by Ariel Lawhon
A stillness wrapped around Maria, and what sounds reached her ears did so as though heard apart from her own body: her desperate exhale, water dripping in the bathroom sink, the rattle of a delivery truck on the street below, the creak of floorboards beneath her feet, the ding of the elevator down the hall, the metallic whir of the ceiling fan. She shuffled backward a few feet and dropped to the edge of the bed. Maria heard herself swallow.
On the bureau sat a small clock. It ticked away in the silence, and she watched the second hand move around the clockface. Once. Twice. Three times.
Maria was supposed to meet Jude for lunch. But after the shock of seeing that empty drawer, she struggled to remember when. Or where.
As a child, Maria had once stolen a piece of candy. Her father made her spit it out and carry it back to the store in her hand. She’d cried when telling the clerk what she had done. Her father hadn’t let her wash the stickiness from her palm for the rest of the day. That’s what it feels like to steal, he’d told her, closing her fist in on itself. You wear it like a stain. Indeed, her skin was tainted pink the following day, when he took her to confession for the first time. She’d begged him not to see Father Donnegal. Any priest other than the one who sat at their table for dinner on Monday evenings.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Maria stuffed the cash back in the inner pocket of her purse and went to collect the cleaning supplies. She made quick work of the apartment. She straightened the bed. Mopped the bathroom floor. Scrubbed the toilet. Brushed lint from the drapes. The bookshelves in Mr. Crater’s office were dusty, so she took the books down one by one, wiped them, and cleaned the shelves. She tidied the room, turned off the lamp, and set the ceiling fan on low to circulate the air. Before leaving, she put Mrs. Crater’s favorite potpourri in the pewter bowl on the dining room table so the room would smell of lavender and bergamot. Then she grabbed her purse and went to meet Jude for lunch.
MARIA found Jude beneath the memorial arch in Washington Square Park, his gray fedora obscuring his face, and two small packages, wrapped in newsprint, in the crook of one arm. He tapped a rolled-up newspaper against his thigh.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, and flicked the brim of his hat with her finger.
Washington Square Park sat at the foot of Fifth Avenue. From where they stood, Fifth Avenue yawned open before them, a broad swath of pavement rimmed by skyscrapers, a canyon of glass and steel and stone.
“I hope you’re hungry.” He waved the packages in front of her face. “Fish and chips. Fresh from O’Malley’s Pub.”
Maria hadn’t felt at home with Jude since she saw him plant those envelopes. Everything he said and did now made her wary. And the worst part was that Jude was so preoccupied with his secrets that he hadn’t even noticed the change. She kept waiting for him to ask what was wrong, but the question never came. Maria had to consciously tuck her hand beneath his arm and let him lead her around the fountain and down one of the side paths into the park. She forced herself to relax, to lean against him and inhale the mild air. It was a relief after a month of near hundred-degree temperatures. Brown-tinged leaves fluttered above them, a few falling to the ground and cartwheeling across the path, making little scraping noises as they went.
“This used to be a potter’s field, you know. Twenty thousand people are buried in this park,” Maria said. She pointed at a tall elm near the path. One of its branches stuck straight out like an accusing finger, while the others slanted upward in search of fresh air and sunlight. “That’s the hanging tree. It’s the oldest tree in Manhattan.”
“What is it with you and graveyards?”
“They fascinate me.”
“Dead people fascinate you?”
“No. The stories they leave behind.” She peered up at him. “Don’t you wonder who they were? What kind of lives they lived?”
Jude glanced up at the English elm—over a hundred feet tall—as they passed beneath its branches. “Not very good ones, if they were hanged to death.”
“Not all of them were hanged. Just the worst offenders. The rest were normal people. Like us. Mothers and fathers. Children. Sometimes I wonder if they came here on ships or if they were born in the tenements. This was the public cemetery, a poor man’s graveyard.”
Jude stepped off the path and led her toward a bench. He pulled her down beside him and set one of the packages in her lap. It was still warm, and the heat pooled on her legs. “Eat your lunch before it gets cold.”
The smells of fried fish and potatoes mingled with that of cut grass and browning leaves. She unwrapped the package and licked the salt from her fingers.
“Isn’t this sacrilegious?” Jude asked. “Eating in a graveyard?”
Maria paused, a potato inches from her mouth. She winked. “Let us not mourn the departed, but rather thank God that such men and women lived.”
“Is that a prayer or a benediction?”
“Both.”
“In that case”—he tapped his potato against hers—“amen.”
She grinned. There was the Jude she loved. Maria leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was cool against her lips, and she felt the beginning of stubble. “Thanks for lunch.”
They slipped into a comfortable silence as they ate, enjoying the call of birds and the feel of sun on their cheeks. After a moment, Jude tipped his head backward and looked up through the heavy oak branches that stretched over the bench.
“I got a new case,” he said. He unrolled the newspaper and pointed to the front page: JUSTICE J. F. CRATER MISSING FROM HIS HOME SINCE AUGUST 6TH.
