I Love You More

by Jennifer Murphy

  I wasn’t surprised when Detective Kennedy showed up with Detective Jones not even a week after he’d been rifling through Daddy’s car, but I was worried. Detective Kennedy had been coming around with “one more question” for a while by then, but I could tell there was going to be a lot more than one question this time. I remember thinking that since I’m so smart shouldn’t I be able to figure out some way to stop Mama from getting arrested, and consequently me from going to foster care? Then I started thinking about destiny and how sometimes even when you try to make something not happen, it still happens. Just like Daddy dying.

  Mama sent me to my room, which was no surprise, but if she were paying any attention at all, she would’ve noticed that the wood floor was a bit more worn around the corner from the top stair. By then I was an expert eavesdropper. Mama wasn’t paying much attention to anything. I could swear in front of her, which I sometimes did just to see, and she wouldn’t even notice. Life with Mama had become a string of “That’s nice, Picasso”s or “What did you say, Picasso”s. I could’ve been planning to jump off a roof, rob a bank, or even run away from home to live with wild monkeys and she wouldn’t have known, or cared.

  While Detective Jones asked Mama a million questions about some restaurant near some church, I was thinking about how upset Mama surely was that they had stopped by unannounced. Mama hated when people didn’t call first; it wasn’t polite. Losing your privacy was obviously one of the side effects of someone dying. There were a bunch more. Like sometimes I actually forgot that Daddy was dead. I expected to hear him showering in the morning. I swore I heard him calling my name, or I’d hear the mailman’s heavy boots on the front-porch steps and get that excited feeling that starts in your chest and washes over your entire body. Sometimes I even ran to the door. What was really weird was that I saw him everywhere, like at the grocery or drugstore. He’d disappear around a corner, and sometimes I’d drop whatever I was in the middle of doing and scurry after him, but it wasn’t him. It was some other kid’s dad. Then there was all the practical stuff. Like for the longest time, Mama and I lived in the dark. I don’t mean dark in the metaphorical sense. I mean burned-out lightbulbs didn’t get replaced. We also lived in squalor (a state of being extremely dirty). The trash just sat there in the kitchen until it spilled over the wastebasket, and same thing with the garbage can outside. The yard didn’t get mowed. The bushes grew long, wiry tentacles. Ivy about choked the life out of the tree in our front yard. A bunch of dry sticks with crispy leaves stuck out of flower beds and flowerpots. The point is, before Daddy died, I didn’t understand about maintenance; I didn’t even know it was happening. It was just always done. Someone’s dying was bad enough, but when you stack all those other unexpected things on top of it, it pretty much sucked. That’s what Ryan Anderson said anyway. Well, what he actually said was “Life sucks”—he was upset about losing a soccer game—but I told him I figured death sucked more.

  “You were in Research Triangle Park for some sort of meeting that day, weren’t you, ma’am?” Detective Jones was asking. Detective Kennedy hadn’t said one thing, at least that I heard. I figured that was because he liked Mama.

  “A Junior League state chapter meeting,” Mama said. “But I don’t remember going to that particular restaurant.”

  “The waitress will testify that she saw the three of you together that day,” Detective Jones said. “And she’s a pretty credible witness. Prelaw student at UNC.”

  “She’s mistaken,” Mama said. “I’ve never met my husband’s other wives.”

  “Where have I heard those words before?” Detective Jones asked. “Oh yeah, Roberta Miles, or was it Julie Lane, or both? Well, we’ll know soon enough who was or wasn’t there. We’re waiting on the restaurant’s surveillance tapes.”

  Surveillance tapes? Like from a camera?

  That was it. Foster care was my destiny. Although I didn’t know too much about foster care back then, I did know from watching TV that I would most likely go live in some big old drafty house with a bunch of other parentless kids, many of whom took drugs that numbed their brains, and a so-called mom and dad who really didn’t care about me or the other kids, only the money they got for taking us in. I remember thinking that I would probably end up living at a house like that forever, or until they threw me out, because nobody wants to adopt older children, and there was a good chance I’d end up using drugs too, or even worse I could end up a prostitute, and Ryan Anderson would definitely not like me if I were a prostitute.

