Suddenly he wanted to protect her, heal her somehow. And he wanted to kill whoever had done this.
He drew her gently down on the bed, and held her until her breathing grew quiet, and his arm turned numb. And still he didn’t change his position, until he was certain she was fast asleep, and wouldn’t wake if he moved. Then, lying on his back, he let his own tears come, sliding silent and hot down his temples, into his hair.
Jesus, if anything had happened to her ... if she really had been hurt. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
[372] “I love you, baby,” he whispered, turning his head so he could see her. In the purple glow of the street light, her profile stood out against the pillow like a cameo’s. He watched a vein throbbing in her smooth temple, and was filled with tenderness.
What had happened to them? Why had she found it so hard to tell him about this? In the beginning, they had told each other everything. ... They had loved each other so much he had at times wondered if it was possible to love too much. It was as if his passion for her had somehow stripped away some necessary outer layer, a psychic skin he needed in order to survive. And so, perhaps they had both withdrawn just a bit. That was okay, that was natural.
But now ...
Brian, smoothing his hand over the sweet curve of her cheek, thought, We moved too far the other way. ...
The irony was, he loved her as much as ever. Maybe more.
But you loved Rose, too, a sly voice whispered in his head, and still you lost her.
Rose ...
Is loving someone enough? he wondered. Or is God like Stromboli, making us think we’re in control of our fate while turning us all into jackasses?
Jesus, he wished he knew. He wished ... he wished he could make it all turn out all right between them.
If only she could have a baby, our baby. He felt a stab of loss. He remembered each baby brother his mother had brought home from the hospital; how he and his brothers would all crowd at the window, looking down, watching Pop help Ma out of the cab, a fleecy blue bundle in her arms. Then the miracle of those tiny fingers and toes, and the sweet baby smell filling the whole apartment like the aroma of baking bread.
Brian wished he could talk about it with Rachel. But each time, she turned away, grew silent. Was it so hard for her?
Or—the bitter thought sneaked in—maybe she didn’t want a baby as much as he did. Maybe that was the reason she clammed up. Did she care more about that damn clinic than having a family? Or maybe even than about him ... ?
[373] Brian pushed that thought away, suddenly afraid. If that was true, then what?
Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he rose from the bed, and covered Rachel with the afghan. Yes, let her sleep. She needed it badly. And tomorrow, they would start over. They would talk ... yes, they would talk.
Chapter 24
Rose yawned, staring at the papers spread out on her kitchen table. The paragraphs from the affidavit and from the Memorandum of Law were all blurred together. She was so tired she couldn’t think anymore, her mind soggy as that mess of coffee grounds in the sink. She would finish tomorrow, set her alarm, get up at the crack of dawn.
She glanced at the electric clock over the refrigerator. Two a.m. It was tomorrow. Mother of God. That left her four hours to sleep. An hour to shower, get dressed, gulp instant coffee, then lay out her argument before she was due in court.
Who are you kidding? a sharp voice cut through her drowsiness. You wouldn’t have slept anyway. You’d have lain in bed, staring up, thinking about Brian. Wondering when ... or if ... you were going to see him again. Praying it would be soon.
The phone rang, piercing the stillness.
Rose jumped, thinking automatically, Something bad. Marie? Did Pete put her in the hospital this time? Hurt one of the kids? Or is it Nonnie? Clare calling again to say Nonnie was sick?
Then a sweet flash of hope. Brian? Oh please, God.
She lunged for the phone on the wall over the butcher-block counter.
“Rose?” a voice asked the instant she picked up. Familiar. Weary.
“Max!” she cried. An instant of disappointment, followed by alarm. Max had never called her this late before. “What’s wrong? Art you okay?”
A brief pause, then, “I’m okay. Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. Did I wake you?”
“Not a chance. I was working on the Metcalf case. Anyway, it [375] wouldn’t matter even if you had. Something’s wrong. Or you wouldn’t be calling at this hour.”
“This is crazy, I know ... but can I come up? I’m at a phone booth on the corner.”
