In Their Blood: A Novel

by Sharon Potts

  The car had miraculously started up, but kicked and coughed like a convulsing old man, and D.C. said he’d better follow her home in case the car quit.

  He worked on it behind her house. With his own tools. What kind of college professor is this, she marveled, who carries around a set of tools? And her neighbor, Mrs. Lambert, had seen him and asked if he’d fix her old Chevy. And he said sure, that it probably just needed a charge.

  It had been hot and his light blue tee shirt turned dark with sweat. He pulled it off and wrapped it around his head like a turban. His body was lean and golden. And she wasn’t sure why, but she had the urge to cook. To make one of her grandmother’s comfort dishes. Huevos con salchichas y papas.

  She left the front door open as she fried the sausage and potatoes, remembering the smell from her childhood. Remembering her grandmother smiling at her. “Come, mi tesora. Come.” Eat, my treasure.

  He had been watching her from the doorway. He was still shirtless. “Well, it’s fixed. You should get another five thousand miles out of it without much trouble.”

  She pushed the hair off her perspiring forehead. “Thank you. Have a beer.” She gestured to the refrigerator. “Sorry it’s not very cold. Nothing keeps cold in that old thing.”

  He popped off the top of a beer, then stood behind her at the stove. “That smells good. I never pictured you being remotely domestic.”

  “No? How did you picture me?” Her heart was racing.

  “I don’t know. Sitting on your bed grading papers, eating cereal from a box, biting your nails.”

  She scraped the eggs, sausage, and potatoes onto a chipped plate and handed it to him with a spoon. “I don’t have any clean forks.”

  He put the plate on the pile of newspapers on the kitchen table and unwound his shirt from his head.

  “You can leave it off. It’s not a restaurant. Shoes and shirts aren’t required here.”

  He hesitated, then left the shirt hanging on the back of the kitchen chair.

  She had watched him eat, barely able to breathe. Wanting to touch him, but afraid.

  “This is great, Marina,” he said, finishing the last bite. “Really great.” He smiled at her like her father had never done.

  “I can make some more.”

  “I need to get going.” He reached for his shirt and put it on.

  “Are you sure?” She was close enough to smell him. “I can make coffee. Or you can have another beer.”

  “I’d better not.” He paused at the refrigerator. “But would you mind if I take a quick look at this? I’m a sucker for a broken machine.” And he pushed the refrigerator away from the wall revealing a thick mat of dust. Black bugs scurried for cover, but D.C. didn’t seem to notice. He unscrewed the back with something he’d taken from his pants pocket, then touched and poked and prodded. Finally, he wiped his hands on his shirt and pushed the refrigerator back into place. “It needs a new fan.”

  “Bien. I’ll pick one up. Then I can install it. It will be very simple for me, no?”

  He studied her. “I can do it, if you’d like.”

  “No, please. Don’t be absurd. I’m resigned to warm beer and no ice cream.”

  “I’ll come by after class tomorrow or the next day,” he said.

  And Marina knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up; he was a married man. He was just being paternal and kind. But after he fixed the refrigerator, he returned a few days later and fixed the ceiling fan, then the leaky faucet, then the shower nozzle. He’d even left a small red toolbox beside the kitchen sink. And she had gotten into the habit of cooking for him. She’d prepare glorious, seductive meals, then serve them wearing her shortest shorts, her sexiest tops. She’d never met a man with so much self-control.

  She would watch him eat, sensing he desired her as much as she wanted him, but held back by his fake morality. Then one day, she exploded at him as he lit one of her cigarettes for himself.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  “How can you ask me that? You come here week after week. You say it’s to fix things, but that makes no sense. Why do you care if my milk goes sour or my toilet overflows?”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “That’s a lie. You come here to watch me. To stare at my ass when you think I don’t see. To fantasize about fucking me.”