There it was, the news of Mr. Crater’s disappearance in black and white. She scanned the article so quickly that she couldn’t fully make sense of the words. They registered in pieces, small details lodging in her brain: last seen on August 6th … assistant says he cashed large checks earlier that day … bought a ticket for a Broadway show … acquaintances fear murder. The byline was the last thing she read, but her eyes stayed on the name for several long seconds: George Hall.
“It’s him,” Jude said.
“Who?” She dared a glance at Jude, as though she’d been caught in her omission of the facts.
“Your boss. That judge.”
Maria couldn’t stop the hint of fear from slipping into her voice. “Yes.”
“Did you know he was missing?”
“No, I …” She took a deep breath and spread the paper flat on her lap, trying to remain calm. “I didn’t know this.”
“What did you know?”
“People were looking for him. That’s all.”
“What people, Maria?”
“A reporter.” And his wife, she thought, but didn’t say.
Jude took the newspaper from her and reread the article slowly. It ran thirty-three column inches and was heavy on the details. He settled on a section of the story and brought the paper a little closer to his face. He read out loud: “ ‘The Craters’ maid, Amedia Christian, saw the judge early on the morning of August fourth and was told to come back on the seventh, after he returned to his vacation home in Maine. She noted that when she arrived that morning the bed had been slept in recently and his suit was left on the floor but there was no sign of the judge.’ ” Jude’s face tightened into a stiff look of panic. “Did you talk to this reporter? Did you tell him this?”
“Not exactly. He embellished a bit. I didn’t mention the suit.” She played with a loose thread on the cuff of her blouse. Gave him a halfhearted smile. “He knocked on the door one day and started firing off questions. I talked to him for a couple minutes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Your boss goes missing, and you don’t think it matters?”
“Because I thought he was in Maine. With Mrs. Crater.”
Jude scowled at the paper. “Listen, you don’t need to talk to these people. None of them.”
“What people?”
&nbs
p; “Anyone to do with Crater. His associates. His friends. You tell me if they start nosing around, understand?”
Fifteen minutes ago she was famished, but now the sight of all that food made her stomach turn. “Why? What’s going on?”
He held the paper in front of her face so the headline was only inches away. “ ‘Justice J. F. Crater Missing from His Home Since August 6th.’ Home, Maria. Not Maine. Not work. Home. You work for him. You’re in his home all the time. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re involved.”
What little she’d eaten of her lunch sat like a brick in her stomach. “Why would anyone think I’m involved?”
“They won’t. Unless you give them reason to. I don’t want you near this case.” He waved a hand over the New York World. “And I sure as hell don’t want your name in the papers.”
“I didn’t give that reporter my real name.” She pointed to the article, where her mother’s name was printed in black ink. “When he asked, I lied.”
Jude gave his first real smile since they’d met for lunch. “Good!”
“It’s not good. I don’t like lying.” Not that it mattered now. Owney had figured out that she worked for the Craters. So much for discretion.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “Trust me.”
Trust had never been a question between them. It was natural and understood. But for the first time in ten years of marriage, they sat together offering half-truths and hidden meanings, neither going so far as to lie outright, but both certainly skirting the edge.
Maria picked at a potato with one thumbnail and chose her words carefully. “It’s a weird coincidence, don’t you think? You get this case, and I work for Mr. Crater?”
Jude stared straight ahead, into a thicket of trees on the other side of the park. It was several long seconds before he answered. “Coincidence is an understatement.”
“Does anyone else at work know I’m the Craters’ maid?” She searched his face for signs of deception.
“Leo.”
“What does he think about you getting the case?”
Maria was certain he spoke the truth when he turned to her with a pained expression and said, “Leo recommended me for the case. Commissioner Mulrooney agreed.”
“Why?”
“They said it would be a good test for me, a way to prove my commitment to the job.” He crushed her against his side and buried his face in her hair. He held her tighter than usual. “I have to go to Maine and get a statement from Crater’s wife.”
Maria pulled away. “Please don’t.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
Chapter Fourteen
BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1930
FIVE thousand dollars. That’s how much the New York Police Department offered in reward for information leading to the whereabouts of Joseph Crater. Stella glared at the missing persons circular, studying the black-and-white photo of her husband. Joe, with his pursed lips and high collar and severe part, stared right back at her from the page. She sat on the edge of the pier, toes in the water and hands stuffed into the pockets of Joe’s dinner jacket, fiddling with the half-empty pack of cigarettes and matchbook she’d found weeks earlier. Stella had taken to wearing the jacket when she retreated to the pier—always in the late afternoon and usually for hours at a time. It still smelled of his aftershave, and the satin lining felt cool against her bare arms.
A copy of the New York World was spread on her lap, along with two letters that had come by post that morning, and she switched between the front-page article, the letters, and the missing persons circular, as though each new reading would explain the mystery of Joe’s disappearance.
The letters were the most distressing of the lot. The first, written in startling blue ink on cheap white stationery, was a clear attempt at extortion. When she’d read of kidnappings and ransom notes as a child, she imagined things along the lines of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was, in truth, far less romantic when she held the clichéd note demanding $20,000 in exchange for the safe return of her husband. Have money small denominations. The quiet way is best. Cooperate fully or you will not see your husband again. She stuffed it back in the envelope.
