by John Hart
She had a trestle table that dated back to the 1800s. It was dented and scarred. Sitting at it, we ate ham and cheese and spoke of little things. I drank another beer. I told her about Ezra’s safe and the missing gun. She hesitated for a minute and then asked me how he died. Two bullets to the head, I told her, and she looked out the window.
“Do you feel any different?” she finally asked.
“I don’t understand.”
She looked at me then. “Does your life feel any different now that Ezra is dead and gone?” I didn’t know what she meant and told her so. She didn’t speak for awhile, and I realized she was debating whether or not to continue. “Are you happy?” she finally asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it in awhile.” There was something in her eyes. “What are you getting at, Vanessa?”
She sighed. “I don’t think you’re living your life, Jackson, not for a long time now.”
I grew still and tense. “Whose, then?”
“You know whose.” Her voice was soft and she shied away as if afraid I might hit her.
“No, Vanessa, I don’t.” I was getting angry and didn’t know why—didn’t want to know why. Denial was a weapon; it killed truth, numbed the mind, and I was a junkie. Part of me recognized this, the same part that knew where she was going, but I ignored that part. That part hurt.
“Damn it, Jackson. I’m trying to help.”
“Are you?” I demanded. “Who are you trying to help? Me or you?”
“That is not fair,” she said. I knew she was right, but I didn’t care. She was taking me places I didn’t want to go. “It’s you I’m worried about. It’s always you!”
“Goddamn it, Vanessa. That’s too much pressure. I’ve never asked for things to be the way they are. They just are.”
“That is your problem.”
I stared at her.
“Things never just are. We make choices, actively or not. You can affect the world, Jackson. Ezra’s dead. Don’t you feel that?”
“So we’re back to Ezra,” I said.
“We never left him. And that’s the problem. You’ve never left him. You’ve been living his life for more than twenty years, and you’ve never seen it.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about, and in that instant her face seemed to transform. She was like the rest after all. “No,” I said. “Not true.”
“Yes.” She tried to take my hand, but I pulled it back just in time.
“That is not fucking true!” I yelled.
“Why did you marry Barbara?” she demanded, and there was a stoic calm in her voice.
“What?”
“Why Barbara? Why not me?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do know. And always have.”
“You’re not making sense.” I watched as she came out of her seat, hands on the table that had fed her family for generations. She leaned closer, and I noticed that her nostrils were flared.
“You listen to me, Jackson, and you listen well, because I swear to God that I will never say this again. But I need it to be said. Ten years ago, you told me you loved me. You damn well meant it, too. Then you married Barbara. Now I want you to tell me why.”
I rocked back in my chair, felt my defensiveness, but couldn’t do anything about it. My arms crossed over my chest as if to protect my heart. My head rang, and I rubbed at my temples, but the sudden pain refused to die.
“You married Barbara because Ezra told you to.” She slapped her palm down on the table and I thought it sounded like a bone breaking. “Admit it. One time, Jackson, and I’ll never mention it again. You live Ezra’s life, his choices. Barbara’s family has a name; she went to the right schools, had the right friends. It’s true. Admit it. Damn it, Jackson, be a man.”
“No!” I shouted, suddenly on my feet. “I won’t admit it because it’s not true.” I spun from the table and pounded upstairs to get the rest of my clothes and my keys. She was wrong and I refused to take any more. Her voice followed me.
“What about children?” she shouted. “You always wanted children!”
“Shut up, Vanessa!” My voice broke as I said it. I knew that she did not deserve it, but I could not yell loudly enough.
“Whose idea was that? Huh? Whose idea, Jackson? You used to talk about it all the time. Lots of kids! That’s what you always planned—a houseful of them, a family to raise right, so you could be the father you wanted Ezra to be. Damn it, Jackson. Don’t run away from this. It’s too important!”
I ignored her. My shirt was on the floor and I found my keys under the bed. I pulled my shoes on without socks. The house was hot, stifling; I had to get out. I shouldn’t have come at all.
