I wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t affectionate. I don’t think I said a single word when I got her back to her trailer and pulled off her clothes. She was so soft. But hard to hold on to. Her breasts kept slipping out of my hands; her belly wobbled under my weight. It wasn’t until she hooked her legs around my back that I fell into a steady rhythm. Then it didn’t take long. I was thinking only about me. I locked Jenny out of my mind.
“Yes, Cal, yes,” Lori said at one point.
“Shhh,” I said, kissing her on the mouth to shut her up. I didn’t want to hear her voice. I didn’t want to have to think about her. The shabby trailer. The underwear I’d seen drying in the shower stall. The fake miniature Christmas tree blinking on and off from the kitchenette. The scent of lemons that permeated the place, just barely concealing cooking smells—and something earthier that I didn’t want to think about. I didn’t want to think about anything. Except the blind and furious journey I was on. This narrowing path I’d found. Cutting through my anger and heartache. Obliterating all doubt.
16
Jenny
“Is this Mrs. Horigan?” a male voice asked on the other end of the line. I’d answered only because I thought it might be Daniel. I was supposed to be meeting him for lunch in another two hours, and he was very much on my mind.
“Yes?” I said.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering about your reaction to the story in the Times-Union this morning. Some of those comments from Gannon were pretty harsh. I imagine it must be hard for you and your husband to have to hear that kind of thing.”
“I don’t know what—Who are you?”
“I’m with the Courier. I thought you might want to tell someone—someone local and nonjudgmental—your side of the story. I know this whole thing must be a terrible ordeal for you, but—”
I hung up the phone. My hands were shaking. Cal had warned me the day after his television appearance that this might happen. He’d wanted me to sit down with his big-deal lawyer and be coached on how to handle the press.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I’d told my husband. “I’m not the one talking about all this. I’m not the one standing up in front of the television cameras, trying to cash in on my daughter’s death.”
“Oh, please, Jenny, come on—,” he began, but I said, “You know what? As far as I’m concerned, this whole thing just isn’t happening. So don’t worry about me. I don’t have anything to say to anybody.”
But, like everyone else in Covington, I’d watched the press conference. Alone, still in my pajamas at noontime, the winter sun slanting through my childless kitchen. I’d taken one look at that slick showman of a lawyer and known I’d guessed right: he’d seen our tragedy as an opportunity—and was running with it. Of course, it helped that he’d faced off against Gannon before. That business about “stopping Gannon once and for all” sure sounded convincing. I could see why Cal was drawn to this big, flamboyant, successful man—and his crusade for so-called justice. Of course Cal admires Lester Stephens. He’s allowing my husband to feel like a hero.
I, on the other hand, appear to have taken on the role of martyr. Everyone in the family seems to know now that I’m opposed to the lawsuit. They’ve been calling—my father-in-law, Kurt, Tessa, Kristin—worried about me. I’ve been letting the answering machine pick up for the most part, and then playing back their messages. I know they think they understand: all this attention and media coverage must be intrusive and unsettling for me. They imagine that I want to be left alone with my grief. It’s been useful to be able to see my situation through their eyes. Their concern has helped me piece together a kind of explanation for my behavior, an alternative reality to the lie that I’m living. And I’ve discovered that if you just keep lying long enough, it all starts morphing into a kind of quasi truth. Sometimes I can almost let myself believe that the pain that flows through my days is pure—untainted by guilt or deception.
In fact, I have been avoiding reading about the lawsuit and watching the news. Though I’ve been fully aware that it was only a matter of time before Gannon returned fire. Cal had warned me they’d be denying all charges, which of course came as no surprise to me. I’ve been trying to prepare myself for the next salvo, wondering how close it would come to hitting on the truth. I think the prospect of seeing Daniel again gave me the courage. On my way to Lansbury, I stopped at a GasMart and picked up a copy of the Times-Union. The story was below the fold on the front page.
