The councilman taps the microphone, then cheers: “Happy Holidays!” He waits for a crowd to form at the base of the steps. “Thank you, all of you, for braving the weather to join us on this beautiful winter morning, the day before Christmas. For our listening pleasure, I present the St. Andrew’s children’s choir.”
Emily and a group of maybe ten other girls form three lines. Emily is in the front and center and, when the director lifts her baton for the choir to begin, she steps forward and pulls the microphone from the stand. My heart hammers in nervousness for her, an anxiety my daughter doesn’t seem to share as she confidently takes another step forward, opens her mouth, and releases a hauntingly pure a cappella first verse of “Silent Night.” Her voice is mature and controlled, and it sends shivers down my arms and wells my eyes with tears. I look around for Tom, wanting to make sure that he’s seeing her. Emily then steps back and joins the rest of the chorus in the remainder of the song. They finish to a thunder of applause and I furtively wipe the tears of pride from my eyes.
Next it’s Sally stepping forward. She has pushed back her wool cap, the same one that nearly covered her eyes a few minutes ago. Now her hair frames her face and the cap is resting toward the back, magically looking like a finely placed beret.
“I’m proud to announce,” Sally says into the mic, “the mayor of Woodville, Mayor Gorman!”
Mayor Gorman trots out, shaking his fists in the air in a rah-rah, go-team style. He shakes Sally’s hand and thanks her, then turns to the crowd. “Our good citizen Sally was chosen to be up here today to introduce me because of the exemplary work she has done on behalf of the Woodville Food Bank. She raised over five hundred dollars, just in time to feed so many families in need this Christmas season. Sally, we’re proud of you! And I’d like to present to you this badge that signifies the importance of being a good citizen.”
Flushed bright pink, Sally puts her hand out to take the badge. “Thank you,” she says, and steps back amid a swelling of applause.
Next Emily’s chorus sings three more songs. Then the mayor is back onstage. “Well, this is a nice surprise. In addition to the Democratic candidate for the US Senate, who will be here soon, we’re also fortunate to have with us today the Republican hopeful…Landon James!”
The pride and joy I’m feeling for my daughters is replaced instantly by the panic of a cornered animal. Landon barrels onto the stage, shaking the mayor’s hand. I look around to see if Tom’s nearby. I see him by the moon bounce with the boys, but I can’t tell if he’s aware that Landon is up onstage, only a few feet from our daughters.
“Thank you, Woodville!” Landon roars. “It’s so nice to be here. In June, the people of Virginia will choose their Republican candidate to represent them in next November’s election. I want to be your choice! Our country—this land that has made us a great nation full of entrepreneurial spirit and gumption for getting things done—is falling to pieces. We have spent too much. Our children will be burdened for decades to come because of our irresponsible spending. Getting our financial house in order is not just a good idea, it’s a necessity to save our country. Our country needs to be vibrant once again! We need our schools to be top-notch! We need our employers to offer jobs and benefits. We need our environment to be clean, our streets safe, our technology and innovation cutting edge. I am passionate about making these things happen. Choose me to be your man and I’ll represent Virginia proud!”
I need to get to Tom to quell the jealousy that I’m certain is brewing inside him, but I can’t leave the girls up onstage alone. He got your vote for a lot of years, I can still hear Tom say. I shake my head, try to steady my vision, and call Tom on his cell. He doesn’t pick up, and I’m not sure what that means. I look back at the stage, at my daughters, at Landon. I look back again for Tom. Though I’m surrounded, I feel utterly alone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Imperfect
TOM
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE freaking kidding me. Onstage with my daughters is Boy Wonder, the egomaniac who strung Mary along for six years and still has the stones to show up in her—our—town. Listen to him spewing that crap about a better world, more jobs, less government. Here’s an idea for less government: less you! God, that hair. It almost looks styled, like he stood in front of the mirror with a hair dryer. And the fancy suits and shiny shoes. The guy’s a Ken doll.
