Remembering Sarah

by Chris Mooney

  “Remember the last time you got caught boozing?”

  Strike two: Mike had made the mistake of getting bombed on the eve of Sarah’s third anniversary, Mike doing it alone, at home, when Anthony Testa rang the doorbell at ten at night for a random drug test. No jail time, but the judge ordered up another round of therapy sessions with Dr. T, another stay at an alcohol treatment program. Mike had to start at zero again, work his way back up.

  “You get caught again drinking or if I find booze in your system, that’s strike three, game over,” Testa said. “You can either go to jail or you can get your life back. How you want to play it is entirely up to you.”

  Mike opened the bathroom door and stepped outside into the bright winter sunshine, wondering what life Testa was referring to.

  CHAPTER 8

  They spent the morning and early afternoon installing the windows for Margaret Van Buren’s sprawling two-floor addition in Newton, one of the more posh cities located west of Boston. At two, they broke for lunch. The three guys who worked for them were all in their early twenties and single and talked incessantly about the upcoming weekend: the bars they were going to hit, the different girls they were seeing and dated and wanted to date; the ones they wanted to dump.

  Bill picked up his lunch. “I can’t listen to this anymore,” he said to Mike. “I’m drowning in diapers and these guys are having hot tub parties with bikini models.”

  They sat inside Mike’s truck, eating the subs Bill had picked up downtown, Bill talking about last night’s escapades with the twins: Grace and Emma wide awake at two in the morning and coloring in their room when Emma decided to shove the red crayon up her nose.

  “Check this out,” Bill said. “Me and Patty took the kids out last night to the Border Café up on Route One. There was a wait, so I went up to the bar to grab a beer and notice every guy’s got their bone tuned to the broad in a black suit and glasses kicking back a beer and reading The Sporting News. It was Sam.”

  “Samantha Ellis?”

  “The one and only.”

  Her name brought up one of the best periods in Mike’s life—the summer after Jess’s freshman year at UNH, a time when he and Jess had decided to see other people.

  Bill said, “She moved back here a year, year and a half ago. She’s working at a law firm in downtown Boston—one of those places with six names that when you’re done saying it gives you a headache. Harrington, Dole, something and something. Middle age is treating her real well. Got this nice J. Lo thing going on.”

  “J. Lo?”

  “Yeah, Jennifer Lopez. Don’t you watch MTV?”

  “I haven’t watched MTV since Joan Jett was the big thing.”

  “You’re missing out. With the rap videos, station’s like soft-core porn now.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Mike said. “That article in last Sunday’s Globe magazine. You read the interview with Lou?”

  Bill nodded, grinning as he chewed. “Your old man missed his calling as a comic.”

  “The ice queen thinks Lou’s going to reach out. You know, try and patch things up.”

  “You serious?”

  “She was,” Mike said and took another bite of his meatball sub.

  “You should have told her about Cadillac Jack.”

  “Funny you should mention that.”

  “And?”

  “Not even a dent.”

  “Arrange a get-together. She spends a minute talking with him, I guarantee you she’ll walk away feeling like she’s got bite marks all over her skin.”

  Or he’d kill her, Mike thought. Bury her someplace where nobody will ever find her.

  Mike looked out the window, thinking of his mother.

  Bill said, “I got an extra ticket tonight to Grace and Emma’s play. You should come along. Trust me, it’s going to be a comedy show.”

  “Dotty Conasta called again. She has a couple of questions she wants answered before she signs. I was thinking of swinging by.”

  Bill grinned. “You haven’t met her yet, have you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I was over there two nights ago, about to go over the plans for the addition when she tells me to wait. She wants her husband to listen in.”

  “So?”

  “Her husband’s in an urn. That job’s got Excedrin written all over it.”

  Mike’s cell rang. Had to be Testa. The guy was going to go out of his way to break balls today.

  It wasn’t Testa. The caller was Rose Giroux, the mother of Jonah’s second victim, Ashley Giroux.

  With the news of Sarah’s disappearance came the news of Jonah’s identity, his background as a priest and his tie to the two other girls, all of it being played over the airwaves and newspapers. Rose Giroux, this warm, beach ball of a woman with dyed blond hair and too much makeup, came to Belham to offer her support and share the mistakes she and her husband had made with Ashley’s investigation. It was Rose who had explained the importance of using the media to keep interest alive. Jess embraced her. In the beginning, Mike did everything in his power to avoid her.

  Lying underneath Rose’s experience and well-intentioned advice and prayers and need to hug and cry and share every emotion was the unspoken fact that Sarah wouldn’t be coming home. He’d hear that sorrow welded to her voice and make some excuse to leave the room. That’s not going to be me. There’s still time to find Sarah. A week turned into a month, into three months and then half a year and it was only then Mike felt he could talk with Rose.

  “I was just calling to see how you were doing today,” Rose said.

  “I’m doing. And yourself?”

  “About the same.”

  “How’s Sean?” In addition to calling on Sarah’s anniversary date and the sporadic calls throughout the year, Rose would write long letters to Mike, detailing the events in her family and the lives of her three other children as if to reassure herself—or maybe to show him—that it was possible to pick up and move on.

