Go-Between

by Lisa Brackmann

  “Tell him that not talking to me is what’s worrying me. Okay? Tell him that.”

  “I will,” Marisol said. “I promise.” Another pause. “Do you have a landline?”

  “A landline? No. I mean …”

  Michelle didn’t have a landline. Emily did, back in Arcata. Which did her no good at all here in Houston. “I’m running around so much, I’m not close to a landline most of the time.”

  “That might be why you haven’t heard from him.”

  “He can’t call my cell?”

  “He can, but you’ll need to go to Securus and set up an Advance Pay account. It’s pretty easy. They have a website.”

  “Securus?”

  “The company that runs the prison phone system. They’ve got contracts all over the country.” A dry chuckle. “I’m guessing they make good money, from the amount they charge for those calls.”

  He finally called on Sunday afternoon, while Michelle was packing her bags for Los Angeles.

  An automated phone tree called, rather, that same flat, cheerful woman’s voice that was always sorry when you spoke and it “didn’t get that,” and asked if she was willing to accept a collect call from an inmate at Harris County Jail.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, her Armani jacket spread on her lap. She could hear noise in the background, men’s voices, shouting, laughing, what sounded like metal doors slamming, now and again.

  Now that he’d called, she didn’t know what to say.

  “How are you doing?” she finally asked.

  “Okay. You? Things are good?”

  She couldn’t actually tell him anything. Couldn’t tell him where she was, what she’d been doing, where she was going. These phone calls were monitored, and not just if you had a Gary in your life.

  “You know, it’s complicated. But I’m okay. Keeping busy.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I figured.”

  He got it. God knows, if she told him the story of how she got her first $50,000 payoff, he’d probably nod, roll his eyes and say, “Fucking Gary.”

  That Gary, such a crack-up.

  “Did you get a hold of … ?”

  Sam. He had to mean Sam. “Yeah. He’s looking into it.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  What could she tell him might actually help?

  “I’m sorry I can’t come to the hearing,” she said.

  “Don’t be. Look.” A long, drawn-out exhale. “You don’t need to be anywhere near this. I don’t want you to. Just …”

  He couldn’t say what he wanted to either.

  “I really think you should take a break from all this, Em. You’ve got other stuff on your plate. Me and the lawyers can handle my situation. You need to take care of yourself.”

  Was this code? Was it truth? She didn’t know.

  Maybe it was a particularly awkward breakup.

  “Okay, I don’t know how you’re feeling right now, but the reality is, we’re both in this situation. I can’t just … run away and take a vacation from it.”

  Her words came out on a rush of irritation. The two of them were stuck together, whether he wanted to be or not, and even if he’d said it because he cared about her, practically, it made no sense.

  She wasn’t going to outrun Gary on her own.

  Silence.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “I hear that. Just … take care. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Was there something else she should say?

  “You too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Los Angeles.

  Stepping outside from baggage claim, she saw and felt it: the unmistakable quality of the light, that stretched-out, faded blue, the air that wasn’t desert dry but still slightly astringent.

  She scanned the curb for the town car that was supposed to pick them up.

  “Does it feel good to be home?”

  Michelle turned. Caitlin stood slightly behind her, hand resting protectively on her suitcase, which sat on the luggage cart.

  They could have done without the cart, really; the things cost $4.00, and Caitlin’s wheeled suitcase wasn’t even that big. But Caitlin had insisted. “Oh, hon, I don’t feel like dragging that thing around. Let’s just get a cart.” She’d drunk a few glasses of wine on the plane, and Michelle suspected she’d also taken whatever it was she took for anxiety; she had that blurred quality to her, like a charcoal drawing that the artist had slightly smeared.

  Michelle smiled. “It’s nice to be back.”

  She wasn’t really sure that it was.

  LA wasn’t her home anymore; she was sure of that.