GANNON BABY PRODUCTS
STANDS BY POPULAR CAR SEAT;
DENOUNCES LAWSUIT
I scanned the article, searching for the “harsh” comments the reporter had asked me about.
“We have sold tens of thousands of this top-rated child’s safety seat across the country with no reports of any serious problems. Customers who would like confirmation of this should check the Consumer Product Safety Commission Web site, where they will see that our record for this model is, indeed, pristine. We are, of course, deeply saddened by the death of the claimant’s daughter. There is nothing more terrible than losing a child. Our sincere regrets go out to the parents and family of Betsy Horigan. But the cause of this tragic accident lies elsewhere and, if forced to, we will indeed prove it. The reputation of our brand of excellent baby products is on the line, and we do not intend to see it blemished by unscrupulous and predatory legal posturing.”
The printed words started to blur. I forced myself to take a deep breath. The cause of this tragic accident lies elsewhere . . . and we will indeed prove it . . .
I tossed the paper onto the seat beside me, started the engine, and turned around to back the car out. The backseat was empty, of course. It’s been more than nine months since Betsy sat there—directly in my line of vision—buckled into her safety seat. So the ghostly image I saw of my daughter was, I knew, a trick of the eye—or of the memory. It was just some kind of mental imprint from the hundreds of times that I’d turned around in the past to find her there. The same thing happens when I glance at the end of the kitchen counter where her hook-on booster seat used to be. Or in the great room where her chest of toys still sits. Besides the children I sometimes mistake for Betsy, these vague, fleeting glimpses are all I get to have of her these days—just a feeling, a sense. Her voice is almost altogether lost to me now. And yet—for all that—she still seems so real to me. It feels impossible she’s not there. Because, in so many ways, she’s more substantial to me than I am. I’m the one who’s fading, really. I’m the shadow whose laughter has disappeared.
The Clear Lake Inn is a rambling white-clap-boarded early-nineteenth-century edifice that lays claim to being the longest continuously run hotel in the county. Its beamed public rooms have wide oak floors scattered with large braided rag carpets. The walls are crowded with quaint bric-a-brac: needlepoint samplers, silvering tintypes, crossed oars from long-forgotten regattas on the wide, still lake that beckons from the inn’s gingerbread porches. Its spacious restaurant is usually bustling, filled with tourists most months of the year. Midweek in mid-January, however, the dining room was nearly empty at lunchtime. Daniel was waiting for me at a quiet table by a window with a view of the frozen-over lake.
“I was beginning to wonder,” he said, standing as I came up to the table. He kissed me on the cheek and pulled out my chair for me. At a quick glance, what did our relationship look like? I wondered. A little too close in age to be father and daughter. Uncle and niece? No, but then—not exactly friends either. More teacher and student. Promising student, but one who has perhaps not quite lived up to expectations. Because I got the feeling Daniel was disappointed in something about me: was it my simple gray slacks and navy blue turtleneck? He was wearing one of his designer-looking sports jackets and a striped shirt open at the neck; his hair fell loose to his collar.
“Sorry. I guess I didn’t give myself enough time,” I said, picking up the menu.
“You look exhausted, Jenny,” he said, scrutinizing me across the tab
le. “Put that thing down. Talk to me.”
“I am tired,” I said, allowing myself to feel the full weight of not sleeping more than a few hours each night. For months and months now.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” I asked, staring at him. “Don’t you know?”
“No. Sorry. I’ve been in the city,” he said. He tilted his head, appraising me in that intense, half-amused way that he has. I sensed he was sizing me up, trying to plumb the depths of whatever new trauma had taken hold in my life. Not for the first time, I got the feeling that he found my anguish attractive in some way. Intriguing.
“Cal’s lawyers officially filed the claim. It’s been all over the television and radio up here. There was a big piece in the Times-Union today, quoting the car-seat manufacturer—Gannon—who said the claim was unscrupulous and predatory.”
“Of course that’s what they were going to say,” he replied. “They’re running a business. Which I imagine they’ll fight tooth and nail to protect.” He signaled across the room to a waiter. “I think you could use a drink.”
