Blood Red

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Um, actually . . . we’re closed.”

  She looks at her watch. “What time do you close?”

  “Well, the kitchen closes at nine-­thirty on weeknights, so . . .” He shrugs and adds, “I’m really sorry.”

  Her pleasant tone and expression evaporate. “I’m not asking for another entrée. Just some hot water so that I can finish my tea.”

  You just did, he wants to say.

  Instead, he offers another unapologetic apology.

  She scowls and looks over at the man at the next table, clearly expecting him to speak up and protest this outrage. He turns a page of his book as if to punctuate the fact that he’s ignoring them both.

  With a beleaguered sigh, the woman goes back to typing on her iPad, probably posting a negative online review about the rude busboy at Marrana’s Trattoria.

  Five minutes later, she’s still typing and Patty is still in the ladies’ room when the man abruptly snaps his book closed, reaches for the check folder, glances at the bill, and tucks a few bills inside. He stands, retrieves a navy peacoat from the rack, and heads for the door with a cursory “Thanks.”

  “Good night,” Mick calls after him, hoping the female customer will take the hint.

  She does, so promptly that for a moment Mick wonders whether they’d arranged some kind of secret rendezvous without him noticing.

  But as he locks the door and flips the sign, he sees them walking in opposite directions down the street, neither taking a backward glance.

  This isn’t the first time Rowan’s looked for Rick since she moved away from Westchester County. But never before has it seemed so important to find him.

  The problem with a name like Richard Walker is that you can never be sure you’ve found the right one based on the name alone. There are hundreds of Richard Walkers scattered through the tri-­state area, and thousands beyond.

  She scans page after page of search results, looking for a listing that fits everything she knew about him before they lost touch thirteen years ago. She remembers that his favorite color was orange, that he was left-­handed, that he was obsessed with airplanes as a little boy, that his family’s house burned down not long before he graduated high school.

  Those details don’t count, but they come rushing back at her along with countless others, none of which are useful. She doesn’t recall—­or more likely never knew—­concrete details like his birth date and graduation years and wedding date; the name or location of his Midwestern hometown, his parents’ names, or even what he did for a living.

  He’d grown up dreaming of becoming an airline pilot, but that hadn’t happened because, as he told her, “I could barely afford college, let alone flight training, and the military didn’t want me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Smoke inhalation from the fire—­I had a collapsed lung, and it took me a long time to heal.”

  He was between jobs when she knew him, and she can’t even remember what his career had been, only that it had nothing to do with aviation. It was insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

  She clicks on one Richard Walker entry after another, looking for details that might fit. He’d be in his late forties or early fifties, and is probably still somewhere in New York. The package was postmarked there, and packed with a crumpled local newspaper.

  Why the hell would he do such a thing after all these years?

  The man she’d known hadn’t seemed capable of a malicious prank.

  Okay, so maybe he didn’t send the package.

  Maybe it was someone else.

  His wife, Vanessa? Had she, after all these years, somehow found out what happened?

  But nothing happened! Not really.

  That’s what Rowan told herself afterward. And, all right, when time eventually burned off the fog that seemed to have settled over her in those days, she knew it wasn’t “nothing.”

  But it wasn’t what it might have been, what it undoubtedly would have been if the smoke alarm hadn’t gone off, or if she’d ever dared let herself be alone in a room with Rick for even five minutes after that day . . .

  But I didn’t. I made sure.

  Even if Vanessa thought something had happened, it’s hard for Rowan to imagine her doing something like this. She was a Wall Street executive, the breadwinner while Rick stayed at home with the kids, two of whom were hers from a prior marriage.

  Rowan would wave at her sometimes as she scurried to and from her car in a suit with a satchel over her shoulder and a cell phone pressed to her ear. She’d wave back distractedly, setting herself apart from the wistful working moms who loved to tell Rowan how lucky she was to be at home with the kids; lucky that she never missed a parent conference or a choir concert or had to scramble on sick-­kid days and snow days . . .

  She only recalls one snow day when they were living in Westchester. November thirtieth. That was the day.

  Maybe Vanessa found out about—­

  But nothing happened! Nothing happened!

  Or was it someone else?

  Only one other person besides Rick Walker knows about that day.

  You shouldn’t have told! Why did you tell?

  The words that have been marching through Rowan’s mind all night like a news crawl are the same ones she’d thought as soon as she’d unburdened her deep, dark secret years ago.

  So many difficult moments in her life were impulse-­driven, especially back then. But at least she confided in someone she trusted. Someone who promised never to tell.

  But promises can be broken.

  From the driver’s seat in the municipal parking lot off Market Street, Casey has a clear view of Marrana’s restaurant when the last remaining waitress and busboy emerge. The woman locks the door after them and has a quick word with the kid before lighting a cigarette and walking off down the street smoking it.

  Rowan Mundy’s youngest son is left alone on the deserted sidewalk to wait for his ride home.

  It’s an interesting, and tempting, scenario to be sure. Ever the opportunist, Casey clenches the wheel hard, trying not to imagine what it would be like to squeeze the kid’s skinny neck instead.