She was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t leave,” she said. “Not like this.”
Her voice and eyes were both soft, but it wasn’t going to work. “Let me by,” I told her. She stepped onto the first step, crowding me. Looking down, I saw the part in her hair, the light freckles on the bridge of her nose, eyes that looked too wide to be innocent.
“Please,” she said. “Please, Jackson. I’m sorry. I take it back. Please don’t go.”
“Step aside, Vanessa.” The pain in her face cut me, but I couldn’t stop. This was her fight, not mine.
“Jackson, please. It’s been so long. I can’t lose you again. Stay. Have another beer.” She reached for my hand.
The stairs were tilting; I couldn’t catch my breath, and I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I needed air, needed to get out. I shook my hand free and pushed past her.
“I shouldn’t have come,” I said, hitting the screen door so hard, it slammed against the house.
I felt her behind me, heard her steps on the porch and then on the gravel. Her breath was loud, and I knew that if I turned, I would see tears. So I didn’t turn; I marched on, and she caught me at the car.
“Don’t go,” she said.
I didn’t turn around. She put one hand on my shoulder, the other on the side of my neck, where heat still burned. She laid her face upon my back, and I hesitated. I wanted no one thing in my life more than to stay, but she wanted too much. Truth was not my friend.
“Please don’t make me beg,” she said, and I knew how much the words cost her. But I didn’t turn around; I couldn’t—one look at her and I would stay. And I wanted to; that’s what killed me. If possible, I would never leave, but I needed my anger. I couldn’t give it up.
“I’m sorry, Vanessa. I shouldn’t have come at all.”
She didn’t try to stop me as I got into the car. I backed away without looking at her. I drove too fast, wheels loose in the gravel. I kept my eyes down and didn’t look up until I was almost to the bend in the road. Then I saw her in the mirror, on her knees in the dust, face buried in her rough farm-girl hands. She looked small. She looked crushed.
My anger drained away and left me shaken to the core. She was the only woman I’d ever loved, and this was all she had of me, a palmful of dusty tears.
Sweet Lord, I thought. What have I done?
CHAPTER 9
I stopped at the paved road, as sick as if I’d just stepped on a baby bird. I couldn’t bear to think about what had just happened, but it was in me now, inescapable. I felt her tears, her fingers, so light on my neck, and the plane of her cheek against my back. I reached for something solid: the wheel, the dash, the clock that read just after four. I took a deep breath and put the car back into gear. Then I remembered Detective Mills and our three o’clock meeting. Somewhere between cheating on my wife and destroying the woman I loved, I’d forgotten about it.
I stepped on the gas. The road ran black beneath me. I recognized a song on the radio and wondered when I’d turned it on. I punched at the button as hills rolled past on greased tracks and farmland fell away. Trailer parks and strip malls sprang up to follow me as I drove back into town, the smell of sex on me like a scarlet letter. I ca
lled the house to see if Barbara was there and hung up when she answered. Her voice was like syrup, and I considered speaking, just to see if it would sour; but if so, it would sour with questions I was not prepared to answer. I needed to calm down, get a grip. Chill the fuck out.
At the office, I used Ezra’s shower to rinse sin from my flesh and wondered how many times he’d used it for the same purpose. Never, I thought. Ezra knew women but never knew guilt. Did I envy that in him? No. I nourished my guilt for the soul that it implied, and as I left, I gave Ezra’s safe the finger. Fuck everybody. I needed some Work time. Maybe I’d get a dog after all.
Outside, I made it to my car before I saw movement from the corner of my eye. I spun around.
“I saw your car.” It was Douglas, the district attorney. He looked tired, his eyes puffy above a nose the color of old wine. He looked at me strangely and I wondered if he’d been drinking. “You didn’t answer my knock, so I waited.”