I didn’t stop him when he ordered a bottle of wine. Though I almost never drink at lunch, today I was beyond caring. I wanted to feel numbed. Lulled. Daniel’s presence was already helping a little, but it only made me long for a more sustained kind of relief. Being with him again made me realize how much I’d been holding back, how long I’d been keeping everything bottled up inside me. Once again, I wondered why he was the only one I seemed to be able to trust with the truth.
“Gannon says that they’re going to prove the car seat wasn’t the cause of Betsy’s death,” I told him after the waiter had uncorked the wine and left us alone. “Do you think they really can? Prove it was my fault, I mean?”
“Take a drink, Jenny. Relax for a moment. Look out at that beautiful landscape. The way the sunlight plays across the surface of the lake.”
I stared out the window.
“Nothing looks beautiful to me anymore,” I said. “The world—this winter—everything just looks dead.”
“You’ve been spending too much time alone. Too much time in your own head. Going over this one thing again and again.”
“You’re right. How did you know?” I asked, looking back at him. He was smiling, that little gap showing between his front teeth. Though I’d taken only a couple of sips of the wine, I was already feeling drowsy. For a moment, I had the craziest notion that Daniel was hypnotizing me. But I knew it was only because I was so exhausted. Exhausted—and so utterly relieved to be with him again. To be able to talk to him like this: freely and openly. I felt that I could tell him anything and that he wouldn’t judge me for it.
“I’m hardly psychic,” he replied, “but I do like to think I’m a little empathetic. Especially when it comes to desirable women.”
“God, it feels like years since I’ve even thought of myself as a woman. Let alone desirable.”
“You see? I knew that, too,” he said with a laugh. “And I think we have to do something to remedy the situation.”
I heard him, but I didn’t respond. I heard him, but I didn’t let myself really register what it meant. What he might be after. I was feeling too good—for the first time in how many months? Since the last time I’d seen him, I realized. This was all I needed, I thought. Just the chance to be with Daniel. If I had that, if I had him to talk to from time to time, maybe I could somehow find a way to make it through the lawsuit, the media, my own terrible doubts. We ordered lunch. The sunlight had shifted and was now streaming in the window, full on my face. I remembered what it was like to have the world feel safe and warm.
“You didn’t answer my question before,” I told him. “About Gannon being able to prove what I did—or didn’t do. Do you think they can?”
“You’re just assuming they know,” he said, breaking off a piece of the bread the waiter had put between us. He buttered it before he continued. “Even you’re not absolutely sure what really happened. I think you’ve convinced yourself that you’re to blame—but, honestly, I doubt that anyone can prove anything definitively at this point. I don’t think it’s nearly as black-and-white as you seem to imagine it is. Life never is. Each side will argue its case, and whichever one is the most persuasive wins. In the end, I don’t think the facts—let alone the truth—will factor all that much into the ultimate decision.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked. “It sounds so cynical.”
“Cynical? No, I think I’m being realistic,” he said, reaching over and taking my hand. “I’m just playing the devil’s advocate, Jenny.” I remembered the feeling of his lips on my palms, the roughness of his beard against my skin—and shivered. I pulled my hand away when the waiter approached with our plates.
The meal went by in a blur. I ate, or tried to; my attention was so focused on Daniel. He talked to me at length about a major project he’d been invited to bid on, landscaping the new corporate headquarters for a multinational bottling company in Westchester. I only half listened as I let myself bask in the pure pleasure of his voice—hoarse, breaking occasionally like an adolescent boy’s—compelling in its intimacy.
