by D. K. Greene
Peter finds Dougy and Special Agent Jones waiting in the hallway. Dougy pats Peter on the back. “Outstanding work, Henry. Excellent.”
“It’s Peter.” He brushes the inspector’s hand off his shoulder and heads toward the exit.
Special Agent Jones calls after him. “Did he tell you anything?”
“He says he started a prison Bible study and offered to kill my boss.”
“What about Carol?” Inspector Douglas asks.
Peter stops. He makes a quarter turn, looking behind him at the inspector and his partner. “I think she’s in the woods.”
Five
The clock in Jeanne’s office ticks louder than any other timepiece Peter’s ever heard. He decides if he’s still seeing her during the holidays, he’ll buy her one that’s digital. Maybe one that dings quietly at the top of the hour, but is otherwise silent.
She’s wearing slacks. Peter hopes his attention last week hasn’t turned her off skirts. They suit her.
“So, what’s happened since I saw you last?” Jeanne braids her fingers around her pen and rests it on her chest.
“My dad contacted me.” Peter’s thumb spasms.
Jeanne attempts to maintain a portrait of professionalism, but Peter can see the slight way she perks up. A normal client wouldn’t notice how the arch of her eyebrows twitch, or the way her mouth purses in anticipation. But Peter does.
She leans over her pad of paper, flipping through the pages to check her notes. “Didn’t you say he’s been in jail for an extended period?”
“He’s incarcerated, yes.” Peter presses his hand against his leg, attempting to still the movement of his nervous tic.
“How did he contact you?” Jeanne bats her eyes and Peter’s heart flutters as he realizes she’s hanging on his every word.
“He wrote me a letter,” he lies.
“Did you bring it with you?” Jeanne inches closer. Peter assumes she’s expecting him to hand over a letter dripping with emotional trauma. Peter hates to disappoint, but he hadn’t thought to write one up before his appointment.
“No. But I can tell you what it says,” Peter offers.
The therapist masks any letdown with a practiced smile. She leans back in her chair. “Sure, if you feel comfortable sharing.”
“He says he misses me, and he wants to see me.” Peter keeps going as Jeanne scribbles on her pad. He’s enjoying feeding the excitement he suspects she feels. “He says he knows he was wrong. He hopes I’ll forgive him so we can be a family again.”
Peter hesitates. An image of his father in an orange jumpsuit flashes through his mind. He clears his throat and adds, “You know, when he gets out.”
Jeanne glances up. “Will he be released soon?”
“Oh, yes,” Peter enthuses. “He should go home in the next few weeks, I think.”
“How did the letter make you feel?” Jeanne’s eyes dance from across the room.
“I don’t know.” Peter sifts through his treasure trove of hidden emotions. “On the one hand, I haven’t had a dad in my life since I was a kid, so I guess having him pay attention to me feels nice. On the other hand, I don’t really want to get involved in his shit.”
Jeanne nods. Peter is sure she understands exactly what he’s saying. Trying to fix a jailbird parent is a tough proposition for any man. Especially a dad like Oliver Roberts. Peter smiles at her. It’s only their second session, but he enjoys their conversation. He wishes they could continue it outside her office. He imagines talking with her over dinner. He’d have the chicken-fried steak. She’d enjoy a sensible salad. The lights dim around them until he can almost see the candlelight flicker off her cheeks.
“What does Elsie think you should do?”
Peter’s thrust back to the present moment. He admonishes himself for fantasizing about red wine shimmering on Jeanne’s lips. “I haven’t told her.”
Jeanne writes something and underlines it. Twice. Peter wants to know what she wrote, but he’s sure she’ll never show him. It probably says something akin to doesn’t trust girlfriend. He cringes because if that’s what she wrote, she’s right.
“We don’t talk about my dad,” Peter sputters.
“Are you afraid it’ll stir up uncomfortable memories because your fathers knew each other?” Jeanne’s chin tilts, her expression filled with curiosity.
