by Chris Mooney
“Your mother knew I took those pictures,” Lou said. “And God knows I wanted to—”
“Let’s get one thing straight. You and I are through. The next time you see me will be when I’m on the witness stand, telling everyone about that night you came by and told me about how you’d been inside Jonah’s house. I bet the police haven’t found the listening devices.”
Lou’s eyes had taken on a heated, watery glow. “Martin?” he called out. “Martin, we’re done in here.”
Mike leaned across the table. “You’re never going to see daylight again. That’s a promise.”
The door swung open and Lou said, “The problem was that Jean Paul loved your mother but didn’t love children. So he gave her a choice: life in Paris or life in Belham. Which one you think she chose, Michael?”
CHAPTER 36
The oak tool chest, the Gerstner, was exactly where Lou had said: in the basement, stacked at the bottom of one of those self-assembled plastic shelving units. It was locked. Rather than wasting time searching for a key, Mike grabbed a drill and drilled a hole through the lock, remembering that when Lou wasn’t working, or when he got into a particularly nasty fight with Mary, he would come down here and putter around on some project. He had a talent for cabinetry but didn’t have the patience; he once built a hutch made of solid oak, but it had taken him three years to do it. It was here, using Lou’s tools, that Mike made the birdhouse he had given his mother.
The chest opened without a problem. Sitting inside the walls of green felt were six neat stacks of envelopes bound together by elastics. They were all addressed to Mary Sullivan in Lou’s trademark chicken scrawl. Most of the paper had yellowed, and the stamps in the corners had curled, about to fall off.
Lou’s war letters.
Odd that he would keep them,Mike thought. It was such a sentimental act, and Lou was hardly sentimental. Even odder that he’d write them in the first place since he rarely talked about what had happened over there.
Mike removed one stack and set it down on top of the long counter that stretched its way down one length of the wall. He lit a cigarette, unfastened the elastic and picked up a random envelope. This letter was one page, written in pencil.
May 13, 1965
Dear Mary,
The sun here doesn’t let up, and everywhere I go there’s this thick, wet heat. Mail over a fan when you get a chance, ha ha.
Things have been heating up here. The other day we were choppered into Dodge City and immediately we were in the middle of a firefight. Thank God I had my helmet and flack gear otherwise I wouldn’t have made it. The gooks had us pinned down for two hours. I couldn’t even raise my head and see where they were—that’s how bad it was. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. I don’t believe in hell, but if there is one, this place must surely be it.
Keep talking to my brother. I don’t want him over here.
Please write me. Your letters will get me through this. How is Michael? What is he doing? The two of you are always in my thoughts. Send a picture of Michael if you can.
Love,
Lou
Scared and love. Words Lou never used but had written here. Mike opened another envelope. This letter was dated a week later.
They have us guarding a road next to a graveyard. Every night I’m sleeping next to a tombstone. We’re losing about a man a day, most of it to the damn heat.
I love you, Mary. I know some words were exchanged before I left. And I know money is tight and things are tough for you and the baby right now, but I’ll come home and make it up to you. Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on what we have. I’m coming home. That’s a promise.
There were a dozen more letters like that, all of them written in an almost identical way: Lou describing the hell around him and asking Mary to write to him. The last letter read:
I’m sure you already know about Dave Simmons. He was standing right next to me—right next to me, Mary—and after he sneezed he was shot in the head. Goddamn weirdest thing. Please check on Dave’s wife, see if she’s doing okay.
Please stop punishing me with your silence and write to me.
A card-sized envelope was on the bottom of the chest drawer, resting on top of sealed flaps of old Brick’s Photo envelopes (THANK YOU FOR TRUSTING US WITH YOUR MEMORIES was written across the flap). The card was addressed to Michael Sullivan at Bill’s old address—just as Lou had said. This card had a return address in the corner.
Mike removed the envelope from the pile and flipped it around. The back flap’s seal had already been torn open. He lifted flap and peeled out the heavy note card.
Dear Michael,
I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write back to you. I’ve been actively searching for a place big enough for the both of us. Paris is incredibly expensive, especially here on the Île St-Louis. There’s first and last month’s rent to consider, and security deposits. I’m working as a waitress at a café, but money is slow coming in. Looking back, I should have taken the money I withdrew from the bank and used it to set us up here, but there was your tuition to consider. After all the setbacks you’ve had, I didn’t want you to have to endure moving to another school and away from your friends.
I’m coming for you. I know it has taken longer than I’ve said, and I know you’ve been patient. I need you to keep being patient. You can write to me at the address on the front of the envelope.
Don’t let your father find this address. Hide this letter where he won’t find it. If your father finds out where I’m hiding—I don’t have to remind you what your father is capable of.
The restaurant where I work has a wonderful view of Notre Dame church, and as I sit here and write you this letter, I can look out the window and see the gargoyles you loved so much.
No matter how bad it gets, always remember to have faith. Always remember how much I love you.
