Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  I reached a stand of ancient weeping willow trees, their long yellow tentacles sweeping the Boylston edge of the lagoon. How appropriate; even the trees were weeping today. I slowly became aware of the scent of lavender. I shook my head. But rather than dissipating, the lavender intensified. I knew Isabel wanted me to follow her.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to play Timmy and Lassie. “Not now, Isabel,” I whispered. An elderly couple walked by and stared strangely at me; I avoided their eyes. The lavender became so intense, I thought everyone in the park must be able to smell it. I shook my head again and started toward my office. Suddenly I stopped and stared at the willows. Why did Isabel want me to go deeper into the clump of trees? I walked slowly toward them.

  As I climbed under the veil of overhanging branches, I heard a soft, low whimpering. There, at the bottom of the largest tree, huddled into a natural seat created by the thick, gnarled roots, was a small girl. She was dirty and her pants were torn, but she seemed otherwise healthy.

  “Kisha?” I asked softly, kneeling down. “Are you Kisha?” The teary-eyed child nodded. “Do you want to come with me to see your mommy?”

  “Mommy?” she croaked. Tears poured from her huge eyes, but no further sounds came from her open mouth; I was afraid she couldn’t breathe. I lifted her and ran toward the crowd at the other end of the lagoon. Channel 5’s minicam recorded the entire reunion. That night the front page of every newspaper in the country ran a picture of me, tears streaming down my face, handing the sobbing child to the crying mother. The photographer won a Pulitzer, and I was a heroine.

  It turned out that the skinny kid had almost been right. The kidnappers had taken Kisha in an attempt to blackmail Katy Williams into changing her vote. But they had chickened out and dumped the child in the trees only moments before I’d found her.

  Nobody ever mentioned the obvious fact that if it hadn’t been me, someone else would have found Kisha, probably within minutes of my discovery. Nobody begrudged me my heroine status. It just went to show that you can’t underestimate the power of an emotional human-interest story on a slow news day. Especially if there’s a good photograph.

  Of course, if there was any heroine, it was Isabel—not me. But in a convoluted mirror image of this murder trial, I couldn’t tell the truth about her, and thus the credit fell to me. Take it from one who has been there: It’s a lot easier to be mistakenly labeled as heroine than miscast as villain.

  I never really thought about it before, but being heroine-for-a-day was actually the beginning of the whole awful Richard mess. For if the Globe hadn’t described me as “a young widow,” and if they hadn’t mentioned I lived and worked in Back Bay, Richard never would have called. And he would still be alive. And I wouldn’t be here now, waiting for a bunch of strangers to vote on how I’m going to get to live the rest of my life.

  BOOK THREE

  Lindsey and Richard and Isabel

  15

  “Lindsey Kern, please.” His southern drawl was even sexier over the phone; I knew immediately who was calling.

  “Who’s calling?” I asked.

  “This is Richard Stoddard, Lindsey. It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, this is Lindsey Kern. Do I know you?”

  “It depends on how you define the term.” His laugh somehow also had a southern accent. “I’m that tall, gawky fellow with the glasses from De Matteo’s—do you know me?”

  “I suppose I do,” I answered, against my better judgment.

  “I hope I haven’t called at a bad time—I don’t usually hound women like this, but ever since I saw your picture in the paper, I’ve wanted to tell you what a wonderful thing you did.”

  “It’s really been blown way out of proportion.”

  “I doubt Katy Williams would agree.”

  “I guess.”

  “Uh, uh, I also called to convey my condolences for your loss.”

  “Loss?”

  “I, uh, saw in the paper that you were a widow, and, uh, a couple of months ago you mentioned a husband, so I, uh, just thought that … I’m sorry, I feel like a fool. Listen, it was nice talking to you. Maybe we’ll meet again at De Matteo’s and the old gent will actually succeed in selling you a meal.”

  “I lied.”

  “You lied?”

  “I lied.”

  “You’re not a widow? Well, well, I suppose I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I am a widow.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I lied when I told you I was married. My husband died two years ago this summer.”

  “Oh.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Say, Lindsey, I’m really at quite a loss here for the right thing to do. But, as I don’t have time to consult Miss Manners, I’m going to take the plunge: Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  We were supposed to meet at the Harvest in Harvard Square at seven o’clock. My first date since Clay died, and, of course, I was late. Maybe Freud did know a thing or two.

  I saw Richard before he saw me; he was hard to miss, standing head—if not shoulders—above the swarm of TGIF drinkers and diners. He was pacing as best as he could in the crowded waiting area; he checked his watch twice in the short time before I came up behind him and tapped his arm.

  He whirled around and smiled his chipped-tooth grin. “Thought I might be getting stood up. You’ve saved me from the hostess’s pity.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, unbuttoning my coat. I had run from the subway station; I was warm and a bit breathless, and it was close, almost humid, in the restaurant. “Park Street. I hate that Park Street Station. It’s such a zoo. Especially on Friday nights. Should have taken a cab.”

  He helped me with my coat and found a place for it on the rack behind him. “From the looks of the gridlock out there, a cab probably would have worked out about the same.”

