The Secret Between Us

by Barbara Delinsky

  Actually, she did. They let him play because baseball was normal, and they wanted that for him. They wanted him to have friends. They wanted him to be a typical boy. They wanted him to like sports.

  “Five more minutes,” Deborah told him and turned so that he wouldn’t see what she mouthed to Grace. “Please come. He needs us there.”

  “How can either of us go?” Grace whispered when her mother was close again. “We just killed a guy.”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Won’t it look bad if we’re there?”

  “Maybe, but what choice do we have? This is about Dylan. Should he be punished because Mr. McKenna died?”

  Grace was torn. “Okay,” she granted, “I’ll go to the game, but I can’t go to the funeral, I absolutely can’t do that.”

  Jill joined them as they were leaving. “Are you going to the funeral?” she asked Deborah.

  “I thought I would, out of respect.”

  “But you were driving the car that hit him.”

  Precisely, Grace thought.

  “Isn’t that all the more reason I should go?” her mother asked.

  Grace held her breath. She could usually count on her aunt to side with her.

  This time, Jill just frowned. “There must be protocol for this kind of thing. Maybe you should ask Hal.”

  In the car, Deborah phoned. Hal nixed the idea without a moment’s pause. “Stay home.”

  “Why?” Deborah asked.

  “Because your presence may upset the widow.”

  “But it’s a graveside service, and it’ll be packed. I’ll stand way at the back. She’ll never know I was there.”

  “And you don’t think other people will see you? Come on, Deborah. Word’ll spread.”

  She figured it would. With the appearance of the Ledger, though, the accident was public knowledge. As self-conscious as she felt driving through town, hiding would make it worse. “Would that be so bad?” she asked. “You wouldn’t let me talk to the press, but I feel terrible about this, Hal. It’s not like I set out to run the guy down, and it’s not like I live in a city with millions of people and don’t know who the man was. I feel responsible for what happened.”

  “The widow may play on that.”

  “Still, it was my car that hit her husband. Going to the funeral is the least I can do.”

  “As a friend, sweetheart, I understand,” Hal replied patiently. “As your lawyer, I advise you to skip it. We still don’t know what the widow plans to do. If your appearance sets her off, it’ll only make things worse.”

  Deborah didn’t ask Hal about going to a Little League game, because she didn’t want him to veto that, too. After delivering Dylan to the field, she and Grace stood on the sidelines to watch with the other families. The air had cooled. Clusters of parents stood together wrapped in coats, always a natural barrier to conversation, but they were friendly enough to Deborah and Grace. If they thought Deborah shouldn’t be there, they didn’t let on.

  Dylan spent the first eight innings on the bench. Finally, at the top of the ninth, with his team ahead by seven runs, the coach put him in. He came up to the plate adjusting first his helmet, then the goggles. He raised the bat and took his stance. He watched as the first pitch sailed high over his head.

  “Good boy,” Deborah shouted, desperate that he not embarrass himself, and when the second pitch was a repeat of the first and he still waited, she yelled, “Good eye, Dylan, good eye!”

  Grace had no sooner murmured, “They’re going to walk him,” when the third pitch came in over the plate. Dylan swung hard and missed. There was a groan from the crowd.

  “It’s okay,” Deborah yelled, clapping her hands in encouragement.

  Grace cupped her mouth. “Wait for a another good one, Dylan!”

  It came on the next pitch. When Dylan didn’t swing, it was a called strike. The next one was low. Dylan didn’t budge.

  Deborah prayed. He could hit the ball, she knew he could. He had done it for Hal the weekend before, and even though Hal had pitched almost directly at the bat, the boy had felt great.

  The count was three and two. Deborah wasn’t sure who was clutching whose arm tighter, Grace or her, but they were both shouting now, and if their energy was driven by something beyond the game, it didn’t matter.

  The pitcher held the ball close, wound up, let go. The pitch sailed in and hit Dylan on the arm. He spun around, momentarily shocked, then tossed the bat aside and happily ran to first base. When the next batter struck out, he stole to second base, then went on to third on a single into right field, and when the team’s star hitter came up to the plate and doubled, Dylan scored.

  The run was irrelevant, since the opposing team was shut out in the bottom of the ninth, but Dylan was more excited than Deborah had seen him in months. She was delighted.

  Chapter 7

  Her euphoria was short-lived. Waking up Friday morning, Deborah was determined to heed her lawyer’s advice. She put on a black skirt suit simply because it felt appropriate for a sad day. When she shifted patients around to clear a window in the afternoon, she told herself that she would just take the time off from work out of respect for Calvin McKenna. And when she found herself driving toward the cemetery, she vowed to stay in the car.

  The graveyard was south of town, on a succession of gentle hills whose shape was traced by the curve of narrow roads. It wasn’t a large cemetery, which meant that when a big funeral took place, most of those narrow roads were lined with cars.

  She pulled in behind the last car and watched its occupants walk off over the grass. After several minutes with no new cars joining the line, she got out and followed. Warm air had returned, along with humidity. Ominous gray clouds reminded her of the storm Monday night, and she replayed the flash of movement that had brought Cal McKenna to this place—felt the impact, heard the squeal of tires, relived the horror. Again, she searched for something that might have given her warning, but she saw only rain.