I said nothing. For some reason, my heart refused to slow down. He walked across the ten feet that separated us, stopping just before he got too close. His eyes moved over me, taking in my wet hair and disheveled clothes. I felt heat in my cheeks but couldn’t stop the flush. Douglas was a hard man to lie to. “Everything okay?” he asked, shoving a piece of gum into his mouth.
“Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “Yes.” I knew I was repeating myself.
“I ask because I just got off the phone with Detective Mills. She says you’d better be dead already. It’s the only excuse that she’ll accept.” His eyes glittered more than twinkled and I realized they were his black eyes, his courtroom eyes. “Are you dead?” he asked.
“Close,” I said, and tried a smile that died on the vine. “Look, I’m sorry about not meeting Mills. I had my reasons.”
“Care to share them?” Douglas asked, crowding me without taking a step.
“I do not.” He was unimpressed by the anger in my voice. He shoved his hands into his pockets and studied me. I tried to give him my poker face, my lawyer face, but there in the shadow of my dead father’s building, it was hard. I had no idea what he saw, but I knew it wasn’t the calm, collected face I’d once practiced in the mirror.
“I’m going to tell you something, Work, and I want you to listen well.” I didn’t even blink. “This is the last thing I can tell you as a friend. It’s good advice, so you should take it.” He paused, as if waiting for me to thank him, and sighed when I didn’t. “Don’t fuck around with Mills,” he told me. “I mean it. She’s pissed-off and frustrated. That makes her the most dangerous person in your world.”
I felt a horrible chill move over me. “What are you saying, Douglas?”
“I’m not saying anything. This conversation isn’t happening.”
“Am I a suspect?” I asked.
“I told you the other day that everybody is a suspect.”
“That’s no answer,” I replied.
Douglas rolled his shoulders and looked around the empty lot, up at the roofline, then put his eyes back on mine. He pursed his lips. “Ezra was a rich man,” he said, as if that explained it all.
“So?” I didn’t get it.
“Jesus, Work.” Exasperation was in his voice, and he sucked in a deep breath as if to cool his temper. “Mills is looking for a motive and going through the usual suspects. I assume Ezra had a will.”
“Oh shit,” I said. “Are you kidding me?”
“Barbara has expensive tastes, and the practice . . .” He paused and shrugged.
“Come on, Douglas.”
“I’m just stating the obvious, okay? You’re a brilliant tactician, Work. You have one of the sharpest legal minds I’ve ever known. Hell, you’re even decent in the courtroom. But you’re no rainmaker. You won’t take personal injury cases anymore and you won’t kiss ass to get big clients. That’s what built the practice and made Ezra rich. But a law practice is a business. Even Mills knows that, and she’s been around enough to know that yours is barely solvent.
“Look. I know you didn’t kill your father. Just don’t give Mills a reason to look your way. Cooperate, for Christ’s sake. Don’t be a goddamn idiot. Give her what she wants and get on with your life. It’s not complicated math.”
“It’s bullshit math!”
“One plus one is two. Add six or seven zeros and the math gets even more compelling.”
I was stunned by his words, and his face had a sharp edge, as if he could cut me open and tell the future in my guts.
“Ezra had a lot of zeros,” he concluded.
My insides twisted as if already between his thick, meaty fingers. “Has Mills discussed this with you?” I asked, needing to know.
“Not in so many words,” the DA admitted. “But it doesn’t take a genius, Work. I know where her mind is going with this. So do yourself a favor. Bend over, take it like a man, and move on with your life.”
“Did Mills tell you that someone tried to kill me last night?” I asked.
He frowned at the interruption. “She may have mentioned something about it.”
“And?”
Douglas shrugged, his eyes far from mine. “She doesn’t believe you.”
“And you don’t, either.” I finished his unspoken thought.
“She’s the detective,” he said flatly.
“You think I made it up?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” A simple statement.
“Somebody pushed that chair down the stairs, Douglas. If they didn’t mean to kill me, they sure as hell meant to do bodily harm.”
