“I’m sorry,” I repeat, a bit more forceful. The hum digs into my brain.
I wait a moment, take a breath, hold it for as long as I can, then release.
“I’m sorry,” I scream, and after I do, the hum shatters into the millions of words of which it’s comprised, each flinging off into the outer edges of my mind. Whether real or imagined, the explosion causes a sharp pain to the front of my brain and I wince against it, closing my eyes for the briefest of moments.
When I open them, the stairs have returned to their normal imposing and solid state. There is only silence. A deep, dark, and lonely silence, the sound of a shipwreck sleeping for centuries within the deep silt of an ocean floor.
The silence affirms what I’ve known all along.
I can’t change the past, and my apologies go unheard by those who need to hear them. I can’t do anything to change these basic facts.
All I can do is pull my knees up, lower my head, and cry.
So I do.
Seventeen
October 13
Two Weeks Later
Fifteen more minutes in my shift, then off to pick Max up from school.
I got a job.
I didn’t need to. My father has made it very clear that as long as I’m back at home, I don’t need to worry about frivolous little things like earning a living. But I felt a need to contribute something. My self-worth might be measured in pennies, but it’s not bankrupt.
I’m working twenty-five hours a week at Tuli’s, a boutique grocery store on Union Avenue, five minutes from Middleton Prep. When I was growing up, this used to be a mom-and-pop hardware store, but the demands of creeping affluence (not gentrification, since the area never sank to a depth where gentrification could occur) necessitated an independent grocery store catering to Bury’s choosiest. Essentially a smaller and pricier Whole Foods, Tuli’s is owned by Nathan and Joanne Carnes, a middle-aged couple from Concord. The Bury store is their third in New England, and given how busy this one is, I imagine more are on the way. The Tuli’s logo is the face of the Carnes family dog, a goofy, wide-eyed mutt.
I scan the items on the conveyor belt as I attempt to make eye contact with the shopper on the other side of the register. Each beep of my system is the sound of an obscene profit margin. Seven dollars for a single tube of “locally sourced” lip balm. Six organic limes, a dollar each. Nearly seven dollars for a half gallon of organic, naturally sweetened almond milk.
When I’m done ringing her up, the shopper nods, grabs her bag, and remains glued to her phone as she walks away. I turn to close my lane when I find one more customer waiting in line.
Alec.
“I thought that was you,” he says. “I didn’t know you were working here.”
A thousand responses whiz through my mind, and I end up choosing the lamest.
“Yup.”
He sets down an avocado. A single avocado, his entire shopping purchase.
“That’s cool,” he says.
I turn off the light above my register, officially closing my lane to anyone else.
“It’s decent,” I say, which is close enough to the truth to count. “How are you?”
“Good, good,” he says, digging his hands into his pockets. “How is your son enjoying school? Max, right?”
“Yes, Max.” I think about how to answer this, and a part of me has an urge to tell him everything. Actually, Max is pretty damn miserable. He got sent home on his first day for threatening another kid, and since then, he barely talks to anyone. The only other student he even remotely knows is his Wednesday-Addams cousin, who’s two years older and doesn’t want anything to do with Max unless she’s questioning him about his dead dad. And speaking of, I still can’t figure out how he’s dealing with his father’s death since he never wants to talk about it. But he does go into these weird states where he seems catatonic for a few seconds here and there…
“Fine,” I say, packing all my thoughts into that meaningless word. “I mean, it’s an adjustment. We’re both…adjusting.” I ring up his avocado, and Alec swipes his credit card to pay.
“I imagine you are,” he says. “Not easy making friends in a new place, for either a kid or adult.”
“Very true,” I say. “Though I have a book club tonight, so that might be fun. My sister’s club.”
“What book are you discussing?”
I hand him his receipt and avocado. “Mine.”
He takes a second to process this.
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of books?”
“Mysteries.”
He flashes a smile. “I love mysteries. Do you write under your name? I’ll have to check your books out.”
“I write under the name J. L. Sharp. You might find them in the library. You can get them online for sure.”
“J. L. Sharp. That’s a good name. I’ll keep an eye out.” The moment lingers.
I untie the back of my olive-green Tuli’s apron and remove it. “Okay, off to school.”
“Me too,” Alec says. “Have fun at your book club tonight.”
“Thanks.” I turn to walk away.
“Hey, wait just a sec.” Alec reaches over the counter and grabs a pen, then starts writing on the back of his receipt. “Here’s my number. If you ever want to talk. And…I mean it. I’m not asking you out or anything. I just imagine it’s tough being in a new place.”
I take the receipt from him. “A new place would be easier,” I tell him. “But Bury isn’t new to me at all.” It’s all the old ghosts that make coming back a challenge. “Thanks for this.”
As I leave, I take a glance at the number and slide the receipt into my back pocket.
It would be nice to have someone to talk to.
The problem is, the closer you get to someone, the heavier all your secrets weigh.