Toward the end of the meal, I excused myself and got up to use the ladies’ room. It was almost three o’clock and the restaurant and restrooms were empty. I looked in the mirror and saw that my cheeks were flushed, my eyes shining. I could still hear the cadenced rhythms of Daniel’s voice in my head: I think we have to do something to remedy the situation. I knew what I had come for that day: the impartial hearing—and absolution—only Daniel seems able to give me. But, for the first time, I really forced myself to face why Daniel was there. What he was assuming about me—us—the rest of the afternoon. I should never have agreed to meet him in such an out-of-the-way place, I realized, an inn, no less. What was I thinking? I understood then that I had to leave immediately. Go back and thank him for lunch—and get the hell away from there.
“Are you okay?” he asked when I returned to the table.
“Yes, but I think I should probably—”
“Hold on a minute. I haven’t finished telling you about the project,” he said. “The best part.”
“Okay,” I said, standing beside my chair. “What is it?”
“They called me this morning: I got the gig.”
“Oh, that’s great—”
“So I’ll be moving back to the city for a while.”
I found myself sitting down again.
“You’re leaving?” I asked. Abruptly, as if a cloud had cut off the sun, the afternoon fell back into shadow. “For how long?”
“Six months. A year. It’s always hard to say for sure. I’m planning to sublet a place. These days I should be able to find something pretty spectacular.”
He sounded so pleased with himself. Lighthearted. I just stared at him. I couldn’t believe he’d known about this through the entire lunch and had just thought to tell me now. Had he no idea what it meant to me? How desperate I’d been for his company—and what solace he’d been able to bring to me just by listening? By simply being there. The very thought of losing him now panicked me. I tried my best to appear calm when I said:
“But—you’ll be coming back to visit.”
“Well, we’ll see. Luckily, my place in Northridge is on a month-to-month lease.”
“But—” My lips felt rubbery, and I found myself unable to form the words I wanted. I couldn’t help it. Without him, I knew I would be utterly lost. I felt abandoned. How could I find the strength to keep going?
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want you to leave,” I blurted out. It almost felt as though he’d kept this news from me on purpose—and then sprung it on me when I was at my most vulnerable. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” he said, standing up and coming around the table to me. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. I don’t want you to go either, Jenny. I could reserve a room for us. Come—”
“No—Daniel—that’s not what I mean—I can’t—”
He took both of my hands in his. He pulled me to my feet and kissed my palms. I felt a shock of recognition—the moment moving backward and forward in time, all in a split second. I’d been with him before. I would be with him again. I could feel tears burning along my eyelids. I had to find a way to keep him. He couldn’t go. I couldn’t let him go.
I’ve never cheated on Cal. I’ve never even considered doing so. Perhaps this is the way it is with all adulterers—at least the first time—but what I did with Daniel didn’t feel like that to me at first. Like a betrayal, I mean. Or a sin. A mortal sin, as my father would have it. The kind that could put my soul in jeopardy. Because my soul seemed to have so little to do with it. This was all about my body—almost as if it had become an entity wholly separate from the rest of me.
Daniel gave me no time to think about what was happening. He pulled me into his arms the moment he closed the door behind us—and didn’t let me go. I caught a glimpse of the prettily decorated room with its four-poster bed and swagged curtains—the winter afternoon outside the paned windows already tinged with sunset. Then I closed my eyes. He seemed to be everywhere at once—lips at my neck, hands in my hair, along my shoulders, cupping my breasts. He knew what he was doing. I had just enough presence of mind to register that; he was an experienced lover. But also intuitive and generous. He knew what he was doing—and he enjoyed giving and taking pleasure. I think I’d sensed this about him from the very beginning: making love was what Daniel did. His real calling. He was in his true element now.
“Give me your tongue,” he said. He had backed me up against the door, the length of his body pressed against mine. He put his hands under my backside and started lifting me up. Without thinking, I wrapped my legs around him. I gave him my tongue. I did what he told me. And he gave me a lot of instructions: faster . . . harder . . . slower. I literally put myself in his hands. I’m not sure why I was so utterly submissive. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing—just what Daniel told me I should do. I wasn’t thinking about guilt then either. Or whether letting Daniel be in charge somehow made me less responsible. I just knew that I had to give myself over to him—to let him do to me whatever he wanted.
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