* * *
Once Will had satisfied himself the house was empty, the fog of rage began to clear, revealing the obvious: he’d been wrong. Shaken, he made about a dozen frantic phone calls, trying to track Nina down. She’d been faithful all along, he believed her now, and he’d ruined it out of sheer paranoia.
When he could think of no one else to call he started back to the hospital. One thing at a time, he told himself as he drove. Go back to work, make up an excuse, then wait and see. She’d calm down after a couple of hours. She’d never pull the twins out of their home.
He found Katz in the OR lounge. The little guy was pissed, and Will let him rave a bit.
“Where the hell have you been? If you’re going to screw off like that, the least you could do is let somebody know.”
“It was my wife,” Will said. He put his arm around Katz’s shoulders and led him into the hall. “She thought there was someone in the house and she called me. I could get there a lot faster than the cops...”
“Oh, Jesus,” Katz said. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Turns out it was just her imagination. I would’ve gotten back to you sooner, but she was hysterical. You understand.”
“Of course. Can we carry on now?”
“I’ll have your next patient ready in five minutes,” Will said and left Katz standing in the hall.
* * *
Nina’s lawyer, Mark Blumstein, called Will at the hospital later that afternoon. Blumstein had been with Nina’s family for years, managing various affairs, but Will had met him only once. He did his best to respond politely to the barrister’s comments.
“Nina told me about what happened today, Doctor Armstrong, and quite frankly, it’s my feeling that she should have you arrested. I’ve urged her strongly to do so.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“That is quite immaterial, I assure you. In any case, she’s decided to go easy on you. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you sign the separation agreement which is being drawn up as we speak. That you sign it without argument and without trying to contact Nina in any way, and that the children remain with her.”
“That’s three conditions.”
Are you reading me, Doctor?”
“Loud and clear.”
“If you don’t agree to the clauses in the agreement—and I mean all of them—then we will proceed with criminal charges.”
“Specifically?” Will’s fist was starting to crack the handset.
“Assault with intent to rape. Attempted rape—”
“But—”
“Don’t even breathe the fact that she’s your wife. I can put you away on this one, Doctor Armstrong. Believe me.”
And why are you so interested? Are you the one who’s been banging her? “I understand. No problem.”
“I’ll have the documents delivered to you by courier no later than Friday. Until then, consider yourself duly warned: stay away from—”
Will hung up the phone.
* * *
Nina awoke abruptly on Thursday morning from a dream in which Will had found her and chased her into the night. In the dream she was scrambling up a gravel incline, the sharp stones stinging her bare feet. When she made the summit she looked back—and Will was right there, reaching for her ankle. She turned to run, skidded on a greasy railway tie and fell in a sprawl. Then a freight train was high-balling toward her, its blazing headlight pinning her to the rails...
Nina sat up. The bed shimmied and the screeching clamor of a passing train filled the room. She was in a hotel, one of those cheesy, out-of-the-way joints that serviced long-haul truckers and trysting teenagers and always seemed to be within spitting distance of a railway track. The twins were with her, sound asleep in the sagging bed next to hers. Nina smiled a little, watching them in the thin light of dawn. Those two could sleep through a gunfight.
She climbed out of bed as the racket receded, stiff and sore from her battle with Will. Stretching, she drew the curtain aside and squinted through the grimy window. Apart from a couple of transports idling in front of the diner, hers was the only vehicle in the lot. Further off, near the highway, the establishment’s neon sign buzzed indolently against a purple sky. Twin Palms Motel, and not a palm tree for a thousand miles.
She let the curtain fall and hugged herself against the chill of the room. She felt undone, shattered by Will’s unexpected violence. When he sat on her chest and slapped her like that she’d thought: I don’t know this man. It was as if the preceding thirteen years never existed and this raging, somehow familiar lunatic had broken into her house to rape her. So much had changed in those few insane moments. So much had been lost forever.