Eighteen
I’ve done book clubs before, which are really just wine clubs in disguise. I imagine this one will be no different.
My sister’s house is nestled in a newer neighborhood called Dairy Farm Hills. Perhaps a dairy farm once stood here, but now it’s just a collection of boxy estates that are all colored similar variants of brown. Cora’s house is too big for just the three of them, but the Yates kids were raised to consume more than we needed, and she’s carrying on the tradition proudly.
Peter works for my father, and last I heard, he was vice president of something or other. Judging by their house, Peter is very well paid.
“Pour you a glass?” Cora asks me. I’m the last to arrive, and the others are chatting away in the living room as my sister guides me into the kitchen. I can almost see my reflection in the gleam of the tiled floor.
“Sure, thanks.”
“No, thank you,” she says. “The girls were so excited to have an author here to discuss the book in person.”
This is typical of my sister. Gone are any signs of her rage from the other day. She’s hidden away her demons, where they lurk behind a glossy veneer of civility.
“Happy to be here,” I say.
She hands me the glass. “Usually we read heavier stuff. You know, more of the literature kind of books. It was a nice break for us to read an easy little mystery.”
I sip rather than respond, which might be how this evening goes. Chances are good I’ll have to get a ride home.
She takes me into the living room where about ten other women are spread across two couches and a number of chairs. They all have drinks, two of which appear to be water and the rest wine. Cora introduces me and they tell me their names, which I try to make note of though I’m likely to forget. I recognize two from Max’s school.
“You work at Tuli’s,” one says. “I’ve seen you there.”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Well, good for you,�
� she says, as if I just learned to tie my shoes.
“The employee discount is great,” I say. “I can almost afford to shop there now.”
No one laughs.
I take a seat and another swig of wine. Most of them have a copy of my last novel in their laps, and I’m still amazed to see my book in the hands of strangers.
Cora asks me to tell the group a little about how I got into writing before we discuss the book. I give them my standard spiel about my journalism degree, my work at the Chicago Tribune, and my first stab at a novel. I describe the long search for an agent and then the subsequent rejections from a multitude of publishers and how I have several novels that never sold and likely never will.
They ask questions, mostly ones I’ve answered at other book clubs.
Where do you get your ideas?
How long does it take you to write a book?
What kind of research do you do?
Do you know how the book will end when you start writing it?
How did you come up with the name J. L. Sharp?
Cora is mostly silent, nodding and smiling. But I see her better than the others do. Her tight jawline, showing the tension in her face. Her fingertips reddening as she holds her wineglass, revealing her tight grip. I don’t think she likes the attention I’m getting right now. She’s the one who arranged this evening, suggested it even. But in this moment, as her friends are focused solely on me, I think Cora is jealous of her little sister. She’s not used to that.
In the smallest of lulls, she finally makes her move and shifts the focus of the conversation.
“So let’s talk about the book,” she says, holding up a copy of The Broken Child, the third book in the Detective Jenna Black mystery series. “I, for one, thought it was quite good. Kept me entertained while I was on the elliptical, helped pass the time, because those workouts can be so boring. Though I have to say I figured out who the killer was pretty early on.”
No, you didn’t, I think. Now it’s my turn to clench my jaw while offering no more than smiles and nods.
“I agree,” a waif of woman says. I think her name is Jenny. “I was pretty sure who did it. And I also wanted a little romance between Jenna and Bart. It seemed like you were going there, then pulled back.”
“I don’t write a lot of love scenes,” I say. “Violence is easier to write than sex. Though both are equally messy.”
Nothing. Not a single chuckle. These women.
“Her books are more on the dark side,” Cora says. “Though I have to admit, this is the first one I’ve read.” She throws me a hard glare. “And a little bit of her upcoming book. Haven’t finished that one yet, though.”
I shift my gaze away as I listen to them discuss my book. They’re mostly talking to one another now, and I’m just a spectator. A few remark that they liked the book, but there are several who comment it’s not the type they would normally read. Some didn’t finish it, and one didn’t read it at all. I guess she just showed up for the wine.
The discussion lasts fifteen, twenty minutes, and I refill my glass a second time. I never ate dinner and a buzz creeps over me. It’s not quite a pleasant buzz, but numbing enough to loosen me up. Maybe Cora’s friends are nice people, I consider. Maybe they’re not haughty Bury rich bitches who demand the world revolve around them. Maybe I’ll even see some of them again. Perhaps even make a friend.
A friend would be nice.
“Your husband died of an overdose, right?”
The words strike through the numbness, jolting me. The woman who said them sits across from me, her dyed-blond hair worn in a long, straight bob, her fleshy cheeks flush from alcohol. She’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, her body language more aggressive than the others.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.
“Sylvia.”
“Yes, Sylvia, he did.”
“I Googled you,” she says.
“Okay.”
