The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  Amy plops down on what looks like a huge beanbag. “The kids are in school. Well, preschool.”

  Erica sits on a straight-back chair—it wobbles. “First of all, I’m very sorry about everything you and your family have gone through.”

  “It sucks.”

  “How are you and your children doing?”

  Amy scoops up her unruly mane in her fingers and holds it over her head a moment before letting it cascade down. “We’re getting by.” Then she smiles. “I guess you could say I’m a lady-in-waiting.”

  “As you know, there’s been very little progress in the Buchanan bombing case. I’m trying to find out why your husband did what he did.”

  “He did it to take care of me and Lucy and Corey. We’ve been living on mac ’n’ cheese for three years.”

  “Most people would be incapable of committing murder and then suicide, no matter how much they wanted to take care of their family.”

  “You didn’t know Peter . . .” Her voice softens. “He was a seeker. He didn’t care about the material plane. Like jobs and stuff. He was searching for, you know, God and Nirvana and the meaning of the cosmos.”

  “Is that why he went away on retreats?”

  “Yeah, he was always going away on his quests. Once he went to Costa Rica and climbed up into a tree house and took some jungle drug and didn’t come down for three days.”

  “And didn’t he go away in the weeks before . . . before he committed the crime?”

  “Yeah, he did. He went out to Kripalu. You know, it’s a big spiritualist yoga-y place over in Massachusetts.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it expensive?”

  “Yeah, but he always did a work-study scholarship thing.”

  “What was the focus of the retreat?”

  “I don’t know . . . finding your inner light. Isn’t that what they’re all about?”

  “And did he call when he was out there?”

  “Now and then. He would get this all-natural high, he called it, and pretty much forget about us. He was supposed to be gone for a week. Then he stayed an extra week.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Yeah, he decided to sign up for some Chinese something or other.”

  Erica sits up straight. “Chinese what?”

  “Some ancient Chinese spiritual quest workshop. He was all fired up about Confucius and Buddha and darma and karma.”

  “When he came back he was all fired up?”

  “Well, really, when he got home he was kind of weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Distant. Quiet. I thought it was because he was on a spiritual plane. Then a few days later he flew out to Detroit and . . . well, we all know what he did.”

  “Did he tell you who led the Chinese workshop?”

  “He never told me stuff like that.”

  “And you never went with him?”

  “Nah. The only thing I’m seeking is my kids’ next meal.”

  “Well, when you get your insurance money, that will never be a problem again.”

  “Yeah. I went to a financial planner,” she says, curling her legs up under her.

  “So you’re moving on?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, I’m moving on. I’m moving on to waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, seeing you standing there as Peter blows his brains out. I’m moving on to Lucy and Corey crying, screaming really, for no reason anytime day or night. I’m moving on to trying to know what to tell them when they ask me ‘Why did Daddy do it?’ for the five hundredth time.” A dark, cynical expression settles on her face. “My husband killed a lot more than himself when he stuck that gun in his mouth.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Amy picks up a half-smoked joint from the table next to her and lights it. She takes a deep puff, holds it in, and exhales. Then she says, “Hey, it’s all good.”

  On the drive down to the city on the thruway, Erica calls the Kripalu Center. She reaches Mindy Wilson, the head of enrollment.

  “This is Erica Sparks with a couple of questions.”

  “Let me save you some breath. Peter Tuttle was here for a weeklong workshop called ‘Spiritwalker—a Journey in Shamanic Empowerment.’ When it was over he signed up for ‘Rising Moon,’ a five-day intensive in Chinese afterlife mythology. That ended on May 26 and he left campus that day. And, no, I don’t know where he was between May 27 and June 2, when he returned home to Woodstock . . . I hope that didn’t sound too rote.”

  “Can you tell me who led the Chinese afterlife workshop?”

  “His name is Dave Brennan. Fascinating man. Former marine. He served in the Iraq War, suffered PTSD, and turned all his energies to spiritual growth. He says it saved his life.”

  “Do you have contact information for him?”