“Of course,” she said, not hesitating for even an instant. Max had never asked her for anything. After all he’d done for her.
She knew she wouldn’t get to bed at all tonight, that she’d be dead tomorrow in court, and probably look it, too. But so what?
She hung up, noting with dismay that she was wearing her oldest, rattiest terry robe. Oh well, Max had seen her worse than this. Anyway, he wasn’t coming up here for a tryst.
But the apartment—dear God—the first time Max would be seeing it, and it looked like Armageddon. She dashed out into the living room, scooping up old coffee mugs, scattered newspapers, clothes tossed over the backs of chairs. When was the last time she’d vacuumed? God knows. Weeks. Since the party Patsy threw when she got the part of Malka in the bus and truck crew of Fiddler on the Roof. Now Patsy was in Lexington, Kentucky, or was it Louisville? Either way, Rose had no one to blame but herself.
She remembered how she’d fallen in love with this place, clutter and all, the first time she’d walked in. The top floor of a brownstone on Twenty-first and Tenth. And so sunny, like a greenhouse, all that light pouring in the tall windows, plants everywhere—hanging from curtain rods, sprouting in mayonnaise jars on windowsills, sitting in huge Mexican clay pots on the floor. The walls a crazy quilt of old playbills and movie posters. Big plump Moroccan leather cushions scattered across the floor in place of a sofa, a huge brass hookah in the corner like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
Patsy was an acquaintance of an acquaintance, a singer-dancer-actress. She’d been looking for a roommate to replace her last one, another actress, who’d moved to L.A. Rose, feeling hemmed in by her cramped, dark studio on the Lower East Side, had moved in that very week. And now, with Patsy off on the road for a good year, she had the place all to herself.
Max will see through all this mess, see how wonderful it is, she told herself. And he’ll certainly understand why I’m too busy to do a lot of cleaning.
She carried the gathered clothing into the bedroom, and dumped [376] it in the middle of the bed—her wonderful bed, with its antique wrought-iron frame, painted white. The spread was exquisite, hand-woven mohair, the color of a desert sunset. She had spent a fortune on it at a crafts fair, imagining how Brian would love it. How good it would feel to be snuggled with him under its fleecy folds.
Now with a pang of longing, she thought: Please, God, let Brian come to me. I’ve waited so long already.
The shrilling of the door buzzer startled her. Max. She buzzed him in downstairs, and then hurried to unlatch the door.
In the hallway, she looked down and watched him slowly climbing the stairs. As he neared the landing, she saw that he looked pale, rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. His gray suit was badly creased, tie looped at an angle like a hangman’s noose.
“Hi,” he said, giving her a crooked grin.
Rose was taken aback, a little horrified even. She had never seen him like this.
“Max, are you drunk?”
He met her gaze with an expression of exaggerated sobriety. “As a matter of fact, no. I tried, I sincerely tried to get drunk—the bartender at P.J.’s can testify to that—but sorry to say, no cigar.”
Then she noticed he was carrying a small zippered overnight bag. “Going somewhere?” she asked.
“You might say that.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “I moved out of the house. I was on my way dow
ntown. There’s a decent hotel near the office. But I guess I need a friend right now more than a place to sleep. Thanks for letting me come.”
“You know, I kept waiting for the right time to ask you over.” She smiled nervously. “When things would let up at work. When I got the time to do a thorough cleaning. But it never seemed to happen.”
Stepping inside, his eyes sweeping about the living room, he said, “Don’t change a thing. It’s perfect, just the way it is.”
Suddenly, she felt happy and relieved. Then she felt it sinking in; he’d just told her why he was here now. He’d moved out. Left his wife.
She should have been surprised. But she wasn’t. Maybe because Max never talked about his marriage. Yes, she had sensed his melancholy, a sort of hidden despair underneath his brisk energy, his [377] quick smile. And she had noticed things, little things—like the way Max unconsciously frowned when he was on the phone with his wife, sometimes pinching the bridge of his nose, as if his head ached. And how his face would light up when his daughter, Mandy, dropped by the office, but would seem tense, even a bit wary, when it was Bernice.