  “I’m certain the tapes will show that I wasn’t there,” Mama said.

  “Really?” Detective Jones asked. “Why is that?”

  “Because I wasn’t,” Mama said.

  I didn’t know for sure, but I figured that was a big fat lie.

  After Detective Kennedy and Detective Jones left, I wandered downstairs. Mama was sitting at the dining-room table with her head down and her hands rubbing her forehead.

  “Are you okay, Mama?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, so I added, “What was Detective Kennedy doing here?” I’d learned it was good to pretend I didn’t know what I knew, partially because it didn’t do much good (Mama had never even once brought up the Don’t Kill Daddy conversation we sort of had) and partially because there was the outside chance she might actually answer me truthfully.

  “He just wanted to update me on the case,” Mama said, which wasn’t the whole truth but surprised me anyway. I mean at least she was present.

  “Do they know who killed Daddy?” I asked.

  Mama straightened, looked at me. “No.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  She cocked her head, furrowed the skin above her eyebrows. “Why do you think that’s good?”

  The question put me in a pickle, so I had to think for a while about a response that would get me out of it. “Because once they find who killed him, we won’t see Detective Kennedy anymore.”

  “There is that,” Mama said, and she actually smiled.

  “Have you called anyone since they left?” I asked.

  More wrinkling. “Why would I call someone?” Another unexpected question. Had Mama finally woken up from her alien-inhabited state?

  Again, I had to make something up. “I thought you said something earlier about having to call someone about Junior League stuff.”

  “Did I?” she asked, her eyes staring off into space again. And then she said something that scared the bejesus out of me. “You’ll be okay if anything ever happens to me, won’t you Picasso? You’re a very smart girl, and very strong.”

  I remember I was just getting ready to say something like “No, I won’t be okay, Mama,” or “I’m not as smart or strong as you think I am, Mama,” or, what I wanted to say most of all, “Please don’t leave me, Mama,” when she just got up from her chair, walked toward the living room, and without even looking back at me, turned and headed upstairs.

  Kyle

  I admit I was relieved when the restaurant sighting turned out to be a dead end. Lindsay Middleton, poor thing, called several times to follow up on our progress.

  “I know it was them,” she kept saying.

  “We believe you,” I’d say. “But unfortunately it’s your word against theirs.”

  She ended her last call by saying, “I’m very disappointed in our country’s judicial system.” The click sounded louder than I’m sure it was. I wondered whether she’d stick with prelaw.

  With no additional leads, there was every indication that Diana Lane, Julie Lane, and Roberta Miles would get away with murder. This boiled Mack. I understood. In all honesty, I was feeling righteous too, but not because of the wives. Because of Oliver Lane. Here was this guy who had successfully conned three women, and most likely would’ve continued had he not been murdered. I would’ve loved to put the asshole in jail, but where was the crime? Sure, he’d led them on. Sure, he’d lied. He might have lived the role of husband with all of them, but legally he’d only married one. The marriage certi
ficates for the others were bogus, the ceremonies shams. Diana Lane was the only one who could openly grieve. Julie Lane and Roberta Miles were little more than concubines. Whether or not the three of them did it, and whether or not we’d ultimately catch them, I was happy they’d spend at least one more Christmas with their children.

  That year, like every year, Cooper’s Island did Christmas up right. There was an annual Christmas dance held at Cooper’s Alleys. Our chamber of commerce did a nice job with the Christmas decorations. All the trees and storefronts were wrapped with little white lights. The local hardware store ran Christmas music on a loop on its outside speakers. A huge tree stood in the town’s center. Our one nondenominational church held a yearly Christmas Eve service. The mayor, like most politicians, hadn’t wanted to risk losing voters by bowing to any one religious group, so he had declared the church open to all worshippers and their various gods. I had always loved Christmas on Cooper’s Island. In my heart, even with our cheesy plastic Santa and reindeers flying in place above Main Street, the ancient mechanical window displays sporting elves with broken ears and chipped paint, and Jimmy O’Neill’s drinking problem (our Santa had spent more than one Christmas Eve in jail overnight), there was no place I’d rather be for the holidays.

