by Merry Jones
Molly and I sat beside him as he faded off to sleep. Sitting on the bed, gazing out the window at the rain, I looked at the houses across the street. Victor’s bedroom light was on, and there was a shadow behind the shades.
EIGHTY-SIX
MOLLY EYED MY BLOOD- AND MUD-STAINED CLOTHING, THE
clots still in my hair. “Are you all right, Mom?” She was mothering me, reversing roles as if she had to take care of me, not the other way around. I had to reassure her. Make her feel secure, that she could count on me.
I smiled. “I’m fine, Molls.”
“You look gross.”
“I could use a bath. How about you? Are you all right?” I touched her chin, studied her eyes.
“I’m disgusting.” Her hair was matted and drenched, and red dirt streaked her pale skin.
“Let’s fix that. We have to talk to the policemen. But first, why don’t we get rid of the yucky taste in your mouth?”
While Nick slept and police scurried in and out of the house, I fixed Molly a huge dish of strawberry ice cream topped with chocolate syrup, gobs of whipped cream and a cherry. I watched her spoon it up, wondering at her stamina. Was she really as okay as she seemed? Not even a little traumatized? She’d seen so much the last week, and now a stranger had held her at gunpoint, tried to kill her mother, and shot herself. Hadn’t that affected Molly at all? Molly wolfed down pink ice cream as if it were a normal summer night, as if there were nothing odd about police wandering through the kitchen or a dead body outside the front door. I wondered if Molly was employing psychological defenses, walling off her emotions to protect herself from unbearable reality. I wondered if she’d need counseling. Stop it, I told myself. Don’t play therapist with your own child. Besides, it was too soon to see how she’d be affected long-term; I’d have to wait and see. For now, she seemed all right. At least her appetite was strong.
While Molly polished off her sundae, Officer Bowman came in to chat. He remembered the first break-in, the cutout window-pane. And I recognized his too-large hat, the way it rested low on his ears. He was the first to question us, but certainly not the last. Detectives asked the same questions we’d already answered. Nick would give his account later. For now, first Molly, then I gave our impressions of what had happened. How Heather had broken in while I was out moving the car. Who Heather was. How she was connected to us and to Nick. Why she might have wanted to harm us, or him.
Crime-lab people took samples of the crud under my fingernails and the blood smudges on our skin. It was all evidence, as were my fingerprints on the gun, the blood clotted in our hair and on our clothes. They wanted to know anything that Heather had taken or touched, even my coffeepot, even her mug.
The detectives tried to be kind to me, probably out of courtesy to Nick, and they seemed to believe that I hadn’t deliberately shot Heather, that she’d forced my finger to pull the trigger. Still, they needed to complete their reports in thorough and accurate detail. They seemed as tired as I was as they reviewed events of the night, and I couldn’t even offer them coffee; my pot was out of service for the night.
After a while Molly began yawning. I was drained, had trouble focusing on the questions, let alone my answers. Words seemed hazy and slurred, memories blurry. All I knew for certain was that I needed to go back and pick up where I’d left off hours ago, to finish what I’d started to do before Heather interrupted us. Answer phone calls. Give Molly a bubble bath. I had to wash her hair, wrap her in a fluffy towel, read her a story and put her to bed.
Apparently, the detectives saw my plan as symptoms of shock and denial. They wanted us to go to the hospital. I refused, insisting that we’d been there too much already, that now we needed to rest and be alone together as a family. Unfortunately, they didn’t agree. To them, our house was part of a crime scene where crim-inologists had to collect evidence, and statements had to be made. It seemed endless, the asking and answering, the waiting, but finally we had permission to go upstairs, where Nick snored hungrily.
While Molly got undressed, I ripped off my bloody clothes. Then I threw all of them—hers and mine—into a trash can. If the cops wanted them, fine. But neither of us would ever want to see, let alone wear, those outfits again. I pulled one of Nick’s shirts out of the laundry basket and put it on. Then, wrapped in his scent, I poured rose bubbles into steaming water and sat on the edge of the tub washing traces of mud and God-knew-what off Molly’s back, out of her hair.