Peter nods so deep, his chin touches the collar of his button-down. To say Peter’s father might wound Elsie is an understatement. “She doesn’t know much about my dad, other than that he’s gone away.”
Jeanne looks surprised. “Oh? Doesn’t she know your fathers were friends?”
“No. I don’t think it would be good for her to find out how they knew each other.” Peter’s leg bounces twice before his anxiety drives him from his chair. He looks at the wall clock. He’s relieved it announces it’s five minutes to noon. “Damn. Looks like our time is about up, Jeanne.”
The therapist follows Peter’s gaze and frowns. He can tell she feels things were just getting good. “I suppose it is. Well, please stop at the front desk on your way out to book for next week. I look forward to continuing our conversation.”
They lock eyes. When Jeanne smiles, Peter decides he was wrong about not believing in love.
Six
“I stopped by your office today.” Elsie speaks around a mouth full of noodles. She sits cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table for what she calls an authentic Asiatic dining experience.
“What for?” Peter doesn’t hide the surprise in his voice. In the last year, Elsie has visited him at work exactly once. She’d insisted on a tour of his office when they first started dating. The sea of cubicles had disappointed her.
“I wanted to surprise you with lunch,” Elsie says with a grimace.
“I must have just missed you,” Peter says from where he sits at the dining room table. This disjointed eating arrangement has become their norm. Peter tries to convince her by adding, “I went out for lunch today.”
“You don’t eat lunch, Peter.” Elsie’s tone is flat, but the words still bite at his confidence.
“I had an appointment, okay?” Peter hates the way she dances around things. Elsie never just comes out and says what she wants. Instead, she interrogates him, tells him everything she knows, and tries to catch him in a lie. “Besides, if you know I don’t eat lunch, why would you show up like that?”
Elsie looks him up and down, then skirts his question with her own. “What kind of appointment? Your ratty mop proves you didn’t get a haircut, and I know you’re not sick. I called your doctor. Don’t pretend to cough or feign a fever.”
“I don’t ‘feign’ things, Elsie. The last time I said I had a fever, the thermometer read one hundred and two degrees. You have no right to call my doctor, anyway. What are you, my mother?” Peter picks up his half-finished dinner and carries it to the kitchen. It’s a relief to be behind the thin wall, out of sight. As angry as he is with her, he can’t stand her accusing stare. He stands at the sink and listens for a moment, waiting for her to enter the kitchen behind him, looking for a fight. Instead, her chopsticks clink against the side of her bowl and Peter knows she’s not willing to make the effort.
He takes his time scraping his bowl clean with a plastic fork before tossing the takeaway flatware in the garbage. He slowly rinses the bowl. If he takes long enough, maybe she’ll realize he doesn’t want to talk about it. Hell, if he can stretch the act of rinsing this one dish out for half an hour, maybe she’ll finish her food and leave so he can avoid the discomfort of their conversation altogether.
He’d rather deal with the annoyance of her chopsticks spreading sticky plum sauce across the coffee table than engage in another fight she’ll probably win.
Peter realizes the water is still running and looks at the now spotless dish. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He places his bowl in the dishwasher and musters the strength to go back to the living room. When he rounds the corner, she’s typing away at he
r laptop and doesn’t even notice him. Peter moves over to her, stooping to rub her shoulders.
“Jesus!” Elsie shrieks and jumps under Peter’s touch. She slaps the laptop lid closed and spins around on her crisscrossed legs to face him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that? Fuck, Peter, clear your throat when you’re approaching or something.”
“Sorry.” Peter shuffles closer to the couch so the coffee table stands between them. He stares at her, unsure of what to do to make her feel more at ease. She glares at him. Peter sinks into the sofa. The way she looks at him makes him wish he could disappear.
“It’s fine.” She spits the sentence with venom. Then, as if she realizes what a bitch she’s being, she smooths her hair and smiles. “You startled me, is all. You’re just so quiet, you know?”