  He stood up suddenly and the chair crashed down. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Why? Because you can’t stand hearing the truth? You’re a hypocrite, D.C. How many times have you fucked me in your mind? If you were a good Catholic, you’d go to confession for it, wouldn’t you? Lusting in your heart is as evil as lusting in the flesh. Right? Isn’t that right? You’re going to hell either way, D.C.”

  And he grabbed her and pressed her against the wall. His eyes were glassy and unnatural. She felt his heart pounding against her chest. Then his mouth closed over hers. He clawed at her clothes, pulled her hair, sucked her flesh. She didn’t want him to stop. Not ever.

  The tea kettle was squealing. Marina turned the burner off. She poured the boiling water into a chipped mug and swished the teabag around.

  She had lost him. The love of her life. But he had come back.

  Younger and better than ever.

  Chapter 26

  Carlos was acting weird. “I don’t want to hang out here,” he’d said when they got to the rec room, and he brought Elise to the yacht instead.

  Elise had never been on the large boat before, and she wasn’t even sure the Castillos ever used it. The gleaming white yacht was always gently rocking at the end of the dock. So she was surprised to find it completely furnished with four cabins, two and a half baths— heads, Carlos called them— a modern kitchen and living room area with a large flat-screen TV.

  “This is nice.” She fingered the soft leather sofa as Carlos rolled a joint on the coffee table. He sat on the floor wearing the black tank top he’d had on under his school shirt. The room was dimly lit by the late afternoon sun, which peeked through the portholes despite the drawn shades.

  “At least there are no cameras here that I know about,” Carlos said.

  “Cameras?”

  “Yeah. So my mother can’t watch us.” He licked the rolling paper, then lit the end of the joint with his cigarette lighter and took a hit.

  “What makes you think she’s watching us?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  Elise took the joint from him and sucked the smoke down into her lungs.

  “Do you ever get feelings?” Carlos said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Like about that night?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Carlos seemed to tense. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” On the paneled wall were pictures of hotels with beautiful views of water and mountains. “It’s crazy,” she said. She’d never told Carlos about the nightmares. “I keep thinking he’s coming back. That, that he wants to hurt me.”

  “The murderer?”

  She nodded.

  “Why do you think that?” Carlos was biting on the skin around his fingernails. Over the last few weeks he’d ravaged his fingers.

  “I, I don’t know. Look, do we have to talk about this?”

  Carlos went over to a porthole. He held the shade out, blew on the glass, then smeared it with his finger. “I’m just curious why you think the murderer’s coming back. I mean, you don’t remember seeing him, do you?”

  The tiny butt of the joint burned her. She threw it in the bar sink and ran cold water over her fingers. “Why are we talking about this? I thought we came here to get high.”

  “Right.” He let the shade fall back against the porthole, then reached into his pants pocket and took out a couple of little pills.

  Did she really want to take one of those again? Last night’s depression still clung to her. Or maybe it was the sadness from her fight with Jeremy this morning. Why had she
said she didn’t care if Dwight was her guardian? Well, of course she knew why. She’d wanted to hurt Jeremy. To make him pay for not coming home when she so desperately needed him. But now, she was afraid after this morning, he’d never want to come home again.

  Carlos handed her a pill and a glass of water.

  She took it. Why not?

  He turned on the CD player and lay down next to her on the leather sofa. John Mayer was singing. She liked that, soft and easy. She kicked off her boots— her mother’s leather boots that she’d found in the downstairs closet. Her mother had bought them in Madrid. They were stained, but Elise didn’t care. Wearing them made her feel closer to her mother. Like she was somehow with her.

  Elise closed her eyes. Shadows darted across the room. She tried to sit up, but she was bound. A scream caught in her throat.

  “Hey,” Carlos whispered in her ear. “You were having a bad dream.” It was his arms around her, but her heart was still racing. Was it fear or the Ecstasy? “It’s okay,” Carlos said. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or pants. She wasn’t either.

