A Hole in the Universe

by Mary McGarry Morris

  Mitzi launched the roll basket and meat platter around the table again. “So tell us, Gordon,” she said. “What kind of a boss is Tom?”

  “Very good.” He looked to make sure there’d be enough for everyone, then took a few slices. “He’s a very good boss.”

  The teenage girl returned to say the children wanted to watch another video. Lisa said they could. Becca Brock and Rena Stanley were still on the subject of suicide. Luke (Gordon hadn’t caught his last name) was telling them that his brother was a fireman. Last week he had rescued a woman threatening to jump from the roof of her apartment building. Her husband had just left her with three small children to support and—

  “Luke,” Father Hensile interrupted, “tell us about your sister. She’s a caseworker, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, for an adoption agency,” Luke said. “Most of the babies she places are from China.”

  “My friend’s trying to do that,” Gordon blurted, surprising himself as well as everyone else.

  “. . . which is my whole point, a personal, moral issue,” came tatters of Becca Brock’s voice into the hush. “If I want to die, I should be able to do it when I want and how I want.”

  “As well you should, Becca,” Dennis sighed to uneasy laughter.

  Lisa smiled and leaned toward Gordon. “Trying to do what?”

  “Adopt a baby. Well, a little girl. She’s Chinese. May Loo’s her name.” The regurgitation of words piled on the table in front of him.

  “Who? Your friend?” Lisa asked.

  “No, that’s the little girl’s name. She’s pretty. Delores showed me her picture,” he said miserably.

  “Delores? She’s adopting a baby? Oh, that’s so wonderful!” Lisa cried, eyes bright in the flickering light. “She’ll be such a wonderful mother. Oh, thank you, Gordon. You’ve made my night. That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.”

  Shocked by what he’d done, he looked down, his brow slick with sweat.

  “You know Delores, Mum.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Delores Dufault,” Mitzi told Rena Stanley. “She’s quite a character. One of those flamboyant, larger-than-life women, she’s . . .”

  Larger than his own stunted life, Gordon thought. He had told her secret, exposing her to strangers. Now Becca Brock had taken on foreign adoptions, a farce when there were so many needy children in this country. “It’s just another kind of racism.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Father Hensile said. “Foreign adoptions are just speedier, that’s all.”

  “So why aren’t people trying to adopt African babies, then?” Becca Brock asked.

  “Excuse me. . . . Excuse me,” Gordon repeated a little louder, dredging the words from the pit of his stomach. “I just thought, I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “Oh, no, Gordon.” Tom Harrington was quick to come to his aid. “Nothing like a little more fuel on Becca’s fire.”

  “I resent that,” Becca Brock huffed with coy indignation.

  They sensed his misery. Only his brother looked at him. “What I mean is, Delores hasn’t told anyone. I shouldn’t have betrayed her confidence.” Again lowered his eyes. Dennis seemed only more amused.

  “Well, we won’t say anything, will we?” Lisa asked around the table.

  “Well, no.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Besides not knowing the person,” John Stanley said, “I’ve quite forgotten the name.”

  “That’s all right,” Rena Stanley assured Gordon. “You were just so excited for your friend.”

  Now he felt worse. And foolish. The conversation quickly turned to golf. The teenage girl brought out more warm rolls. He was the only one who took one. Dennis pushed away his untouched dinner plate, a signal, Gordon realized, that everyone else was done. He set down his fork. If only Delores were here. She would have been in the thick of it by now, allowing him to fade into her presence.

  “They’re very beautiful,” Father Hensile said. “The roses, they’re from your garden, aren’t they?”

  “From my yard.” He had been staring at them. “They were my father’s. He planted them a long time ago.”

  “Is gardening as relaxing as everyone says it is?”

  “Yes. It is. It’s very relaxing.”

  The doorbell rang. Lisa slipped out to answer it.

  “I wonder why,” the priest continued. “It’s pretty hard work, right?”

  “Not really.”

  Roses are so beautiful and yet so hazardous, the priest said as he poured more wine. Hazardous. Gordon glanced up. An odd word to use.