  “Sean’s going to Harvard Medical this fall.”

  “You and Stan must be proud.”

  “Yes. Yes, we are.” Rose sounded detached, or maybe she was just tired. “I read the article, the one from last Sunday’s Globe.”

  The reporter said he was going to interview Rose and, hopefully, Suzanne Lenville. When Mike read the article, he saw that Ashley Giroux and Caroline Lenville had been reduced to bylines: Ashley Giroux had been missing for sixteen years, Caroline Lenville for twenty-five. Caroline’s mother, Suzanne, had divorced a decade ago and had remarried, changed her name and disappeared. She didn’t give interviews, didn’t talk about what had happened to her daughter.

  “I read about you and Jess,” Rose said. “How long have you two been separated?”

  From the time I came home and told her that Sarah hadn’t come back down the hill.“About two years,” Mike said.

  “Stan and I went through a rough patch. We went to counseling, and that really helped. In fact, I have a list of several counselors who specialize—”

  “It’s over. We signed the divorce papers last month.” And he was fine with that. Honest to God he was. After everything he put her through, she deserved a shot at a new life.

  “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

  The call-waiting on Mike’s phone beeped. He checked the caller ID. St. Stephen’s Church.

  “Rose, I’ve got another call. Can I call you later?”

  “I’ll be home. Before I let you go: Is it true about the cancer?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Are the police talking to Jonah?”

  “That’s the word.” Although that hadn’t come from the police; Mike had learned it from the reporter doing the article. “The second I find out anything, Rose, I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you, Michael. God be with you.”

  “You too, Rose. Thanks for calling.” Mike hit the TALK button and switched to the incoming phone call. “Hello.”

  “Michael, Father Connelly.”
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  Hearing Father Jack’s voice triggered a rush of memories: the beer and peanut smell of the old Boston Garden as they watched the Celtics in their heyday, Bird and McHale and Parish leading them to another championship; Jess in her wedding dress, walking down the aisle of St. Stephen’s; Father Jack coming into Mass General to visit Sarah; Father Jack baptizing Sarah.

  “I don’t know if this is my place,” Father Jack said, “but Jess just left here. She’s … she’s very upset.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t have any other appointments scheduled. I had no idea he was going to be there.”

  Mike tightened his grip on the phone.

  “She stepped out of my office and saw him in the waiting room,” Father Jack explained. “I tried to calm her down—tried to get her to go back in my office and close the door. I told her I’d drive her home afterward, but she tore out of here before—”

  “Why was Jonah there?”

  “I don’t know Jess’s cell phone number. Otherwise, I would have called her.”

  “You going to answer my question, or are you going to keep avoiding it?”

  Father Jack swallowed audibly. The silence lingered.

  “That’s what I thought,” Mike said and hung up.

  CHAPTER 9

  The last time Mike had set foot in Rowley was about a year and a half ago, the day of Jess’s mother’s funeral. After the funeral, Jess thanked him for coming and invited him to stop by the house. He did, partly out of respect for Jodi Armstrong but more so for Sarah. It was around that time his memories were starting to blur. Maybe seeing a place where Sarah had spent so many weekends and holidays would stimulate that part of his mind responsible for holding onto her.

  A light snow was falling when Mike pulled into Jess’s driveway. He shut off the truck, grabbed the flowers from the passenger seat, got out, and jogged up the walkway and onto the porch, about to open the door and rush in when he remembered his new position in her life. He shut the door and rang the doorbell. A moment later, the front door opened in a whoosh.

  For a half second, he didn’t recognize her. Jess had blond highlights in her hair, had cut it short, thick and messy as if waking up from sleep, and while she wasn’t dressed up by any means—she wore stone-colored khakis and a white shirt—he had the feeling that she was clearly expecting someone else. The smile on her face turned into a look of surprise, maybe even mild shock, when she saw him standing there with a bouquet of flowers.

  “Father Jack called me,” he said.

  Jess’s eyes dropped to her shoes as she opened the storm door.

  “I tried calling you on your cell phone, then here.”

  “I shut my cell phone off and went out for a bit,” she said. “I just got back a few minutes ago. Come in.”

  The foyer was warm and eerily quiet—no TV or radio was on—and filled with the unmistakable smell of spaghetti sauce, Mike remembering the pleasure she took from this task, an Irish girl making homemade sauce from scratch. Two black suitcases, gifts he had given her one Christmas eons ago, sat on the white-tiled floor, near the foot of the stairs.

  She shut the door. Mike handed her the flowers.

  “Calla lilies,” she said. They were Jess’s favorite flower. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me for a second,” Jess said, and Mike watched as she walked into the kitchen, placing the flowers on the counter, then plucking the cordless phone from its wall-mounted base.

  Confession. That was the only reason Jonah would have stopped by to see Father Jack. Despite his defrocked status, Jonah was still a devout Catholic—Mike had heard that Jonah went to the six a.m. mass every Sunday at St. Stephen’s. Funeral preparations could have been neatly handled over the phone, so for Jonah to stop by like that, in person, meant he must have wanted to receive the sacrament of reconciliation. You couldn’t do that over the phone. To stop by like that,out of the blue, meant that Jonah knew he had only a few days left.