  On Christmas night, Lisa, Mack’s wife, invited me to their house to celebrate a combination Christmas and birthday party. Mack turned twenty-eight on the thirtieth; twenty-eight was a distant memory for me. Mack and Lisa had bought a fixer-upper on the west side of the island, the denser side, one street off the beach in the midst of rental land. It was the first time I’d been over since they’d completed the renovations. The permanent fixtures were decidedly male—dark cabinets, dark wood floors, stone fireplace. The decor was all Lisa—red canvas slipcover on the sofa, brightly patterned easy chairs, useless pillows, white pine dining set. After dinner, while Lisa cleaned up and put Evan to bed, Mack and I smoked a cigar on the front porch. Because the house was on a hill and rested on stilts, we could see the ocean through neighboring properties. The night air was crisp but pleasant, the temperature in the high fifties, the smell of the ocean still overpowering, the sound of the waves as robust as a Rachmaninoff symphony.

  Mack sucked on the end of his cigar, tore off the tip with his teeth. “Damn, I forgot, want a drink?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Taking a break from the juice.”

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Trying to lose a few pounds.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Oh,” Mack said.

  I didn’t want to belabor this line of questioning, so I switched the subject to one that made me even more uncomfortable, domestic bliss. “Lisa seems, well, happy. Being a mother and all.”

  Mack laughed. “She is. She keeps telling me she’s found her true calling. Who would’ve guessed it? Tomboy Lisa loving motherhood. When we were kids, she was always beating the shit out of me.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Her cooking has definitely improved.”

  “You liked the cioppino?” he asked. “Fresh catch.”

  “Cioppino?” I said. “When did you learn that soup came in flavors?”

  “Don’t tell her I told you, but she’s been taking cooking classes over in the church basement. You wouldn’t believe all the new cooking terms I’ve learned. Did you know there was a difference between basil and oregano?”

  “Wow, really?” I smiled. “Well, tell her it was great. Fine dining to me.”

  “You should tell her yourself. It’ll make her night.”

  We were making small talk, trying to avoid talking about work, but some conversations are unavoidable.

  “Did you find out anything more about our vic’s background?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Mack said.

  “Not even a parking ticket?” I asked.

  “Nope. How is that possible?”

  “It isn’t,” I said. “Trust me, he made a mistake at some point.”

  “Any luck on that safe-deposit box key?”

  “No, you?”

  “Maybe there isn’t a key,” Mack said.

  “Or maybe the killer has it,” I said, and smiled. “Could be what he was looking for at the beach house that day.”

  “You still doubting that the wives did it?”

  “I’m not doubting anything. Only …”

  “Only what?” Mack asked.

  “Even if the three of them did get together before the murder, there’s no indication they’ve communicated since. Don’t you find that strange? Seems if they did do the crime together, they’d have a hard time staying away from one another.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to be reminded of what they did,” Mack said.

  “Maybe. But I will say this: Whoever did pull that trigger probably did the world some good. Guy was an asshole and a sleaze.”

  “Yeah, but no matter what he was, it’s still a crime,” Mack said.

  Although I didn’t say this to Mack, in my opinion the law isn’t a one size fits all. It’s fallible. Innocent people go to jail more than we like to believe. Guilty people go free. Mobsters, goddamn financial crooks, and dope-running kingpins don’t do time because they have resources, or serve shortened sentences at facilities that are more or less spas. And here were these three decent women, three loving and caring mothers, who were just living their lives, when some narcissistic asshole blindsided them, changed their whole world outlook, sucked them into a dark vortex where the code of civilization—honor, integrity, compassion, hope, strength, and love—was meaningless, where sin was the only way out. Sure they’d crossed the line, but at some point hadn’t we all?

