Dave. “See that, fellas? Doesn’t Brady have class?”
“Enough to make you vote for him?” Ronny grinned, but noticed Patty’s glare and sank back into his seat.
Organ music swelled and receded. The pastor asked everyone to stand for a hymn.
And the service began. The pastor led the 23rd Psalm. Everyone remained standing for another hymn. Everyone sat. A childhood friend of Barbara’s read a poem, something sad, telling mourners that Barbara wasn’t really dead, she’d simply become the morning breeze or flowers or a cloud in the sky. Patty and Alex sobbed. Katie sniffled. Nora was determined not to get emotional. She held onto Dave and steeled herself, refusing to think about the loss of Barbara and her pert freckled nose, her bawdy laugh, her bangling gold bracelets and massive diamond rings, her bouncy highlighted hair. Her husky voice confiding, “Paul will never let me leave.”
And then Paul stood at the podium, tall and imposing, his expression appropriately sad, his charismatic charm projecting through the room. His bandage noticeable. He thanked everyone for coming, for helping him and his sons through the last few nightmarish days. His voice broke when he mentioned Barbara’s name, and he paused, collecting himself. He appeared to continue off script, speaking not from his prepared speech, but from the heart. It was his fault, he said, that Barbara was gone.
Nora drew a breath, saw Dave leering at Paul with open
loathing.
Paul went on, saying that he’d known about his wife’s fierce battle with depression and, despite his better judgment, had honored her request to keep it secret even from her parents. At this point, Paul addressed the elderly couple in the front row. “I’m so sorry, Edna and George. I should have opened up to you. If I’d have known how badly-off Barbara was, I would have. I’d have done a lot of things differently.”
Nora swallowed. Dave sat rigid, grinding his teeth, blinking fast. The audience was rapt.
Paul continued, blaming himself for letting his wife’s condition deteriorate beyond all hope, for putting public service first and traveling for his campaign without realizing that his wife desperately needed his undivided attention. For presenting not just his friends and family, but his constituents with an idealized public image of a happy, healthy family even as a mental illness was secretly and steadily destroying his beloved Barbara.
Paul took a deep breath and drew himself up, as if dignified in his grief. Dave shifted onto his haunches, as if ready to dash.
“Depression may have caused Barbara to take her own life, but the real fault for her death lies with me, her husband. I should have had a better understanding of her suffering. I should have made certain that she got treatment. I should have let her know that she was not alone and that there was hope. I did not do any of those things, and I will regret my omissions all my life. It is those very omissions, though, which lead me to make a promise here, today, not just to all of you, but to Barbara’s memory. Whether or not I am elected to the Senate, I will remain committed to the cause of mental health. And today, in honor of Barbara, I announce the establishment of the Barbara Renee Ellis Foundation for Mental Health. I promise to do my best to ensure that no other family endures a loss like the one mine struggles with
today.”
He kept talking, but Nora didn’t hear what he said because Dave muttered a curse, yanked his hand from hers and stood, causing some commotion as he stepped over people’s feet to get to the aisle where he turned and stomped out of the chapel. Nora considered going after him, but Alex reached over and squeezed her hand, comforting her. Whispering, “Who knew her middle name was Renee?”
Sunday, August 19, 2018, 3 p.m.
D
ave refused to go to the reception, didn’t trust himself around Paul. Nora almost went home with him, but Patty wouldn’t hear of it.
“Come on, Nora. Barbara would want you to be there.”
Dave was still blinking too fast, and the small muscles around his eyes were taut. Would he be all right by himself?
“Go ahead.” He squeezed her hand. “Patty’s right. You should be there.”
“Are you sure?” she began, but Dave was already headed to the car.
At the house, Paul welcomed each guest at the door. Nora moved with the line of people waiting to shake his hand, offer condolences. She stood behind Patty and Ronny, hoping to slide in with them and avoid contact with the bereaved husband. But Paul stopped her.
“Thank you for being here, Nora.” He took both her hands.
His grasping fingers and the scent of his distinct cologne awoke memories. Reflexively, Nora recoiled.
But Paul took hold of her and drew her close, whispering, “Honestly, it means a lot to me that you’re here. You’re the only one who understands.”
“I came here to honor Barbara.” Nora leaned away from him.
“Of course. We all loved her. I, more than anyone. If only I’d known…”
“Save it.” She locked eyes with him. “I know the truth, Paul.”
She pulled away before he could reply, and Paul was embraced by the next person in line.
Barbara’s house was filled with boisterous drinkers in black and silent servers in black and white. Important people mingled. Nora wandered away from her friends, weaving past clusters of strangers, wondering what Barbara would think of this extravagant event, the opulent floral arrangements, the abundant gourmet food. There were bar stations in the living room, family room, and rear patio. Waiters darted through the crowd, offering stuffed mushrooms with crab, peanut chicken satay, and mini egg rolls. Platters graced every linen-swathed table with antipastos: olives of all varieties, cheeses, sliced sausages, and grapes. In the dining room were honeyed ham, poached salmon, bread baskets, vegetable medleys, potatoes au gratin, Caesar and green salads, berries, pecan squares, brownies, and carrot cakes. It seemed more like a wedding feast than a funeral.
Nora stopped to grab a martini. The olives were stuffed with bleu cheese. What did this excess have to do with Barbara? With death? She moved through the family room onto the deck and looked out on the layered garden, the pool two tiers below. A red cardinal flew back and forth over the water, repeating his trip as if looking for something. Maybe his mate. Maybe she’d left him. Did birds leave their mates? Nora had heard that ducks mated for life. Or was it geese? Maybe cardinals were different, fickle, always cheating and leaving the nest. Maybe he was looking for his mate so he could kill her for cheating. There have to be
repercussions.
She should have gone home with Dave. What was he doing, home by himself? Drinking? Blaming himself?
All around her, people bent their heads together, talking into each other’s ears with urgency. Discussing what? Plans for the campaign? For business? Certainly nothing concerning Barbara. From the deck, Nora saw Alex and Patty chatting and munching, clearly impressed by Paul’s spread—his circus. She swallowed the rest of her martini and chewed an olive. Looked back at the pool and pictured Barbara sunning on a lounge chair, her long legs shimmeri
ng. Decided it was time to go home.
“Come with me,” Paul appeared from behind and took her elbow.
Nora didn’t budge.
“It’s okay.” He grinned and his teeth gleamed, unnaturally white. “I promise I’ll behave.” He touched the bandage on his forehead. “I learned my lesson.”
His eyes were steady, confident, as if what he’d done to her was nothing of significance. He didn’t bother to feign grief. “Please.” His smile was crooked, almost boyish, self-conscious. “I want to talk to you. Just a few words.”
Nora looked around, saw Patty and Ronny in the family room, the scattered catering staff, the sea of important people. Paul would be insane to assault her again with so many others around. And, come to think of it, given the opportunity, she could say a few words to him too. Words like, “abuser” and “murderer.”
“I don’t think so.” She darted away from him, zigzagging through clusters of twos and threes, hoping to lose him among the crowd, finally slipping into a powder room to disappear. But when she swung the door shut, Paul caught it with his shoe. He shoved his way in, closed and locked the door, leaned against it. Swirled a scotch and sighed as if he were tired. Or losing patience.
“I’ll scream.” Nora reached for the doorknob.
Paul blocked it. “Please don’t. All I want is to talk.”
Nora stepped as far away from him as she could, her backside against the sink, her hands latched onto its porcelain rim. Her eyes moved side to side, taking in the mirrors, the small antique vanity, the birds and branches on the wallpaper.
“When you came in you said you know the truth. What did you mean by that?”