I glance into the moon bounce, get a visual on the boys, who are still happy as can be to jump and fall and jump again. I look onstage again, then at Mary. It appears that she’s taken off her ski hat and is combing her fingers through her hair. Since when does she care about her hair? I doubt she even combed it this morning before shoving it into a ponytail. And she’s standing on her tippy-toes, like she’s trying to make herself taller.
Knock it off, Mary. You’re making a fool of yourself.
Mary says that Landon hasn’t contacted her in years. Who knows? I want to believe her, but I reserve judgment because she’s lied to me before about him calling her. Maybe she didn’t lie; she just didn’t tell me. Same difference. It was years ago, when the girls were little. The prick actually wanted to name Mary as his beneficiary on his life insurance policy.
Number one: Why? Why the hell couldn’t he think of anyone else other than his ex-girlfriend, who was now married, with children, to name as his beneficiary? Number two: You don’t need to notify someone just to name them as beneficiary. He could have done it without telling her. So why’d he tell her? Was it just a lame excuse to contact her? And number three: Why can’t the self-absorbed loser get a damn life of his own? And stay the hell out of our town.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Choosing to Do Wrong
LANDON FINISHES HIS CAMPAIGN SPEECH, covering all the major topics: unemployment, national defense, the environment. The crowd roars. Landon takes it all in, nodding and pointing and shaking his fist. Then, when the crowd quiets, he turns toward the choir. “Beautiful!” He claps with a plastic grin on his face—not the real one that used to turn me to liquid.
“And I want to express how impressed I am by this young lady.” Landon points to Sally and my heart plummets. “For the work she’s done on behalf of the Woodville Food Bank. If only more children, and adults, embraced her commitment to volunteerism, we’d be a better country. I commend you, young lady, and to show my support, I’d like to write a personal check to the food bank for the amount of one thousand dollars.”
Sally pops out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box and claps her hand over her mouth. “Thank you so much!” she says with a gigantic smile. Landon walks over to her, holds out his hand for her to shake, and looks into the crowd. The perfect snapshot for the newspapers. My hands quiver as I push my way to the stage, tripping over wires and speakers.
“Sally,” I whisper, “sit down!” She looks at me, truly bewildered, as though she’s done something wrong. “Sit down,” I whisper again. She staggers awkwardly to her seat and looks at me like I’ve just shown up at her school with rollers in my hair.
I look back and this time find Tom. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s furious. I lift my shoulders and look at him with pleading eyes, as if to say, “I know, this is crazy.”
What seems like hours but is probably only minutes later, Sally walks down the steps and looks at me in horror. “What did I do wrong?” she asks. “He gave the food bank a thousand dollars. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes, honey,” I say, stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead. Sally jerks her head away because she’s annoyed at me, and my pawing at her is making it worse.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll explain later. You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.” Just then my cell buzzes and it’s Tom. He’s only about fifty feet away at the moon bounce with the boys.
“Let’s go,” he says sharply, and I can tell from the clip of his voice that his anger is going to land in my lap.
“I’m sending Sal your way. And trying to get Emily,” I say, and then even though Tom
hates when I apologize for anything relating to Landon, I say, “Sorry about this.”
Tom clicks his phone shut without saying good-bye.
“Listen, Sal. Could you go over by Dad? He’s right over there by the moon bounce with the boys. I’ll just grab Em and I’ll be right there, okay?”
“Mom?”
“Please, Sally. Just go to Dad, okay?”
“Mom!” Sally screams. “You’re ruining my day! Why are you acting so weird?”
“Go,” I say. “Now.”
I watch her stomp away and watch Tom receive her. I can just imagine the two of them bonding over how much they both hate me at the moment. I wave, smile, send him a pleading, conspiratorial look. Try to remind him that we’re on the same side.
