Lies of the Heart

by Michelle Boyajian

  —Potshots at my cooking? How original.

  —You know what makes it worse?

  He poked her hip lightly, menacingly, through the covers, waiting for an answer, but Katie only pulled them tighter around her body and tried to sink deeper into the bed.

  —You don’t even realize, he said, what it’s doing to your body. I can’t even look at you when you undress lately.

  —Keys, Nick. This is about keys.

  But it was too late. He towered over her, sneering his disgust.

  —You know how embarrassed I was at dinner the other night? Running into my colleagues like that? “I’m so proud to introduce you all to my ambitious, beautiful wife.”

  —Nick . . .

  —What I should do is just point at you, tell them the condom broke and before I knew it we were in a church. Then they’d get it.

  There was always this threshold, the anger ending suddenly, the tears rising.

  —Why are you such an asshole? she whispered.

  —Better than being a fat, lazy cunt.

  Later Katie would stand in the mirror, eyeing her trembling body, or review footage of her work, vainly trying to see the potential she had seen only the day before. Or call her mother just to check in, her hand shaking as she held the phone tight to her ear. This after she had forgotten to pick up his pressed shirts from the cleaners. Nick reminding her, only minutes after her admission, that her mother didn’t even seem to like her sometimes. Who could blame her, really, Katie? When she has Dana for a daughter?

  Hating him at that moment, hating herself for revealing so much about her life, her fears and doubts. Hating that she felt this way about the one person who was supposed to understand and then help chase them away.

  Such innocuous beginnings. Why couldn’t Katie fill the gas tank once in a while? Why did Nick throw his sweaty workout shorts right next to the hamper instead of inside the hamper? And yet at times these small arguments would ferment and explode, and soon Katie was the one watching with round, shocked eyes: Nick looming over her, hurling petty insults and accusations with an instinctive, explosive rage that startled her each time. Nothing was off-limits, and her husband fought like a cornered dog, chewing his way into every soft, vulnerable spot Katie had ever revealed to him in the shadows of their bedroom. Tearing into susceptible places he had intuited on his own, or even—after time—created himself. (Was Katie really getting fat? The scale said only five pounds in over three years, but her thighs . . .)

  Whenever their minor fights turned into this—not often, but enough, enough—Katie couldn’t take her eyes off Nick. Furious and wounded, she was also eerily fascinated by the way his body seemed to change right before her: face twisting up, shoulders an inch higher and pushed forward, legs firmly planted. As if he were the one being attacked with words sharp as slivers of glass. Her husband, fists tight at his sides, offering new glimpses of himself—spawning even more questions about the life he kept from her.

  No, Katie never laughed about these with Dana, rolling her eyes and brushing the fights away like crumbs. Because they gathered inside her—Nick’s cruel words, the cheap, exacting shots finding their mark again and again.

  Only after he left, only after she had thought of her own punishing words (too late), would she wonder: where did it come from? But only after she could stop hating him long enough to understand that she didn’t do anything, really, to provoke him to such an extent. Or did she? She wanted to ask Dana these questions, because it was Dana’s job to understand people, to understand the source of pain and fear and therefore anger.

  Still, Katie was too embarrassed to ask Dana anything, to tell her sister how heartless Nick could be simply because she had forgotten to roll up the car windows before a thunderstorm. That’s the difference between going to college for a real degree and going to college to watch movies. Simple intelligence. Tapping his head, his thin, knowing smile before he turned away.

  And.

  And she never told Dana how easily she accepted Nick’s tormented apologies later, the way he would hover around her, his body quivering, begging for her forgiveness. I’m so sorry, I don’t know why—Katie, no please look at me—I don’t know why I do it—I love you—

  She didn’t tell Dana how completely she loved her husband back in these moments, how her heart and mind wrapped around his unspoken pain and what he said, how his love for Katie shone in his tortured, beautiful eyes—how this proof of his feelings for her made Katie feel more at home in the world than she ever had before. Not alone anymore, never alone again, she would think, as he pressed for her forgiveness.

