by Merry Jones
Really? This was why he’d followed her into the bathroom?
“Nothing,” she fudged. “Just, you know, about Dave and Barbara. About the affair.”
Paul’s lips formed a slithery grin. “Nora, please. Lying isn’t your forte.”
Nora moved sideways, bumped the toilet. Oh God. How had she let him isolate her? There was only one way out, and he was blocking it.
“I meant that I know the truth. There was no affair.”
He watched her, unmoved.
“And that I know Barbara didn’t suffer from depression. You made that up.”
If he came toward her, she’d scream. People would come running. How would he explain his presence in the powder room with her?
Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Well, if that’s what you meant, you’re mistaken. On both counts.” He sipped scotch.
“Look, I need to get going.” She eyed the doorknob. “My husband’s expecting me.”
Paul didn’t budge. “Why do you still doubt that there was an affair?” His voice had softened, become powdery.
The mirrors on opposite walls repeated their reflections dozens, hundreds of times; his frame towered over her. She tightened her grip around her empty martini glass. If he came within arm’s reach, she’d smash it and cut him again.
Paul pressed on. “I’m curious. What do you think they were doing all those hours they spent together? You saw the photos. But if they weren’t enough to convince you, how’s this? The night she died, Barbara admitted she’d been unfaithful. She begged me to forgive her.”
He was lying. “No. That didn’t happen.”
“It did. During our argument. My wife admitted that she was involved with someone. She wouldn’t identify him, but that didn’t matter as I already knew who he was.”
Nora frowned. Why would Barbara tell Paul she was having an affair when she knew he’d become enraged—and when she wasn’t even having one?
“After she confessed, Nora, the most incredible thing happened: The bubble burst. Poof. In a momentary flash, clarity set in. I had a revelation. I was, for the first time in years, free of her spell. No longer in love with her. In fact, I was repelled. I told her to pack and leave.”
Paul had to be lying. Just days ago, he’d been insane with jealousy and possessiveness, desperate to keep his marriage intact. But now, he claimed he’d told her to leave?
He was lying—about everything.
Paul sipped his drink, continued to lean against the door.
Except, what if he wasn’t lying? Barbara might have confessed to an affair in order to hide the truth about Dave and why she’d been seeing him. Paul will never let me leave. Maybe Barbara had admitted to one kind of betrayal in order to conceal another.
But there was no reason for secrecy anymore. “Here’s the truth, Paul. There was no affair. Dave was spending time with Barbara to help her prepare to leave you.” She watched him.
He frowned. “So. To be clear. You’re saying there was no cheating. And Barbara wanted to leave me. Oh—And she wasn’t depressed?” He smirked, rubbed his chin. “Do I have it right?”
Nora didn’t answer, held onto her empty glass.
“You are fascinating, Nora. But completely wrong.” Paul shifted his weight, leaned against the mirror by the door. The reflection looked as if he was shoulder to shoulder with himself. “Here’s what’s true. Barbara would never have chosen to leave me. She depended on me, completely. I saved her from a whore’s life and made her into a goddess.” He crossed his arms. “So, whatever your wandering husband told you, whatever far-fetched cover story he made up is just that—a cover story. Your husband lied to you to conceal their tawdry affair. But it doesn’t matter now. Barbara’s gone. Their affair is over. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. As to you? Well. Believe what you want.” He waited a beat, then turned to leave.
Nora’s face burned. She couldn’t breathe. She watched the back of Paul’s elegant black hand-tailored suit and as he reached for the doorknob, she heard herself spit out the question she had intended not to ask.
She expected him to spin around and attack.
But Paul turned slowly and merely raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, Nora. The question isn’t whether I killed her. It’s why? Why would I kill her?” He scowled. “The answer is that I wouldn’t bother. We argued that night, yes. After the unpleasant incident with you—for which I sincerely apologize, by the way—I ended up in the hospital getting stitches, and I realized the low point to which that woman had brought me. How badly she’d disappointed me. And how, despite the wonders of modern plastic surgery, time was devouring her. Her skin was beginning to shrivel and sag. Jowls were forming.” He grimaced. “The point is that I saw that Barbara was, for lack of a better phrase, a used up, dried up, cheap old tart. After that realization, I didn’t need to kill her. To me, she was already dead.”
