Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Sometimes, when her daughter isn’t acting like Gregory, she’s acting like a total stranger. Maeve can look at her and see no sign of the happy-go-lucky little girl she once was; she has absolutely no idea what’s going on in Erin’s head.

  She suspects there are times when she’s better off not knowing.

  Grumbling, Erin climbs out of the car clutching the large shopping bag from Lord & Taylor. Inside a gaily gift-wrapped box is the cashmere pullover Maeve picked out in Jen’s size. Erin refused to come to the mall and help her, so she isn’t entirely sure about the color or style.

  Still, Maeve followed her own basic rule—when in doubt, go with classic black—and is fairly certain Kathleen’s daughter will like the sweater. And even if she doesn’t . . .

  At least I tried, Maeve thinks, her heels clicking on the curved slate walk as she leads Erin toward the porch light.

  As far as she’s concerned, a black cashmere sweater is enough to lift anyone’s spirits—even a girl whose life is falling apart at the seams.

  Maeve tries the door and finds it locked.

  “Don’t you have the key?” Erin asks.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I don’t know . . . I guess maybe Jen told me.”

  “Oh. Well, I lost it,” she replies briefly, and presses the doorbell.

  It seems to take a long time before somebody opens the door. Maeve is pleasantly surprised to find Matt standing there, darkly handsome in suit pants and a dress shirt without a tie, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

  He looks surprised to see her, too. “Maeve! Kathleen didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “She doesn’t know. It’s a surprise. Surprise!” She sails past him, catching a whiff of citrus aftershave as she goes.

  “Come on in,” Matt tells Erin, who is still hovering on the doorstep.

  Maeve turns and shoots her the evil eye, and her daughter reluctantly crosses the threshold. She thrusts the bag into Matt’s hands after he closes the door, mumbling, “This is for Jen.”

  “That’s nice of you.” He looks at Maeve. “Did you eat? Because I’m sure Kathleen won’t mind reheating the—”

  “Oh, we ate.” Actually, she isn’t certain about Erin, but she herself had two slices of Sicilian pizza at the food court earlier, followed by one of Mrs. Fields Snickerdoodles. The cookie was warm, right out of the oven, and she’d have gone back for another one if the line weren’t so long.

  Pizza. Cookies. Cigarettes.

  Welcome back to the real world, darling, Maeve tells herself, noticing that the guilty twinges have grown fewer and further between.

  “We’re just having cake,” Matt informs them, leading the way toward the dining room.

  “Really?” Nothing like forbidden pleasure to perk a girl right up.

  Maeve smiles at Matt. “I’d love some.”

  “You would?” Erin asks beside her, wearing such a shocked expression that for a heart-stopping moment, Maeve fears she accidentally requested what she really wants.

  “Cake,” she says quickly, glancing from her daughter to Matt, who looks reassuringly unfazed. “I’d love some cake.”

  “I hope you like pumpkin, because that’s what Jen always has on her birthday,” Matt tells her. His tone is affable, but he seems a little tense.

  Well, no wonder. Poor man.

  Arriving in the doorway of the dining room, Maeve takes in the scene, from the bickering boys to Kathleen’s obviously cross father in his wheelchair, from a brooding Jen to her mother, whose frayed nerves are evident in a glance.

  Casting aside her last nagging doubt that coming here was the right thing to do, Maeve pastes on a cheerful smile and goes over to embrace the birthday girl.

  Erin is here.

  Why?

  Obviously, because her mother made her come. That much is clear to Jen as she sneaks a peek at her former best friend, glumly poking a fork at the slab of pumpkin cake in front of her.

  Erin glances up and meets her gaze with a glare that’s startling in its intensity.

  Wow. She really hates me.

  Jen tries to tell herself she doesn’t care, but Erin’s visual daggers are unsettling.

  Mrs. Hudson is chatting with Mom about how great the house looks, going on and on about the centerpiece and the china. In a way, Jen is glad the Hudsons popped in, even if things are uncomfortable with Erin, because things were really getting tense around here right before they came.