Jeffrey moaned in his sleep, Jerry echoing the sound, and Nina felt a tug at her heart. What would she tell the boys? They idolized their dad. Maybe with time and professional counseling...but no. Going down that road, she’d be talking herself out of the only acceptable course of action. But it was hard. She’d been with Will so long, had fallen so deeply under his sway, she could almost hear his voice in the room...
“I couldn’t bear to lose you, sweetheart. You’re the one I love. And it’d kill the boys. Ruin them. They need their dad. I’ll do anything...”
She had to stick to her guns. She had her own credit card, and after picking the boys up at school she’d withdrawn a wad of cash from their joint account. Then she’d spent an hour with her lawyer before driving out here, forty minutes south of the city, looking for something off the beaten track. She’d paid the desk clerk with cash and hadn’t called anyone but her sister, Claudia. No one else knew where she was, not even her lawyer. She had another appointment with him tomorrow, to review the first draft of the separation agreement. Until then, the plan was to just lay low. As for the boys, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. For now they seemed content with the white lie she’d told them about a fun-filled holiday for just the three of them. Today they’d be visiting the wave pool in Kanata, then checking out the IMAX theater in Hull.
Tip-toeing past the twins, Nina went into the bathroom to clean herself up.
10
JENNY SAID, “NOW REMEMBER, SWEETIE, , your father said no company, so don’t blow it.” She adjusted Kim’s collar. “Your exams start next week, so you could do a little studying.”
“Do you have to go out, Mom?”
It was Friday night and the Fallons were running late.
“I could do without the ballet,” Jenny said, thinking with regret about Richard’s gallery opening. “But the tickets are non-refundable. And they weren’t cheap.”
“Will you be home late?”
“Not much before midnight, I expect. Your dad likes to mingle.”
“Okay, then.”
Kim thought of switching off all the lights after they left and pretending she was out. She could tell Tracy her family’s plans had changed and they’d all gone out together. But if she knew Tracy, she and her boyfriends were already parked down the street, watching for Kim’s parents to leave. Besides, she was a lousy liar. Tracy would see right through her.
Jack came down the stairs and Kim turned to look at him, a blush rising to her cheeks. He looked...beautiful. She could think of no plainer word.
As he walked past her, heading for the vestibule closet, Kim grabbed his hand, her words coming in an eager stampede.
“Dad, can we go bowling tomorrow? Just you and I? You said we could someday, remember?” It was a promise Jack had made when Kim was seven. “We could go to Hopewell Lanes. It’s just on the other side of Bank Street. They rent shoes and everything.”
Jack tugged his hand away. Kim had been clutching it. “I’m sorry, kid,” he said, slipping into his coat. “I’ve made other plans.”
Kim looked at her feet. “That’s okay. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure,” Jack said. “Some other time.” To Jenny he said, “I’ll get the car.”
Heartsick, Jenny kissed Kim good
bye, promised to take her bowling tomorrow if she still wanted to go, then hurried outside. Jack was honking the horn.
Less than a minute later the doorbell rang. Kim hesitated a moment, then opened the door, thinking, To hell with it.
Tracy stood on the stoop with a boy on either arm. The same boys Kim had met at school on Monday, sporting the same shiny leathers, the same stoned grins.
“Ready to party?” Tracy said.
“Sure,” Kim said. “Why not.”
* * *
Richard stood on the lawn fronting the gallery, in the shadow of a massive red maple. He was grateful for the night air. It was stifling inside. Smoky and hot. Too many people. Too many back-thumping, glad-handing people trying to ingratiate themselves to the ‘great artist’. That was a price of fame Richard hadn’t counted on. Everyone wanted a piece of him.
He leaned against the tree, admiring the building’s facade. It was a small, Georgian-style mansion, a landmark on Sussex Drive for more than a century, with a magnificent cliff-view of the Ottawa River a hundred feet below. Richard had blue-printed the interior renovations himself, preserving the classic architecture of the upper levels—which would serve as his living quarters until the house in Carp was ready—while eliminating most of the downstairs partitions, creating one huge gallery space. This he’d kept simple, sparing the hardwood floors and various sunken levels, but sacrificing the paneled walls for the plain, egg-shell surfaces that best complimented his work. The effect was perfect, the recessed spots lending just the right amount of warmth to his canvasses.
