The Graves

by Pamela Wechsler

  He takes off his coat, notices me. “What are you doing up?”

  “I fell asleep on the couch. How was Wally’s?”

  “Full house, great crowd.”

  I sit up, rub my eyes, and try to focus. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five. I stayed way later than I should’ve.” He gives me a kiss, then another. “How’s it going? Any progress on your case?”

  “Some, a little, not really.”

  My cell phone vibrates; the display shows my father’s name. He’s an early bird, probably about to jump on a conference call with someone in Asia. I let it go to voice mail. A few seconds later, Ty’s cell phone rings.

  “What’s everyone doing up at five in the morning?” I say.

  Ty checks the caller ID. It’s my brother. He takes the call, has a brief conversation.

  “You should talk to him,” Ty says. “Your mother had an accident.”

  Shaking the sleep from my head, I take the phone.

  “Charlie, what’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”

  “Mom fell down the stairs last night. She broke her arm. They think she could have a concussion.”

  “Was she drunk?”

  He lets out a sigh. “Very.”

  “This is getting out of hand. We need to get her into treatment.”

  “Good luck with that,” Charlie says. “Can you stop by the house and get some things for her?”

  I shower and dress quickly. Ty and I drive over to my parents’ house, he pulls up to a hydrant, and I jump out of the car. Before I reach for the buzzer, Serena opens the door.

  “I’ve been so worried.” Her eyes are heavy, and her voice is shaky.

  I put my hand on her arm. “She’ll be fine.”

  “I was in my room, asleep. I heard screaming and found her at the bottom of the stairs.” Serena notices Ty out in the car, he waves at her, and she looks away. “Your mother doesn’t approve of your boyfriend. She thinks he’s after your money.”

  I look at Ty and smile. “Trust me, Ty is not after money.”

  She glances at him again and reconsiders. “He is handsome.”

  My mother’s Celine weekender is on the table in the foyer, packed and ready to go. Serena hands it to me. I unzip the bag to be sure she has all the necessities for a short stay in the hospital. A tub of La Mer moisturizer, a silk La Perla robe, handcrafted Bottega Veneta slippers. Looks about right.

  The sun is rising when we pull up in front of the Mass General, and a shift change is in progress. The security guard recognizes me from when Ty was shot and we were both patients here. He allows us to park the car in the ambulance bay.

  The hospital holds about 950 beds, but there’s no need to stop by the information desk and ask for the location of my mother’s room. My family always stays in the Phillips House, the section of the hospital that offers deluxe private rooms, with flat-screen TVs, daily newspaper delivery, and mini-fridges, which my mother usually has stocked with wine and cheese.

  When we get to the room, we find my father and Charlie seated on a sofa. They look exhausted. My father gives me a hug and shakes Ty’s hand.

  “She’s downstairs in recovery. They had to set her arm,” my father says.

  “She should go directly from here to McLean, for inpatient treatment. I can make some calls,” I say. “I’ve worked with the head of their addiction program.”

  “That’s something your mother has to decide on her own.” My father turns his back to the room and looks out the window. “This is a helluva view,” he says. “You can see all the way to Harvard.”

  I redirect my appeal to Charlie. “She could have killed herself.”

  He’s not jumping on my bandwagon. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “This is not going to end well,” I say.

  “Have some compassion.” My father is still gazing out the window. “She’s not one of your defendants.”

  Ty comes to my aid. “I think Abby’s trying to help—”

  “This is a family matter, Tyson.”

  I take Ty’s hand, letting him know I’m grateful for his support. As he starts to speak again, I squeeze so hard I almost crush his fingers, signaling him to stop. Charlie calls Missy to give her an update, and my father calls his assistant to let her know his whereabouts. I unpack my mother’s bag, hang her robe in the closet, and arrange her toiletries in the bathroom.

  “We’ve got to go,” I say.

  “We’re around if you need anything.” Ty is unperturbed by my father’s rudeness.