God bless,
Mom
Mike slid the note card back in the envelope. His throat felt raw when he swallowed.
You’ve always viewed your mother as a saint. What about all the things I did? The ball games, the bikes and the car, your tuition at St. Stephen’s.
Mike removed the Brick Photo envelope and opened it, expecting to see more pictures of Sarah or his mother. He didn’t expect to see Jess—a much younger Jess—climbing inside the passenger seat of a car. Mike flipped through the pictures and saw—
He flung the envelope against the wall; pictures exploded across the floor.
Mike opened the bulkhead, walked up the steps and stepped into Lou’s sun-filled backyard. He took out his wallet and found, tucked behind his money, the folded yellow Post-it note with Jess’s new address and phone number. She had given it to him this past Sunday just as he was leaving. If you need anything, Michael—anything, you can call me.
Goddamn right I will. He dialed the number, pressed the phone up to his ear.
“Hello,” Jess said.
The words felt swollen inside his throat. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.
“Hello?” Jess said again.
Mike snapped the phone shut and wiped his face.
You’ve always viewed your mother as a saint. What about all the things I did? The ball games, the bikes and the car, your tuition at St. Stephen’s.
Mike called information for St. Stephen’s rectory and asked the operator to connect him.
“This is Mike Sullivan,” he told the secretary who answered the phone. “I need to speak with Father Connelly. It’s important.”
The secretary put him on hold for a moment and then Father Jack’s voice came on the line. “How are you doing, Michael?”
“I was hoping you could help me with something. A quick question about my mother.”
“I’ll do my best,” Father Jack said, Mike hearing walls go up in the priest’s voice. Mike knew his mother had been close to Father Jack, the priest all too well aware of Mike’s home life with Lou. And Mike remembered how shocked Father Jack had ac
ted when asked if he knew anything about where his mother had gone. If it was an act, it was worthy of an Oscar.
“Is there any way to find out if she paid for my tuition?”
“Your tuition?”
“I know it’s an odd question, but I just had a talk with Lou and he told me that he had paid for my tuition. Is there any way of finding out if that’s true?”
“It’s true.”
“You’re sure.”
“Positive. He came to me personally and paid me in cash not long after your mother left. Every year he paid in cash. He’s the only parent who ever did that.”
Mike didn’t know what else to say. “Okay then. Thanks.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Not right now.” Mike thanked him again and hung up.
Looking back, I should have taken the money I withdrew from the bank and used it to set us up here, but there was your tuition to consider. After all the setbacks you’ve had, I didn’t want you to have to endure moving to another school and away from your friends.
His mother’s words from the note, only it was a lie. Lou said he had paid for the tuition, and Father Jack had just validated it. She had lied to him. Why?
“This has got to stop,” he said to no one. “At some point this has got to stop.”
You asked for this, remember?
A memory of Sarah: the two of them driving to the Main Street Diner a couple of weeks after Bill’s mother had died. Sarah must have been five at the time. Bill’s mother treated Sarah as one of her own grandchildren, so he and Jess sat Sarah down and told her that Nana Jane had died, Jess taking the lead then and explaining to Sarah that death meant that the body had stopped existing, and that while her soul had gone to heaven, all the good things people loved about Nana Jane, all those good times everyone had shared with her—those memories would continue to live on in everyone who had loved her.
Sarah asked a couple of questions and then left to go play with her Barbie dolls, the questions pretty much stopping as the days wore on, the two of them figuring that Sarah had come to grips with it—until that day in the truck when she announced that she was still sad.
“I still miss Nana Jane,” Sarah said.
“We all do, sweets.”
“When will the sadness go away, Daddy?”
“It takes time.”
“How much time?”
“It’s different for everyone. You need to give your heart time to make room for it.”
“And what happens if my heart runs out of room?”
Impossible, he had told her.
Now though? Now he wondered how much grief a heart could hold, how many truths it was forced to accept before it ruptured.
CHAPTER 37
The few memories Mike had of Beacon Hill were hazy ones from his younger days—drunk nights spent running from bar to bar with Wild Bill and the rest of the Belham pack, Beacon Hill boasting some of the best-looking women in the city. He remembered the place as being a brick-lined haven for elitists and the superrich, complete with bad parking and lantern-like streetlights. Beacon Hill seemed small until you actually walked through it and then it resembled a hedge maze, its narrow one-way streets lined with brick sidewalks and tall brick-faced condos and town houses, the price of one the cost of three or four nice homes in Belham.
The narrow streets and bad parking still held true, and so did all the brick. But as Mike walked up Charles Street, he was surprised by the neighborhood feel of the place. Sure, you had a Starbucks on each corner, and he spotted a Store 24 on the block, but other than that, Beacon Hill seemed to have resisted the whole brand-naming effort that had infected downtown Belham. And a part of him enjoyed the fluid busyness of this warm spring evening, the distraction of watching people coming in and out of stores, on their way to dinner, the college students with backpacks drinking coffee and talking on cell phones, parents out pushing strollers.