  She continued on along paths bordering patches of graves. When she crested a rise, she saw the group below, a heathery mix of grays and blacks, muted in the absence of sun. The minister stood at the head of a casket whose only adornment was a small bouqet of white flowers. The widow stood nearby, veiled in black and flanked by a man who resembled the deceased.

  Deborah paused between several clusters of students, but she imagined they all saw her arrive. Uncomfortable, she moved closer to the grave. When she saw the widow look up, she walked faster, intent on hiding among the mourners. She found a spot behind a group of teachers, lowered her eyes, and listened for the start of the service.

  For a minute, she heard nothing. Then came quiet whisperings, and an amorphous movement in front of her. She kept her eyes downcast until a firm hand took her elbow. Looking up, she was startled to see the man who had been with the widow. He was tall and dark-haired, and though his grip wasn’t cruel, it was insistent as he drew her away from the crowd. He might have been guiding a friend, had it not been for his words.

  “You need to leave. Mrs. McKenna doesn’t want you here.”

  Too stunned to reply, Deborah let herself be led across the grass. As soon as they reached the nearest stretch of road, he ushered her between two tall SUVs and released her arm.

  Shielded from the crowd, she finally said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean harm.”

  His eyes were angry, his face grim. “Well, you caused it, once Monday night and again now. So please.” He pointed. “Walk up that road and leave, so we can hold this funeral.”

  “I didn’t see him Monday night.” She was desperate to explain. “I’ve been haunted ever since.”

  “So haunted,” he hit back, “that you hire a lawyer who’s in tight with the police department? So haunted that you show up at this funeral to make people in town think that you care?”

  “I’m haunted,” Deborah whispered, “by the idea that I was responsible for a man’s death.”

  His reply was sharp. “What, were
you speeding? Putting on lipstick? Talking on the phone? And now you’re hoping for a free pass because you know everyone in town? Well, here’s a flash. Cal McKenna was not as important as you and now he never will be. So, if you’re haunted, good.” He nodded back toward the grave. “Remember him every morning and every night. You stole his future. You were responsible.”

  Turning away, he strode between the cars and was gone before she could reply. Numbed by guilt and humiliation, she started back along the road. She stumbled once where the pavement was cracked, but caught herself and continued on to her car. She started the engine and left the cemetery, but once past its gates she turned off the main road, fearing she was going to be sick. Pulling over to the side, she opened her door and, sitting half in, half out of the car, tried to breathe deeply. In time, feeling more steady, she eased her legs back into the car and drove slowly home.

  Lívia and Adinaldo were gone; the lawn was neatly mowed, and there was no sign of the van. In the kitchen, Lívia’s dinner sat on the stove. Deborah knew it would be something good—something that she couldn’t have made herself if her life had depended on it. Taking a bottled iced tea from the fridge, she went into the front hall. She had barely settled on the bottom stair when the doorbell rang.

  She didn’t move. Anyone who mattered had a key, and she didn’t want to see anyone else.

  The doorbell rang again. She looked at the bottle, raised it to her mouth, then paused and thought of Grace. The girl had been quiet this morning, barely responding even to Dylan. With track practice canceled for the funeral, the plan had been for her to spend the afternoon at Jill’s. Suddenly picturing a dozen things that might have happened to her between school and the bakery, Deborah jumped up from the step and opened the door.

  John Colby stood there. He looked awkward. “I, uh, got a call. I understand there was a disturbance at the cemetery.”

  Deborah gave herself a minute to recover, then said, “Disturbance? I’m not sure I’d call it that. He was quiet enough.” She stood back in invitation and closed the door once the police chief was inside. “I take it he’s a relative?”

  “The brother. Tom McKenna. He stopped by to see me yesterday. He wanted to read the police report.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” she remarked and put the cold bottle to her temple. “He’s worried I’m getting away with something.”

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “No,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “He just wanted me to leave. I can almost understand where he was coming from,” she added, not caring that Hal had told her not to talk with him. This was important. “You know my family, John. Did my parents go to funerals?”

  “All the time.”

  She nodded. “Whenever they had the slightest connection to the deceased, they were there. They felt it was their responsibility as prominent members of this community. My mother would have urged me to go today. She would have said it was the decent thing to do. So I went.” The pain of it remained fresh. “Thank God, Grace did not.”

  John tugged his khaki shirt more comfortably over his middle. “How’s she doing?”

  Deborah waggled a hand.

  “Not so good?” he interpreted.

  “It’s a difficult time.”

  “A difficult age, too,” he said, frowning at the carpet. “It’s hormones and peer pressure and feeling halfway adult but not there yet. And driving gives them a freedom some of ’em can’t handle. Grace has her permit, doesn’t she?”

  Deborah wondered if John suspected something and was grateful to be able to give a truthful answer. “She does, but after this, she’s refusing to drive. She didn’t see the man on the road any more than I did. She doesn’t know how we could have not hit him and doesn’t trust that something like that wouldn’t happen again.” Thunder rolled in the distance. Deborah folded her arms. “She’ll be upset when she hears what happened at the cemetery.”