  Jen is positive it wasn’t a mouse that made Mom freak out in the kitchen.

  But what was it?

  She didn’t miss the way her mother kept glancing at the window, almost as though she was expecting to find the bogeyman lurking in the night.

  It took every ounce of restraint for Jen not to tell her mother that she’s almost positive she’s seen somebody watching the house.

  And now she’s not so sure the odd gift on her bed was from Mom, either.

  She’s been trying to convince herself since she opened the bizarre present that it’s some kind of symbolism for all that’s happened these past few weeks—her mother’s way of telling Jen that she loves her.

  Now she isn’t so sure.

  It just doesn’t make sense.

  One pink baby bootee?

  She makes up her mind to swallow her pride and ask Mom about it later . . . if only just to make sure it’s from her.

  If it isn’t . . .

  Jen glances up from her cake to find her father’s gaze on her.

  He looks so wistful, she thinks. Wistful, but still angry.

  I let him down.

  She looks away, hating herself—and, stubbornly, still hating him.

  So? He let me down.

  How is she ever going to get past the betrayal? How is she ever going to get over the unsettling sensation that the man she thought she knew inside and out might just as well be a stranger?

  It’s like they’re all strangers, Jen realizes, looking around the table.

  Again when she glances in Erin’s direction, she finds Erin staring back at her.

  I let her down, too, Jen thinks miserably, unable to break away from the blatant anger in Erin’s eyes.

  And for what? For Robby? Robby, who let her birthday pass without acknowledgment? You’d think he’d at least have called her back after all those pages she sent him.

  Maybe he was too intimidated, after what happened. Maybe he’s afraid to risk talking to her parents.

  The thing is, she’s never known Robby to be intimidated before.

  Then again, how well do you know him, really? Jen asks herself, and again looks around the table at her so-called family and friends. How well do you know anyone?

  Kathleen is in her bedroom, about to change at last into her pajamas and collapse into bed, when there’s a knock on the door.

  Matt wouldn’t knock, and the boys would just barge in.

  “Jen?” Kathleen calls, anticipation sweeping over her. “Come in.”

  The door opens. Sure enough, her daughter is on the other side.

  In a too-big long-sleeved T-shirt and flannel boxer shorts, her face scrubbed and her hair pulled back in a scrunchy, Jen looks like a little girl again. Kathleen’s first instinct is to rush over and pull her into a fierce embrace.

  The memory of her daughter’s reaction to her happy birthday hug this morning in the kitchen stops her.

  Maybe Jen is going to thank her for the birthday dinner, the cake, the gifts. She had murmured her appreciation as she worked her way through the stack of presents Kathleen had assembled for her: the usual assortment of clothes and books and a couple of CDs from the boys. Though Jen was far more low key than on birthdays past, she seemed genuinely pleased with the gifts, especially the elegant black sweater from Maeve and Erin. To Kathleen’s surprise, even Dad had a card for his granddaughter, and he’d tucked a fifty dollar bill into it.

  As Kathleen drove him back to the nursing home, he said he’d had Betty go out and buy th
e card for him that afternoon. Impressed that he still remembered the nurse’s name, Kathleen was touched that her father had made the effort not to show up empty-handed—even if the card was addressed to Jenny. He seemed grateful to have been included in the birthday dinner, and asked for leftover cake to take back to Betty.

  All in all, the evening she had so dreaded was a success. Maeve showing up with Erin was a lifesaver after Kathleen’s episode in the kitchen. Clearly, the relationship between the two girls has become strained, but Kathleen hopes they’ll get over it. Maeve seems to think so. In the kitchen, as she helped Kathleen load the dishwasher, she pointed out that all teenaged friendships have their ups and downs.

  “Remember how we used to argue?” she asked Kathleen. “We always made up sooner or later.”

  Which is true, of course.

  Grateful for her friend’s unexpected presence, Kathleen confided in Maeve about the face she thought she’d seen in the window earlier. Maeve was convinced she’d imagined it, thanks to stress, guilt, and being overtired. The more Kathleen considers the past few days, the more she’s certain Maeve is right.