  “We don’t give that out. But you can find it on his website.”

  “Did you have any personal contact with Peter Tuttle?”

  “I did, when he came into the office to sign up for the second workshop.”

  “What was your impression of him?”

  “He was very anxious, was sweating profusely. Didn’t look me in the eye. We get a lot of people who are missing something in their lives. They come here to try and find it. But even given that, he seemed like a young man at sea. Drowning. Desperate.”

  Ripe for the picking.

  Erica arrives home close to midnight, exhausted physically and emotionally. And starving. She heads into the kitchen and finds a smoked salmon sandwich waiting for her on the counter, with a note in Becky’s writing: In case you need a little midnight sustenance.

  Erica sits at the kitchen table and takes a grateful bite. The sandwich is delicious, spiced with mustard and horseradish. She wonders what Becky made Jenny for dinner. Then she tries to piece together what she learned today—but her brain isn’t up to the job. So she just savors the sandwich.

  Then comes a soft cozy, “Hi.”

  Erica is momentarily startled. She looks up to see Becky standing in the doorway. She’s wearing a nightgown and slippers.

  “Thanks for the sandwich.”

  “We thought you might be hungry. I waited up to hear you come in.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I promised Jenny I would. She worries.”

  “How did homework go?”

  “Well. How did things go up in Boston?”

  “They went fine, Becky.”

  “Oh good. It sounds like you’re on to something . . . ?”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  There’s a pause. Becky comes into the kitchen and absently wipes down the counter with her palm, then sweeps the stray crumbs into her other palm. It’s a proprietary gesture, and Erica resents it.

  “Big date tomorrow, huh? Jenny told me.” Becky smiles. “She likes him.”

  “I’d like to keep my dates my business.”

  Becky frowns and pouts out her lower lip. “Message received.” There’s another pause. “Nighty-night,” she says before padding off.

  Erica tosses the rest of the sandwich. She’s glad she’s not wearing any makeup because she’s too exhausted to even wash her face. As she enters her bedroom she notices that her bed has been turned down. She supposes it’s a thoughtful gesture on Becky’s part. Then why does it make her shudder?

  CHAPTER 33

  IT’S LATE SUNDAY MORNING AND Erica is sitting at her kitchen table savoring a cup of coffee. Jenny is spending the day with a school friend at her family’s country house in Connecticut; she’s going to sleep over and then drive straight to school with them in the morning. Which, if Erica is honest with herself, is an enormous relief. They’ve been getting along well, but having the apartment to herself feels like a great luxury. Jenny will be leaving for camp in the Adirondacks next week, and after that she’ll spend three weeks at her father’s in Massachusetts. Erica has mixed feelings about their summer apart, but it will certainly free her up to single-mindedly focus on her work.

  As s
he waits for Josh to arrive for their “play date,” she runs through where things stand with her investigation. There have been no leads in the hit-and-run death of Martin Vander, and the police are moving on to other cases. As they’ve told her numerous times, there’s no evidence that it was anything more than a fleet-footed car thief who ran a red light. A terrible tragedy, but hardly a conspiracy. Erica thinks a breakthrough is more likely to come from the histories of Timothy Markum and Peter Tuttle. Both fit the profiles of troubled young men who are susceptible to programming or indoctrination of some sort. Then there’s Mike Ortiz, who, while hardly a troubled young man, was under severe psychological, emotional, and physical stress as a prisoner of war. She’s beginning to wonder if a trip to Iraq—under the guise of research for her in-depth profiles of the two major party nominees—should be on her calendar.

  Erica’s phone rings. She doesn’t recognize the incoming number, but she does recognize the area code—207. It can only be one person. Someone she hasn’t spoken to in over a year. Someone her accountant sends three thousand guilt-assuaging dollars to every month. Someone she wants out of her life forever.

  Her mother.

  Unless . . . unless it’s a hospital calling, or the police, to tell her some news—an overdose, a stroke, an arrest—news she needs to hear.

  “Hello.”

  “Is that my little sweetie pie?”