Rose, looking at him, felt the usual responses spring to mind, I’m sorry ... maybe you can work it out ... things always look better in the morning.
But she could see that what Max needed most now was someone who would listen. Not a lot of platitudes. I’ve known Max for how long? Years and years. And I know so little about him, really. What goes on inside him.
Suddenly she wanted to be the kind of friend to Max that he’d been for her.
“Never mind a hotel,” she said. “There’s plenty of room here. You can have Patsy’s room. And for heaven’s sake, come in. Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You look as if you could use a whole pot.”
“I didn’t mean ... no, I couldn’t do that.”
“My coffee isn’t as bad as all that.”
“You know what I meant. It’s sweet of you, Rose. But ... oh hell, this is my problem. I have to handle it on my own.”
“For once in your life, Max Griffin,” she scolded, “will you stop being Mr. Tough Guy, and let someone help you for a change?”
He hesitated, but before he could get another word in, she was sailing past him into the kitchen.
“The back room to your left, you can leave your things in there,” she called over her shoulder. “Turn on the light so you don’t trip on the gym equipment. Patsy’s an exercise freak. Keeps me in shape, too. One look at that torture chamber and I’m cured forever of hot fudge sundae attacks.”
When she returned with the coffee, Max was seated on one of the hassocks, looking ungainly, out of place. Plopped on his rear with his knees sticking up in the air, ankles showing. He reminded her of a tourist in a strange country doing his damnedest to fit in. But she kept from smiling as she squatted beside him, and set the tray between them on the frayed Oriental rug.
[378] “Ever use that thing?” Max asked, pointing at the hookah.
“Lord, no. I’m not even sure what it’s for. Hash, I suppose.”
He looked thoughtful. “I defended this kid for Possession once. Ounce of marijuana. Judge wanted to throw the book at him. I got it knocked down to a misdemeanor. Kid couldn’t pay my fee, but he slipped something in my pocket as we were leaving the courthouse. A marijuana cigarette, a joint. I brought it home, told Bernice we should smoke it, see what all the hoopla was about. You know what she said? She said she’d just as soon stick her head in the toilet.” A smile started, then faltered, and finally his whole face sagged with misery. “You wake up one day, after almost twenty years, and realize, we’re farther away from each another now even than before we met ... oh Christ ... if it weren’t for Mandy ...” He broke off, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Rose took his hand. “You don’t have to talk about it, you know, unless you feel like it,” she said. “It’s not a requirement for being here.”
He looked at her, studying her face. Rose felt a light chill tiptoe up her spine, and remembered the rainy day in London he’d kissed her in the taxi.
She wished he would kiss her now.
Crazy, she thought, I don’t love Max ... not that way. But, oh, she ached to feel a man’s arms about her, his breath hot against her neck, his naked body pressed against hers. It had been so long.
Stop it, she told herself, it’s Brian you want, not Max.
Brian. Oh yes. Tonight, sitting across from him in that diner, she had wanted Brian more than she had ever wanted anything.
Rose felt a hot thickness in her throat. Oh Jesus, don’t let me cry, she thought. How selfish, and how unfair. Max didn’t come here to console me.
She poured the coffee into thick hand-turned ceramic mugs, and passed him one, wishing she could find exactly the right thing to say, or do, that would make his pain go away.
Max sat back, cradling his cup in both hands. Something is different about her, he thought. She’s more alive than I’ve ever seen her. And so beautiful. Christ, she’s glowing like ...
[379] Like a woman in love.
He felt his heart catch inside his chest.
Had she met someone? Had she fallen in love?
The thought hurt, especially after what he’d gone through tonight. Saying good-bye to Monkey, who had sobbed, clung to him. The hardest thing he’d ever done. He ached as if part of his body had been physically torn away.
