50
It’s beautiful. A floor lamp lights two armchairs before a fireplace; a smaller lamp lights a queen-sized bed surrounded by crowded bookshelves. Framed photos and more books fill one of the bedside tables. At the foot of the bed, the dark fabric of an upholstered bench matches the fabric of the drapes.
I sink down onto the bench, looking around. “Gorgeous,” I say.
“You should have seen the designer’s bill.” Peter drops his parka and my duffle next to me. “But she got it done in a week.”
He pulls off his blazer too, tosses it next to me on the bench, and starts rolling up his sleeves. For seconds I stare down at his blazer. In its lower pocket, I see the bulge of his gun. I reach to pat its hard, metallic shape.
“Your shirt’s unsalvageable and so are these,” I say, looking back to him, gesturing to my smudged sweater and skirt.
He gives an emotional shrug – “they’re just clothes” - and points to a short, interior hall.
“I was going to suggest a bath, if you’d like. Soothe the aches a little?”
I look that way. “Sounds wonderful.”
He reaches for my duffle. His free hand clasps mine and helps me up. His smile is tired. “It’s good you brought your stuff.”
His bathroom has an old-fashioned feel: black-and-white hexagonal tiles, white walls, and a tub with claw feet. Near the tub is a wicker bench holding a white terrycloth robe. Peter hands me the robe, settles me on the bench, and indicates thick, dove gray towels hanging next to me. The shower curtain is also gray. I hug the robe to my face; it is exquisitely soft and smells freshly laundered. I comment on that.
“Mary and the maid come down once a week.” He’s leaning on one knee, fiddling with the chain of the rubber stopper. “Lately Mary’s been coming more often; she’s moving the children’s winter stuff down.”
“She’s mastered the alarm by now?”
“Hasn’t complained about it.”
“She’s incredibly protective of Chrissy.”
“Yes, blindly devoted. To Nick, too.” Peter shakes his head almost angrily, and lowers the stopper. “She thinks they’re still two squabbling, unhappy children.”
He turns on both faucets, stares down at the churning water. I hug the luxurious robe; look nervously back to the closed bathroom door.
The water blasts, starts to fill. Peter leans back a little, watching the swirl of the current.
I gaze back to his white walls studded with photos.
Some look old, sepia-tinted: 1940s pictures of grim people trying to smile before their beat-up cars; a young-old woman stolid before a clothesline; a boy holding up his small fish and fishing pole; a group of men in sepia uniforms before what looks like a fire station.
“Those are wonderful,” I say.
Peter turns and follows my gaze. The water crashes; steam billows.
“My grandparents,” he says over the sound of the water. He shifts up to sit on the tub’s rim, elbows on his knees. “Gramps was a fireman from 1945 to ‘49, lasted four years before a roof fell in on him and he couldn’t work. My grandmother” – he points to the woman at the clothesline – “took in sewing to make ends meet. And this kid” – the boy with the fishing pole – “is my father. Loved fishing all his life; it was the only time he could stay sober.”
I look at him. “Hard lives,” I say feelingly.
“Yes.”
The tub fills. Steam rises.
Peter points out pictures of both parents: at their wedding, thin and sharp-shouldered, she with wildflowers in her lank blond hair…and a few years later the two of them on a dilapidated porch holding him as a baby. His mother looks careworn; his father’s jeans are baggy and his hands look overlarge, calloused. He’d been a welder. When they met, Peter says, they spent three days and nights together and knew that that was it. They bonded immediately; stayed devoted in an almost needy relationship for the rest of their lives. He helped her get off coke within their first year; she tried to help him with his worsening alcohol troubles, always there, never complaining.
“Lots of struggle,” he says, flattening his lips. There’s pain in his face.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I remember, those hard beginnings.
A thought comes to me: “Why do you have these pictures in the bathroom?”
He stares at the photo of his father young with his fishing pole.
“Because here’s where I start and end my days. It’s a reminder, used to be a goad. Now it’s…I don’t know.”
“It’s your story, the one nobody knows.”
