by Greta Nelsen
* * *
As always, Tim is true to his word; Owen’s body arrives at the funeral home before we even have a chance to retrieve Ally from Tim’s parents’. I wait in the van while he ventures inside, the heartbreak on his mother’s face more of a challenge than I’m up to conquering.
It’s not as long as I expect before Ally comes shuffling down the driveway looking relaxed and renewed, the time away from my toxic energy a clear boon to her spirits. “Hey, sweetie,” I say through my rolled-down window.
She slips into the back and buckles up. “Hi.”
I turn and ask, “Where’s your dad?”
“Gran wanted his help with the obituary,” she tells me, her innocence as dead as her baby brother.
I think of Ricky, how his disease more than his death slaughtered my naiveté. “Do you think they’ll be long?” A visceral need for sleep has crept into my bones.
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
The funny thing about Ally is that she could be engulfed in flames and she wouldn’t cop to needing help. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mom,” she maintains with a sigh.
“All right,” I relent. “Just checking.”
“Gran’s pretty sad, though.”
“I know. We all are.”
“Can she stay with us for a while?”
This request makes me grim for the fact that Tim and I are not enough to comfort our daughter. “If she wants to, but I’m not sure how Gramp would feel about that.”
“It’s up to her,” Ally says.
And I say, “That’s right.”
* * *
What haunts me about Owen’s funeral is the tiny, powder-blue casket, how it glimmered so stunningly in the midday sun, how it more resembled a movie prop than the vessel that would cradle my baby into the grave.
Tim waits until the hundred-plus mourners have departed the reception hall before dropping the big question on me. “Did you do it?” he asks, in a pained tone that tells me he can’t stomach the answer.
We are alone on the dusty floor of the VFW, Tim’s mother having reluctantly slipped away to nurse her broken heart and mend Ally. How we got to this place, in the literal sense, can be traced to our need to connect with Owen, absorb what is left of him before he goes. “I love you,” I say.
“I know.”
If I tell him, I will lose him. And all of this will be for naught. “I’m tired.”
He settles his palm against the small of my back in an encouraging way. “I need to know.”
I have no idea what he has heard or from whom he has heard it. “Did the police say something?”
Softly, he admits, “Yeah.”
“Like what?”
“You’ve seen the news.”
“The news is vague,” I say, even though the coverage makes plain that Owen’s death has been classified as “suspicious,” and I have not been ruled out as a suspect. Tim, on the other hand, is in the clear; the polygraph said so, and the police believe him.
“He was suffocated, Claire,” he says, barely able to get the words out. “Suffocated.”
“There’s no way…”
“Just tell me.”
It occurs to me that Tim may be setting me up for the police. My hands wander over his chest, scanning for a clandestine wire. But I find nothing. “I told you,” I say. “I slipped. I’m sorry.”
This apology triggers a collapse in both Tim and me: A string of silent sobs wracks his bent frame, and down my cheeks tumble the tears he lacks. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. “It’s just…”
I stop his words with a tender kiss to the lips, the kind of vulnerable intimacy that binds us in our grief. And at first he kisses back with the same raw sensitivity, sadness I recognize on an atomic level. But somewhere along the way, his passion turns lustful, angry, imbued with a violent bent.
He reaches for my pants, slips his fingers inside and unbuttons them. And nothing tells me to stop him.
* * *
I have just exited the shower when the call from my lawyer, Rudy Goldstein, comes in. I cinch my bathrobe shut and whip a towel around my hair, depositing a dripping trail in my wake as I dash for the phone. “Hello?”
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
A dreadful silence stretches out between us. “They’re charging you with murder,” Rudy informs me. “They want you to turn yourself in.”
Even though I knew this call was coming, it drops me to my knees. “When?”
“Today,” he says. “Otherwise, they’re going to take you into custody and start extradition proceedings.”
I rock back and forth, grind my knees into the carpet. “How long do I have?”
“An hour. I’ll pick you up.”
Tim has wandered into our bedroom and is now studying me intently, a look of horror overspreading his face. I lock eyes with him and say into the phone, “Tim will drive me.”
Rudy sighs. “That’s not the deal. Either I deliver you, or they send a sheriff.”
An involuntary twitch takes control of Tim’s eye. I twist the receiver sideways and tell him, “Go dismiss Ally from school.” I glance at the alarm clock, jump ahead an hour and round up. Then I tell Rudy, “Come at two o’clock.”
“Be on the doorstep,” he says, and I agree.
* * *
I have packed as if I’m jetting off for a weekend getaway instead of a possible life sentence. With a swift jerk, I force the zipper of my suitcase past a catch in its lining and then head for the front door, where I deposit the bag just inside. Our van is already back in the driveway, but I have yet to catch sight of Tim or Ally. I squint, force my eyes to see my husband and daughter huddled in the front seats, locked in a desperate embrace, crying out their pain before they draw brave faces over their sadness for my sake.