  “Did you ever wonder why roses have thorns?” the priest asked. “I can see why blackberry and raspberry bushes do—to keep birds and animals away from the fruit, but why roses?”

  “Maybe for the same reason, but to keep people away. Until they’re ready. The roses, I mean,” he added nervously.

  Lisa entered the dining room. Her mother’s expectant smile faded as Lisa leaned over and whispered in Dennis’s ear. He stood up at once. He said something. She nodded, went to touch her face, and her hand shook. She laid it on her shoulder and watched him leave.

  “What is it, dear?” her mother asked.

  “Emergency root canal?” her father called down the table, and she stared back, face frozen in placidity.

  “Can you imagine,” Becca Brock sniffed. “The nerve of some people just showing up on your doorstep like that. My uncle was a doctor and, I’ll tell you, nobody ever did that!”

  “He was a plastic surgeon, for goodness’ sake,” Marty crowed.

  “Dennis shouldn’t have his number listed,” Mrs. Harrington said. “And it’s not very safe, either, dear,” she told her daughter, who had folded her napkin and now was lining up her water goblet and wineglass, side by side. “That’s how they do it, they call first to see if you’re home.”

  “Even the thieves are high-tech.”

  “You mean lazy!”

  “They don’t want to confront you, just like you don’t want to confront them.”

  “Well, Lisa and Dennis have a wonderful security system,” Mr. Harrington said. “Top of the line. Care-Guard. Same one as you, Marty.”

  Lisa was looking at Gordon. She seemed exhausted, utterly exhausted, by the talk of violence, of breaking into someone’s home. She feels bad for me, he thought, and then, seeing the horror in her eyes, understood. No. She’s just now realizing who I am, what I did, how freakish I am compared to these normal people.

  “Well, I know what I’d do,” Rena Stanley said.

  “What? Hide in a closet and call 911?” Becca Brock scoffed.

  “No, shoot them!”

  Everyone laughed, except for Lisa, who looked around her table as if she had no idea who anyone was.

  Jennifer returned and said something that Gordon missed over the melee of voices. “I said, ‘Are you all done?’ ”

  “Here he is!” Mr. Harrington called with a big grin. “My favorite son-in-law!”

  Dennis stayed in the dining-room doorway. “Gordon, I need you out here for a minute.”

  There was silence as Gordon stood. The bitterness in his brother’s voice had not gone unnoticed. Lisa started to get up, then sat back stiffly as if weighted there.

  “Probably Jimmy,” Mrs. Harrington said quickly. “He told me he couldn’t wait to show Uncle Gordon his new video game. What’s it called again, dear? He told us.”

  “Duke Nukem!” Mr. Harrington laughed. “God, I wish that were my name.”

  Halfway down the hall, Dennis nudged Gordon, then veered suddenly into his study. “There’s four cops in the foyer. They’ve got a warrant, but I wouldn’t let them go in. I told them I’d bring you out.”

  “A warrant. Why? For what?” The two men, their little dog, the girl, he couldn’t even think of her name. No, it was Mrs. Jukas—they did, they thought he had beaten her.

  “So they can arrest you.”

  “For what?”
>
  “Mrs. Jukas’s murder. She died this afternoon.”

  “Oh, my God! No! You’ve got to believe me, Dennis. I didn’t do that. I wouldn’t. All I ever did was try to help her. I swear to you.”

  “Come on.” Dennis put his hand on Gordon’s arm to lead him from the study.

  “No!” Gordon pushed him away.

  “Don’t do this to me!” Dennis’s coarse, close whisper hit his face like acid, stripping the flesh. “Don’t you dare. Not in front of everyone. Not with my children downstairs! Do you understand? You better go out there. Right now. Don’t just stand there looking at me. Jesus Christ, do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I didn’t do anything! I swear I didn’t. Please believe me! Please, Dennis! Tell me you believe me and I’ll go. I swear, I’ll go right out.”

  Dennis grabbed the front of his shirt. “What was it, another accident? She got in your way and you just beat her into a fucking coma?”