I clung to routine that night like a drunk to a wine bottle. I did what seemed regular. Normal. After her bath, we fixed her hair and read a chapter of Winnie the Pooh. Then I lay down beside her, cuddling her until her eyes began to close. I told her that we would be fine. Nick would feel stronger every day. And she could relax because Heather wouldn’t be following her anymore.
Her eyes opened, sleepy but confused. “What?”
“Heather’s gone now, Molls. She won’t follow you anymore.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Molly frowned. “Heather’s not the lady who follows me.”
She had to be. “Are you sure?” I told myself that Molly was mistaken; she simply hadn’t recognized Heather. It had been dark, after all. And we’d been taken by surprise.
“I never saw that Heather lady until tonight, Mom. She’s not the same person. Not even close.”
“Okay.” I didn’t argue. The woman who’d been following Molly, I reminded myself, might not actually exist. She might be invisible to others. A figment of Molly’s imagination, the embodiment of her fears.
Molly turned, snuggling into her pillow, and I stayed until her breathing became steady and slow. When I came into my bedroom moments later, I tried not to disturb Nick, but he was sleeping so deeply that nothing—not retreating thunder or police sirens, not even a woman desperately kissing his face—could wake him up.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
I TURNED ON THE SHOWER AND WAITED UNTIL THE ROOM
became a steamy cloud too dense to see through, and then I stepped in and closed my eyes, letting hot water stream through my hair, over my face, down my back. I kept my eyes closed as I lathered up, afraid to see the suds, pink with the last traces of Heather, wash down the drain. I scrubbed every inch of my body, then scrubbed it again. I was bruised from my scalp to the soles of my feet, and my hand ached from Heather’s grip, my whole body from her assault. I couldn’t wash her touch from my skin, her words from my mind.
“Tell him I’ll see him in hell.” Then, bang! I could still feel her twisting my hand, pressing my finger against the trigger. The woman had been mad, obsessed with Nick. Suicidal. Blaming Nick for her sister’s death, for her own demons. Well, it was over. Tony was dead; the slave traders were gone. And Heather was, too. Nobody would break into our house again; Heather wouldn’t harass or threaten Nick. Now, once Nick got well, life would be ducky.
But what had Heather said before she shot herself? That she’d stopped Annie from killing Nick? That she hoped Annie had forgiven her? For what?
And as water poured over my eyes, I knew. I saw it. Heather had been there. She had witnessed her sister’s death. Oh my God. That was it, had to be—Heather had seen what happened, had seen Annie die. Oh, Lord. Had Nick actually killed his wife?
Is that why Heather was so angry? Because he had never acknowledged her silence, much less returned her love? She’d said it. “Bastard . . . never even looked at me.”
Don’t think about it, I told myself. Nick hadn’t killed Annie, at least not deliberately. It had been self-defense. These were the ravings of an obsessed woman, referring to events that, if they had any connection to reality at all, had happened long years before I’d even met Nick. Besides, what she said wasn’t entirely coherent; it was choppy, distorted by unrequited emotions and warped perceptions. Not to mention by time—she’d spent years in prison for attacking Nick.
I turned off the shower and wrapped myself in a fresh towel, went into my bedroom and put on my robe. Then I went downstairs and waited for every
one to finish up. The rain had lightened to a drizzle before all the detectives and the body were gone. I watched the last of them pull away. Then, just before dawn, unable even to think of sleep, I went into my office and sat at the computer. I needed to put my mind at rest. Had to review the old newspaper reports again, even though I already knew what they’d say.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
AS SOON AS I SAT DOWN, THE PHONE RANG. WHAT NOW? I thought. It was just five in the morning—who could be calling? Oh, God. The press? I almost didn’t answer, but I did.
“Zoe? Are you all right? I’ve been sitting here all night watching, beside myself, wondering . . .”
It took a moment to recognize the voice.
“Victor?” I sighed with relief. “Thank you. We’re fine.”