The second letter was from Commissioner Mulrooney and stated that he would be sending a detective to question her.
As far as the newspapers went, it had been a big week. A reporter by the name of George Hall had written both front-page articles. Above the fold was the now-staple face of Joe and more curious details of how he vanished. Below the fold was a picture of Al Smith at the construction site for the Empire State Building. “Eighty years ago, a very short time when one stops to think, this land was part of a farm,” Al had said in his speech. “More recently it was the site of one of the great hotels in the world; and soon it will be the location of the tallest structure ever built by man.” Stella found it ironic that the two men shared the same newspaper page. It was Al, after all, who had pushed so hard for Joe to get into politics, and then Al again who had helped arrange the details of his appointment to the court years later. She wondered if he’d paused at all that day to publicly acknowledge her husband or if he’d been too obsessed by watching his own dream rise into the New York skyline.
Stella had almost memorized the tersely worded announcement that went out to law enforcement around the country. Fred had brought her the circular, along with the morning papers, after he returned from the village earlier that day, and she’d worn them thin with anxiety.
$5,000.00 REWARD
MISSING SINCE AUGUST 6, 1930
JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT, STATE OF NEW YORK
THE CITY OF NEW YORK OFFERS $5,000 REWARD TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS FURNISHING THIS DEPARTMENT WITH INFORMATION RESULTING IN LOCATING JOSEPH FORCE CRATER
Description—Born in the United States—Age, 41 years; height, 6 feet, weight, 185 pounds; mixed gray hair, originally dark brown, thin at top, parted in middle “slicked” down; complexion, medium dark, considerably tanned; brown eyes; false teeth, upper and lower jaw; good physical and mental condition at time of disappearance. Tip of right index finger somewhat mutilated due to having been recently crushed.
Stella stopped reading and wadded the circular in her clenched fist. She loathed the words they used to describe Joe: missing, time of disappearance, presumed alive. Commissioner Mulrooney had signed the circular himself. One comment in particular drew her attention: “If we could find some of his papers we might learn something about the cause for his disappearance.”
She could only guess that Mulrooney was hinting at the envelopes she’d found in the apartment, but she couldn’t fathom how he knew about them. His name hadn’t been on Joe’s list of illicit business dealings. Stella hurled the newspaper and the circular into the water. Propelled by her anger, they fluttered in midair, pages spreading out like a fan, and then landed with a plunk and turned gray as water soaked them.
“That’s not a statement,” she said, “it’s an obituary.”
“The neighbors will think you’ve gone strange, talking to yourself like that.”
Stella turned to find Emma standing above her, hands clasped at her waist in that infuriatingly polite way of hers. She hadn’t heard the screen door snap shut or Emma’s purposeful stride down the wooden pier.
“Look around. I have no neighbors.”
“They boat. And they talk. You must maintain propriety. Appearances are important, you know.” Emma pointed back toward the house. “One of those detectives from the city is waiting inside to ask you a few questions.”
“I know.” She held up the letter from Mulrooney. “I’ll come in a minute.”
“You’re going to make that detective wait while you sit out here and talk to yourself? That’s hardly a way for the wife of a missing judge to behave.”
“I’m going to gather my thoughts,” Stella said. “Besides, I don’t really give a damn about appearances right now.”
“Your language is appalling.”
“No.
What’s appalling is that Joe’s face is all over the front page.”
“How else will they find him?”
“Those papers are a diversion, Mother. They’re not looking for Joe.
They’re looking for ways to capitalize on his disappearance.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Every politician in New York just got carte blanche for as long as Joe is the headline. Tammany Hall will be a political free-for-all for months.”
“What on earth are you saying?”
“As long as the headlines are filled with juicy tidbits about a missing judge, then no one will read about the grand juries meeting this month. Or the voter fraud. Or the bribery. We won’t read about the informants and the prostitutes that are disappearing every other day.”
Stella pulled out a cigarette. She ran it beneath her nose, inhaling. It was a bit stale, having sat open so long, but it reminded her of Joe and dinner parties and the few wonderful things that had come with being his wife.
“Since when do you smoke?” Emma eyed the cigarette as though she would yank it from Stella’s hand. But she glanced nervously back at the house instead.
“Since now.” It was easy to rip out a single match from the book and strike it against the strip of sandpaper. Stella tipped the cigarette into the flame just to watch her mother’s eyes widen.
“You’ve been out of sorts since New York. Is there something you need to tell me? If so, do it now, before you go in and talk to that man.”
“No. Should there be?”
Stella never made the conscious decision to inhale. But she did nonetheless. It was sand in her throat and fire in her sinuses. Her lungs forced the smoke out in rapid-fire bursts, and her eyes went slick. Emma laughed. Stella inhaled again. Ashes on her tongue. The taste of soot. Another lungful of smoke, deep into the core of her body, and she held it long enough to grow dizzy. Then she let it out in a sputter. Stella coughed and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath of clean air and lifted the cigarette to her lips again. This time she took a cautious drag and rocked back and forth on the pier, controlling the tingling new sensation that flooded her body.