  And she never told her sister how they would eventually come back together, their bodies tangling into each other, their mouths and fingers searching each other’s flesh as if for the first time. Nick’s pleading and moaning and grasping at her skin, the sheer relief and exhilaration of pure fucking, but with love and need and forgiveness all scrambled into the licking and biting and slapping of bodies.

  When it was over, bodies spent, she would cradle her husband in her arms. Stroke his hair, whisper her forgiveness in his ear.

  No, Katie never told her sister how powerful, how omnipotent, she felt in those moments either.

  3

  After the 911 operator’s brief testimony in the afternoon, Judge Hwang calls for a fifteen-minute break. Katie signals to Richard, and he rolls his chair up to her; she looks at Daniel in the second row behind the defense table, then at Kirsten, who’s sitting beside Detective Mason and talking quietly with him at the end of her row.

  “Remember,” she says to Richard, “Daniel gets very flustered around beautiful women. Nick told me once that he was painfully awkward with them, like he didn’t have a right to be in the same room.” She doesn’t add that Nick had only said this—during one of their explosive fights—so he could also tell Katie that Daniel was always perfectly at ease with her. “Your assistant,” Katie says, motioning in Kirsten’s direction, “she’s got all that gorgeous blond hair.”

  “That’s a great idea, Katie,” Richard says. “I should have thought of that. I could have her move to the center of the row. She’d be more visible there, don’t you think?”

  “Right—” Katie says, turning to the girl. But Kirsten is already standing, already making her way to the middle of the row, toward Katie.

  “Oh, did you already—” Katie begins.

  “No, no, hold on.” He waits until Kirsten is standing right in front of him, looks up at her. “Don’t move around again,” he says firmly to her. “Stay right here throughout this testimony.”

  Kirsten’s face is full of confusion. “I—”

  “Katie just had a great idea,” he interrupts quickly. “I want this witness to see you the entire time. I’ll explain later.”

  Kristen looks at Katie, turns back to Richard. Smiles faintly and sits down.

  “I won’t move an inch,” she says.

  “Mr. Quinlin, were you inside the courtroom earlier when the 911 operator, Ms. Delory, identified State’s Exhibit Five for the jurors?”

  Daniel sits perched at the edge of the witness chair, holding the cassette tape between his thumb and middle finger out in front of him. His eyes dart quickly to Kristen, who leans forward over the banister, staring intently at him.

  “I am—I was. Yes.”

  “And you were, in fact, the person who called 911 on May fifth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were the first one, besides the two Warwick Center clients and the custodian, Billy Zahn, to see Nick lying facedown on the floor?”

  Daniel struggles for a moment, his face flushing slightly, and Katie turns to Kristen. She is twirling her hair absently and smiling at him. Across the room Patricia frowns deeply at Daniel, then turns in Kristen’s direction.

  “Mr. Quinlin?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was there.”

  “Can you tell the jurors what led up to that moment?”

  Daniel breaks eye contact with Kristen, turn
s to the jurors. “I heard the gunshot. I . . . I jumped up. Billy met me in the doorway. He said Nick was shot. I could hear Joey howling,” he says, “so I grabbed my cell phone and ran out there.”

  “And Joey is the client who can’t speak, is that correct?”

  “He could a little, but mostly he made noises to communicate,” Daniel says, and then blurts out, “But he was getting better.”

  The jurors eye him curiously—Daniel’s behavior appears oddly defensive, like he’s hiding something.

  “He was getting better with Nick’s help?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now?” Richard asks softly.

  Daniel lowers his head, examines his splayed hands.

  “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance?” Donna says.

  Richard turns to Judge Hwang. “Your Honor, without Nick’s constant attention and professional help, this unfortunate boy had to be removed to an institution—”

  “Objection, Your Honor! What does this have to do with—”

  “Yes, okay.” Judge Hwang waves a hand in Donna’s direction. “Stick to the relevant issues, Mr. Bellamy.”