  I loosened the tie of my blouse. “There’s no good choice at this hour.” The hostess called a name, and a couple behind us elbowed past me. “Did I lose us our table?”

  “No, she told me half an hour, and that’s about what it’s been.” But it turned out to be more like an hour.

  My feet hurt; I wished I’d had time to go home and change out of the toe-strangling, disk-slipping heels. “Cold out there.” I remembered I hated first dates.

  “Warm in here.” He looked as if he hated first dates too.

  I tried to occupy myself by people-watching, but it was too crowded; all I could see were a few strained faces amid the jumble of wool and tweed and neon parkas, and all I could hear were snippets of “safe” talk—conversations people knew were being overheard. The man to my left smelled as if he hadn’t taken a bath in a week. I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. I couldn’t even remember Richard’s last name. “Seems like we’re always waiting around in crowded places,” I finally said.

  “At least we don’t have the rude old gent tonight.”

  “Right.” That ended that conversation. I scanned the crowd again, searching for diversion—or at least another direction to turn my nose. The woman to my left was wearing too much Shalimar—just like my mother always did. Although I didn’t remember my mother’s perfume having such a strong lavender undersmell.

  Finally the hostess led us to a table beneath a low-hanging Boston fern. The leaves kept brushing Richard’s forehead, so we switched seats. From that seat the leaves sat on his hair. He took the plant from its hook and placed it on the tray stand behind us. When the waitress came with our drinks, she grumbled something about spoiled yuppies and whipped the plant away.

  We toasted spoiled yuppies and disgruntled waitresses. He told me about a junior partner in his firm who had two BMWs in case one was dirty (I didn’t believe him, but it turned out to be the truth), and I told him about the waitress who threatened to punch Joel’s lights out if he asked for one more piece of silverware.

  The food was excellent—much better than the last time I’d eaten there. And the company wasn’t bad either. I was s
urprised to find that I was actually enjoying myself. Richard seemed to be too. While we were having dessert, he pulled two tickets from his pocket. “Ever heard of Buskin and Batteau?”

  I shook my head. “Music?”

  “Sort of folk-rock combined with comedy. Really good stuff.” He looked at his watch. “They’re playing at Passim’s in an hour—want to go?”

  “Had to make sure I was decent company before roping yourself into a full evening?”

  He grinned. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  This time we waited outside. We stood toward the front of a long line, waiting to get into the card-store-by-day-turned-coffee-house-by-night. This time we were chattering and laughing; Richard stood with his back to the street to shelter me from the wind whipping down the alley that separated the two buildings of the Harvard Coop.

  “So her father had to come to the station and get us.” I was telling him about the time Linda and I had gotten her father’s brand-new Cadillac stuck on a log in the field behind the fire station. “Neither of us was allowed out of the house for a month.”

  “His grandfather wouldn’t let us come back until we were sixteen!” He told me about the time he and Danny Wilmont snuck one of Danny’s grandfather’s prize studs out of his barn and hid the horse at a neighbor’s for two days.

  The first show ended, and we filed down the stairs into the small club. It had a low ceiling and a tiny stage and was full of chairs and pushed-back card cases and the thick, comforting smell of ground coffee. Richard gave me the seat on the aisle and ordered two cups of espresso. David Buskin sang about how he’d rather be in love, Robin sang about being a restless man, and together they joked and clowned and ran through a medley of their TV jingles for Chevrolet, Burger King, and NBC.

  The concert was great, and so were Richard’s sense of humor and taste in music. But the timing was wrong—I wasn’t ready yet. And he wasn’t my type anyway. He was a lawyer, after all. And three years my junior. And there were those awful glasses.

  We took the T back to Boston, and Richard walked me home. “Thanks,” I said as we stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. “I really had fun.”

  “Do you like movies?”

  I rummaged through my purse for my keys. “Yeah,” I said slowly, “but I’m, uh, I’m really busy at work these days and I don’t have a lot of free time.”

  “Me too.” His eyes looked hurt behind his awful glasses. “But sometimes I just grab a quick movie after work—West Side Story’s playing at Coolidge Corner all week. Interested?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve already seen it, and this week’s really jammed.”

  He nodded. “Okay, maybe some other time.” He turned to go.

  I touched his sleeve. “Call me,” I said, wishing I hadn’t spoken the moment the words were out.

  He smiled that boyish and somehow sexy grin. “I will.” He leaned over to kiss me, but I had already started to walk away; he stepped on my toe at the same moment his lips missed mine and brushed my nose. We both burst out laughing and he gave me a hug. “See you soon.” He waved and headed toward Comm. Ave.

  * * *

  I pushed the hair off my forehead and thought about getting a haircut. About sprucing myself up. Starting to take some pride in my appearance. “So why the career change?” I asked the gray-haired man who sat on the other side of my desk in an ill-fitting suit. He was the sixth person I had interviewed that day, and about the twentieth that week. He was no better than the rest. Perhaps I should join the health club in the Prudential Center. Babs went there almost every day. She told me they had steam and saunas.

  “I just decided it was time to get out of sales. I was very good at it, mind you. But I was just tired of the old rat race.”