“I called earlier. I suppose I should have called the police right away. But I wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to be a nosy neighbor, you know. But I saw her lurking around in the rain, so I thought she might have been a friend or family member. I didn’t want to . . . you know… interfere.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes. That’s why I phoned earlier. They’ve been hanging around for days. I guess they’ve been . . . you know… casing the joint—”
“Wait—’they’? Are you saying there are more than one?” Oh, God. Was someone else stalking us? “Oh. No. I don’t know.” “Then why did you say ‘they’?”
“I thought there were two, but actually, maybe there weren’t. The one tonight was alone. Maybe she just wore a wig sometimes. But, Zoe, she’s been loitering. passing your house oh-so-casually, as if she’s just strolling down the block, but then turning back around. Then tonight, out in the rain, I saw this woman on your front porch, looking in the mail slot, and walking around back.
Very suspicious. And I knew about your break-in the other day; I listen to the police radio. Ever since those murders last year, I like to be informed about what’s happening out there. So I called you to let you know. Just in case.” “Victor. Thank you so much—”
“But thank God you called me back. I picked up, and you never said hello, but you must have been holding the phone because I could hear your whole conversation. When you asked her to put away the gun? Zoe, swear to God, I just about choked. And then, when there was an actual gunshot, I had a complete heart attack. But right away I got on my fax line to call 9-1-1.”
So it had been Victor who’d called the police. He’d answered my phone call, heard what was happening. And called for help.
Now he rambled on about how frightened he’d been. How he’d been sick to his stomach with worry. How he missed the old days, when he’d known everyone in the neighborhood and could have called a dozen people for help. How he didn’t know anyone now. Not a soul besides Molly and me. But now Victor’s curiosity had been aroused.
“Who was she? I saw the coroner’s wagon—is she dead? How’d she die? Is little Molly all right? She must have been terrified, poor little thing . . .”
Victor, normally reclusive and shy, couldn’t settle down. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and he kept spouting questions until he couldn’t think of anything more to ask, until I’d answered everything to his satisfaction, until long after the sun had come up and the silhouette at his bedroom curtains had faded in the light.
EIGHTY-NINE
WHEN WE FINALLY GOT OFF THE PHONE, THE CALLS IMMEDIATELY began. The press never slept. I left the office phone off the hook and snuggled up against Nick around six, when the rest of the city was about to wake up, but, tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I dozed, disturbed and restless, drifting to a place where dreams muddled with reality, where, in an endless hospital filled with curtains, dazed wet women wandered, eyeless people drank coffee from barrels, and blindfolded children played catch. A doctor with a carving knife operated on a corpse on a carpeted floor, and, finished, he took his mask off to reveal that he had no face, only flattened skin marked with scars.
When I woke up, Molly stood at our bedside, proudly holding a tray. She’d made breakfast. The juice hadn’t entirely spilled, and the toast, slathered with butter and jam, wasn’t completely burned. Nick was already awake, munching toast, and I sat, hammers slamming my skull. The three of us ate and chatted as if we were a regular little family on a regular morning in June. If Molly was surprised to see Nick and me sharing my bed, she didn’t let on.
“Are you going to be my dad?” Molly asked.
Nick eyed me over his teacup, sipping apple juice. “If you’ll have me.” He half-smiled. And he took her hand. “Molly,” he asked, “may I be your dad?”
She blushed and looked down at her fingers. “ ‘Course,” she said. “If I can be your kid.”
The storm had broken the heat spell, and the rain had washed away the blood outside. After breakfast I returned phone calls and paid bills, and Molly and I finally went to the grocery store, buying ingredients for chicken soup and brownies. The entire day, as if by some tacit pact, we did not discuss shootings or stabbings, slavery or death. Nobody mentioned Heather. We were all, apparently, insisting on the same happy dream.
Our day focused on the future. On ourselves, on healing. On becoming a family. On Molly’s desire for a brother rather than a sister. Molly wasn’t interested in arranging play dates or getting ready for summer camp, just in doting on her daddy-to-be. I was in my own daze, trying to recover and move on, secretly scanning the newspaper for lingering signs of the cartel.