“And you’re saying it’s connected to your father’s death?”
I thought about the safe and the missing gun. “Maybe. It’s possible.”
“You should know that Mills doesn’t buy it. She thinks you’re generating confusion, clouding the issues. If I thought you did it, and I’m just saying if, playing devil’s advocate, then I’d be inclined to agree with Mills. It’s Occam’s Razor, Work. The simplest explanation is usually right.”
“That’s crap, Douglas. Somebody tried to kill me.”
“Just give Mills your alibi, Work, and whatever else she wants. Let her check it out and be done with it.”
I thought about what Douglas was asking me to talk about. I could hear the sound of a neck breaking under terrible force. “You know what happened that night, Douglas.” It was a statement, a novel writ large.
“I know your mother died in a tragic fall, but that’s all I know.” His voice was unapologetic.
“It’s enough,” I said.
“No, Work, it’s not. Because it’s also the night your father disappeared and for all Mills knows, you and Jean were the last ones to see him alive. It’s important, and no one’s going to dance around your tender sensibilities. Your father was murdered. This is a murder investigation. Talk to her.”
I thought that if he said murder one more time, I’d murder him. I didn’t need a reminder. I saw my father’s flesh-less jawbone every time I closed my eyes, and even now I fought the image of his remains under the knives and saws of the medical examiner in Chapel Hill.
Douglas loomed. The silence behind his last words demanded a response, but I didn’t look up. He wanted me to cough up the memory of that night like a bloody tumor so that Mills could paw through it, spread it out like finger paint, and discuss it with other cops over coffee and cigarettes. Cops I fought every day in court. I knew how it worked, the twisted voyeurism of people who had seen it all yet never got enough. I knew how they speculated about rape victims in the halls behind the courtrooms, pawed through photographs, and dissected a person’s humanity in the quest to be the funniest cop of the day. I’d heard them joke about how people had been killed: Did it hurt? Do you think she begged? Was she alive when they fucked her? Conscious when the knife first touched her pale skin? Did he see it coming? I heard he wet himself.
It was a dark farce, a tragedy played out in the pain of victims in every town in the country. But this time it was my pain. My f
amily. My secrets.
I saw Mother at the bottom of the stairs, her open eyes and blood-flecked mouth, her neck bent like a cruel joke. I saw it all: the red dress she wore, the position of her hands, the Cinderella slipper that lay upon the stairs where it had fallen. The memory was cruel and it cut, but if I looked up, I might see Ezra, and that would be worse. I wasn’t ready for that. I couldn’t do it. Not again. For if I looked beyond Ezra, I would see Jean. I would see what that night did to her, all of it, frozen on her face in that horrible tableau that still chased through my dreams. There was horror in her face, and rage, an animal force that transformed her. In that face I saw a stranger, someone who could kill, and that terrified me now more than ever. What had that night made of my sister? And was she now forever lost?
If I talked to Mills, it would all come back. She would poke and pry, try with her cop mind to ferret it out. She might see things, and I couldn’t have that.
“No problem,” I told the district attorney. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Be sure that you do,” he replied.
“Don’t worry.” I unlocked my car, desperate to escape. “Thanks for worrying about me,” I said, but my sarcasm was wasted effort. I climbed into my car, but he stopped me with a hand on my door.
“By the way,” he said. “What were you doing the night Ezra disappeared?”
I tried to meet his eyes. “Are you asking for my alibi?” I asked, as if he was joking. He said nothing, and I laughed, but it sounded hollow. “As a friend or as the district attorney?”
“Maybe a little of both,” he said.
“You’re a funny man,” I told him.
“Humor me,” he said.
I wanted to get out of there, away from his questions and his flat eyes. So I did what any man would have done under the circumstances: I lied.
“I was home,” I told him. “In bed. With Barbara.”
He smiled a thin smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asked me.
“No,” I told him, surprised. “That wasn’t hard at all.”