  He walked the rest of the way over the black and white marble tiles, alone. Dennis followed slowly. Of the four men, only two were uniformed. The two in short-sleeved shirts and chinos might have been dinner guests down the hall. Detective Kaminski stepped forward. “Gordon Loomis?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This arrest was made quickly, without anger or loathing. The deaths of pretty Janine Walters and baby Kevin had happened too long ago for them to despise him. His victim this time was an irritable old woman who had already lived her long life. The policemen seemed ill at ease, embarrassed to be here, even Kaminski as he cuffed him. The other detective was telling Dennis they had come in unmarked cars, as if that might make him feel better. “Here. Just till we get to the car.” He grabbed Jimmy’s blue windbreaker from the settee and wrapped it over Gordon’s bound wrists.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Loomis.” Detective Kaminski opened the front door.

  Dennis sighed and shook his head.

  “Soon’s he’s in, I’ll run the jacket back up,” the second detective called back.

  “That’s all right. Don’t bother,” Dennis said, but he meant, Keep it. Throw it away, I don’t care.

  It was after midnight and he had just dozed off in the cell when the guard unlocked the door. His brother was downstairs. The chief said he could go down, but just for a few minutes.

  “All night I’ve been calling Miridici, at home, his office, but he doesn’t even have an answering service, just a fucking machine. I must’ve left fifty messages so far.”

  Miridici had represented Gordon during the parole process. Gordon hadn’t been particularly impressed, but Dennis considered him the best criminal lawyer in the state.

  “Anyway,” Dennis continued, “that’s why I came. To make sure you’re careful. I don’t want you talking to anybody. I don’t want you even asking a cop for a glass of water until I can get Miridici in here.”

  “I already did. But mostly it was stuff they already knew,” he added quickly, seeing the shock on Dennis’s face.

  “Stuff? What do you mean, stuff?”

  “Details. The facts.” He repeated what he’d told Kaminski, the weather that day, the taxi he’d thought had dropped off Mrs. Jukas about three o’clock. He had been able to remember everything he’d bought for her that morning, even though he didn’t have her list. He’d thrown that out. When he heard how grave her condition was, he’d realized he was stuck with the groceries.

  “You said that? You said stuck?” Dennis stared in disbelief.

  “Well, that I’d have to keep them, that’s what I meant.”

  “But is that what you said?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. He must have, wasn’t sure, didn’t remember, couldn’t believe any of this was happening. This strange calm was like a glass wall through which reality could be viewed but not felt.

  “Gordon! Gordo, look at me. Every word counts, do you understand? Everything you say, they’ll use it against you. This time do it right. Don’t be telling them every goddamn thing you can think of!”

  This time? This murder. He had only told them the truth. They had been most interested in the exact time he’d bought the groceries, which showed on the register slip. They knew when the cleaning lady had left and when Mrs. Jukas had been dropped off. That put the time of attack between 12:25 and 1:10. Dennis asked why 1:10. That’s when the clinic had called to change the date of her next appointment, but Mrs. Jukas hadn’t answered her phone. Gordon said he’d told them that must have been the same time he was on her porch with the groceries. He’d heard the phone ring inside. It rang for a long time.

  “You told them that?”

  “Yes. That’s what happened. I heard it.”

  “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing telling them things like that?” Dennis looked toward the corridor. The guard was pacing back and forth.

  “I’m not going to lie. That’s worse,” Gordon said in a low voice.

  “You didn’t lie last time, either.” Dennis’s whisper came as a hiss.

  “Last time . . . ,” he started to say, then closed his eyes. Last time, the cell was dark, with bars on all four sides. This was a brand-new jail, bright with recessed lighting. He still had no belt or shoelaces. The inventory of confiscated possessions included his wallet, comb, and pen. Signing it had seemed a mark of hope. Last time, they hadn’t given him such a document to sign. Last time, he had also told them the truth. “Dennis, I didn’t touch Mrs. Jukas. I swear. I didn’t hit her. I didn’t even see her. She never came to the door.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Dennis dug his knee into Gordon’s, then huddled close and whispered, “They don’t know it, but there’s a witness. Jilly Cross. She saw you.”