  But that’s not part of the plan. Not this stage, anyway.

  It might be different if Brianna, that cute little redheaded waitress, had been the one to walk away alone in the dark. She’s young, but maybe not too young to be a stand-­in. Casey regrets not having been seated in her section, and that her shift ended so soon.

  You weren’t the only one.

  There was no mistaking the wistfulness on Mick Mundy’s face when Brianna left.

  The kid pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, texting and leaning as he waits for his ride home. Wearing an expensive down jacket, one leg bent with an enormous basketball sneaker resting against the brick outer wall of the restaurant, he looks as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. Casey knows that is hardly the case.

  Eavesdropping on Mick Mundy’s conversation with Patty the waitress, Casey noted that the kid didn’t mention that the girl he likes barely acknowledges him. He did, however, confess that his lousy grades might preclude him from going to Vermont for an upcoming ski weekend—­never mind that they won’t get him into a decent college. He also mentioned, a few times, that he was really hungry and that his feet hurt. Mick Mundy’s concerns don’t seem to focus very far beyond the immediate future.

  Considering that his two older siblings and his father were your classic high school overachievers, that characteristic must be attributed not to age, but to heredity—­maternal heredity, that is.

  Mick doesn’t just look like his mother. He acts like her.

  Yes, he’s afflicted with the same attention deficit disorder. But that’s no excuse. Even with medication, he goes careening through life with the same reckless attitude, thinking only of his own immediate needs, heedless o
f consequences his selfish actions might inflict upon other ­people’s innocent lives.

  Mick and Rowan will never learn the error of their ways unless they’re made to suffer the way they’ve made others suffer.

  And they will. Very, very soon.

  But not yet. Just as it was very important to wait until November thirtieth to alert Rowan that her transgression has not been forgiven or forgotten, it’s only fitting that the last days of her life be laced with anguish and dread.

  As for Mick, Casey has yet to decide whether his punishment includes execution—­or simply witnessing the hideous death that will soon befall his mother. Time will tell. Plenty of sons lose their mothers at a young age. Some are crippled by the loss; others are made stronger.

  Headlights swing around a corner, illuminating the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

  Casey is expecting—­hoping—­to see the familiar mini­van, but it’s a dark SUV with Rowan’s husband behind the wheel. He pulls up to the curb, the kid jumps into the passenger seat, and they’re gone.

  But that was excellent; it really was. To have spent this night, of all nights, incognito and in the company of Rowan’s son . . .

  To have been the source of the kid’s frustration, holding him captive in the restaurant with the unwitting assistance of a fellow patron . . .

  Heady with power, Casey starts the engine, looks into the rearview mirror to back up, and is struck by the still-­unfamiliar reflection. This look wasn’t initially meant to be a disguise, and yet . . .

  You look nothing like yourself. She wouldn’t know you if she saw you.

  Casey dared to get close enough to Rowan in public to test that theory a ­couple of times. It was at once vexing and exhilarating to have her brush on past in the supermarket aisle with an oblivious “Excuse me.” Casey was tempted to grab hold of her and confront her, but managed to keep cool and move on as if they were total strangers; as if their lives—­all their lives—­had never intersected; as if they hadn’t been forever impacted on that fateful day fourteen years ago.

  It would be nice to imagine that the memory has tormented her all this time. But chances are—­Rowan being Rowan—­that she hasn’t even thought about it in years.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Casey is certain she’s thinking about it tonight.

  The house is still, other than the ticking mantel clock and an occasional creaking floorboard overhead that lets Rowan know Mick is still awake in his room. He’s probably not doing his homework, as he claimed when he got home from the restaurant. More likely he’s goofing off on the Internet while shooting wads of crumpled notebook paper into the hoop on the back of his door, having long ago misplaced the Nerf basketball that came with it.

  Ordinarily, she’d have caught him in the act and told him to get to work or get to bed.

  Ordinarily, she’d be in bed herself by now.

  But when Jake turned in after the football game ended, she told him to go on upstairs without her.

  “It’s late. What are you doing?” he asked around a yawn.

  She couldn’t claim to be grading papers; he’d caught her on the computer.

  “Christmas shopping,” she told him.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “Cyber Monday deals end at midnight. I’m saving us a ton of money.”

  That was enough to send him upstairs with a simple “Great, good night.”

  Now it’s after midnight, and Rowan has yet to buy anything, but she’s fairly certain she’s finally zeroed in on the right man.

  She sits staring at the Facebook profile of a Rick Walker who appears to be the right age and works for an unnamed firm in Manhattan as an administrative ser­vices manager. At least, that’s what it says here.

  It might be a lie.

  Everything can be a lie when it comes to social networking.

  She can’t access his private photos, but the headshot on his profile page bears some resemblance to the man she used to know. Yes, he’s wearing sunglasses in the picture, and has a receding hairline, and is clean-­shaven, while her Rick usually had five o’clock shadow.

  Your Rick? Don’t think of him as your Rick. Nothing happened.

  Be that as it may . . .

  This Facebook profile could very well belong to the Rick—­Vanessa’s Rick—­with whom nothing happened fourteen years ago tonight.