I retreat to the kitchen, pour a glass of cool water and gulp it down. And for the first time, I recognize all that is at stake: my marriage, my reputation, my job, this house, my child, my freedom. For all the energy I’ve spent trying to shield Tim and Ally from the truth about Owen and the fallout of his disease, I’ve failed to consider the obvious: Without me, they will be set adrift, blown like tumbleweeds in the wind.
Ally meanders inside first, trepidation in her approach. She smiles briefly, but her eyes will not meet mine. Cannot. Instead, her gaze lingers on the refrigerator, where the hospital photo of Owen still looms, both a painful reminder and a signpost marking the road ahead.
“Hey,” I whisper.
Ally shuffles to my side, slings her arms around my waist and flattens her cheek to my bosom, suppresses tears with such effort she trembles.
I yearn to speak the prefect words of comfort, but this is not to be. I run my hand over her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Tim joins us but observes from a distance, doesn’t notice the flecks of hot ash that spill from his cigarette to the floor. He takes a long drag and blows the smoke over his shoulder, as if he retains the power to save us from something, at least. “It’s quarter of two,” he says, a tone of resignation in his voice that disturbs me.
I bend down and kiss Ally on the head, then pry her away. Gently, I tip her face upward, even if it hurts her to see me when I say, “I love you.”
She nods, and Tim moves in, lays a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Let’s have a treat,” he says, falsely upbeat, “before Mommy has to go.” He stubs the cigarette out in the sink and rummages through the fridge as I watch the clock; finally, he withdraws a decadent chocolate cake that some sympathetic soul has gifted us to buoy our spirits.
For a moment, Tim disappears, only to return with the fine bone china we have used no more than twice since our wedding. He chunks three generous slices from the cake, plates them, and impales each with a sterling fork from a service that once belonged to his great-grandmother; these we have never put to our lips. “Yum,” he says as the confection hits his tongue.
Al
ly waits, allows me the next bite. And for her sake, I take it. “It’s good,” I say, forcing a grainy gob of frosting down despite my lack of appetite. “Try it.”
She picks at the edge of her slice but never really works up the nerve for a mouthful.
Selfishly, I do not wish this to be my last free memory of her, her distress evident all the way to her bones. But before I am ready, the soft hum of Rudy Goldstein’s car in our driveway ends my choice in the matter. “Be good for Daddy,” I squeak in Ally’s direction, careful to keep my eyes downcast. And then to Tim, “I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 15
I awaken in the front seat of Rudy Goldstein’s Audi in the parking lot of the Genesis County Jail, also the home of the sheriff’s office. Thanks to the Valium I gobbled hours ago, the whole ugly scene is a fuzzy dream.
“This is it,” Rudy says with a tender squeeze of my knee.
Even my lawyer is a bit blurry, his slick black hair threatening to meld with his pale, doughy face. I grab the overhead safety handle and pull myself upright. “What time is it?”
He doesn’t bother checking the stainless-steel watch that dangles from his wrist, the dashboard clock more convenient. “Five twenty-nine.”
One minute. This is how much time I have until my lawyer has agreed to turn me over to the police. Even though I beg it not to, my heart hammers with such force I fear the imminence of a cardiac arrest. Then again, such a merciful occurrence is unlikely given my penchant for bad luck. “So what happens now?” I ask, not caring that Rudy can hear the distress in my voice.
“They’ll arrest you, process you, assign you to a cell block.”
“Then what?”
“The status conference is tomorrow. We’ll request bail, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I won’t actually be able to represent you in court,” he reminds me. “Zoe will do that part. But I’m never more than a phone call away.”
Rudy isn’t admitted to the Maine State Bar, but his ex-wife, Zoe, is. Her office sits just over the border in New Hampshire, and she practices in both states. “All right,” I say. Rudy Goldstein is a solid guy, a man I trust despite Tim’s misgivings. If their fathers hadn’t pitted them against each other since childhood, I’m convinced Tim and Rudy would be the tightest of friends. “When can Tim visit?” I ask, already missing him from the depths of my soul.
“A day or two? He’ll have to fill out an application.”
What a strange concept: One must apply to visit jail? It’s amazing I have lived so long without need of such information.
Rudy taps his toes on the clutch and awaits my direction. “I guess it’s time,” I reluctantly admit, the LCD display insisting we are already late. From this point forward, I must put my wants aside and obey. And thus I begin.
* * *
The status conference didn’t go my way. Instead of recommending bail, the State requested a Harnish hearing, which means they wish to keep me locked up until my case goes before a grand jury next month. Zoe still believes I could make bail, but I’m not so sure.
The worst thing about jail is the absence of Tim and Ally, followed closely by the noxious stench of body odor and the utter tedium. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into days, days into weeks. The only relief from the slow-motion clock arrives on a greasy tray three times a day or in the mail, for those so lucky as to be singled out for a delivery. I have not yet been here long enough to benefit from the power of mail.
“Ain’t ya hungry?” my new jail friend and cellmate, Brandy, asks as I push a pile of baked beans around my plate.
I shrug. “Nah.”
She scans for unwelcome eyes and scoops some of my beans into her mouth. “It gets better, ya know,” she tells me through a mess of chewed food.
“I’m sure.”