  “Yes, she did, that’s right. Is she going to tell them? Will you ask her to?” He couldn’t help smiling.

  “Jesus Christ, she saw you, that exact same time, coming out of Jukas’s.”

  “No! That’s not true!”

  “She said you were upset, that you were angry. She said all she did was ask why you were over there and you grabbed her.”

  “No. I didn’t. I didn’t grab her.” Gordon shook his head, so agitated that he was panting. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “She told me that two weeks ago,” Dennis whispered. “The very day she heard about it she called me at the office. She said it was you, she was sure of it, it had to be, but if I didn’t want her to, she wouldn’t go to the police. She keeps calling and wanting to know what she should do. What we should do. And I don’t know what to tell her. It’s like I’m being sucked into this whirlpool and I can’t get out.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was nothing more to say. His brother would help but didn’t believe him.

  “I’m meeting her right after this.” Dennis checked his watch, then leaned close, whispering more softly. “I think she’ll cooperate. But from now on you shut up. The only one you should be talking to is Miridici.”

  Dennis had snapped out of his malaise. It was either the imminence of meeting Jilly Cross or the prospect of getting his brother out of his life. Or maybe it was just being in charge again. “Your brother is always such a help,” his mother used to write. “We seem to rely on him more and more. Aunt Gert says a teenager shouldn’t be making such important family decisions, but with your dad so low all the time, Denny has to, and besides, he always does such a good job.”

  “Do you want me to call Delores?”

  “No.”

  “She’ll want to know.”

  “She won’t.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Only the stem was left. Jada picked up the last few rose petals. She added more water to the soda bottle, then put it back on the sill. If roots grew, she would plant it and have her own rosebush. She looked out the window: all that food going to waste over there in Gordon’s refrigerator. By the time he got out, it would probably be spoiled. Poor guy. Why couldn’t the old lady have just stayed in a coma and not bothered anyone ever again? His yard was starting to look like hers, littered with papers, twigs, an
d pieces of the yellow crime tape. The grass needed to be cut. A new telephone book had been thrown on his top step. Its pages were swollen and curled from last night’s downpour. A man was jogging down the street with his German shepherd. Twice yesterday she had run outside thinking she heard Leonardo barking. She didn’t believe Thurman. Polie might be mean, but he was too lazy to tie his own shoes, much less go to all the trouble of killing her dog. No, Leonardo was out there somewhere, and one of these days he’d make his way back here. She wished she knew a real prayer to say. All she remembered was Aunt Sue telling her to close her eyes and tell Jesus what was in her heart. She closed her eyes and held her breath, but no prayer came, only an ache like a voice begging, Help me. Please.Will somebody please, please help me.

  She tiptoed into the bedroom. Her mother slept on her side, curled and unmoving, in the exact same position for the last hour. Jada leaned close, relieved to hear the watery rasp of breath. All she did between hits now was sleep. When she did get up to go to the bathroom, her legs were so shaky she could barely walk. The more she slept, the less crack she smoked and the more pregnant she got. Soon she’d be too far along for an abortion. Jada didn’t know how long they could last like this. Her only hope was getting her mother into rehab. She had gone down there a couple days ago, but she didn’t have an appointment, so she was supposed to go back tomorrow at one-thirty.

  Jada locked the door, then hurried across the street onto Gordon’s porch. She propped the sodden telephone book against the railing to dry. His door was locked. So were the windows. She tried the back door and windows, the cellar windows. Everything was locked up tight, even the garage. She came around the side of the house, then reached into the bush to break off a stem of three new roses. “Mother-fucker!” she yelled as the thorns scratched her arm. Angry now, she kicked the dirt, then squatted down, looking for a rock to smash the back-door glass the way Thurman had.

  A silver car pulled into the driveway and the doors opened, one right into the bushes as a tall, dark-haired woman got out. “Hey! What’re you doing?” Gordon’s brother called over the roof of the car.

  “Just picking stuff up.” She dropped the rock and held up an empty popcorn bag, a plastic water bottle. “And the new telephone book, it got all wet, so I moved it over by the door there.”