“There was an article in a Milwaukee newspaper. That’s where you’re from, right?”
“I’m from here,” I say. “But we were living in Milwaukee. I’m not sure how that’s—”
“Sorry, you must think I’m incredibly nosy,” she says, half laughing and not looking the least bit sorry. “But Cora told me a bit about you, and I couldn’t resist Googling you after we agreed to read your book for the club. I saw the article about your husband, and then I read the book. I was just wondering… Is it weird?”
I can only offer the blankest of stares. “Is what weird? Being a widow at the age of thirty-seven?”
She shakes her head. “No. The scene in the book with Connor. The fact that he also dies from an overdose of prescription drugs and alcohol. And that he was about the same age as your husband.”
She sits up and purses her lips in satisfaction, as if she’s just accidentally solved a Rubik’s Cube.
Someone lets out the smallest of gasps. I’m not sure who.
“Jesus, Sylvia,” a woman named Claire says. “What a thing to ask.”
“I’m just saying. I’m curious. Life imitating art.” She leans back against her chair, and it looks like she’s fighting an impulse to smile. “I mean, come on. Doesn’t anyone else find that strange?”
I bore a hole through her with my gaze, and my temperament and the booze work in tandem to make a decision on how to respond.
Fuck this person.
“First,” I say, “yes, you’re right. You are incredibly nosy. Not to mention highly insensitive. Second, the character in the book was murdered. So what the hell are you suggesting?”
She blanches and her smug expression evaporates.
“Look, I’m sorry, I just—”
“Just what?” I say. “You decide it’s okay to bring up my recently deceased husband because you found it strange? And you think I killed him just because I know how to write a mystery novel?”
Her lips curl inward, and she squeezes onto the arms of the chair. “I said no such thing. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”
I swivel my head and scan the others, their faces frozen in the excitement of the moment. They are loving this.
“Are you kidding me?” I say. The night I didn’t want to go to hell has just gone there, but I no longer care. “You don’t appreciate my tone? I don’t appreciate you stalking me online and asking me questions about a personal tragedy you have no understanding or appreciation of. Maybe I’ll go and Google you. Bet I could find out a few things myself. You have no idea how much information a person can find with a little work. And trust me, I’m all about research.”
She doesn’t reply. I say nothing else. The tension in the room is thick, and no one says anything to break it. I expect someone to come to my side, maybe not Cora, but someone.
No one does.
“I think I’ll call it a night,” I say, standing. For a moment, I’m unsteady. Whether it’s the adrenaline or the wine, I sway just for a second before catching myself.
I walk to the kitchen, grab my purse, and take one last gulp before setting my glass on the granite countertop.
I don’t have to pass through the living room to get back to the front door, but I do. I walk slowly, giving them one last chance to say something. All their judgment. All their thousands of decisions about my existence, all calculated instantly and without error. And now they have a new decision to make about me. A big one.
Did she kill her husband?
They say nothing. I look over to Cora before I reach the front door. She’s smirking.
Of course she is.
Nineteen
Back home, I walk into Max’s room and find him on his Xbox.
“Hey,” I say. “I thought we said no screens tonight.”
He jerks around, surprised to see me.
“Yeah,” I say for him. “I’m back early. You weren
’t expecting that, were you?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s not okay. I asked you to finish your homework, then you could read a book.”
“I did finish,” he says as he turns off the TV. “I read earlier, and I don’t want to do that anymore. There’s nothing else to do in this house.”
“Where’s Grandpa?”
He shrugs. “Downstairs, I guess.”
“Did you spend any time with him?”
“No.”
I sigh, walk over, and sit on his bed. “You can’t just stay in your room all the time. I need to be able to go out every now and then with other adults, so you have to be in charge of yourself sometimes. That doesn’t mean hiding in your room and playing games. Did you eat the dinner I made?”
He nods.
“Did you clean up your dishes?”
“Oh. I forgot.”
“Okay, here’s the plan,” I tell him. “Go downstairs, clean your dishes, say hello to Grandpa, and come back and get ready for bed. Do that and I’ll come say good night in a few minutes, okay?”
“It’s not even that late,” he protests.
“It’s a school night. Besides, if you truly can’t find anything to do, you might as well go to sleep.”
He seems to be debating whether or not to argue but apparently decides against it. “Okay.” Max starts heading for the door, then turns and says, “Did you have fun tonight?”
My shoulders sag, as if someone just placed sandbags on them.
“No,” I say.
“Me either.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Max isn’t quite asleep but will be soon. As I kiss him on his head before turning off his light, I briefly wonder what it is he thinks about in these moments, these minutes of stillness under the blankets, in the dark, before sleep takes over. Does he think about his father? Is he scared? Does he repeat mantras in his head like I do, something like I want to go home? I wonder this but do not ask, because I don’t want him to say something that’ll make me feel even guiltier. I can’t handle that, not tonight.
The Dead Husband Page 7