  By the time I’d made the decision to return to Cooper’s Island, my mother’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point that she didn’t know me. My sister had moved down from Wilmington several months earlier; the kids stayed with Brian, their dad. Kelly was happy to have me there; she’d had it rough. The house was exactly as I remembered it, a midcentury modern up on a hill, the only one like it on the island. My dad had it designed. I remember him saying that the house style was all the rage in the big-city suburbs, all the architects were designing them, all the jet-setters lived in them, and obviously the islanders were backward with their colonials, cottages, and stilted ramshackles. From our living-room window, you could just get a peek of the ocean. Growing up, the kids at Saint Anne’s school on Bodie Island had judged your status, and thus popularity, by whether or not your house had an ocean view. Mine just squeaked by and, as it turned out, so did I. I was almost popular, almost handsome, almost smart, but I thought then, and still do, that being “almost” gave me character. We weren’t lifers, my family. I’d spent the first five years of my life in Detroit, and though I hardly remembered it, and probably because I knew I’d have an in, I chose to start my law enforcement career there. My dad had worked for Detroit PD as a beat cop, and while he was well respected by his peers and superiors, his lack of a college diploma meant no chance for advancement. So when a position opened up on this little island in North Carolina that we’d never heard of, even though it wasn’t a promotion per se and was located in the “backward, mandolin-playing South,” he had romantic visions of small-town life, of the sound of seagulls instead of car horns, the smell of the sea instead of our neighbor’s bacon, a backyard instead of a fire escape, of slow nights, clear skies, and warm ocean water, the stuff of a leisurely and stressfree existence. The stuff that would cure his taste for alcohol. The stuff that would make him a better man, a better father. Unfortunately, life on Cooper’s Island didn’t turn out the way he planned. He was too gruff, too determined, too busy in his mind to live the island life. With no friends, and no social outlets, he took to the bottle even more. He slept through entire mornings, blew off dispatch calls, got in barroom brawls, pissed off half the island and scared the rest, and then one day the employment termination notice came and he lost his pension and his pride. I was nine then, old en
ough to understand that something really bad had happened but too young to worry much about it. Maybe if I had known how to empathize, how to console him, he wouldn’t have beat me. Maybe if I had loved him more, he would’ve loved me more. Maybe if I hadn’t gone crying to my mother, he wouldn’t have beaten her too.

  My dad died when I was fifteen years old, six years after he lost his job. In the last months of his life, he was a changed man. Cancer had eaten away his meanness and left him a sniveling, shriveled-up invalid, and my mother, after all that man had done to her, after years of surviving his abuse, years of working herself to the bone to pay the bills he should’ve been paying, years of spending what little free time she had helping those less fortunate, my dear sweet mother dutifully changed my father’s bedpans and wiped his fucking ass until the very end. Until the day, unbeknownst to her, I saw my mother remove my father’s oxygen mask, wait patiently through his choking coughs, and after she was certain he was dead, replace it over his mouth.

  I never told my mother what I saw, but for years I could barely look at her, and the day after I graduated from high school, I headed to Detroit. I wrote off my hatred and my leaving as a normal reaction to what I’d seen; my mother had done the unthinkable. Then she got sick. I told myself that obligation brought me back to Cooper’s Island. My sister shouldn’t have to care for my mother alone. Those last few months as I watched my mother fade away, I had a lot of time to think about why I’d mentally and physically left home. It’s hard to admit to yourself that you’re capable of murder, so much easier to deflect a weakness in oneself onto another. When I understood my anger had been misdirected, that it was me I hated, it was as if the dark clouds that enshrouded me had lifted. When I saw what my mother did that day, I’d not only felt a perverse satisfaction; I’d realized my father’s murderer could’ve been me.

  After Lisa put Evan to bed, she came out holding two guitars and the rusty harmonica I’d left at their place several months earlier. “How about we do some caroling?” she said.