I look onstage, try to signal to Emily. The best-case scenario would be for us to get out of here as quickly as possible without running into Landon. But I can’t get to Emily because Landon is blocking the way, jauntily jogging down the steps. I turn away from him, hoping he hasn’t seen me, but I feel the tap of his fingers on my shoulder.
“Mary,” he says, and for some reason the affection in his voice grabs me by the throat.
“How are you, Landon? Any developments?”
“No, I think we’re in the clear,” he says. “The PI photographer found a juicier target.”
“Thank God.”
“You look great.”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “You sounded good up there.”
“Still the hamster on the wheel,” he says. “Always trying to get somewhere, right?”
“It’s who you are.”
Our eyes lock. A thousand memories flash through my mind. Meeting him when I was nineteen years old, four years later being reintroduced, the following six years riding a roller-coaster relationship of want and need.
Just then Emily bounces down the steps, kisses my arm, and says, “Hello!”
“You were amazing,” Landon says to Emily, and then says to me, “This is your daughter?”
“Yes, this is Emily.”
“How old are you, Emily?” Landon asks.
“I’m nine,” Emily says.
“Don’t you have a sister?” Landon asks.
“Sally,” Emily says. “She’s a year older than me.”
“She’s the food bank girl,” I say. “The one you were just photographed with.”
“That was Sally?” he asks. “I had no idea.” He looks over the crowd as if he’s trying to find her.
“Emily, honey, why don’t you run over to Dad? I’ll be right there, okay?”
We watch Emily run to the moon bounce. Even at this distance I can see the vein bulging from Tom’s neck, the clench of his jaw, the fury on his face. I wave at Tom, roll my eyes like I’m stuck talking to Landon, send him an exasperated look that says, “Can you believe that he’s here?”
“That was Sally?” he says again. “I stood onstage with Sally, with our Sally.”
“She’s not yours,” I say quickly, shooting a glance back at Tom. “You know that.”
“I know,” he says. “I just mean…you know what I mean. I know I’m nothing to her.”
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“I’ll bet you’re the best mom, MM,” Landon stammers. “I could just see you baking cupcakes and sewing costumes and assembling scrapbooks.”
“That’s me.”
“It must be nice,” Landon says. “To be your kid. To be so loved. That must be intoxicating.”
My heart squeezes because, all these years later, Landon is still a little boy with no parents.
“I’d better get back to my family,” I say. “Good luck, Landon.”
“It’s nice running into you, Mary. I guess the chances were good,” he says, laughing. “It’s pretty much what I do these days. Hit twenty small towns in a day. Make appearances. Shake hands with worthy kids.” He looks around, nods, then focuses his too-blue eyes on me. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your day by being here.”
“It’s okay.”
“Sally’s beautiful. Both your daughters are,” he says. “I can’t believe I was onstage with them and didn’t even know.”
“I really need to get back,” I say, pointing in Tom’s direction.
I’ve taken a step when Landon says, “My grandmother died. In her sleep, just a few months ago.”
Landon shared little with me about his family. I knew the basics: His father left early on, destroying his mother, a young woman saddled with three boys. I knew that he was closest to his grandmother. She was the one who’d occasionally call his cell phone while we were together. Once when Landon was in the shower, his cell phone rang and I saw that it was his grandmother: Millicent James. I answered, introduced myself, and said that I’d heard lovely things about her. In a too-polite manner that reflected her generation, she proceeded to meddle in Landon’s and my relationship, hitting the love notes that Landon wasn’t able to reach. She told me that Landon spoke of me often; that he was a sweetheart, but that he’d need a “little coaxing,” if I knew what she meant. “Don’t be afraid to push his hand,” she told me. She was concerned about him, wanted him to be happy and married, worried he’d end up old and alone. Before she hung up, she reminded me to keep our conversation to myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Landon now. I look over my shoulder and see Tom glaring in our direction. “I’m sorry, Landon. But I’d really better scoot along.”
“Really good seeing you, MM.”
“See you,” I say.