  It’s not an emergency. It’s her. The woman who spent Erica’s childhood alternately taunting, ignoring, and abusing her. Still . . . she is her mother, sick, sad creature that she is, product of a rotten poverty-stricken childhood herself.

  “Hi, Susan. What’s up?”

  “Gosh, pumpkin, can’t a mommy call her little baby just to say hi?”

  Yeah, right. So what’s on sale at the supermarket?

  “We haven’t spoken in a year. I have a hard time believing this is just a little catch-up call.”

  As if they could ever catch up. Susan is incapable of an honest discussion, and any attempt to have one with her only leads to frustration, rage, and then terrible feelings of helplessness and sadness, a cosmic sadness.

  “I just wanted to thank you, honey, for the checks you send. You know how much your ole momma needs them.” Her voice is raspy and raw from decades of cigarettes and pot and booze and pills and screaming.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m kind of a celebrity up here, on account of you being so famous. I get my hair done every week, and you should see some of my new outfits.”

  “I’m sure they’re lovely.”

  “Don’t you take that high and mighty tone with me. Anyhow, I was thinking I might like to visit New York City. Everyone asks me when I’m going to see my famous daughter. And I’ve never met my granddaughter, little Jenny.”

  The last thing she wants is for Susan to meet Jenny. Erica’s life is about breaking the chain of abuse and depravity. If she lets her mother in, she’ll infect them with her pathology, her neediness, her sick head games, her narcissistic self-pity.

  “I’m very busy right now. It’s not a good time.”

  “Well, last time I checked you don’t own the city. I could just come down, get a hotel room, see a show, and pop into your office. Unless, of course, you’re ashamed of me.”

  Of course I’m ashamed of you. You should be ashamed of yourself.

  And then Erica feels it. That guilt. That sadness. That yearning to make things better with Susan, to somehow move past some of the pain and ugliness, to build some semblance of a healthy relationship. With the woman who brought her into the world, who gave her life.

  “When were you thinking of coming?” Erica asks, her voice tentative.

  “Oh gosh, I don’t know, honey. Maybe in a couple of weeks. I want to bring my new boyfriend. His name is Frankie.”

  “Hey there, Erica,” Frankie calls in the background.

  “You’re going to love Frankie. He’s smart. He worked a forklift but got injured on the job and now he’s on permanent disability.”

  Erica pictures the two of them, loud, probably high, hygienically challenged, Maine yokels, showing up at GNN. Having dinner with Erica and Jenny. No way.

  “I’m so busy with the election and my show, I’m always flying out of town on a moment’s notice. Let’s talk again after the election.”

  There’s a pause and Erica hears her mother taking a deep pull on her cigarette. “Well, sweetie, I’m sorry you feel that way. As I said, there’s no law against me and Frankie just hopping in his truck and heading down there.”

  “No, there isn’t, is there? However, I might not be available.”

  “Well, that would be a terrible shame, pumpkin. Oh! One thing I forgot to tell you. The National Enquirer wants to do a story on me.”

  “What?!”

  “Well, on me and you. On how we’re estranged and all and have no contact.”

  “I send you a check every month and this is the thanks I get?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie pie, Frankie called them up. Truth is he likes the attention, doncha, hon? Why, he introduces me as Erica Sparks’s mother. Like I don’t even have a name of my own.” She laughs, and the laugh makes her cough and hack and hock and suddenly Erica is hearing the soundtrack of her childhood.

  This is nothing less than raw emotional blackmail. And it’s not the first time it’s happened.

  “Do not talk to the Enquirer. If you do, the checks stop.”

  “Gosh, honey, that’s harsh.” And now Susan is crying, instantly bawling and blubbery. “I tried my best to be a good mommy. I tried and tried, but I guess I’m just a terrible person.” She gulps air and the tears subside to a whimper. “You know there’s two sides to the story. You were a hard child, always so moody, off reading and whatnot.”

  “Listen, I have to get off.”

  “The Enquirer asked for pictures of this crummy doublewide. We texted them some. Nobody can believe Erica Sparks’s mother lives in a dump like this.”