  He pulled off the clip that held her braid together and ran his fingers from the base of her scalp all the way down to the ends. Tingly, magical. He handed her a glass of water. She drank it down. It dripped on Carlos’s chest. She lapped it up and they laughed. Then they started kissing. Cold, wet mouths. And it was so good, she just wanted to suck on his tongue and lips forever while John Mayer sang to her about fathers and daughters and mothers and lovers.

  She was being caressed by silk scarves. Slipping and sliding on satin and velvet. Everything felt so good. She was happy, like her heart was chirping.

  Something hard pressed against her belly. Hard, yet gentle. Carlos took her hand and wrapped it around his penis.

  He touched her special place with his fingers. “You want to?”

  And she did. She snuggled against him as his tongue went deeper into her mouth.

  Mothers, fathers, daughters, lovers. Mayer’s words swirled around her brain.

  Her mother would be upset; her father, too. But they weren’t here to stop her. No one was here to stop her.

  Oh Jeremy. Tears stung her eyes. Why have you deserted me?

  Her hand swept over her mother’s boot.

  “What’s wrong?” Carlos said.

  She pulled away from him. “I, I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. I’ve got protection.”

  “I’m sorry, Carlos.” Elise slid off the sofa and found her clothes in a pile on the floor. “But I’ve got to protect myself.”

  It was only a little after seven when Elise got home to an empty house. The radio was playing. Elise was relieved. Flora often forgot to leave the music on like Elise asked her to. Garlicky roast chicken and acrid dog smell mingled in the air.

  Her senses were heightened from the Ecstasy. The lights were brighter, the smells stronger, her sadness deeper, and her fear more intense.

  Elise went from room to room, testing the windows, making sure the French doors and the door to the garage were locked. Geezer followed her. Jeremy had promised to fix the house alarm when they discovered it didn’t work, but he’d never gotten around to it. Maybe she’d call the alarm people herself since she didn’t know if Jeremy was ever coming home again.

  She poured herself a glass of water, went upstairs to her mother’s office and sat down at the desk. Her mother had a thick fountain pen that made beautiful calligraphy. “Mom,” Elise wrote on a piece of stationery that had her mother’s name at the top. The ink blotted on the “M”. “I miss you, Mommy,” she wrote. The pen felt heavy and smooth in her hand, like Carlos’s penis.

  Had she been leading Carlos on? Of course she had. It was her fault. She put the cap back on the pen and laid it back down on the desk. It didn’t matter that she didn’t love him or that she was scared or that she knew it was wrong. What mattered was she had tricked him. She hated girls like that and she’d always promised herself she wouldn’t be one.

  Maybe she should go back to the boat. Back to Carlos. Let him do it. What was the big deal? It was only sex.

  She picked up a photo that had been taken on a family ski trip a couple of years ago. Her dad and Jeremy were holding snowballs, making like they were going to throw them at Elise and her mom. They were all grinning, but Elise’s mother had a Mona Lisa smile, with her lips closed as though she knew something the rest of them didn’t.

  “Mommy, what should I do?” she asked the picture. “I don’t know what to do.” And she cried for a while until she was spent. Then she blew her nose in a Kleenex her mother kept on the desk and took a drink of water. She felt a little better. As though her mother was there with her.

  Elise picked up the heavy gold coin her mother used as a paperweight and turned it over between her fingers. Her father had given it to her mother as a birthday present. It was called a sovereign. “It means excellent or superlative in quality,” Elise remembered her father telling the family. “It also means autonomous and independent.” He had winked at his wife. “Just like your mother.”

  She turned the coin over and over. Sovereign. “Oh my God.” She banged her knee against the desk as she jumped up and ran to the computer in her room. Geezer, disturbed by her movement, began to bark.

  “It’s okay, Geezer.” Her knee throbbed, but she barely felt it. “I think I’ve figured it out.” She typed her mother’s screen name in the Internet e-mail account, then for password, typed in “sovereign.”

  She held her breath.

  Invalid password. Please try again.