  I take his arm, and we enter the hallway, where I’m surprised to see Chip Aldridge walking past the nurses’ station, heading toward us.

  “I heard your mother was brought into the OR last night,” he says. “I was about to stop by and check on her.”

  My body stiffens with both attraction and guilt. “I … I … appreciate that, Dr. Aldridge.”

  Chip gives Ty the once-over and extends his hand, which Ty accepts.

  “Chip Aldridge. Nice to meet you.”

  “You look familiar,” Ty says.

  “Chip is a surgeon here,” I say, much too quickly.

  “No, that’s not it. I’ve seen you someplace, but it wasn’t here.”

  “Maybe we’ve crossed paths in the Back Bay,” Chip says.

  If Ty is taken aback by Chip’s disclosure that he knows where we live, he hides it well.

  “Dr. Aldridge and I had a case together,” I say. “He testified for me as an expert witness.”

  I’m surprised by my spontaneous lie, and how easily it came out. I look down. Chip, who is unfazed, rolls with it.

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” he says. “I heard that the case is up on appeal. If you have any openings next week, maybe we could schedule some time to discuss it.”

  Chip flashes a conspiratorial smile, and I almost smile back, but then I see Ty has moved to talk to a nurse, probably checking on my mother’s condition. There’s a chance he may have stepped away in anger; Ty is pretty astute—maybe he senses something is up. Or, just as likely, he’s preoccupied with my family situation, and he’s genuinely concerned about my mother. Feeling like a traitor, I move away from Chip, stand with Ty, and listen to the nurse describe the extent of my mother’s injuries.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mayor traded in his city hall office for a jail cell, and Max is the odds-on favorite to replace him, with a well-oiled machine of volunteers and a dozen campaign offices spread out across the city. Today’s mandatory volunteer meeting is in Max’s home turf, West Roxbury, a neighborhood with reliable voters and desirable jurors.

  Since Ty and I are in the midst of our own campaign, designed to avert bankruptcy, he gives me a ride to the meeting, saving a thirty-two-dollar cab fare. He’s so excited about what he has deemed my newfound mindful spending that I can’t cop to the fact that, yesterday, I plunked down thirty-eight dollars for a tube of lipstick.

  He pulls the Prius up to the curb, and I clock a few small groups of familiar faces. A couple of detectives carry stacks of Dunkin’ Donuts boxes inside the headquarters. A cluster of probation officers distributes Max’s campaign propaganda. Two investigators and a defense attorney hold up LOMBARDO FOR MAYOR signs. The lawyer is doing double duty; he dips into his jacket pocket, pulls out one of his business cards, and slips it to a pedestrian. I’ve seen the cards: Reasonable Doubt at a Reasonable Price.

  Ty and I idle in the car as people start to gather inside.

  “If Max wins, they’ll have to appoint someone to fill his job,” I say.

  “So you’d have a new boss.”

  “The governor’s counsel is considering naming me for the job.”

  “That’d be awesome, babe.” Ty leans in and surprises me with a passionate kiss.

  He’s never been shy about public displays of affection, but this feels urgent and insecure, as though he’s staking a claim. A burst of sadness explodes in my chest, and I wonder if he picked up on the vibe between me and C
hip at the hospital.

  One of the new gang unit paralegals parks in front of us and struggles to retrieve lawn signs from the trunk of her Kia. Ty gets out of the car and helps her move an armful of the splintery wooden posts.

  “Thanks, I owe you.” Her smile is a little too eager. “Maybe we should sign up to do a lit drop together this weekend. We could have a beer afterward, my treat.”

  Determined to break up their tête-à-tête, I join them.

  “Thanks for the offer, but Ty is going to San Francisco for work this weekend. Another time.”

  I slip my arm into Ty’s. She turns red and moves away. A passing motorist blasts his horn and yells at the sign holders across the street: You all belong in jail. Politicians are a bunch of crooks. I give Ty a kiss, wish him safe travels, and join the group inside.