Nora couldn’t speak. How could Paul be so callous about anyone, let alone the woman he’d married, the mother of his children? Paul isn’t who people think he is. She sunk onto the vanity stool, stared at the pretty bottles of lotion and cologne, amenities Barbara had laid out for guests.
Paul continued. Pieces of him, his shoulder, an arm, the side of his face were reflected in the mirror. “Our argument was admittedly rather ugly. I told my wife flat out that I’d become bored with her and wanted a divorce. She didn’t believe me at first. She couldn’t imagine that I, who’ve doted on her for over a decade, simply no longer cared for her. When I insisted that I did not, she became vindictive, promising that our divorce would be scandalous and ruin my political career. I reminded her that we live in the 21st century. Divorce is well tolerated by the vast majority of the electorate. Hell, half the voters are divorced themselves. I assured her that my campaign would be unaffected by our split, but that, due to our prenuptial agreement, she’d receive not one cent. I suggested that her lover might support her, but failing that, she might return to the—shall I call it a profession? A trade? Either will do, I suppose, for the way she supported herself when I met her, except that now, being substantially older, she’d be far less marketable. And, given her circumstances, she’d never get the children.
“She did a good deal of yelling and crying, but in the end, I told her to pack up and go, as I couldn’t endure the sight of her anymore. That was the last thing I said to her. She ran out of the house sobbing. I heard her car speed off.” Paul looked into his drink. “I didn’t follow, just let her go. How could I have known where she headed?”
Paul’s gaze became momentarily vacant, then he took a drink and looked at Nora quizzically. “I behaved monstrously to you that day. Is that why you think I’m capable of murder?”
Nora doubted everything he’d said. “Tell me how you did it.”
“Really? I know I was out of line, but murder?”
Someone tried the doorknob, knocked.
Nora considered asking the knocker for help, but stopped herself, picturing the chaos that would ensue. “I’ll be right out,” she called.
Nora drew herself up and met Paul’s eyes. “Tell me,” she repeated.
With her back straight, her chin raised so she could look into his eyes, she stepped closer to him. She didn’t falter. She didn’t back down, didn’t even blink, not even when she stood close enough to inhale his scotch-drenched breath. She was actually confronting him, refusing to be bullied. And, somehow, she wasn’t afraid.
“Nora, I’d never hurt Barbara. I was finished with her, but why would I physically harm her?”
“Oh please. Paul, you physically harmed her all the time. I saw the black eye, the huge bruise on her arm.”
Paul’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Last week. Have you forgotten beating her up?”
“Beating her up?” His face twisted. “That’s absurd. I have no idea—Oh, wait. I know about the bruise, but you’ve got it all wrong. I found Barbara with a knife, about t
o cut herself. I tried to take it, and she fought me. I grabbed her arm and twisted until she dropped the knife—That could have caused the bruise.”
Nora shook her head, amazed at the ease of Paul’s lies and the quickness with which he spewed them. Barbara hadn’t been about to kill herself. She’d been about to leave and start a new life. She’d been excited for her future.
“And the black eye?”
“I’d assume that happened during our struggle as well. I might have elbowed her. I don’t know. But Nora, I am not a violent man, let alone an abuser. I never laid a hand on Barbara.”
Nora studied his face but found no signs of lying. Paul was smooth, practiced. She remembered how he’d forced himself on her, the gleam in his eyes. He’s not who he seems to be.
Paul finished his drink and set the glass on the vanity. “Believe what you will, but even the police say she died by her own hand. And think about it. If I’d wanted to kill Barbara, would I have done it so clumsily? Don’t you think I would’ve have made sure she was never found?”
“Sure, if you’d planned it. But you were angry, not thinking clearly. Acting on impulse.”
“I wasn’t angry, Nora.” His voice was calm, almost gentle. “I was indifferent and bored. Finished. That’s why she did what she did.” He glanced at the door behind him. “Look, I have to get back. People must be looking for me.”