  “She’ll do okay. You’ve raised a strong girl.”

  “Even strong girls suffer when bad things happen. She’s still struggling with the divorce.”

  “Well. She’s certainly a leader. We’re counting on her to place in the meet tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure you should. She hasn’t had a good running week.” Deborah passed a hand through her hair. It was a mess, like her life.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” John asked kindly.

  She could think of several things, not the least of which was turning back the clock and making her five minutes late picking up Grace Monday night. Five minutes would have done it. Cal McKenna would have been gone.

  More realistically, she said, “I need answers. Can you get a rush on the state police report?”

  “I keep calling. They say they haven’t gotten to it yet. There’s backlog. I only have so much pull.”

  “What about a preliminary report? Like where Calvin was on the road when we collided?”

  “I’m trying. Really, I am.”

  “Okay,” she said, because she did believe him, “then the Coumadin issue. Do we know anything more?”

  “Not yet. I talked to the widow about it. She’s no help.”

  “She must have known he had a problem,” Deborah reasoned. “Someone prescribed that Coumadin.”

  “She says she doesn’t know who it was, but we’ll pursue it.”

  Deborah thought of the man who had ejected her from the funeral, and felt a stirring of anger. “Ask the brother. He seems like a smart guy. Maybe he knows.”

  Perhaps it was defiance. Maybe Deborah shouldn’t have intruded on the funeral, but there was nothing private about the memorial service held at the high school that night. She had a right to be there, and though part of her wanted to stay home after the fiasco at the cemetery, the other part wanted to let the brother—and the widow—know that she believed in paying tribute to a man who had died.

  The rain cooperated. It had come in torrents after John left and went on for an hour, during which time Deborah busied herself sorting through Dylan’s outgrown clothes while “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” blared from his iPod dock. But the downpour had slowed by the time she picked up the kids at Jill’s, and was pretty much over when dinner was done.

  Grace wasn’t happy. She didn’t want to go to the memorial service at all. But Deborah was adamant. They didn’t have to arrive early, she said, and they could leave as soon as it was over. But being present to show their respect for a fine teacher was the right thing to do.

  To Grace’s relief, the auditorium was lit by candles at the front, which meant that when she and her mother and brother slid into the very back row, no one saw them. She listened to the service, all the while thinking that she alone had caused Calvin McKenna’s death. And there was her mother beside her, sitting up straight, doing THE…RIGHT…THING, expecting her to do THE…RIGHT…THING all the time so that she’d grow up to be just like her.

  Grace didn’t want to be a doctor. She just wanted to be invisible. The instant the memorial service ended, she slithered from the auditorium.

  “Grace! Grace, wait!”

  She had actually made it down the hall, out the front door of the school, and halfway down the steps before being spotted. Without looking back, she knew it was Kyle. While her mother and Dylan continued on, she stopped, hung her head, and waited.

  “Jeez, Grace,” he said, catching up to her, “where are you going so fast?”

  She raised her head. “Home. The memorial service is over.”

  “We’re all going to Ryan’s. Can’t you come?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “It isn’t the same without you.”

  She shot him a withering glance. “I’m not in the mood.” When she caught her mother looking back, she started walking slowly.

  “You told her about the beer, didn’t you,” said Kyle.

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No,” Grace said sharply. “I don’t lie. Why would I lie?” />
  “Hell, I don’t know, but you’ve been strange all week. What’s going on?”

  She regarded him levelly. “Mr. McKenna’s dead.”

  “So’s my grandfather, but nothing I do’ll bring him back. I know you were in the car that hit him, but that’s not our fault.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “Right, because you haven’t had a chance to say it. You’re barely talking to anyone.”

  Grace stopped again. “Kyle, it’s been hard, okay? It’s been hard.”

  “I still think it’s the beer,” he said, moving in front of her. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea to bring it. Stephie asked for it. How’d your mom find out?”

  “She didn’t,” Grace insisted. Sidestepping him, she started walking toward the parking lot. “It’s just that I’m upset that Mr. McKenna died, and you all don’t care.”

  He fell in step beside her. “We do care. We were all here tonight, weren’t we? We’d have saved you a seat if you said you were coming, but you didn’t tell anybody you were.”

  “It was a last-minute decision.” Thanks a bunch, Mom.

  “So, are you helping out with the car wash tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. There’s a meet.”

  “I know there’s a meet,” he said, “but it isn’t until the afternoon, and you’re supposed to help, even for an hour. I mean, like, you helped organize the thing, and the money we make is for the junior trip.”

  “Which isn’t ’til next year, so I’ll wash cars next time.” If she wasn’t under house arrest, or on probation. The junior trip was only one of the things—like getting her license and going to college—that she’d taken for granted. Her mother could try to protect her all she wanted, but somehow, someone would find out.

  She had hoped it would keep raining so that she could have the hood of her jacket up. Her mom had hoped it would stop so that her hair wouldn’t be so wild. Guess who won?

  She walked faster, heading for the shelter of the car.

  “What about Kim’s party?” Kyle asked.

  “What about it?”