  “Let’s see here.” I looked down at the resume in front of me. “You sold computers for—”

  “For the last ten years. I did some marketing copy too. That’s why I knew tech writing would be the perfect spot for me.” He dug into his briefcase and pulled out some of those heavy, glossy sheets that fill the walls of computer stores. He stood up and placed them over his resume; he leaned on my desk and tapped his finger on the top one. “Damn good copy, if I do say so myself.” He stood up straight and looked down at me. “So, what do you say? Do I have the job?”

  I stood up and held out my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

  He took my hand and grasped it in an overly hearty, overly long shake. “If I don’t hear from you by next week, I’ll give you a call. Wouldn’t want you to miss this great opportunity.”

  “Fine.” I tried to smile. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” When the office door closed behind him, I put my head on my desk. I’d always thought going on job interviews was the pits; now I was finding it was no better on the other side of the desk. If only my best candidate hadn’t taken another job. Maybe if I upped the salary, she’d change her mind. I’d double it. Triple it. Anything to avoid interviewing any more losers. And definitely no more salesmen. I should call Babs’s health club.

  My intercom buzzed. “Ugh,” I grunted into the phone.

  Pam laughed. “At least he was the last one for today. There’s a Richard Stoddard on the phone. Do you want to talk to him?”

  I hesitated. “I’ll take it.” Stoddard. That was his last name. I picked up the receiver.

  “It’s a well-known fact that you can’t see West Side Story too many times.”

  “Hi, Richard.”

  “The Guiness Book says there’s a little old lady in Atlanta who’s seen it two hundred thirty-five times.”

  I laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Everything in the Guiness Book is hard to believe—that’s the whole point.”

  I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. “What time’s the movie?”

  “Seven-thirty. I can be at your office in an hour. That way we’ll be able to grab a quick bite before the show.”

  “Richard, I’m sorry, but I really can’t. I’m just beat. Maybe some other time, Okay?”

  “Okay. Next week it’s Gone With the Wind. The Guiness Book says there’s a little old lady from Atlanta who’s seen Gone With the Wind seven hundred fifty-nine times.”

  “The same little old lady?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought of checking.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “How about just dinner?”

  Richard’s office was only a few blocks from mine, so we decided to meet at the deli in the Prudential Center. This time I wasn’t late.

  “You don’t seem like the lawyer type,” I said as we sat in the high-backed booth and ate our sandwiches.

  “I’m not. I’m really a prince in lawyer’s clothing.” He held his conservative red tie between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it away from his body.

  “I mean it—it’s hard to picture you all picky and serious over the wording of some purchase-and-sale agreement.”

  “I don’t do real estate law—I’m in patents.”

  “That sounds even worse.”

  He leaned over the table and wiped a bit of mustard from my cheek. “And it’s hard to picture you being all picky and serious over some computer manual.”

  “Touché,” I said. “My original plan was English lit—but when I was actually face-to-face with teaching a bunch of pimply adolescents about Shakespeare and Dickens, I took up technical writing instead.”

  “That’s why I’m a lawyer.”

  “What’s why you’re a lawyer?”

  “I taught a bunch of pimply adolescents for two years in Corrollton, Georgia—a small town outside of Atlanta.”

  “Not English lit?”

  His eyes crinkled with laughter. “From Chaucer to Shakespeare to Dickens and Hawthorne.”

  I leaned over and pulled up his tie. “That bad?”

  “Horny little bastards drove me right to law school.”

  I dropped his tie; we both grinned and leaned back against the red leather. Our ey
es met and held for a moment. There was a vaguely familiar stirring in the middle of my stomach, and the room felt very warm; I could feel a flush rising from my neck. I picked up a few french fries and inspected them closely. A little overdone, but not bad. I liked them crispy. “Good french fries.”

  Richard grinned and nodded.

  I added more mustard to my sandwich and took a small bite. I added some more, looking casually around the restaurant while the heat receded from my face. Suddenly I felt a spot of pressure on the side of my head. Isabel was unhappy. She was moping—moping like a little child whose mother left her with a baby-sitter for the afternoon. But I wasn’t leaving her; I was just having dinner with some guy who was no threat to her. I crumbled my napkin into a ball and threw it in the ashtray. “So, how come Boston?” I asked.

  “Getting into Harvard was a draw. But mostly it was …” He stopped speaking, and thin lines appeared around his mouth, lines I could imagine deepening and widening with the years. He was going to age well.

  “Was what?”

  He shrugged. “Family stuff. Just some family stuff that made Boston a good choice.”

  “And that’s why you stayed?”

  He looked down into the depths of his Coke; he stirred the ice with his straw, as if the clicking sounds were somehow soothing to him. “For a while.” He sighed. “Then I was just here, and got a job, and—you know how those things go.” He looked up and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “What about you? Ever sorry about the teaching?”

  “Never for a minute. And definitely not now that my business is starting to take off.”

  He leaned back in his seat and looked at me with interest. “Tell me about how you’ve become a rising entrepreneurial star.”

  I ended up going to the movies with him after all. We shared a big bucket of popcorn and held hands when it was empty. I cried when Tony and Maria fell in love at the dance and I cried when Tony died, cradled in Maria’s arms.