I am in no position to feel sorry for myself, my life outside these walls blessed beyond reason—even in the face of Eric Blair and what happened to Owen. But Brandy’s story is different: a drug-addicted mother, early sexual abuse, abject poverty. Her road to this place was written in the womb. And now the next generation—Brandy’s four small children—begins its journey.
I take a risk, peel an untouched slice of bread from my plate and place it soggy-side-up in front of her. If nothing else, at least her stomach may be full.
When she smiles, I begin to cry.
* * *
Zoe gives a stellar performance at the Harnish hearing, but still we don’t prevail. Even my lack of criminal history and pristine work record cannot overcome the perception that I may cash my chips and flee the state—or even the country.
“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Zoe tells me in an overly chipper tone as the hearing wraps up. “There’s no way a grand jury can indict on that evidence; it’s too thin.”
“I hope so.”
I had my reservations about using Zoe as my defense attorney, if only for the fact that she’s Rudy’s ex-wife. But the little I know of her so far calms my nerves, reassures me of her competence and caring. Truth be told, the way she handles my emotions outranks her courtroom prowess on my list of priorities right now. If she needs help, I’ll hire her some. And there’s always Rudy, behind the scenes.
“Just in case, though,” she says, “we’re going to get right to work on your defense. You’ll be pleading not guilty.”
“Right.”
She smiles. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“I hope not.”
The sheriff’s deputies are poised to collect me, but they wait for Zoe to finish. “Any messages you’d like me to deliver to Tim?”
I think about passing on my love, but instead I say, “Tell him not to worry. I’m fine.” Because if there’s one thing I know about my husband, it’s that he’s out of his mind with concern for my wellbeing. “And I’ll see him soon.”
* * *
I smiled for my mug shot, a mistake that may come back to haunt me should my case go to trial. Although the jurors will be instructed to ignore such things, I know the depiction of a grinning baby killer will endure despite their best efforts otherwise. And that disturbing image has led the evening news every night this week.
What has caught me by surprise about jail is the persistence of kindness. To be sure, there are nefarious characters here, and certainly no one I would trust with money. But there are decent folks too. People like Brandy with low IQs, difficult upbringings, and inferior decision-making skills. And they are the rule, not the exception. This may be different in prison, my next stop should I be convicted of murder. But for now I can relax my guard.
There is one thing I must remain vigilant over, however: thoughts of Owen. The empty hours of jail life are fertile ground for a guilty conscience, and the more I dwell on my baby’s fate, the more I wish to join his blessed soul. But then comes my first visit from Tim and Ally, and I am born anew.
For the privilege of contact visitation, I have signed a strip-search consent form, which means I must submit to a full-body invasion before and after each visit. But the sixty minutes between such episodes are heavenly enough to prove the tradeoff worthy.
It has been but four days since Tim, Ally and I faked our way through that chocolate cake in our kitchen in Calvary, but it seems a lifetime. My husband and daughter enter the visitation area, where I am seated politely in anticipation, my eyes trained on the doorway as they plod through with the rest of the day’s visitors. Ally flinches at the sight of my prison uniform and makeup-less face, but Tim holds strong. “Hi,” I say as I stand, saving them from breaking the ice in a place like this.
Tim clutches my shoulders across the table and delivers the briefest kiss to my cheek, his discomfort palpable. “You look good,” he whispers.
I would laugh if such an outburst didn’t possess the power to end our visit. Instead, I simply say, “Thank you.” Nothing ages a person like jail, except, of course, the death of a child.
We sit. “Doesn’t Mommy look good?” Tim asks Ally.
Ally nibbles her lip and nods, her gaze finally meeting mine.
I reach for the mundane. “How’s school?” I sense that Ally is afraid to speak here, as if the visitation officer may shackle her wrists next. “It’s okay,” I say, “as long as we’re quiet.”
Tim prods, “Tell Mommy about Muffin.” But even as he says this, his eyes snag on the clock. Fifty-five minutes to go.
“What about Muffin?” I say.
Ally giggles. “He’s having puppies.”
“Puppies?”
“You know the Mulligans, two blocks over by the park?” asks Tim.
I furrow my brow.
“Their son’s a grade above Ally. His name’s Brian, I think.”
This isn’t ringing a bell with me in the least. “Okay.”
Tim goes on, “They have a pretty, young Irish Setter named Daisy.”
I can see where this is going by the way Ally’s eyes widen. “So they…”
“Yup,” Tim says. “The owners offered us one of the puppies. I told Ally to ask you.”
My husband and daughter exchange giddy looks that says they crave nothing more than my blessing. Yet part of me begrudges Muffin the chance to parent. “We should take it,” I say anyway, because it’s not my place to deny them. After all, there’s a chance I may never lay eyes on Muffin again, let alone his progeny.
“Really?” Ally squeaks, drawing a stern glare from the visitation officer.
I smile. “Uh-huh.”
Tim turns serious. “Any problems around here?” he asks with a nod at my fellow inmates and their friends and families. “I can talk to Rudy if…”
“Not really,” I say, “other than the obvious. The food stinks. I think my hair is falling out from a vitamin deficiency.”