  Suddenly it makes sense. “I bet you’ve got your eyes on a brand-new one, don’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  Erica stands up and starts to pace. “How much is it?”

  “Oh, it’s so beautiful, honey. It has Corian countertops.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Seventy-nine thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll call my accountant.”

  The tears start again. “Oh, my sweet baby girl, you’re my angel sent from heaven. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Frankie shouts.

  Erica hangs up. There’s a vase on the table and she’d like to pick it up and throw it against the wall. When your mother—your mother—is that messed up, that emotionally unstable, that creepy and manipulative, you can’t escape feeling tainted. It’s a stain that can never be removed, a scar that will never heal. Erica forces herself to do some deep breathing. She looks around the lovely living room and out to Central Park as her blood pressure returns to normal. She may be stained and scarred, but she’s not going to let it stop her.

  Her intercom rings. It must be Josh. Who is exactly the person she needs right now to pull her out of this dark mood. Josh is planning some kind of surprise and advised “knockabout clothes”—Erica is wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, although she’s not sure how she feels about being knocked about. “If that’s Mr. Walters, tell him I’ll be right down.”

  She walks out of her building to find Josh sitting on a bright-blue Vespa. “Good morning,” he says with his warm, infectious grin.

  “I’ve never ridden on one of these,” Erica admits.

  “It’s the best way to get around Manhattan—zip-zip!” He hands her a helmet, and for a second she worries about what it will do to her hair. Josh gives her an encouraging grin and she puts it on. “Just put your arms around my waist and relax.”

  Erica complies and soon they’re heading downtown on West Street with the Hudson River on their right. They pass the cruise ship terminal, t
he aircraft carrier Intrepid museum, and then the gracious Hudson River Park—it’s filled with runners, dog walkers, blooming flowers, swaying grasses, skateboarders, and Rollerbladers—the rhythm of urban life. The bitter residue of her call with her mother fades away.

  When they’re stopped for a light, Josh turns his head and says, “Do you believe they wanted to turn this whole thing into a super highway? It would have cut the city off from the river. All the Powers That Be pushed for it.”

  “How was it stopped?”

  “By a whole lot of little people getting together and fighting. Fighting hard.”

  “They’re heroes, aren’t they?”

  “I sure think so. They changed the future of urban planning across the country. The whole focus moved from cars to people.”

  They zoom by the Chelsea Piers and then on the left the graceful twin glass Richard Meier apartment buildings. There’s a wonderful sense of freedom in being on the Vespa—the open air, the wind, the water, the sun—it’s exhilarating. They pull over in front of Pier 40, a massive, three-story structure. Josh hops off the Vespa and Erica follows.

  “This is huge,” Erica says.

  “Yeah, it’s a former marine terminal. We’re just looking at the front; it’s a square and the inside is a playing field. We’re heading up there.” Josh points to the roof—Erica looks up and sees trapeze apparatus, including two climbing platforms and a net.

  “Whoa, Josh, I don’t know.”

  “Just keep an open mind; that’s all I ask.”

  They take an elevator up to the Trapeze School of New York and meet their instructor, a preternaturally fit young man with a toothy smile. He runs them through a warm-up and preliminary exercises on the ground, including how to grasp the bar with your hands, then pull your folded legs up to your head, grasp the bar with your knees, and let go with your hands. Josh’s enthusiasm carries Erica through, though she keeps looking up at those platforms with trepidation.

  And now she’s standing on one—the trapeze bar in her hands, her safety harness secured, and the instructor behind her—while Josh is on the other platform, smiling across at her.

  “Go!” the instructor says, and Erica does go—stepping off the platform into thin air as the bar swings her out and back. “Legs through,” the instructor shouts, and she maneuvers her legs through her arms and her knees over the bar. “Let your hands go!” and now she’s swinging by her legs with the greatest of ease! “Hands again” and she reverses the maneuver. “Drop the bar!” and she lets go and drops down into the net, bouncing in her harness. There’s only one thing she wants: more!