Nora waited, but he didn’t leave.
Instead, he watched her, as if deciding whether to say more. Then his lips curled into a smile, or maybe a snarl. “Fine. Let’s put this to rest. For the sake of argument, let’s say I killed her. How did I do it?”
Nora stepped back, knocked the stool. “Maybe you drugged her like you tried to drug me. And put her into the car.”
“I see.” He met her gaze. “So, I laced her drinks with crushed sleeping pills, rendering her all but unconscious.” He put a finger to his lips as if thinking. “Then I put her into the car and drove to the pier where I then rearranged her in the driver’s seat, belted her in, put the car into drive and her foot on the gas, somehow accelerated, and slammed the door just as it went flying into the water.” He shook his head, seemingly at how preposterous the scenario was. “Do you honestly think that would have been possible? That I could have pulled it off leaving no witnesses, no evidence? That I would have taken that risk, especially now when I have so much to lose?”
Nora’s breath caught in her throat. The description sounded far-fetched, but Paul’s details were disturbingly exact. She thought of Barbara. Of how much Paul had to lose. “Yes. I do.”
His broad grin was wrong, inappropriate. “But why kill her? I have a lot to lose, and a divorce would have cost me nothing.”
Nora chewed her lip.
“I’ve got to get back. Come out and get a refill.” He winked at her empty glass, unlocked the door and left.
Saturday, October 31, 1993, 8:30 p.m.
N
ora arrived at Annie’s party wearing last year’s French maid costume. She had clammy palms and no photographs, and half expected Annie to kick her out, demanding that she hand them over or leave. But when Nora joined the others in the rec room, Annie didn’t even look up. She was busy whispering with a girl in a Daisy May costume whom Nora didn’t know.
In fact, of the ten girls Annie had invited, Nora recognized only four: Meg, Lynne, Jen, and Jasmine who sat at their lunch table. The others clearly knew each other, though. A few wore coordinated cat costumes. Two huddled in the corner, a vampire restyling a cheerleader’s hair. Nora tried to mix in, laughing when everyone else did, pretending to know what or whom they were talking about, overhearing chunks of conversations that she assumed concerned boys.
She shouldn’t have come. Annie had moved on, made new friends. She was part of the cool, fast clique, while Nora didn’t fit in—never had, never would. Nora watched Annie and pitifully aped her gestures, facial expressions, and posture. Nora longed to be home in her own room where she could be by her dorky, uncool, solitary self.
The Exorcist was playing on the big console television, but the sound was either off or overpowered by an Aretha Franklin oldie blasting from the stereo. A few girls were dancing. Nora didn’t join in, didn’t feel comfortable. The ping pong table was covered with a plastic tablecloth and food—pizza, chips, dips, and sodas. Meg told her that there was a handle of vodka behind the wall to the laundry room. Nora pretended to know what a handle was and tagged along with Meg, smiling as if she knew what she was doing while Meg poured.
Nora drank, nibbled, sat in various poses, modeling her behavior after Annie’s, all the time waiting for Annie to ask for the pictures. Finding the party a big fat bore. After about an hour, Nora began thinking up excuses to leave. A toothache? Or maybe cramps. Something that Annie would believe and not blame her for. She sipped her vodka and Diet Sprite, watched girls in stupid costumes, and listened to irritating, loud music.
“Well? You got them?” Annie came up behind her. Her nose nuzzled Nora’s cheek.
Nora’s heart beat louder than the music. She wanted to cry, to beg for more time. “I tried. Really hard. I looked in his room, but—”
“So, no. You don’t have them.”
“Annie, I’ll get them. I will. But I need more time. I can only look when he’s not around.” Nora was about to say that she wasn’t feeling well and had to go home, but Annie slid an arm around her shoulder and spoke softly.
“See, the thing is, Nora, that that’s not okay. We agreed you’d bring them tonight.”
Except that, no, Nora hadn’t agreed; Annie had insisted. She knew better than to argue though. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll get them as soon as I can. I promise.” Her heart ricocheted against her ribs. She waited for Annie to throw her out, to completely reject and shun her.