But for now Richard stood outside of it all, a spectator at his own gala affair. It all seemed faintly unreal. In his younger days, the connection between his talent and this kind of wealth had never occurred to him. But that same talent had made him a very rich man. He guessed he’d never get used to it...and maybe that was good.
A car rolled into the parking area. Come on, Richard thought, let it be her. But it was a couple of older women he didn’t recognize. Friends of his mother’s, he supposed. He checked his watch: 8:15 P.M. The invitations were for seven, but maybe she’d gotten held up. Her husband was a doctor, that could explain it. Or maybe she was into being fashionably late. Or maybe she’s just not coming.
But he wasn’t ready to accept that possibility. Not just yet.
A car slowed at the entrance, then drove off.
Richard went back inside.
* * *
Jenny turned in her seat to scan the Arts Center crowd. Ottawa was a government town, but there was money here. She could see it in the tailored suits, the one-of-a-kind gowns, the Florida tans that never went away. She could see it in the aloof faces. She spotted Paul Daw a few rows back, with a girl she didn’t recognize, but couldn’t get his attention.
As the lights dimmed and Jenny turned to face the stage, she felt a stab of pain in her tummy. Startled, she squeezed Jack’s hand.
“What is it?” Jack whispered. A rail-thin man in tights had just come twirling onto the stage.
Jenny had been holding her breath, but now she released it. The pain was gone. Before coming to the ballet they’d dined at a Lebanese restaurant on Elgin Street and Jenny guessed she’d eaten something that disagreed with her. No need to get hysterical.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just felt like holding hands in the dark.”
Jack eyed her skeptically for a beat, then smiled. “Keep your eye on these guys,” he said. “They all wear two pairs of socks. One on their tricky little feet, the other in their fleece lined jocks.”
Jenny giggled and someone behind them made a shushing noise. Grinning like adolescents, the Fallon’s settled back in their seats.
As she watched the performance, Jenny wondered how Kim was making out...and felt a twinge of regret over Richard’s opening. In a different time, perhaps a happier time, she would have been right there beside him, proudly holding his arm.
* * *
“Fuckin’-A stereo, man.”
Their names were Charlie Haid—the tall one, who at the moment had his gloms all over Jack’s expensive stereo equipment—and Robin “Jeep” Elfman, the short, powerfully built drummer for the punk band Slap Hammer.
As soon as Kim let them in Tracy made a beeline for the kitchen— “Kimeroo, got any Fritos? I’ve got, like, the serious munchies,”—and Jeep wandered off in search of a bathroom.
“You better not touch that stereo,” Kim said now, irritated by the smallness of her voice.
“Why not?” Charlie said. “Does the sucker bite?” He roared laughter at his own wit and returned his attention to the stereo. “Check this out. Got any Ramones?”
Kim had no CDs of her own. The truth was, she didn’t much care for music of any kind. She liked some of her mother’s old stuff—Stevie Wonder, the Beatles, the fifties tunes on the jukebox—but had never understood the compulsion of her classmates to idolize rock musicians. She had an Alanis Morissette poster on her wall, and one of Aerosmith, but only because her mother had bought them for her.
“Got any?” Charlie said. “Ramones? Daft Punk? Vandals?”
Tracy appeared now, one hand buried in a bag of Dill Pickle chips. She said, “Dial in CHUM FM, leatherhead, and break out some of that hash.”
Charlie said, “Good call, Trace,” and started scanning the FM waves.
Now Jeep was back, trying to unsnag a knot of T-shirt from his half-zippered fly. “Hey, Trace,” he said, shuffling toward her. “Think you can work this loose with your teeth?”
Tracy made a puking noise. “I wouldn’t touch that ugly little thing if you paid me.”