  Richard nods and proceeds to walk Daniel through the crime scene, how he told Billy to get Carly and Joey out of the gym, what happened once the paramedics and police arrived. After a few minutes, when they get into the logistics of the 911 call, Daniel starts to stutter slightly, and Katie has a moment of regret: it was Daniel who fought to keep Nick in this world, Daniel who pumped Nick’s chest and put his lips against Nick’s and shared his breath until the EMTs arrived.

  “Mr. Quinlin,” Richard asks, “how far is the gym from your office in the recreation building?”

  “Down a long hallway, at the very back.”

  “And how much time did it take you to get down that hallway and into the gym on May fifth?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No? Well, in fact,” Richard says, “Detective Mason timed both you and Billy running to and from your office from the gym, didn’t he? And he figured that the time between the actual shooting and the time it took for Billy to tell you about it and for you to get up and race into the gym was approximately twenty-five seconds, right?”

  “Something like that,” Daniel answers.

  “Okay. Can you tell me what that defendant”—Richard stabs his finger toward Jerry—“was doing when you entered the gym and saw Nick lying on the floor, facedown and dying?”

  “He—Jerry wasn’t there.”

  “Less than twenty-five seconds after the shooting, and the defendant wasn’t anywhere to be found?”

  “Objection, he’s answered the question.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Okay, well, Mr. Quinlin, did you wonder where the defendant was?”

  “There was so much going on—”

  “And the defendant was smart enough to take advantage of that chaos and get out of there before the police arrived?”

  “Objection!” Donna roars, rising.

  “Withdrawn,” Richard says. “Thank you, Mr. Quinlin.”

  Donna stands in front of the jury, her hands clasped in front of her, blocking Daniel’s view of Kristen.

  “Did you eventually get to see Jerry after the police arrived, Daniel?”

  “Yes, I did,” he says, more confident now.

  “And will you describe his demeanor at that time?”

  “He was a mess, he was so confused—”

  “Objection,” Richard says, “goes to state of mind.”

  “Sustained.”

  Donna shoots a look at Richard, turns back to Daniel. “Where was Jerry then?”

  “He was in the time-out room in the work program.”

  “And can you describe that room?”

  Daniel describes it—a narrow, empty room, more like a long closet with bright fluorescent lights overhead. Like something in a psych ward, Katie had complained to Nick once, but he had only shrugged.

  “And did you ask Jerry why he was in the time-out room?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “Why is that?” Donna asks, looking meaningfully at the jurors.

  “Because Jerry always went to the time-out room when he felt confused or scared.”

  “Do you know why that was?”

  Daniel explains how Jerry retreated to the time-out room because of its size, because there’s only one way in, because it’s so bright and Jerry is afraid of the dark.

  Donna locks her hands behind her back. “It appears that he felt safe there.”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  Donna purses her lips, looks contemplative for a moment. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Redirect?” Judge Hwang asks Richard.

  “Thank you, Judge,” Richard says from the table. “Mr. Quinlin, why are clients sent to this time-out room?”

  “Well, if a client took something that didn’t belong to them,” Daniel says, struggling to keep his eyes on Richard, “like another client’s candy bar, or if he or she said something inappropriate, they’d spend some time there. Little things like that.”

  Richard nods thoughtfully. “So if a client broke a rule, or they did something wrong and they knew it, they’d also know about spending some time in that room? Thinking about their mistake?”

  “I guess,” Daniel admits with a blush. “But it’s usually only small—”

  “Thank you, sir,” Richard interrupts. “Nothing further.”

  Richard stands facing the rows behind the prosecution table, addressing the spectators quietly.

  “I just want to warn you all again about the nature of the 911 tape,” he says. “Some of you might consider leaving the room before we play it.”

  More than once Richard has offered to let Katie listen to the tape, to prepare herself, but she refused each time; she could already see that day too clearly in her head, didn’t want to add the sound track to accompany it until necessary.

  Richard leans down to Katie. “It will be better with you here, but I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  Richard waits on Judge Hwang, his finger suspended over the button on the tape player. Two speakers sit on a cart facing the jurors; one of Richard’s paralegals stands nearby.