Instead, Annie smiled charmingly. “Oh yes, Nora. You will. I know you will.” Annie slid her arm off Nora’s shoulders and started to walk away, but stopped, leaned over and whispered, “By the way, Nora. Remember when you told me who you liked?”
Of course she remembered. Nora hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, but days ago, trying to win back Annie’s favor, Nora had finally, reluctantly revealed his name. As soon as she’d said it, while the last consonants still resonated on her tongue, she’d regretted it. Her face had heated up with embarrassment and dread. Would Annie tease her for liking a boy who was only a year older, not a hot shot in high school? Or—oh God—would she get back at Nora by telling him? Annie might, just for spite.
“Why?” Nora’s stomach flipped.
“You’ll see.” Annie winked and tweaked Nora’s chin. “The party’s not even started yet.” And she flitted off, joining some girls getting food.
Nora’s stomach wouldn’t settle. She still wanted to leave, but Annie had urged her to stay, and she didn’t want to risk displeasing Annie, further straining their friendship. So, she hung around, pretending to be having fun, drinking vodka to calm her nerves.
At about ten, Nora found out why Annie had wanted her to stay. The boys paraded in through the sliding doors on the deck. She recognized most of them from school. A few were older, though. A couple were even in high school. Why were high school boys there? Maybe to see Annie’s sisters? Except, no. Her sisters weren’t around. And, oh God, Craig was there. Despite their age difference, he and Annie were friends. Nora remembered Craig beating up on Tommy, then stopping to talk with Annie through the school bus window. He sauntered in, a bigshot in his leather jacket, exhaling smoke from his cigarette. Nora tensed, wanted to hide. She’d had no idea older kids would be there, let alone Craig. Then again, Craig wasn’t always a bully. He’d actually been nice to her on the camp bus. She watched him greet Annie with a big, white-toothed grin, and was so focused on him that she almost didn’t notice the clean-cut, preppy seventh grader who came in behind him. Bobby Baxter.
Nora froze, her gut somersaulting. Bobby Baxter was there? That must have been why Annie had needed to know wh
o she liked, so she could invite him. Maybe Annie wasn’t as mad as she seemed. But now what? How could Nora get his attention? How should she act? Should she talk to him? Wait and see if he talked to her first? Except—oh God—what if she was wrong? What if Annie hadn’t invited him because of her, and Bobby had come there to hang out with one of the other girls? Maybe he liked someone else or someone else liked him—someone much cooler than Nora.
Nora scanned the room for Annie. Annie would tell her what to do, how to be. But Annie was in a clump of kids, laughing at some guy telling a story. Craig was in the clump, too. So was Bobby. He was also laughing.
Nora backed against the wall. Maybe Bobby hadn’t seen her, didn’t even know she was there. She edged her way to the laundry room and poured more vodka, drank it down, felt it sear its way through her insides. A little woozy, she sidled to the bathroom where she stayed, examining her stupid, costumed self in the mirror, fiddling with her hair, deciding that Bobby Baxter would never like a girl as uncool as she was. Misfit. Oddball. Freak. She sat on the floor, hiding, and might never have come out if someone hadn’t banged on the door.
When she emerged, red-faced and certain that everyone was watching to see who’d tied up the bathroom so long, the first person she saw was Bobby Baxter. He was looking right at her, smiling. Was she supposed to smile back? Wave? Nod? Oh God. She was such a loser. She wanted to disappear, to just dissolve into nothing.
“Hey,” he said.
Nora almost looked behind her, to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else. But she stopped herself and managed to utter, “Hey.”
He stepped closer. Bobby was tall. She had to crane her neck to see his face.
“So, what are you, a waitress?”
Her face burned. “French maid.”
He laughed. Not a mean laugh. The kind of laugh that acknowledged how silly costumes were. “I almost didn’t come, but Annie said you’d be here. So I figured it’d be okay.”
What? Music pounded, so it was difficult to hear him. Had Bobby Baxter just said he’d come because she’d be there? Had he actually said that? “Well, anyway. Here we both are.” Ugh. What a stupid stupid stupid thing to say. Plus, because of the music, she’d shouted it.