“How do you know it’s ugly?” Jeep said, offended.
“My dog told me,” Tracy said and Charlie laughed. She said, “Why don’t you ask Kim to help you? I bet she’s never even seen an ugly one before.”
Kim’s face turned poppy red. Jeep eyeballed her a moment, as if weighing the possibility, then his T-shirt pulled free and he zipped up his fly. Jenny’s cat picked that moment to stroll through the living room and Jeep bounded after her.
Kim went cold inside.
Tracy said, “Charlie and me are going upstairs to check out the master bedroom.” It was metal hour on CHUM and the Scorpions were belting out “Another Piece of Meat.”
Kim said, “No, Tracy, please. I don’t think you should go into my parents’ bedr—”
There was an uproar in the kitchen now: claws skidding on terra cotta, a muffled shriek of pain.
Tracy chuckled. “Better go rescue your cat,” she said. “Is she spayed?” Then she led Charlie upstairs, her pert fanny straining against acid-wash jeans.
“Here kitty,” Jeep crooned. Kim turned and saw him on his hands and knees under the dining room table. Just out of reach, Peach huddled with her ears back and her tail swishing back and forth.
“Hey,” Kim shouted over the blaring stereo, resigning herself to the situation. “Let’s go sit in the living room.” She was defying her father, might as well make the best of it.
Jeep got to his feet, one hand adjusting his balls. He grinned. “Okay, baby.”
* * *
“Where is Mr. Kale?” the stout woman said. “I must have a word with him.”
The woman was Emily Kraft, an art collector of national renown. At the moment she stood before the largest canvas in the gallery, trying to get her escort’s attention. Said escort was a dapper fellow by the name of Bradley Sessions, a gaunt man bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late Andy Warhol. Bradley was currently engaged in stuffing his face. He stood by the punch bowl, chomping biscuits heaped with Beluga caviar. When he heard Emily’s voice he snapped to attention, setting off in search of the evening’s host. He netted the artist from a circle of admirers and led him to Ms. Kraft.
Richard greeted her politely—he knew her by name but had never met her in person—and inquired as to how he might be of service.
“This painting,” Emily said. “It’s not for sale?”
Richard glanced at
the tastefully petite, fluorescent red NFS sticker on the brass title plate and sighed. Couldn’t rich people read?
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Kraft. It’s from my private collection. I only displayed it tonight because I expected someone...special to attend.”
“The girl in the painting?”
“Yes. The girl in the painting.”
“Well. Be that as it may. I must have this piece.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Kraft, it’s not for sale.”
“I’ll pay a hundred thousand.”
Richard shook his head. He wouldn’t let it go for a million.
“What then? Name your price.”
“I’m sorry,” Richard said, his disappointment shading to annoyance at this spoiled, overbearing woman, “but the painting is not for sale. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Well,” Emily huffed. She glared in mute anger at the canvas as the artist walked away. It was entitled, Girl on a Swing.
* * *
The pain came again after the first intermission, but this time it was sharp and unabating. Jenny moaned and hunched forward in her seat, drawing stares from the ballet-goers around her.
Leaning over her, Jack said, “What is it, Jen? Is it the baby?”
Jenny said, “I don’t know,” feeling an absurd pang of jealousy for her unborn child. Jack’s concern was only for it. “Do you mind if we leave?”
Someone in the row behind shushed them, a plump, lawyerly looking fellow in a black suit. Jack leaned over the seat back and hissed into the man’s shocked face: “Shush me again, motherfucker, you’ll be shitting your own teeth.” He turned back to Jenny and helped her up. “Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
They brushed past glares of annoyance, stumbling over feet, jostling knees. Then they were in the aisle and Jenny knew what the problem was. It wasn’t her baby, it was that desert Jack made her try, that doughy green stuff with the unpronounceable name and a flavor like day-old spitballs, that was what the problem was. And if she didn’t get a move on, she was going to puke it up all over the wine colored carpet.
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