  She studies his friends list looking for mutual connections or familiar names, but doesn’t find any, including his wife’s. That’s not surprising. The Vanessa she remembers doesn’t strike Rowan as the type of person who’d waste time on social networking.

  There are a few Facebook profiles that share her name, but none could possibly belong to her.

  Rick Walker’s younger two kids, whom she remembers with varying degrees of fondness, would be around the same age as her own. Their names don’t appear on his friends list either, although that doesn’t mean anything. Of her own three offspring, only Katie was willing to connect to her via social networking, and Rowan is fairly sure that she screens her Facebook page to keep her mother from seeing all but the most innocuous posts. Either that, or her daughter is leading an unusually dull social life for a college freshman.

  After investigating Rick Walker’s public Facebook profile as thoroughly as possible, Rowan looks for him on other social media and is quickly overwhelmed. It’s just too hard to tell whether any of the Rick Walkers out there are the same man she used to know.

  She can always send him a Facebook friend request and see if he accepts it.

  But you don’t want to be friends with him, she reminds herself. That makes no sense after what he did to you, sending that package . . .

  Maybe it was just his way of telling her he still thinks about her after all these years. Maybe he meant it as a misguided grand romantic gesture.

  Too bad it came off as merely creepy, and . . . all right, frightening.

  Regardless of his motives, she has two options now: confront him, or ignore him. And ignoring just isn’t her style—­especially when she’s angry. Which she is, more so by the moment.

  How dare he barge into her life again?

  She impulsively sends him a friend request, then sits staring at the screen under the irrational assumption that he’ll accept instantly so that she can give him a piece of her mind.

  When that doesn’t happen—­not instantly, and not in the space of another ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes—­she regrets having sent it. Now the ball is in his court, leaving her feeling even more helpless than she would if she’d ignored him.

  She abruptly closes out of the Facebook screen, pushes back her chair, and starts to get up before thinking of Jake. He seemed to accept her Cyber Monday shopping story. But what if he decides to snoop through her computer to see whether she bought anything for him?

  He’s not a ten-year-­old kid hoping for a new Xbox, she reminds herself. Yet she reaches again for the laptop and clears the browsing and search histories, just in case.

  Satisfied she’s covered her tracks, she turns off the computer and flicks off the desk lamp as a sudden gust of wind rattles the panes and stirs the sheer lace curtains that cover the windows. They’re closed, of course. And poorly insulated. Still . . .

  She’s rarely spooked in this big old house. But there have been times, over the past few months, when she could have sworn she saw someone out there in the night, looking in, and once she had the eerie feeling that she was being watched in her second-­floor bedroom.

  When she mentioned that to Jake, he asked, “So which do you think it is? A ghost or a Peeping Tom?” His tone made it clear that he thought they were equally unlikely options, and she dropped the subject.

  But now, standing alone in the dark, unsettled by the moving curtains, she feels a familiar twinge of apprehension.

  Is it any wonder? It�
�s been a hell of a day. Time to put it behind her at last.

  As she starts to turn toward the doorway, a human shadow materializes outside the window. She sees it in the corner of her eye, amid the silhouettes of shrubs and trees in the yard, and a gasp catches in her throat.

  Spinning to face the glass, she realizes that it’s only the maple sapling she and Jake planted one spring to replace a mighty oak felled by a fierce winter storm. Braden took a photo of them that day, arm in arm, wearing jeans and holding shovels. It sits framed on her desk.

  “A hundred years from now, our great grandchildren will tie a swing to its branches and push our great-­great grandchildren in it,” she told Jake as he dragged the hose over to soak the soil at its base.

  “I like that you’re assuming the house will still be in the family and that the kids will want to stay in Mundy’s Landing.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? We did. And this house is our happily-­ever-­after.”

  It was one of those rare days when she appreciated it all: the house, and the life she and Jake had built there together. The day before and the day after were undoubtedly fraught with the usual tensions, but on that April day, in that moment, it all seemed idyllic.

  Dogged by the memory of it—­and by a fresh wave of fear-­tainted guilt—­Rowan scuttles up the stairs to bed, heart pounding.

  As she slips beneath the covers beside her snoring husband, she wills sleep to overtake her quickly; a complete and dreamless sleep.

  But she finds herself staring up through the skylight above their bed at the bare tree branches moving against the night sky, thinking of the past and the mysterious box in the attic. Now, not only does she feel as though she’s inhabiting a blond stranger’s body whenever she looks into a mirror, but she’s been enveloped by the strange sense that she’s inadvertently trespassed into someone else’s life.

  Oh, who is she kidding?

  It’s like she’s been thrown back into her own life, the one she’d tried so hard to leave behind with her teenage years.

  Fourteen years ago, having long since transformed herself from a rebellious kid to an upstanding wife and mother and fourth-­grade teacher, she’d nearly ventured back into dangerous territory. Teetering on the familiar good girl/bad girl precipice, she could easily have lost sight of who she really is and what matters most. But in the end, that hadn’t happened. Sheer conviction kept her on the straight and narrow. That was all that counted.