Landon exhales, looks down, and then peers up at me from under his flop of hair. “Take care of those beautiful girls.”
“Bye,” I say, and walk in the direction of my family.
Tom and I barely talk on the way home. Luckily, the kids are nonstop, regaling one another with stories from the morning. Emily belts out “Silent Night.” Sally—who has forgotten that she was mad at me—holds her hand to her mouth like a microphone, introducing and reintroducing the mayor. The boys chant “Jingle Bells” over and over.
When we get home, Martina is pulling a frittata out of the oven. Teresa pours Tom and me big mugs of coffee. Angie slides a piece of coffee cake onto our plates, next to the eggs.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, running upstairs to throw on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater. Tom follows me, and when we get inside our bedroom, he closes the door.
“What were you and Landon James talking about?”
“Basically, nothing,” I say. “Just chitchat.”
“What kind of chitchat?” he asks. “What exactly did he say to you?”
“That he was campaigning, that he hits twenty towns in a day, blah, blah. Just stuff like that.”
“Are you sure?” Tom asks, pressing. “Nothing I’m going to find out about later? Nothing I’m going to find stashed in your desk drawer?”
“Tom,” I plead, “come on. Let’s not do this. He didn’t say anything, just chitchat, I promise.”
I look at Tom and shake my head like he’s being silly. I know it’s unfair of me, suggesting that he is being paranoid, especially since his compass needle is pointed in the direction of something less worrisome—Landon and me talking. It terrifies me to think that his needle would magnetize to true north, where Sally’s paternity lies.
“Are you ready to go down for brunch?” I say to Tom, taking his hands.
“I’m ready,” he says. “But Mary, you act different around him. What’s that about?”
“Of course I act different,” I say. “I felt weird as hell talking to him, knowing you were right down the road.”
“Not weird nervous,” Tom says. “Weird happy. You fluffed your hair, did this thing where you shifted your hips.”
“Shifted my hips?” I say. “What the heck does that even mean?”
Tom attempts an imitation of me leaning back and forth, like a smitten schoolgirl.
“You’re nuts,” I say, and because the burden of bringing us back to normal always falls on me, I clap
my hands on his cheeks and kiss his mouth. “You’re nuts, you know? Shifting my hips. Like I’d want to show off my fat ass.” I kiss him again, pat him on the butt, and tell him to knock it off. He relaxes a bit, but we’re far from back to normal. An uneasy wedge has lodged itself between us, preventing us from closing the door on this.
That night as I curl into Tom, I make a silent promise to him. I vow that the truth is coming…soon. Let us get through Christmas, I pray, and then I’ll tell you, once and for all. And because we’re the Morrisseys, the proof will speak for itself: our ironclad familyhood, our ardent loyalty, and our profuse love for one another. The evidence will be overwhelming. There’s enough good to overpower the bad, my defense will show. I may be put on probation, forced to wear a cuff around my ankle, but I won’t be taken from my home.
On Christmas morning it snows—fat, juicy flakes that summon the children. After presents have been opened, the cousins bundle in snow gear and go outside to play. Snowmen are made, fights are had, and sleighs careen down the hill at lightning speed.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Confession
THE FIRST DAY OF JANUARY is cold and still. The snow that fell on Christmas morning lingers, covering our lawns, pushed up against the edges of the roads, now slick with a layer of silver ice. As we shuffle up the church steps, on our way to Mass for the Solemnity of Mary, I hold tight to the boys’ hands, warn Sally and Emily to watch for patches of ice, keep an eye on Tom, whose dress shoes provide little traction. Once in the church, I relax and smile at my family. I slide onto my knees and pray that this year is going to be a good one, though an uneasy feeling hovers over me, a sticky film of discomfort stemming from seeing Landon James only a little more than a week ago. I wonder how a decade has passed and he and I have managed to avoid each other so successfully. Up until that moment at the parade. Suddenly the metropolitan DC area seems too small for the two of us.
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