  Or hours.

  “Of course I understand,” Jess whispered from the kitchen. She picked up her wine glass, took a long pull and quickly swallowed. “I’m fine, honest. Don’t worry about it.”

  Mike knew that tone. Jess was angry but didn’t want the person on the other end to know it.

  “I’ll just meet you at the airport…. Right,me too. Bye.”

  Jess hung up and walked briskly back into the foyer, doing her best to hide her disappointment.

  “Going someplace warm, I hope,” Mike said, pointing to the suitcases.

  “Five week trip to Paris and then Italy.”

  “Going with one of your sisters?”

  “No,” Jess said, her smile thin. “Just a friend.”

  The way she said friend meant a male friend, a boyfriend or something more serious.

  “Good for you,” Mike said, and meant it. Jess seemed uncomfortable, so he changed the topic. “Your mother always talked about going to Italy.”

  “My mother always talked about doing a lot of things. Last week, I was cleaning out the spare bedroom and found a lump under the carpet. Guess what I found? Envelopes full of savings bonds dating back to the fifties. I’m talking stacks of them. She could have bought and paid for this house three times over.”

  “Your mother always thought the next Great Depression was a day away.”

  “She was hoarding all this money and for what?” Jess blew out a long stream of air and shook her head. “I made lasagna. Would you like to join me for dinner? And no, you’re not intruding.”

  He could tell by the tone of her voice that she wanted him to stay. He didn’t want to have dinner with his ex-wife and revisit the life he once had. He started to sort through a list of possible excuses while another part of his mind calculated all the times Jess had picked up his drunk ass from McCarthy’s Bar;the times she had cleaned up his vomit and all the broken fragments of the glasses,mugs, plates he had thrown against the wall because he was drunk, because he was terrified for Sarah and because his marriage was dissolving and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do to stop it—and let us not forget the months she had stuck by him when it looked like they might lose the house, all the money they had saved now going to bail and lawyer’s fees. Jess had any number of reasons to bail and she didn’t.She had hung in there with him,and while she was entitled to half of everything they owned, she wanted only two things in the divorce settlement: copies of the pictures and videos of Sarah; and items that had belonged to her mother.

  “Dinner would be great,” he said.

  A pan of lasagna was on the stove, the island countertop set with a pair of crystal wine glasses, a bottle of opened red wine and two plates. Jess had been expecting company.

  Mike took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the island chairs as Jess picked up the plates. Above the kitchen sink was a window overlooking the three-season room. The backyard lights were on, and Mike could see the monstrous jungle gym set, a birthday gift from Jodi when Sarah turned two. He stared at it, thinking how lonely it looked, neglected and forgotten.

  “How’s work?” she asked.

  “Busy, as always. You still a secretary for that accounting firm in Newburyport?”

  “Still there. The pay’s better than teaching, believe it or not. And the politically correct term, just so you know, is administrative assistant.” She smiled as she handed him a plate, and then opened up the refrigerator and came back with a cold can of Coke.

  Jess sat down, picked up a linen napkin and spread it across her lap. She picked up her fork, put it back down.

  “He held the door open for me.”

  Mike rubbed the back of his head and neck.

  “He was standing there with this … this sick grin. ‘You’re looking real good, Mrs. Sullivan. Life in Rowley must really be agreeing with you.’Then he held the door open for me. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

>   “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “What could you have done?”

  “I could have driven you home.”

  “And if you came to the parking lot, you’d have been in violation of your probation. All Jonah had to do was see you through Father Jack’s office window and they’d be hauling you off to jail. That’s our great legal system at work.”

  “I’m sorry, Jess.” Mike not quite sure what he was apologizing for: her visit with Jonah or for all of it.

  She waved him off, telling him she was over it.

  “You have any idea why Jonah was there?” he asked.

  “You’d have to ask Father Jack.”

  “I tried that. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Jess picked up the wine bottle and poured the wine, the glug-glug sound reminding him of Jack being poured over ice, of those evenings where he couldn’t wait to get home and have that first long slow burn hit his stomach.

  She saw him looking at the bottle. “I don’t have to drink.”

  “It’s fine. Why did you go to see Father Jack this afternoon?”

  “To say goodbye.” She put the bottle back on the table and folded her arms. “I’m moving.”

  “Where?”

  “New York. The city.”

  Mike put down his fork, fear brushing against the walls of his heart.

  “A friend—a friend of a friend, actually—his business is moving to Japan,” Jess explained. “He owns this beautiful apartment on the Upper East Side and is letting me sublet it for a few months. It’s a beautiful place—and a rare opportunity.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It is. But I have the money my mother left me, and now the savings bonds. The apartment’s on the fifteenth floor and it has this amazing view of the city. It’s just so beautiful.”

  Yes, you’ve mentioned that twice now. He said, “Why New York? Why not go to San Diego? Be close to your sister and the kids?”

  Jess paused, licked her lips. “Do you ever feel like packing up and starting over someplace where nobody knows the first thing about you?”