Sure, he knew it would be better in the end. He would see her often. They’d take trips together. He’d get an apartment in the city, a place where she could put her feet up on the sofa, have her friends over for pizza without being afraid if someone spilled Coke on the rug it would give her mother a heart attack. But still it hurt so goddamn much.
Tears stung his eyes like grains of sand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not very good company right now.”
“Don’t apologize.” He felt her hand on his shoulder, warm, comforting.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? For years, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to leave ... and now I feel like such a coward. Like I’m abandoning Mandy. All those Judy Blume books she’s always reading, all that teenage angst—well, now she’ll be living it. A weekend daughter. God, I love her so much. It hurts to love someone that much.”
“I know.” Rose’s dark eyes filled with pain. Then, she smiled. “I think your daughter is very lucky. I would have given my soul to have had a father like you. Even part time.”
Max now felt the warmth of the coffee mug, as if it were stealing into his fingers, up his arms. Dear, wonderful Rose. She knew exactly the right thing to say.
If only ...
Stop it, no. He’d come here for what she was offering—friendship, a little sympathy. And that’s it.
Max pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Neatly ironed, folded into a perfect triangle. Like a parting shot from Bernice.
He thought of Bernice sitting on the end of the bed watching him pack, dry-eyed, stiff-faced. She had asked only that he leave her a telephone number, “in case of an emergency.”
With Bernice, every moment of life was an emergency. The [380] straw that broke the camel’s back was yesterday, coming home to find Monkey huddled in the bathtub, crying, her hair in wet tangles plastered to her back, the water cold and scummy. “I’m dirty,” she’d choked. “Mom says I’m dirty. And it won’t wash off. I don’t want anyone to touch me ever again.”
Max had felt sour panic rising in his throat. Jesus, was it a boy? Had some boy touched her, forced her to do something? And had Bernice found out about it? Was that what this was all about?
He had longed to scoop her up, wrap her up in a towel, as he had when she was little. But seeing her like that, hunched over her bony knees, shivering, miserable, he had known what she needed more than comfort was a little dignity. He brought her a towel, and held it stretched out so she could stand up without his seeing her full nakedness. At fifteen, she was so shy, so self-conscious about her body. And only when she was wrapped up did he hug her, and tell
her that nothing could ever make him stop loving her, or think she was dirty.
When Monkey was calmer, he’d gone looking for Bernice.
He’d found her in the laundry room. Hair bound up in a scarf. Hands encased in huge yellow rubber gloves. Face grim. Stuffing clothes, sheets, pillowcases into the washing machine. A huge pile of laundry at her feet, more in the blue plastic basket on top of the dryer.
“What’s wrong with Mandy?” he had cried, sick with worry, by now imagining even worse things than a boy her own age touching her—a pervert exposing himself perhaps, an older man coming onto her.
Bernice looked up at him, her face grim.
“She was sent home today with a note from the school nurse. Lice. She’s crawling with lice.” Her mouth curled in disgust, and she backed away a step, as if she thought he, too, having touched Monkey, might be infected.
Max understood then. How Bernice must have humiliated Mandy, made her feel dirty, unloved. All because of something the poor kid couldn’t even help.
He did something then that he’d never done, and never would again.
He slapped Bernice, full across the face.
[381] He felt like a world-class jerk for having hit her. But he felt even more ashamed of all the years he’d wasted staying married to a woman he didn’t love, who didn’t love him.
He’d stayed with Bernice because of Monkey. Stupid. How he and Bernice felt about each other was hurting Monkey. No, it was time to get out, salvage what he could for himself and his little girl.
So here he was.
Now panic was rising in him. What if he struck out all over again? What if now that he was free, he didn’t stand a chance with Rose after all?
Where would he go from here? Would he become one of those pathetic middle-aged men who grow their sideburns long, buy trendy clothes, hang out in singles bars trying to pick up women half their age?
Then he looked at Rose, at her shining face.
She was the one, the only woman he wanted.
And if there was even the slightest chance, he would wait. However long it took.
Garden of Lies Page 43