  “Jurors will raise their hands if they can’t hear it clearly,” Judge Hwang instructs, and motions to Richard.

  At first there’s just static and then the sound of ringing.

  “This is 911 Dispatch, what’s your emergency? . . . There’s been a shooting, a man has been shot . . . A man has been shot? . . . Yes, you need to get here, three thirty-three Post Road in Warwick, around the back, the blue building . . . That’s 333 Post Road? . . . You have to hurry, please . . .”

  There’s a low howling sound, like wind rushing around tall buildings. It takes a few seconds before Katie realizes that it’s Joey, moaning in fear.

  “ . . . Do you know who’s been shot, sir? . . . He’s my friend, it’s Nick, Nick Burrell . . . Sir, can you tell where he’s been shot? . . . I don’t know, in the head or the face, I can’t tell . . . Is he breathing? . . . Yes, no, I don’t know . . . Is the shooter still there? Do you see the shooter? . . . He isn’t, he wouldn’t know . . . I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not . . . Nick?”

  The sound of tapping keys, the female dispatcher’s calm voice trying to reassure Daniel, and Joey’s howling, which overwhelms everything else for a few seconds.

  “ . . . Get them out of here!” Daniel yells, and then Carly’s tentative voice comes from a distance: “It’s not a game?” The howling fades away. More static, the sound of Daniel crying now, his panicked voice.

  “ . . . Sir? . . . Jesus, oh. God, there’s blood spreading all over . . . Sir, can you get a pulse, is he breathing? . . . I can’t tell, I don’t know, this is wrong, it’s so wrong . . . Sir? Hello? Sir, can you hear me? . . . I don’t think he’s here anymore, I think he’s gone, you need to hurry . . . An ambulance is en route right now, just kee
p talking to me . . . Jesus, Nick . . . What’s happening right now, can you tell me? . . . I turned him over, there’s so much blood I can’t even see his face. I’m going to give him CPR, but I need something to wipe off the blood, it’s everywhere . . . Nick? . . .”

  Static, and the sound of Daniel’s sobbing.

  “ . . . What’s happening there? Can you tell me what you’re doing? . . . I’m wiping his face with my shirt . . . It’s, his face is . . . it’s . . . Oh, God . . .”

  She isn’t ready to go home yet, so she takes a left off Warwick Neck Avenue onto Rocky Point Drive. At the end of the road is the entrance to the Rocky Point Amusement Park, shut down and abandoned for over seven years now. The gate is open, so she steers her way into the park, blinking into the darkness on both sides of the tall metal fence. It’s eerie driving through like this, without the carnival noise and bright lights to greet her.

  The summer they were married, Katie asked Nick to take her out on the boat so she could see those colored lights flashing into the sky, to see the yellows and reds and blues rippling over the water and touching up against their hull. They rounded the Warwick Neck lighthouse, saw the crumbling mansion that stands less than three hundred yards from the park on the narrow, rocky beach leading to it: a seminary built sometime in the 1800s, only four deteriorating walls and a couple of arched windows at that point. Nick cut the engine, and the sound of Katie’s past rushed into her ears—the same faint music she heard that first night she met Nick. He clicked off the running lights, jumped up onto the bow, and threw down the anchor. Watching him there on the bow, silhouetted by the lights of her childhood, Katie was suddenly overcome by the terrifying, hopeful power of living in this world, with the promise of finally sharing it with a man who truly loved her.—Nick, she said, and he jumped down instantly at the quavering in her voice.

  —Nick, I can’t even put it in words, I don’t know how, she said, reaching for him.—I’ve wanted you my whole life, she said, her voice choking up. He grabbed her hair, then, a fistful in both hands, and pulled her to him. Pulled her face right up to his.—You mean that, he said quietly. —You really mean it. And then they came together, they collided into each other, undressing themselves and each other with stumbling fingers. At one point the sides of Katie’s mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood—gone before she could ask whose it was, if it was his blood or her own they passed between them, unacknowledged.