  This space used to be occupied by a RE/MAX franchise. Everything looks temporary: metal folding chairs, collapsible tables, exposed phone sockets, burned-out lightbulbs. Boxes of coffee and doughnuts are strategically placed near the dozens of to-do lists, one for each volunteer. I resist the crullers, grab a Styrofoam cup, and fill it with coffee. There’s a volunteer packet with my name on it, containing voter lists and campaign brochures for my neighborhood, Ward 5, Precincts 6 and 7. I tuck it under my arm, keeping my hands free so I can write my name on the sign-in sheet. There’s no point showing up if you don’t get credit.

  There are about ten rows of chairs, occupied by government employees, students, local businessmen, and private defense attorneys. Everyone has one thing in common—they’re all here out of self-interest, to curry favor. Before the last vote is even counted, they’ll try to cash in by hitting Max up for something. The law students will ask for a job. The prosecutors will seek a promotion. And the defense attorneys will expect a good deal on a case.

  I move toward the back of the room and plant myself in an aisle seat, next to a uniformed court officer. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and head is tilted back, like he’s about to doze off. Cassandra is behind me. I can’t see her, but I can smell her gardenia perfume.

  She leans forward and talks to the back of my head. “Did the governor’s office call you?”

  I breathe through my mouth. “Yes, they did.”

  “Me, too.”

  I twist around to face her. She’s smiling, but she’s not kidding.

  “They did?” I try to sound casual.

  “I decided to throw my hat in the ring,” she says. “I figured why not.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Cassandra told me she’d only be interested in applying for the job if I didn’t want it, and, stupidly, I took her at her word. My knee is moving up and down nervously, so much that the manila envelope slips off my lap and onto the floor. I use my foot to slide it closer to me.

  “I made a couple of calls, and next thing I knew, they invited me in for an interview,” she says.

  I lean over and pick up the envelope. A minute ago, I was ambivalent about seeking political office; now I am 100 percent sure that I want to be DA. And I’ll fight for it to the death.

  I plaster on a fake smile. “You’ll make a great candidate.”

  She fake smiles back. “That’s exactly what the governor’s scheduler told me.”

  Max’s campaign manager blows a whistle and steps up to the front of the room. He thanks everyone for coming and delivers a canned pep talk. This election will be a close one. Every vote is going to count. No need to waste enthusiasm on this group of hacks.

  As the speaker drones on, a text comes up on my phone. It’s from the crime lab: Hair from the Alpha Beta house was analyzed. Preliminary results are a match to victim Caitlyn Walker. This is the break we’ve been hoping for.

  My seatmate snorts; his head bobs up and down. I elbow him to let him know the candidate has arrived. Max steps into the room, bringing a gust of energy with him. Everyone sits a little taller, hoping to be noticed. The lucky ones get a smile and a nod of recognition.

  Max’s campaign manager amps up the enthusiasm. “We’re leading in the polls. Councilor O’Neill is our closest competitor. We’ve got six points on her, but we can’t take anything for granted.”

  Max takes his place, front and center. “I don’t want to see any of you out campaigning during business hours.”

  Max wants to make the record clear. There’s always at least one mole in the audience, surreptitiously recording everything, eager to tweet out any missteps or blunders. When the meeting winds down, I sign up for two phone banks and one knock-and-drop, careful not to overpromise. I refill my coffee cup and head out the door, looking for a ride back to the office.

  Max follows me to the sidewalk and pulls me aside. “What’s the latest with the Greenoughs?”

  “The hair from the fraternity hot tub is a match to our victim. I’ve gotta get back to the office.”

  “What’s your move?”

  “Both Greenoughs are lawyered up, and Josh King won’t let me near them. He’s made it personal.”

  “Cases like these, with so much at stake, are always personal,” Max says. “Whether or not the prosecutor and defense attorney have rolled around in the sheets.”

  I’m not surprised he knows about Josh. Boston is an intellectual hub, attracting a variety of professionals from around the globe, but it has a small, incestuous legal community. There are no secrets. I often think about relocating to a less parochial area, like Mayberry or Smallville.

