Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  "I wish you'd sit down."

  "Would you have let her die?"

  She rises and comes to his side of the desk, walks behind him and shuts the door. She approaches him, but he takes a small step away. She understands not to touch him.

  "Will you please sit down?" she asks.

  "Answer my question." He still stares at the papers on the desk as he talks.

  "Would you have let her die? If they hadn't believed I was her alibi, and they'd convicted her, would you have let them execute her?"

  "Of course not," she whispers. "I would have come forward."

  "How do I know that?"

  "Jack."

  " How do I know that, Claire? "

  "Because I'm telling you."

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  When he opens them, he sees students through her large window streaming across campus. For an instant, he remembers doing the same with her, hand in hand, so many years ago. Both

  innocently unaware of how much pain they would inflict on each other.

  "You've told me a lot of things," he says. "Not all, I know now, were true."

  "How can you say that to me?" Her voice flares with anger. "After everything you—"

  "Don't. Don’t try to say what I did somehow justifies your withholding exculpatory evidence. You knew she was innocent."

  "No! I didn't know she was innocent.

  And neither do you. Just because she was there with you the whole time doesn't mean she wasn't involved."

  "Do you hear yourself, Claire? Fine, you want to call it potentially exculpatory evidence? Does that make you feel better?

  You had potentially exculpatory evidence and yet you didn't tell me, you didn't tell Earl. You didn't tell anyone."

  "Why would I? You got her off all on your own, remember?"

  "But what if I hadn't? What if I'd denied it? What if I'd agreed with her insistence that I would hurt you less if I continued with the lie?"

  She drops like a ragdoll into a guest chair. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

  "She didn't want me to confess to being her alibi, did you know that? She tried to talk me into keeping my mouth shut. You know why?"

  Claire simply stares up at him, waiting.

  Skeptical.

  "Because she didn't want to hurt you, or the kids. She knew what the truth would do to our family."

  "Oh, please." She grunts with disgust.

  "I'm supposed to somehow think better of her for that? She fooled you then, and she's fooling you now if you believe that."

  "You think so? Look at the date of the cover note to her. She's known of this for over four years." He picks up the papers and waves them inches from her face, causing her to lean back and turn her head. "All this time, she's known. She knew your father had proof of her innocence—which also meant you

  probably did, too—and she kept it to herself. She left town to get out of our lives. She gave up everything so that we had a chance. Even as recently as today, she was doing everything in her power to keep me from knowing what he did."

  "Is that the story she's feeding you?"

  "No, it's the truth I've finally come to understand on my own. Everything she's done since the morning I woke up in her bed has been geared toward protecting our family."

  Claire winces at the image he just portrayed. "You really expect me to believe that? If she cared about our family you wouldn't have been in her bed!"

  "I don't care anymore what you believe. Think whatever you want. But the fact is, she was willing to risk prison, even death, to protect me, to protect you.

  Whereas you were willing to keep evidence to yourself that supported her innocence. Even knowing what might happen to her. That's despicable."

  "How dare you! How dare you say that to me after what you did!"

  "You can't compare what I did with this." He gives the papers another shake before dropping them on the desk. "I didn't set out to hurt you. She didn't set out to hurt you."

  "Well, like I said, if that's true, maybe you shouldn't have slept with each other."

  Her sarcasm only fuels his anger. "She knows that, Claire. I know that. Okay? We both know what we did was wrong. No one's trying to say that—"

  "But you still did it, didn't you?"

  "Yes. Yes. I've admitted that a million times. And you'll never let me forget it, will you? But you know what? The

  motivation was different. It was wrong, yes. It was so, so wrong. But we did it because of our feelings for each other, not to hurt you. Can you say the same for what you've done?"

  She looks up at him, stunned. It's the first time he's acknowledged to her his feelings for Jenny. He didn't use the word, but she heard it nevertheless. It's been firmly wedged between them for four years, an invisible barrier, though both tried to ignore it. Her expression softens as her fury deflates. "I didn't do it to hurt you," she says quietly. "I—"

  "You did it to hurt her. To get back at her for what we'd done."

  "No." Her next words come out in a whisper. "I did it so I wouldn't lose you."

  He laughs at that. "You'd let her die so you wouldn't lose me. Brilliant. But then you turned around and kicked me out of the house. Where's the logic in that?"

  "I wouldn't have let her die, Jack. And I was hurt. Can't you understand that?"

  She starts to cry but it has no effect on him. "I was so hurt."

  Shaking his head, he says, "Let me ask you one more thing, Claire. How long were you going to let me think she'd done it?"

  She stares up at him helplessly.

  "Forever. Right? Even after all this time, you're so hurt that you would have let me go to my grave thinking she was a murderer."

  She makes no effort to deny his

  allegation, and he knows for certain it's true.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought.'"

  He grabs the report from the desk and shoves it into the envelope. When he turns around to leave, he runs into the empty chair. He shoves it aside and heads for the door.

  "Jack, please. . ."

  He grips the door handle, but before he presses down to open it, he turns to look at her one more time. As improbable as it is, he keeps hoping she'll say something, anything, to convince him it's all a mistake.