  Michelle had booked them at Shutters, because Caitlin had wanted something special, and because it was on the beach. She’d been reluctant to book herself in a place that expensive, but Caitlin insisted. “It wouldn’t make much sense for you to be at a different hotel. Besides, this is a special occasion.” She’d smiled. “I’m going to get started on those changes I need to make.”

  Now they stood in the lobby, wood, and leather and brocaded couches with striped pillows, all very Cape Cod. The whole hotel looked like that, wood with light gray siding, white balconies and dark gray slate roofs, like they’d shipped it from the Hamptons.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” Caitlin said.

  “It has a spa and a nice gym, and a restaurant with a really great wine list. Plus there’s all kinds of places we can walk to from here.”

  “Now, I thought nobody walks in LA,” Caitlin said, with an obligatory laugh.

  Michelle forced a smile. Nearly every out of towner she ever encountered seemed compelled to make that joke. “Well, this area’s a little different.”

  “Why don’t we change and go get a glass of that wine?” Caitlin said. “Maybe take a little walk on the beach.” She laughed, this time with an edge of embarrassment, or at least it seemed that way to Michelle. “I don’t think I’m ready for yoga today.”

  “Sure,” Michelle said. It was almost 4:30. She was tired, aching, and though yoga would do her a world of good, a glass of wine sounded better. Easier, anyway.

  The glass ended up being two.

  “Oh, this is so nice,” Caitlin said. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. But though repeating herself could be a sign of too much wine and whatever else Caitlin had taken, Michelle had to admit, it was very nice.

  She’d forgotten what it was like, being in places like this.

  They sat out on a terrace with a view of the beach and the ocean stretching to the horizon, the sky streaked with clouds glowing from the late afternoon sun. She’d ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc; Caitlin stuck to her chardonnay. They’d also ordered a few small plates: roasted baby vegetables, charcuterie and cheese. Watching Caitlin eat, Michelle could see how she stayed so thin in her late thirties without getting much exercise: she hardly ate anything. Most of her calories were in wine.

  “So, for the event tomorrow,” Michelle began. They had barely discussed it.

  Caitlin did her dismissive wave. “There’ll be drinks and hors d’oeuvres, people will mingle, we’ll have dinner. Then speeches and presentations. Lord, I hope it doesn’t go on too long.”

  “And you’re speaking.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “The usual heart-rending appeal.” She drained her glass, and lifted her hand to call the waiter.

  “It sounds like you’re a little tired of it,” Michelle said cautiously.

  Caitlin shrugged. “Well, what else am I going to do with myself?”

  “Ladies, can I get you another round?” The waiter had appeared, a young man with sandy hair who Michelle would bet had a headshot.

  “Absolutely.” Caitlin beamed at him. “How about you, Michelle?”

  “Well, if we want to take a walk …”

  “Look how high the sun is. We have time for another glass.”

  By the time they reached the boardwalk, the streaky clouds were turning a watercolor was
h of pink, orange and yellow. Beach cruisers, rollerbladers and skateboarders wheeled by. The air was soft, moist, with a snap of salt and kelp.

  Caitlin took in a deep breath. Smiled. “If this doesn’t look like a TV commercial.”

  “They do film a lot of them here,” Michelle said. “Is this your first visit?”

  Caitlin laughed. “Oh, no. I’ve been out to LA more times than I can count. We’ve actually got a condo in San Diego.” She paused for a moment and gazed out toward the water. “I do, I mean.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle said without thinking. Without stopping herself from saying it.

  “Yeah, I know. Everyone is.” Caitlin stared at the horizon. “It’s a funny thing. I keep waiting to feel better. Four years out. I don’t, really.” She turned to Michelle. “Do you?”

  “I …”

  What could she say? That her loss didn’t come close to Caitlin’s?

  That she hadn’t loved Tom?

  I did once, she told herself. I really did.

  But it was the betrayal that had hurt, that she couldn’t confront him with because he was already gone, the anger that she hadn’t been able to let go of.

  Until she’d met Danny.

  “I do,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s the same. What you had …” She shuddered.