  Stress. Guilt. Exhaustion.

  Her friend doesn’t know the half of it. Is it any wonder Kathleen is feeling paranoid?

  “What’s up, Jen?” she asks, forcing herself to remain casual.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  Kathleen’s heart sinks.

  Based on pure instinct, she knows that whatever it is, this isn’t going to be easy.

  Jen holds up a rectangular white box. “Did you put this on my bed this afternoon?”

  “No. What is it?’

  “A birthday present. Are you sure you didn’t put it there? It was wrapped in clown paper.”

  “Clown paper?” Kathleen shakes her head. “It wasn’t me.”

  “It looked like it was supposed to be for a little kid. Maybe it was from one of the boys. Or Daddy.”

  “Maybe,” Kathleen agrees, though she’s fairly certain Matt didn’t leave a gift for Jen on his own. Why would he do that and not mention it to her?

  “I’ll go ask Curran and Riley if it’s from them,” Jen says, turning slowly toward the door.

  “Wait, Jen . . . what was it?”

  “The present?” Jen shakes her head. “That’s the thing. It was just kind of . . . strange.”

  “Strange?”

  Jen lifts the top of the box, saying, “I guess it’s some kind of gag gift, but I just don’t get it. See?”

  Kathleen is speechless.

  Lying inside the gift box is a single pink bootee edged in white lace.

  OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod . . .

  Who took it out of her bureau drawer?

  And why was it wrapped in a box for Jen?

  The room seems to have lurched into motion. All Kathleen can do is shake her head mutely as Jen puts the lid back on the box with a shrug.

  She opens her mouth to stop her as Jen turns toward the hallway, but she can’t find her voice. She’s left to stand helplessly by as her daughter leaves the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet, “’Night, Mom.”

  Kathleen rushes to the dresser, jerks open the top drawer. She feels around inside, pushing recklessly past heaps of socks until she finds the familiar bundle at the back.

  Thoughts, impossible thoughts, screech through her brain as she pulls it toward her.

  She unwraps the pink crocheted blanket, already knowing it will prove to be empty.

  But what she finds is far more chilling . . . and utterly unexpected.

  The pink bootee is still there, just as she left it.

  Meaning . . .

  The one Jen showed her was the other half of the pair.

  A pair Kathleen never had in her possession at all.

  From the start, there was one. Just one.

  At this time of year, with a stiff wind blowing off Lake Erie just a few blocks away, it always becomes increasingly challenging to find shelter for the night.

  Sometimes, Gary is lucky enough to remain undiscovered in the public restrooms of the nearby park, but most of the time, the security guards find him and kick him out when they lock up. That’s what happened tonight.

  “Move along, Buddy,” the uniformed man said unsympathetically, impatiently jangling his keys with a hand that wears a wedding band.

  If Gary were a woman, he could probably attempt to bribe the guard into letting him stay, wedding band or not. He’s heard stories. He knows most of the guards aren’t beyond accepting sexual favors in exchange for turning a blind eye on the homeless occupants of the ladies’ room.

  But Gary’s not a woman. Nor is he the kind of man who caters to the sick bastards who prefer his gender—unlike some of his cohorts who are willing to do whatever it takes to survive on the streets.

  No, as far as Gary’s concerned, you have to draw the line someplace. You have to keep your self-respect. That’s all you really own that matters, when you’re living on the street.

  He wanders barefoot and shivering in a tattered blanket down toward the waterfront. With any luck, he’ll find an unlocked parked car, or even a couple of packing crates in a deserted alleyway—anything to block the wind so he can get a few hours’ sleep. It’s well past midnight and he’s been up almost twenty-four hours now.

  He turns a corner and makes his way down another block, past a couple of restaurant-tavern type places. The dank air blowing off the lake mingles with the smell of greasy food, cigarette smoke, stale beer.

  Hearing a banging noise, he spots a restaurant employee closing the lid on a Dumpster on the far end of a restaurant parking lot. He waits for the man to retreat through the restaurant’s back door again before approaching the Dumpster.