  Her eyes refilled with tears. She’d been so certain.

  Someone unlocked the front door and slammed it shut. Geezer began to bark.

  “Elise?”

  For an instant, her heart stopped. Jeremy sounded so much like her father. Then it hit her.

  She typed in her father’s user name. Then she typed “sovereign.

  ” A new screen flashed. “Welcome, D. C. Stroeb. You’ve got mail.”

  “Jeremy,” Elise shrieked as she raced down the stairs. “Jeremy, I did it.”

  Chapter 27

  Jeremy brought in an extra chair from his bedroom. He and Elise stared at the hundreds of e-mail entries on her computer screen. It was only eight in the evening, but Jeremy felt drained after confronting Marina about the fire and then their hours of carnal reconciliation. He hadn’t stayed for dinner. He’d been eager to come home, anxious after his fight with Elise this morning. But she no longer seemed upset, caught up in the thrill of having unlocked their father’s e-mail account.

  “There has to be an easier way than opening every single one,” Elise said, her hair loose on her shoulders. She scrolled down the emails. “Dad merged his MIU and his personal e-mail accounts. At least everything’s in one place.”

  There were dozens of e-mails from university employees. Jeremy recognized them from the miu.edu addresses. He opened a few from wintert@miu.edu. All the e-mails from the dean were broadcast messages to the staff. There was nothing of a personal nature to his father. Well, that figured. Winter was the quintessential bureaucrat. He knew better than to put anything remotely controversial in an e-mail.

  Jeremy searched on champlainm@miu.edu. He still couldn’t block Liddy’s accusations from his mind. There were only four entries, way fewer than he would have expected. He hesitated before opening them.

  “Who’s that?” Elise asked.

  “Dad’s graduate assistant. Marina Champlain.”

  “Oh. Marina.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Jeremy that his sister might be aware of Marina. “He mentioned her?”

  “Yeah.” She sipped her water. “I don’t think he was very happy with her.”

  “Sure he was.”

  “Why would you say so? Have you been speaking to her?”

  “She’s been going through Dad’s papers with me.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t be upset, Ellie.”

  “I’m not upset. I don’t care who
you hook up with. I’m just surprised she’d help you. I remember Dad saying he was interviewing for a new graduate assistant.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Marina never said a word about that.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know.”

  Jeremy opened one of Marina’s e-mails, surprised by how anxious he felt. The e-mail was about the syllabus for an introductory economics class. The other e-mails were equally businesslike. But what if Marina had also communicated with his father from a personal e-mail account? He remembered his father once saying the MIU system was right out of Orwell’s 1984 and he’d never use the university e-mail for confidential communication.

  Jeremy scrolled down the entries looking for anything that didn’t say .edu or .org. and for those that sounded as though they may have been pseudonyms for Marina. No French words, no combinations of the letters from her first or last names. Was it possible his father had deleted all nonbusiness correspondence to and from Marina? But why would he have done that?

  His attention was caught by an e-mail with the subject line, “Need to meet with you!!!!!” Five exclamation marks— probably a student. The address was underlid@msn.net. He opened it. It had been sent to his father’s personal account. His father would have done that— given his personal e-mail address out to certain students, especially the ones in his clubs like café j.

  “Dear Professor Stroeb,” the e-mail began. “Can we please meet somewhere off campus? I have to talk to you about something very, very important!!!!! Just let me know where and when. Liddy Debajo.” The e-mail was dated in November, which was when the fire had taken place. So maybe Liddy had contacted someone in authority after all. But that didn’t prove anything. She still could have been trying to set Marina up.

  “Do you know who Liddy Debajo is?” Elise said.

  “A student. She’s active in one of the clubs Dad ran.” Best not to mention Liddy’s accusations against Marina. Not unless he found something more substantive.

  He checked his father’s outgoing mail. There was an answer to Liddy the same day telling her he’d meet her at a particular Starbucks that afternoon at four.