Peter has touched me again, deeply. He’s in no hurry for sex; in fact he’s happy to talk about his past and have someone listen. There’s also the fact that I’m injured, and he’s…it’s still a surprise…gentle.
I listen to his voice grow sad.
“Yeah, the irretrievable past and all that,” he sighs. “It still hurts that neither parent lived to see me getting scholarships, winning track meets, acing grad school. I could have bought them a house. I could have – well….”
He turns on the tub rim; watches the water and steam rise as if his memories are there.
“Most days I’m in a rush, don’t even look at the pictures. It’s just important to know they’re there. Needless to say Chrissy hated them; I had to put them in a drawer.”
He turns back to me. “Oh, you’ll need shampoo.”
Since the old tub has no shelf, everything’s crowded onto the sink. He gets up and fiddles with men’s cologne, hair gel, shaving cream. He opens the medicine cabinet, and starts to shove things away except for the men’s shampoo, which he holds up and recommends.
“For girls too,” he smiles. “Soap is soap.”
A photo to the right of the cabinet looks recent, and I point. “Beautiful.”
He closes the small door; smiles again. The steamed-up mirror catches his drawn features in profile.
“Teddy and me, fishing,” he says, looking at the photo. “Abby took that last year when she was five - would you believe it? It’s good. She had to wade into the water for it. Insisted, because the sunset was behind us.”
“It’s breathtaking.” I rise painfully, lay my hands on the sink, and lean closer to see.
They’re sitting cuddled at stream’s edge, Peter and his three-year-old son. Peter’s arms are around Teddy, who’s between his knees, his little hands grasping the reel and handle of a small fly fishing rod, with Peter teaching, feeding out the line. Their features are happy, peaceful in concentration. The glowing sun backlights them. On Teddy’s feet are the little yellow boots I remember from downstairs.
“Really beautiful,” I say again. “Love the story the picture tells; love the boots. So the little red ones are Abby’s?”
Peter is surprised. “You noticed,” he says, and his face lights up. “Yep, this picture is what really starts my day. I have copies of it at work and by the bed. I need to keep looking at it.”
He’s silent for moments, staring at the photo. “I have a place for fishing in Connecticut,” he says quietly. “In Cornwall, on the Housatonic. I want to start going there more with them, maybe move there, retire, leave the city. It’s the life I want for them.”
“Do it.” I’m suddenly clinging harder to the sink. The room is steamy and I feel dizzy again and my whole body hurts.
“First there’s the custody fight with their crazy mother…” Peter’s saying, then sees me getting shaky again, and grabs my shoulders. “Hey.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re trembling.”
“Just a little. It’s passing.”
“How’s that Advil holding up?”
“It’s wearing off.”
He pulls down a bottle of Aleve, and puts it on the sink. “These last longer.” He brings down paper cups too, then hesitates with his brow creased.
“Sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”
I inhale and smile. “Can I change my mind? I’d love some.”
�
�I’ll go down for it.” Peter leans and kisses me; pulls me into his embrace and kisses me more and then tugs at the shoulder of my sweater. “Need help gettin’ your clothes off?”
I playfully push him away. “I’ll manage. You have to wait.”
“Can’t! Okay, I’ll get the tea. Be right back.”
51
The door closes. Steam billows. I fill a paper cup, take the Aleve, then pick up the shampoo.
Spencer’s for Men, the label says, touting its astounding new formula for improving shine and manageability. Soap is soap…right, and I wonder if it would make a good bubble bath. I flip the top open and, groaning, grip the side of the tub with one hand, and with the other dump just a little into the water. It foams but not too much…good. I fear wetting the bandage on my brow; don’t want to have to shower to get the lather off.
For moments, still gripping the rim, I look down at the two old-fashioned faucets, the chain swaying lazily in the current.
Turn the water off? No, let it fill a bit more.