“Maybe I should tie bells to my socks.” Peter smiles with uncertainty at his own joke. She doesn’t get it. He points at his feet and wiggles his toes. “For the noise.”
“You’re so weird.” Elsie rolls her eyes before she smiles at him awkwardly one more time.
Even though they’ve been together more than a year, she’s still a mystery to him. There are some days, he thinks he doesn’t know her at all. And rarely correctly guesses what she thinks about anything. He’s not sure he even knows what she likes, aside from high end restaurants. He frowns and wonders aloud, “Do you love me?”
Elsie’s smile fades and her eyebrows squish together. “What?”
“I’ve been wondering if you love me.” Peter does his best to not look like an abandoned puppy, but judging from the pout of Elsie’s lips, he’s failing.
“Honey, there’s lots to love about you. You’re kind, have an excellent job, and always bring me Phó noodles when I ask for them.” Elsie’s expression is placating at best.
“You love me because I order Vietnamese takeout?” Peter feels his chin tense as his frown deepens.
“Absolutely.” Elsie crawls around the coffee table and pats his foot reassuringly. “Well, that and you don’t mind me doing homework at all hours.”
“I suppose happy relationships can be built on less.” Peter looks at the parking lot outside his window and ponders how worried Jeanne seemed to be about his lack of feelings toward Elsie. He tries harder. “Do you want to spend the night tonight?”
“Here?” Elsie bursts into laughter. “Peter, you have a twin bed.”
“The couch pulls out,” he says as he squeezes the cushions beneath him.
“Aww, honey.” Elsie pushes her lower lip out. She forces it to tremble dramatically. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a big test tomorrow. Plus, my parents expect me to come home for dinner.”
Peter points to her empty bowl. “We just had dinner.”
Elsie looks at the dish. She whips her head around with an apologetic frown. “Well, yeah. But they eat late... and they’ve been planning this dinner party for weeks.”
“Can I come with you?” Peter feels a flutter in his chest as he waits for her answer.
She sucks air in through her teeth, making a wet hissing sound. It’s something she does whenever she’s nervous, which seems to be nearly always. “Oh, Petey, I wish you could. But you know. Dinner reservations. I can’t add a guest this late in the evening.”
Peter slouches deeper into the upholstery. “I understand.”
“Why would you even ask to go?” Elsie’s tone is accusatory. The harshness of it makes Peter want to shrivel up and die.
“I don’t know. It’s just... we’ve been together a while now. It seems like time for things to get a little more serious.” Peter looks to her for agreement. “Doesn’t it?”
Elsie shakes her head and laughs. “Peter! You had me going for a minute. First with you disappearing at lunch, then wanting me to stay the night, and meet my parents...”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t that what you want?” Peter shakes his head. Jeanne made him think if he said he wanted a deeper relationship, Elsie would be happy. “We could do things to be more... I don’t know. Together?”
“Babe, I’m fine with things the way they are. We don’t need to rush into anything. I’m getting everything I need out of this relationship. Aren’t you?”
Peter nods, although he knows he isn’t. He wants to be close to someone. It’s been so long since he felt he belonged anywhere, and Elsie has only ever shared a sliver of her life with him. She always seems to have someone she’s meeting, or somewhere to be. She has so many exciting things going for her. Peter yearns to feel like he plays a part in any of them.
“Good. Let’s not push ourselves, okay?” Elsie drops her pouting expression and replaces it with hard eyes and a flat grin.
“Okay,” Peter agrees. “But if you ever decide you want more, just say something.”
“I promise,” Elsie says. “If I want anything else from you, I’ll be right here to tell you about it.”
For once, Peter believes her.
Seven
“I asked Elsie to stay the night with me last week.” Peter hopes Jeanne sees this as progress. Actually, he hopes it makes her a little jealous.
“How did that go?” Jeanne presses her pen into the bottom of her chin as she leans forward with interest.