  Gary isn’t foolish enough to consider spending the night inside it. The streets are rife with legends of the poor unfortunate who crawled into Dumpsters to sleep off their liquor and wound up crushed to death in a garbage truck.

  However, the Dumpster is worth a temporary visit. There’s likely to be something edible in whatever the busboy just tossed. Not just uneaten food scraps, either; at this time of night, restaurant kitchens are closing down and discarding whatever can’t be salvaged for tomorrow’s menu.

  His mouth watering, Gary picks his way around broken glass in the parking lot, wishing he knew what happened to the sneakers he had until yesterday. They were a size too small and hurt his feet, but better than nothing. Too bad he made the mistake of taking them off while he was sleeping in a doorway. He woke to find them gone, along with the half-loaf of bread he’d saved for breakfast.

  He scuttles across the remaining stretch of glass-free pavement to the Dumpster. After opening the lid, he eagerly hoists his small, wiry frame over the edge.

  Amidst the sickening stench of rotting food, his nose detects the appetizing scent of some type of seafood, and something deep fried. Once, Gary found an entire cooked lobster discarded in the trash here, and other times, he’s come across perfectly good fried chicken.

  He pokes around the top layer of the Dumpster, aided by the light of an overhead streetlight, until he figures out which bag was most recently tossed.

  As he takes a step forward to pull it toward him, his bare toes encounter some kind of cloth. With any luck, it will prove to be an old coat. Wouldn’t that be something?

  The food bag momentarily forgotten, Gary bends to move several pieces of cardboard away from his ankle, uncovering whatever he’s standing on.

  It is a coat!

  A coat, and . . .

  And jeans, and—

  Oh.

  Wrinkling his nose, Gary bolts back a few steps, realizing the clothing is still occupied by its owner.

  He shakes his head. Apparently, this guy hasn’t heard the horror stories about sleeping in Dumpsters.

  “Hey, Buddy.” He leans forward to poke the guy, who is lying facedown, motionless. “Wake up.”

  Whoever it is refuses to stir.

  It takes a few moments for
Gary to understand why.

  He’s dead, Gary realizes when he spots dried clumps of blood matting the dark hair around an entry wound at the back of the skull.

  Well, that’s a damned shame. But this isn’t the first murdered corpse Gary’s stumbled across on the street, and he doubts it will be his last. In no time, he overcomes his squeamish hesitation and gets down to business.

  First, he bends and slips his hands into the guy’s pants pockets, front and back, looking for a wallet—and, with any luck, cash. Nothing. He checks his coat pockets, too. Empty. Damn.

  Well, there’s always the coat itself, Gary thinks shrewdly. He tugs at the sleeves, trying to remove it. But he quickly gives up; the body’s arms are bent in a way that makes it impossible. Rigor mortis has long since set in.

  Gary gingerly kicks more trash away from the body, wondering if it’s worth trying to get the jeans off. The legs are straight out, so maybe—

  Well, look at that.

  A slow smile crosses Gary’s face.

  This cowboy died with his boots on.

  Brand-new boots, from the looks of things, and just about the right size. The thick soles are barely worn, the black leather is shiny, and the polished silver buckles glint in the streetlight’s glow.

  ELEVEN

  A rapping sound startles Jen out of a dead sleep.

  Is somebody knocking on her door? Did she forget to set her alarm and oversleep?

  Aside from the glow coming from the overhead bulb beyond the open closet door, the room is barely light. She lifts her head to glance at the clock—sees that it isn’t even six yet. She must have been dreaming.

  She’s about to snuggle back into the blankets when she hears the rapping sound again.

  Who would be knocking on her door at this hour?

  “Jen?” her mother calls softly. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Come in.” She sits up, rubs the sleep from her eyes as the door opens and her mother slips into the room.

  Even in this dim light, Mom looks horrible. She’s wearing pajamas beneath a flannel robe, but she doesn’t seem to have slept a wink.

  “What’s wrong?” Jen is too worried not to ask, too dazed to remember to keep her voice—and her emotions—detached.