  "Jack," she tries again. "Don't leave like this." She speaks so softly he barely hears her. But it doesn't matter. She could have screamed it, and it wouldn't have mattered.

  "I'll see you in court," he says, and he walks out of her office for the last time.

  He turns his phone off first thing. He drives away from the city just as he did the day after his arrest, but this time he heads southwest on I-44. He stops at Lion's Choice for a roast beef sandwich, fries and a Coke, at a liquor store for whiskey, and at the pharmacy for Tylenol PM. He then finds a hotel off the highway where he can spend the night undisturbed and, hopefully, unrecognized.

  He takes a shower and sits on the end of the bed. What now?

  He thinks about the day Michael was born. Claire woke in the middle of the night with labor pains. She cried out in her sleep, and the sound woke both of them at the same time. She laughed about that. She laughed right through the pain, and he loved it. He loved how he was married to a woman who could see the humor in her own pain, even as she knew it would soon get exponentially worse.

  How does one walk away from that?

  It had been raining when they went to bed the night before and it was still raining when they woke. A steady spring rain, just like today's, punctuated by distant thunder. By the time they left for the hospital at 5:12 a.m.—for some reason, he remembers the exact time—

  she claimed to be hungry and insisted they stop by Dierberg's to buy a box of yogurt popsicles.

  "They won't let you eat them," he said, reminding her of one of the many

  warnings they received in the childbirth classes.

  "Oh, I'll eat them, all right," she said, and fifteen minutes later they stood in an empty aisle of the b
rightly lit grocery store, slightly wet and shivering in front of the freezer case as she decided which brand of popsicles she wanted. Every few minutes she gasped and her right hand flew to the base of her belly, as if by putting it there, she could hold Michael inside a bit longer. Once, a stock boy stopped and asked if she was okay.

  "Fine," she said, suppressing a smile, "I simply wanted some popsicles before I have my baby."

  The stock boy's face paled, and once he'd turned the corner, Jack and Claire burst into laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks and it wasn't until she gasped again—louder this time—and her eyes got wider than he'd ever seen them, that he knew the tears were no longer from laughter.

  How does one walk away from that?

  They brought Michael home from the hospital two days after his birth. They placed him in his new crib with the Peter Rabbit sheets and matching mobile above his head—a theme Jack had complained was girlie—and watched as he quickly fell asleep. It was much too easy. They tiptoed into the family room and sat on the couch. Jack said to Claire, "What now?"

  They'd had nine months to prepare, but only then did they appreciate the full measure of how much their life had changed, that nothing would ever be the same again.

  He can't imagine moving forward, and yet he knows they can't go back.

  He thinks of all the times he jogged through the park near their house and saw the divorced dads desperately trying to entertain kids who would have rather been with their friends or in front of a computer screen. "How do you know they were divorced?" Claire asked once when he returned home and mentioned it to her. "Maybe they're just giving their wives a break." But he knew better. Even without the empty ring fingers to give them away, he knew. A man with an intact marriage, having no fear of the yawn of space before the next time he'd see his kids, would simply let them go with their friends or play on the computer. Time is less precious to those who have more of it.

  Later, he turns his phone back on to call Earl. The phone plays a symphony of tones to signal the receipt of backed-up voicemail and texts.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Earl asks angrily, but Jack hears his relief, too.

  "Are they looking for me?"

  "No, but only because the sick juror got sicker, and the judge decided to recess for the weekend. You're a lucky son of bitch."

  He remembers Mark's comment. You know, I almost envy you. If you had any balls, I would envy you. Some people never have that connection with another.

  "Yeah, that's me, all right."

  "Claire called me, frantic. What's going on?"

  Jack closes his eyes and lies back. The Tylenol is starting to have its effect. Or perhaps it's the whiskey. Or both. That was the plan. "She didn't tell you?" Of course she didn't. She'd have to admit she withheld exculpatory evidence that would have exonerated his client.

  "Tell me what? She asked if I knew where you were. What's going on, Jack?"

  "She had proof that Jenny is innocent."

  " What? "

  "Her dad, apparently, hired a PI to follow me after the first election. The night I stayed at Jenny's? The whole time I was under surveillance. And Jenny, too, by extension. Two unbiased witnesses, the PI and his assistant, knew Jenny never left her house. That's the one piece of information I was never able to testify to, not with certainty, not once I admitted that I'd slept part of the time."

  "Holy shit. How long has Claire known?"

  "Long enough. When I confronted her, she didn't deny that she's known all this time. I presume as soon as they reported to her dad, he reported to Claire."

  "Why was her dad having you

  followed?"

  Jack laughs bitterly at this. "I guess he knew what I didn't." Earl is quiet, and Jack imagines one silver eyebrow

  furrowing in confusion. "I remember him grilling me about Jenny the day after the election. Claire and I had stopped by her parents' house to pick up the kids and we ended up staying for dinner. He asked a lot of questions about my friendship with Jenny, when Claire was out of earshot, of course. I guess he suspected something between us and wanted to prove it to Claire."

  "How did you find this out?"

  Jack doesn't answer. Earl doesn't need to know.