I straighten, pushing up with both hands. Creakily, I struggle off my skirt and underwear, then start the painful maneuver of pulling my sweater up over my head. “Ow,” I whimper as my hand grazes my puffy eye. Great, I’ve hurt it worse. With another soft groan, I manage to put my clothes on the bench, my shoes under it, and pull on the robe. It feels wonderful, but the eye is really smarting.
I turn back to the sink.
Stop, for a moment, to gaze again at the photo of Peter fishing with his little boy. The sun, setting, forms a halo around them. The picture positively radiates. The tenderness I feel for them almost hurts….
But my eye is throbbing, so I go back to the mirror.
It’s steamed up.
I raise my arm, use the terrycloth sleeve to wipe a corner. It’s bad, alright, that poor eye. Red-purple streaks curve their way down the socket to bluish red puffiness beneath. I wipe more with my sleeve, peer at the bruises on my neck-
And see the face in the mirror, watching me.
I wheel.
Heart drops.
Chrissy is standing there.
Her hair is wild. She’s unsteady, wearing a too-small, tattered pink robe over the blue sweater she wore at Rosie’s. On her feet, ragged bunny slippers.
“Why are you here?” she breathes in a lost voice.
The sink is behind me. I can’t back up, can’t breathe.
“You don’t belong here.” She steps closer, glares. “He’s my husband.”
I gape at her, heart stopped.
She smiles. “It’s my time, remember? I’m a volcano who’s finally decided to explode. Why did you lie to me in the restaurant?”
“What?” I choke. “I-”
“You said Peter still loves me, but you were lying. You’re no different from the others. All of you…just after my husband.”
From her pocket, she pulls a small gun. I feel my jaw drop.
“You?” escapes my lips. My pulse roars. “It was you?”
Her lips curl, mocking. “You never guessed. You’re so stupid. You’re all so stupid.” The gun is down by her side and she’s hitting herself with it, jabbing it crazily against her thigh. “You wanted him all for yourself, didn’t you? Thought you could outsmart me.”
I can’t breathe, can’t believe this. She’s feet away, blocking the door. Absurdly, I try to edge toward the tub. “How…did you get here?” The question blurts from my lips.
“Same way I get everywhere,” she grins insanely. “Uber!”
I’m shaking convulsively. Water crashes in a suddenly louder, different-sounding torrent. I dart a quick glance. The tub’s overflowing.
“Nick…?” I gape back to her.
“He’s resting comfortably.” Her smile is twisted, crazed. She moves closer, her eyes bright, triumphant. “I’ve had enough of him controlling me, so he’s done. I mean, really - coming after you was the last straw. He was stupid too. Felt so important bossing dumb little Mary around; thought he could keep this” – she waves her gun – “a big secret.”
She laughs, a hideous rasp. There’s still red under her nails from the ketchup. “It was me who used that stairway, again and again! Those pretty birds were hard to catch!”
The truth crashes down, a suffocating wave.
“I…thought you hated blood,” I croak. “Thought you couldn’t bear-”
“I lied,” she laughs, leveling her gun at me. “You and the others – so easy to trick.”
I step closer to the tub.
“Don’t do this,” my voice breaks. Water splashes and swirls, creeps over our feet. Her bunny slippers are soaked. “Think of your children. I thought-”
“Shut up,” she snaps, advancing more on me. “You stalked him, wanted him from the beginning. I knew what you were when I first heard about you - I just wanted to see you! Surprised?” Her lip curls. She’s shaking, her teeth are almost chattering.
I’ve backed against the rim, can’t go further. I’m dead, I realize. So this is how it ends.…
“It’s you who’s stupid.” I whisper, feeling my face crumple. “You’ve destroyed-”
“Me stupid?” she sneers, offended, and stops for seconds; raises her gun to my face.
“I know everything! I come here when he sleeps, read his phone, see who he calls. I put a GPS in his car. How nice, he came to rescue you from my stupid, dead brother!”
She lunges, shoves me with her free hand. “Get in the water.”
I fall backward, grab desperately at the shower curtain, yank it forward with all my strength.
It topples down; the pole hits her. She drops her gun and scrabbles for it.