  An unmarked police SUV pulls up. Max holds up a finger and mouths: Give me a minute.

  “Josh is blocking access,” I say. “I can’t get to his client.”

  “Josh King isn’t the one pulling the strings. Refocus your lens.”

  “You’re talking about the senator?”

  “Give him a ring. Tell him you’ll call your media contacts and leak his lack of cooperation.”

  Max’s shift in attitude from last week’s lapdog to today’s pit bull can only be attributed to one thing: his pollsters must have done a survey. He starts to move toward his car when I notice Cassandra is nearby, eavesdropping, looking for an opening. Determined not to let her beat me to the punch, I turn my back to her and follow Max to his car.

  “Have you thought about who you’re going to endorse as your replacement?” I say.

  He lets out a sigh and looks at the sky as though he’s never considered the issue.

  “It’s premature,” he says. “My seat isn’t vacant yet.”

  “Everyone knows you’re going to win. Your support will be important.”

  His shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to commit, but I’m not going to let him off the hook this easily.

  “You’ve got a huge base, and your popularity rating is through the roof,” I say.

  He tosses his half-filled coffee cup up in the air; it arcs and lands in the trash can, which is at least fifteen feet away. “Three points,” he says. This is his go-to move, when he wants to remind everyone, including himself, that he was a college hoops star and he’s still got it. I’m not impressed by his aim or his attitude.

  “Max, we’ve known each other for eleven years.”

  “You’ve gotta understand, I’ve known Cassandra a long time, too.”

  My stomach drops. “You’re the one who told me to get in the race.”

  “And you should.” He steps away and gets in the car.

  There’s mud on the shoulder of his jacket, but I don’t point it out. This time he’s on his own. As his driver takes off, I look around for a ride back to the office. Seeing no one, I go inside, where Cassandra is perusing the volunteer sign-in sheets.

  “I saw your boyfriend earlier, He’s cute.” She pauses, but I know she’s not done talking. “Didn’t Middlesex County prosecute him a while ago for drugs?”

  She’s trying to get in my head, and it’s working. I reach for the last cruller in the box, even though I’m not hungry, and take a bite.

  “Ty’s arrest was over fifteen years ago, and it was for pot,
” I say.

  “Did the governor’s office ask about it yet?”

  My throat is dry. I down a gulp of coffee too fast, and it goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, try to clear my throat.

  Cassandra takes out her car key.

  “Do you need a ride back to the office?” she says.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’m all set.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I Uber back to the office. As we pass Brigham and Women’s Hospital, I think about the last time I was here, when a crazed patient stabbed a brilliant neurosurgeon. The patient is in a secure psychiatric hospital, awaiting trial. The doctor is in Mount Auburn Cemetery.

  We stop at a traffic light next to the Fenway, where a group of women my age are pushing baby strollers, smiling and laughing. I wonder what it would be like to have a carefree afternoon with friends, or a carefree minute by myself.

  I use the downtime to call Senator Greenough’s office in Washington. I’m not surprised when his assistant tells me he’s not available. Five minutes later, Josh King calls.

  “I represent the senator. All contact should go through me,” he says.

  “Can we set up a meeting?” I say.

  “That depends. Will it be a meeting or a fishing expedition?”

  “Your quote in the Herald says the Greenoughs are cooperating with investigators. It was so convincing that I almost believed you.”

  Josh knows I won’t leak information about the grand jury, but I’m not above putting out the word that he refused a sit-down. He agrees to meet, but the logistics and location are the subject of strenuous debate. We spar back and forth, exhibiting all the maturity and finesse of a couple of first-year law students, engaged in a moot court competition.

  Josh strikes first. “Let’s have it in my office. We have in-house stenographers. That’ll save the government a lot of money.”

  “I can use the audio recorder on my iPhone,” I say.

  “My office is bigger and can accommodate more people.”

  “There’s only going to be four of us. Our conference room is more than adequate.”