  That everything you had could be taken away in an instant, she understood that.

  “Losing a child … I can’t imagine that.”

  “I wish you could’ve met him,” Caitlin said. “Alex. He was … he was such a fun kid. Happy. He was obsessed with trucks. He knew all the models. He’d shout them out when we were driving. ‘Peterbuilt!’ That was his favorite.” She laughed. “I think he mostly just liked yelling ‘Peterbuilt.’ I’d buy him Hot Wheels, Legos, Tonka Trucks … his room looked like a toy truck stop. Except without the lot lizards.” She laughed again.

  Why did Gary think I’d be good at this, Michelle thought? What was she supposed to do? Give Caitlin a hug? Offer words about how God must have wanted an angel? It was horrible, and tragic, and senseless, and there were no good words, no comfort she knew how to give.

  “I took all the family pictures down. At the house.” Caitlin was no longer smiling. “I just couldn’t look at them anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’d be better off if I couldn’t remember them at all.”

  Michelle thought about it and realized that she’d never seen a photo of Caitlin’s husband or son at the house in River Oaks. The place was so carefully decorated it felt like a set, as opposed to a home. But she hadn’t found that particularly unusual. A lot of people she’d known in LA kept their houses that way. The personal stuff was elsewhere, in a bedroom or family room, maybe. Offstage.

  “You know what’s funny?” Caitlin said suddenly. “All the times I’ve been here, I’ve never put my feet in the water.”

  Michelle felt a wave of relief. This was something she could handle. “Well, why don’t we take care of that?”

  x x x

  The beaches in Venice and Santa Monica were very wide. Michelle thought she recalled reading that this breadth was artificial, created by dredging and massive amounts of sand brought in from elsewhere. But she wasn’t sure.

  The two of them shuffled through the deep sand to the water’s edge, where the sand was packed and wet. The sun was low now, breaking through the bank of clouds hanging offshore. A runner jogged by. A half-dozen people did yoga on the flat sand, a class, it looked like. She could hear the congas and the bongos of the Venice drum circle in the distance, celebrating the sunset.

  She thought about the day she’d met Danny, on the beach in Puerto Vallarta. She’d had a couple of margaritas. The two of them had a few more. It was the kind of thing you did on a vacation, wasn’t it? Meet a good-looking stranger. Have some drinks. Go back to your hotel room together.

  She shivered now, thinking about it. She’d been lonely. Drunk. Just wanting someone to make her feel good.

  So incredibly foolish.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t all that much to ask for. Was it?

  And to be fair, Danny hadn’t wanted trouble either, had no idea he’d tangled her up in Gary’s game. He was just looking for a good time. Maybe he’d even been lonely too, like she had been. She’d never asked.

  Danny, you asshole, she thought. Sure, Gary would’ve figured out another angle, but Danny had made it so easy.

  Why did he have to take stupid risks? Like he needed the buzz?

  How was he doing right now?

  Caitlin exhaled with an audible sigh. Kicked off her Tory Burch thong sandals. Scrunched her toes into the sand.

  “Tell me why I stay in Houston again?”

  “I … the weather?”

  Caitlin threw back her head and laughed. A studied gesture, maybe. But this was still the liveliest Michelle had ever seen her.

  “I don’t know, maybe I’ll just pack up the house and retire to my condo out here. Just … start over.”

  Seeing Caitlin, her face lit up by the orange glow of the sunset like some illuminated renaissance painting, Michelle wished she had her camera. It was a beautiful shot.

  She felt a sudden rush of protectiveness. It surprised her. She hadn’t gotten into this expecting to care. Not about Caitlin. But whatever Gary had in mind for Safer America, she couldn’t assume that Caitlin was safe.

  More realistic to assume the opposite.

  But what could she do about it?

  “Is there something stopping you?” she asked.

  “Just laziness, I guess. Starting over in a new place … what would I do with myself?”