Breath finally comes, and I scream. We’re on the floor, rolling, struggling. Adrenalin cancels pain. I grab her arm reaching across tiles, see the gun glint, and scream again.
52
Shrill, the tea kettle wails from the kitchen as Peter rushes back, annoyed at the sound, feeling neurotic for having gone around re-checking every door and window. They were all wired; then he’d re-checked each alarm, each little red light including down by the garage. Coming back up, he peered out to the terrace, peered out to the street.
Dark out there, the chains are extra. Relax.
Re-entering the kitchen, he sees a puddle on the floor. Stops, blinks at it. Ping! goes water dripping down. He looks up, sees a widening dark circle in the ceiling, more water dripping.
What?
Go up to check? No, she’s fine; plumbing is old, must be leaking. She’s fine, she’s fine…damned kettle sounds like a fire alarm.
He crosses the tiles, lifts it off the burner.
Hears screams. Thuds. More screams.
His mind shuts down and all he sees are stairs, bathroom door locked but he crashes through, sees the two of them struggling. He stares; no time to register the shock.
“Chrissy!” he shouts.
They’re on the floor, Chrissy reaching for a gun, Ava pulling at her. In the second it takes him to grab Chrissy and haul her up, she has the gun in her hand and fights him, screaming. “Did it…for you!” He grabs her wrist, squeezes, and she drops the gun. He kicks it away and lets her go, aghast. She backs away from him, screaming; drops down again, lunges across tiles.
Peripherally, he sees Ava crawl to the door.
Chrissy’s reaching, nearing the gun. He dives again and grabs her, pulls her up and shoves her against the wall, against framed photos that smash and splinter.
“You…!” she screams, fighting, punching his face. He doesn’t hit, doesn’t hit, but her fury is as strong as his. He slips on water, falls back, arms pinwheeling. She reaches down again, seizes the gun.
Shoots.
Wildly; a framed photo explodes, splinters fly. She backs up and he lunges for her; sees her raise her gun again, in slow motion sees her pull the trigger.
Blinding pain.
He feels his breath stop, his knees buckle, his body slide to the floor. He sees his blood spill over wet tiles. Th
e room spins, darkens.
She’s a blurred shape, standing over him shrieking her hatred. Her hand’s outstretched, aiming her gun at him. His vision flashes dark, light, dark again. He knows he’s going to die.
Closes his eyes.
The shot rings out.
Silence.
Through the fog, a scream, high and thin.
His eyes flicker open. The room flips and he sees Chrissy. Red blossoms and spreads on her chest. She slides down, her eyes wild, glaring at him, blood smearing the wall as she drops.
He struggles to lift his head.
Ava stands shocked in the doorway, a gun in her hand.
Bigger gun. His.
Then she’s kneeling to him, weeping, cupping his face, kissing him.
“Phone, phone…” Her trembling fingers search his pockets, scrabble it out. From far away he hears her voice, a frantic croak. “Shooting…” but he can’t breathe, can’t see her.
His head drops. Everything goes dark again.
53
Shouts. Feet pounding up the stairs. Darkened blurs and more police, running in. “I can’t move,” I told 911. They broke down the door.
Now they kneel over us, tell me I’m in shock. My pulse hammers in my ears, competing with the sound…nooo!…again!…of radios squawking, crackling. They’re pulling gently at me, repeating…but I’m not in shock.
I just won’t leave him.
I am wet and shaking violently, hunched over Peter, holding a red-soaked towel pressed to his chest. He’s on his back, barely breathing. It’s piteous, the sucking, hissing noise of his shallow breaths. His eyes are closed, his skin is tinged blue.
I weep and beg him to live.
“Ma’am, you have to move,” a man says urgently, draping a gray blanket over me. He pulls at me from behind, less gently.
I relinquish the blood-soaked towel, move back but only a little as they get off Peter’s reddened shirt. Sick horror grips me. His wound spits blood. It’s the size of a penny, submerges fast under more blood. Gloved hands work on it; press a square of medical plastic to it. Their pale violet fingertips turn fast to slippery red.
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