  Earl's next words surprise Jack, not for their content, but for how quickly he jumped ahead to the thought. He senses where Jack's head is, and it's the last place he wants it to go. He loves Jack like a son, but he also loves Claire like a daughter.

  "She forgave you, Jack." His stern tone alone speaks the rest. Now it's your turn.

  "I thought so." He thinks of how she's still never told him she knows he didn't assault Celeste. How she wanted him to take the plea. She thought admitting guilt and serving two years was preferable to being wrongly convicted. She should be a court administrator, he thinks; she'd have the docket cleared in no time. He needs to tell Earl that Jenny didn't know about Maxine until after her arrest. He can't remember how he knows this. He needs to tell him about the letters, too, how Celeste sent them. Tomorrow is Saturday.

  Maybe he'll take Jamie and join the other dads at the park. Maybe he has a hat and some shades in the car that will help disguise him. He laughs again when he realizes he has a real buzz going. With the heel of his hand he wipes the single tear that slips from the corner of his eye.

  "I really thought so."

  At some point in the night his beeping phone wakes him and through bleary eyes he sees Jenny has texted him.

  U ok?

  He takes a mental inventory. By what standard? he wants to ask.

  It takes all the effort he can muster to text her back.

  I'm ok, thx

  He takes two more pills and they knock him out good. He wakes ten hours later unsure of where he is or why he's there.

  At once he remembers, and when he does, the fight in him returns. He refuses to spend the rest of the trial sleeping in a hotel room. He won't even spend it sleeping at Mark's. Possession is nine tenths of the law. He's going home.

  The fight in Claire has returned, too, because she's waiting in the laundry room, arms crossed, when he comes in from the garage. She must have heard his car. The other door at the far end of the short, narrow room leading into the kitchen is shut. The air is much too close.

  "Where have you been?" she asks.

  He walks by her in the direction of the kitchen, but she grabs his arm.

  "You're not going to do this, Jack.

  You're not going to run off to her every time you're pissed at me and then wander home when the mood strikes you. You can go to hell if you think I'll put up with that."

  He almost laughs. "Damn, you caught me again." He snaps his finger in mock disbelief. "Yep, that's exactly what I did. I left your office and I went straight to her, and we fucked each other all night." He can't believe he said it. He can't believe it's come to this. He's never spoken to Claire like that, and in all the years he's known her, she's never been what he thinks of now as shrill and spiteful. But he can't stop himself, and he suspects she can't either. "And this time you didn't even need your dad's help. Here, I'm sure he'll want the evidence." He pulls out the receipts from the pitiful night before—

  the hotel, the pharmacy, the liquor store, Lion's Choice—and slams them onto the dryer. He glares at her. "You're fuckin'

  crazy, you know that?"

  She stands, stunned, without looking at the crumpled papers.

  "I spent the night alone in a fuckin'

  hotel, okay? Trying to figure out what the hell happened to us, because God knows a marriage isn't supposed to be the nightmare ours has become."

  "I'll tell you what happened! You—"

  "I know. You don't have to repeat it for the hundredth time. It's my fault. I know that. I really do know that. And I'm sorry.

  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I can't say it enough. But I also can't go back and change things, and you, apparently, require that in order to forgive me. So I guess we're stuck."

  "What's that supposed to mea
n?"

  "It means when the trial is over, you and I need to figure out the best way to do this without hurting the kids more than we already have. I guess if I'm convicted, it'll be figured out for us. If not . . . " He shrugs. "I don't know."

  "What's this, Jack?"

  He sighs. "Claire . . ." Is he suggesting they split up? "I don't know. I don't know."

  A wave of tears swells in her eyes. He forces himself to look, to acknowledge the pain he's causing her. But he's still so angry at what she did and that she hasn't even begun to accept responsibility for it.

  The words "I'm sorry" haven't crossed her lips.

  She plants her hands on her hips. "I guess it's easier when there's someone waiting in the wings, isn't it? Well, let me ask you this: What happens when you wake up one day and realize life's not perfect with her, either?"

  "What are you talking about? What life with her?"

  But it's as if she didn't even hear the question. She's made her assumptions and she won't hear otherwise. "What happens when the attraction wears off? Because it will. When the things you think are so sexy and charming are outweighed by the things you find irritating? When you see her at her worst, when she's angry about something but taking it out on you because you're the nearest target? Or when she's angry at you because it's your day to see the kids but she has other plans for you and you tell her, sorry, my kids come first. Or will you trade them in, too?"

  "Stop it. You sound ridiculous."

  "It's easy to think so highly of her, isn't it, when she's not the one who yells at the kids, when she's not the one who's crabby when she gets home from work because she knows she still has to cook dinner, and clean the house, and do the laundry

  —" She suddenly spots the supplies on the shelf above the washing machine. She yanks at a box of fabric softener sheets and flings it at him. He dodges and the box grazes his shoulder and falls forgotten to the floor. "You wait and see how attracted to her you are when she's doing load after load of your stinking laundry! You wait. What happens when all of a sudden another woman looks good to you and you can't figure out why? When, once again, you can't keep it in your pants? You think she'll react differently than I have? You think she won't care when you cheat on her?"