Days passed and we fell into a routine. Nick wasn’t back at work yet, but Molly began day camp. Susan and I resumed practicing for the upcoming regatta, which she insisted upon racing. “We’ve worked too hard to back out,” she said. “We don’t have to win; all we have to do is race.”
Life went on calmly, at least on the surface. Underneath, I remained unsettled, off-balance. I lay beside Nick at night listening to him breathe. I watched the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, and wondered about what I was about to do. Marriage? I’d already been divorced once, didn’t want to mess up again. Maybe I was jittery because marriage was so daunting. What did a good marriage require? Was love enough? Maybe love was a liability, not an asset; maybe love obscured the truth, distorted a couple’s impressions of each other. Maybe a good marriage wasn’t about love but about accepting each other totally, seeing each other clearly, flaws and all. Maybe I didn’t know Nick well enough to marry him. Could I entrust Molly to him, give him full membership in our little family? Who was he, after all? What were his weaknesses, his faults? I knew one, of course; he wasn’t big on sharing his secrets. How many had he kept so far?
Again and again, Heather appeared in my head, growling, “Tell him I’ll see him in hell” before her face exploded. What had she witnessed that made her hate Nick so? Could she have seen her sister die?
At night I often lay watching Nick sleep, his mouth hanging slack, completely relaxed, his scar almost invisible in the darkness, his features boyish and symmetrical. Lord, I adored that face. But it was too appealing; it was a face that could conceal anything. people wanted to like it, didn’t challenge it. Had he done it? I wondered. Had he killed his wife? I heard Heather saying that I looked like Annie. That what happened to her might happen to me. That Nick was with me to replace Annie. Absurd. Nonsense.
Still, as days passed, I became more unsettled. My stomach was perpetually upset; dizziness was my normal state. At night, as Nick slept, I often wandered down to the computer, looking up the old newspaper articles about Annie’s death and Nick’s acquittal, reading them over and over, memorizing each one, assuring myself that Nick had been a victim, innocent in her death.
One night I studied one of the articles that insisted Nick had to be guilty. The angle of Annie’s bullet wound was wrong for a suicide. And it had been on the wrong side of the body. Why would right-handed Annie twist the gun to the left side of her body before firing?
“So what do you think?”
I jumped, startled, trying to cover the screen, push a button, close the wind
ow all at the same time. “Nick . . . you scared me.” “What are you doing?”
He looked wounded. Or worried. Oh, damn. What could I say? I searched for an excuse, couldn’t find one. “They acquitted me, you know.” I nodded. “Of course they did.”
“So why are you down here in the middle of the night reading about it?”
I dodged his eyes. They were too blue, confusing me. “If you want to know something about Annie or what happened, why don’t you just ask?” There was an edge to his voice.
I nodded again. “I didn’t want to bring it up.” “Zoe, every night you’ve been getting out of bed and sneaking downstairs. Is this why? What for? What are you trying to find?” “Heather said some stuff. It’s stupid. I should just let it go.” He sat. “Heather talked to you?”
We’d tried to spare Nick the grisly details because he’d been so weak. He knew only that Heather had been killed as we were struggling over her gun.
“She said it wasn’t a suicide.”
He blinked rapidly.
“Tell me. What else did she say?”
I told him everything. What she’d said. How she’d shot herself.
He sat head in hands. “Goddamn,” he said. “Goddamn.”
I watched him, waiting, not sure what to do. He pulled a chair over, sat beside me, took my hand.
“Zoe—you and Molly—I’m sorry this came home to you. This had nothing to do with you.” He touched my cheek. “But, believe me. Heather . . . Heather was jealous of her sister. All her life. And she had a crush on me. It got out of control. After Annie died, she stalked me. I guess, in her fantasy, with Annie dead, I’d marry her or… “
“Or?”
“Oh, Jesus.” He slapped his forehead and slumped onto the desk.
“What?”
“Oh, man.” “Nick?”
“She must have been there. She had to have been there.” I’d thought so. “Tell me, Nick.”