Mike took a left onto Sam’s street, found the number and then climbed the steep front steps. After leaving Lou’s house,Mike wanted an unbiased perspective on what he was thinking of doing next and, already knowing what Bill would say, called Sam at her office.
Mike found Sam’s name on a brass panel listing the names of the people who lived here, rang the buzzer and after a moment heard the door buzz. Sam’s place was on the third floor. He walked up the winding staircase and found Sam waiting for him at the door, dressed in jeans and a black collared shirt. She was the only woman he had known who could dress in something so simple and basic and yet made it look both sexy and elegant.
“You cut your hair,” he said. “And highlighted it.”
“Anthony convinced me to do it.”
“It looks great.” It really did.
“I needed a change. Anthony also tried to convince me into getting my navel pierced with him, but I drew the line there. Come on in.”
Her third-floor condo was a wide, rambling space bursting with sunlight and high ceilings. A surprisingly big gourmet kitchen dominated the left half of the room. The table was set for two, nice china and crystal, a bottle of wine already opened. A plasma-screen TV hung on the brick wall, and to the left was a den with soft leather couches and mahogany bookcases packed with books.
“This is … wow,” Mike said. He thought the place would be much smaller. The space in here, you could raise a family, no problem.
“Thank you. I had a friend help me decorate. Dinner’s warming in the oven.”
“You made dinner?”
“Takeout from Antonio’s. Best Italian food in the city. When you called and asked to get together, I forgot to ask. I hope chicken parm is still your favorite.”
He was surprised—and touched—that she had remembered.
Sam said, “What would you like to drink?”
“A Coke would be great if you have it.”
Sam walked into the kitchen in her bare feet, opened the fridge and handed him an ice-cold can of Coke.
“We can eat now,” she said, “or we can sit, talk, whatever you want.”
“Sitting sounds good.”
Sam grabbed her wine glass from the kitchen counter and Mike followed her to an alcove holding two oversized, overstuffed chairs that faced each other, an ottoman between them. A big picture window overlooked her street and a long, oval, gated area of grass and trees that was vaguely familiar to him for some reason.
“What’s that area over there?” Mike asked.
“That would be Louisburg Square. If you have eight million to spare, I can get you a great deal on a fixer-upper.”
“Eight million.”
“And don’t forget the property taxes that can run as much as fifty thousand a year.”
Mike placed his Coke on a small end table next to his chair and then removed the envelope from his back pocket before sitting down. Sam sat down, propping both legs up on the ottoman, her feet inches from his knee. They used to sit like this, Mike remembered, Sam always wanting to face him when they talked about something serious, Sam sometimes putting her feet on his leg, Mike rubbing a foot as they talked.
“I don’t know even know where to begin,” Mike said after a moment.
“Start at the beginning.”
“If I do that, we’ll be here all night.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Then he remembered.
Louisburg Square. Christmas. Every year his mother had taken him into the city to see the big, brightly lit tree on the Common, and after that, they would head over to Beacon Hill for the holiday stroll where a tour guide would give them a walking history tour that always ended at Louisburg Square. The condos and town houses weren’t open to the public, but sometimes, if the first-floor curtains weren’t drawn, you could see inside the big windows and see the huge Christmas trees of the insanely wealthy. Thing was, his mother had seemed more interested in watching the people around her than hearing the history of the multi-million dollar town houses where Louisa May Alcott and the
Kennedy family had once lived.
He remembered something else too.During their last Christmas together, his mother had seemed especially distracted, wanting to linger after the tour had broken up. It was snowing, and while he didn’t mind that, he did mind the cold. The air was raw, the wind biting into his skin, and he wanted to get going. His mother said they couldn’t, not yet, because she was waiting for a friend. Yes, a friend. That was the word she used. Friend. It surprised him since his mother didn’t really have any friends—at least, she never spoke of any. He had been even more surprised when he found out that this friend of his mother’s was a man.
Was this man Jean Paul? Mike didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what the man looked like or how he dressed, but he did recall something about shaking the man’s hand, the gentle way this man put his hand on his mother’s back and ushered her to a corner where they seemed to talk forever, the man glancing every once in a while in Mike’s direction.
“Don’t feel you have to talk, Sully. We can just sit here and relax, enjoy the evening.”
Mike touched the envelope resting on his thigh. “You still friendly with your ex-husband?”
“God no.”
“So it ended badly between you.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“You mind me asking how it ended?”
Sam sipped her wine,then said, “Well, for three years we tried to conceive a child,and when we couldn’t do it naturally,we started the whole fertility process. The pills, the hormone shots—I even tried in vitro three times. No luck. So we dealt with it the way all mature adults do: we both worked longer hours and stopped talking. We began to drift apart and then he came to me one day and said that he wasn’t happy, I said neither was I and we agreed to divorce. Matt desperately wanted children, and since I couldn’t give him any, he wanted to go, you know, go looking elsewhere. Adoption was never an option with him. I always suspected that was the reason he was cheating.”