  “I don’t know. Just … be there for a while? You can take some time to figure that out.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Caitlin walked toward the lapping waves, and kept walking until the water was up to her calves. Stood there facing the ocean while the waves surged and ebbed.

  She turned back to Michelle. “This is perfect!”

  “Watch out,” Michelle said.

  The sneaker wave rose and crashed into Caitlin’s back, almost knocking her over. Caitlin shrieked, laughing like a five-year-old. She stumbled out of the water, still laughing. “Well, so much for this dress,” she said. “And, oh hell, there goes my sandal.”

  The receding wave had pulled one of her designer flip-flops into the surf, where it bobbed like a toy boat. Hiking up the skirt of her dress, Caitlin waded back into the water and snatched up the sandal. “Well, I wanted to get my feet wet,” she said.

  By the time they got back to the boardwalk, the last light was fading to deep indigo. The hotel was a short distance away, lit up by small white bulbs that looked like oversized Christmas lights.

  “So, for tomorrow—”

  Caitlin waved her hand. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it. Just shadow me and be ready to take down notes if I promise somebody something.”

  “I mean, do you want to, I don’t know, maybe do a little hiking in the morning? Or some yoga? I’m sure the concierge can arrange for a private instructor if you’d like.”

  “Oh.” Caitlin sounded vaguely surprised. “Well, I guess the yoga sounds nice. So long as I don’t get so sore I can’t get out of my chair at the event.”

  “Spare some change?”

  He was standing under a streetlight. Homeless guy, Michelle thought automatically. Skinny, wearing a filthy T-shirt and torn pants, face caked with black grime and crusted sores. She shook her head and turned to go.

  “A few dollars so I can get something to eat?”

  “Sorry,” Caitlin said. “I don’t have anything.”

  He stared at her. “You don’t have anything? You don’t have anything?” He started laughing.

  Michelle put her hand on Caitlin’s arm. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “Fuck you, you stupid bitch. Fuck you!” He took a few steps toward them, face bright with rage, his hands balled into fists, driving his fists into his thighs. “I’ve got something. I’ve g
ot something for you. You want it in your pussy? You want it up your ass? You fucking filthy cunt, I’ll fuck you till you bleed!”

  Michelle raised her arms, palms out, legs braced, the defensive posture she’d been taught that said she wasn’t going to start anything, but she was ready if she had to.

  He was probably harmless. Most of them were.

  “You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?” she said to him. “We’re going now.” She took a sideways step toward the hotel.

  Caitlin didn’t move.

  “Caitlin. Let’s go.”

  Caitlin nodded rapidly. “I’m sorry,” she said, to Michelle or to the man, Michelle wasn’t sure which.

  Michelle steered Caitlin behind her. “Don’t worry. Just walk away. I’ve got your back.”

  She could hear Caitlin’s rapid breathing behind her. She took a few steps backward, shielding Caitlin, watching the man clench and unclench his fists.

  Then his arms went limp, flopping down like that part of him had died.

  “I’m sorry,” Caitlin said in her ear.

  As Michelle guided Caitlin up the path, she glanced back over her shoulder at the homeless man. He stood there, shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other, muttering to himself, his arms flapping feebly against his thighs.

  “I feel so stupid.” There was a tremor in Caitlin’s hand as she picked up her wine glass.

  “Don’t. That was pretty disturbing.”

  They sat in the hotel lobby now, on one of the overstuffed couches. Anything Michelle had wanted to say about how as a part of a new beginning maybe Caitlin shouldn’t drink so much, she set aside for another time.

  Hell, she wanted a glass of wine at this point.

  For all that she’d read about what had happened to Caitlin, that she’d been raped, that her husband had been murdered, that her child had died …

  Rape. What woman didn’t think about that? Fear it? Calculate the odds of it? Sometimes say “yes” because it felt less risky to say than to say no?

  The violent death of someone you loved … of your child …

  Of course, she understood those things. She knew what they meant. But she’d kept those thoughts abstract. At a distance.

  Seeing Caitlin’s reaction just now …