“It went well. She wants me to meet her parents.” He smiles through the lie. The way Elsie brushed him off, he thinks if they were together five more years, she’d still come up with excuses to hold him at arms’ length. Maybe he’d meet her parents at the reception if they got married. The idea causes a sarcastic snort to escape him.
Jeanne raises her left eyebrow. She pushes back through a couple pages of notes. “I thought you told me her father was deceased. That you met... yes. You said you met at her father’s gravesite.”
Peter had been so crestfallen when Elsie refused him, he hadn’t even thought of her father being dead. “She has a step-father. He’s been part of her family for so long, she says he’s like her real dad.”
Jeanne nods, satisfied with his answer even though he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It would make sense, he reasons. If after her dad’s disappearance her mom remarried, wouldn’t she think of her mom’s husband as a second father? Peter bobs his head in agreement with himself.
“Do you get along with Elsie’s friends?” Jeanne’s pen moves from her chin to the corner of her lips.
“No.” Peter tries to think of why he’s not met anyone Elsie’s acquainted with while Jeanne scribbles a note. “We aren’t really into the same things. She’s in college, and I’m set in my job at Ronix. Her friends are young. My friends are...”
Jeanne cringes slightly. He doesn’t have to remind her of his friendless existence. She looks concerned. “Do you ever think it’s odd you and Elsie aren’t closer?”
Peter ponders the question. “I don’t think I know how to be close with someone, Jeanne.”
“Why not?” Her expression is open. Expectant.
The answers bounce around Peter’s brain, and he bites his tongue to avoid spitting them out.
Because even my foster parents didn’t know who I was.
Because this is my fourth identity since my mother died.
Because... doesn’t everyone walk around pretending to be someone they’re not?
“I’m not sure.” Peter shrugs, hiding his anxiety behind a passive expression.
“Are you afraid people will find out your father is incarcerated?” Jeanne frantically scribbles a note as if convinced she’s on to something.
“What do you mean?” Peter watches the way she bites her lip. Her lip gloss shines under the short row of teeth pressing into it.
“Sometimes, when a person is embarrassed about their parents, they pull away from other relationships. It’s as if they carry the shame of their parentage around with them all the time. A proverbial monkey on their back.”
“I’d never thought of it that way before, Jeanne. I suppose I’ve felt that way.” Peter tilts his head thoughtfully. If other people fe
lt like they were carrying around a monkey, then he’s shouldering a family of gorillas.
Jeanne’s eyes hold an earnest intensity. “You need to understand you’re not your father. Whatever he did to get himself arrested was his doing, and his doing alone. You were only a little boy. You couldn’t have done anything to change the outcome.”
“I’m the one who called the police,” Peter blurts. He covers his mouth with a trembling hand, overcome with shock at his admission.
His therapist’s eyes grow a little wider. “You did?”
“She was bleeding. Everywhere. Blood was all over the floor. I tried to save her. I loved her so much.” Peter stammers the words behind his hand and they come out muffled, but it’s obvious that Jeanne understands. Tears stream down his cheeks. He’s powerless to stop them.
“Oh my God, Peter. What happened?” Jeanne touches his knee in a display of tender comfort.
Peter looks at his feet and can almost see the blood pooling around them. His mother looks up at him, pleading with him to help her. He dials 9-1-1, feeling stupid when he can’t remember his own address when the dispatcher asks for it. When he mixes up the house number, his mother smiles gently. She exhales a deep breath that comes out as, “I love you, Hen.” And then she’s gone.
He forces his focus back into the therapist’s room. He mops his cheeks with a tissue and looks up to see Jeanne’s anguished face. She’s right. He was just a kid. It wasn’t his fault. Even if he’d gotten the address right, they wouldn’t have come in time. Unless he’d found her sooner. Maybe if he’d gone downstairs when he’d first heard his parents shouting. Could he have stopped his father?