He looked over at Sean, slumped in the seat. “Where’s Fog?”
“Back at the house,” said Sean. “He’s pissed.”
The motor idled. Just sitting in the driver’s seat made Brendan’s heart race. Suddenly he was in no hurry.
“Why do you hang out with that guy?” he asked. “He’s an asshole.”
“He’s my friend,” said Sean. “He’s fun.”
Brendan fastened his seat belt. “You used to do all that? The cocaine and stuff?”
“I only did it once,” said Sean.
Brendan glanced in the rearview mirror. The street was deserted; there was no point in waiting. “Here goes,” he said.
He shifted smoothly into first gear. Nothing to it, he thought. He drove to the end of the block, signaled and turned. The motor raced; he shifted carefully into second. The engine stalled.
“Shit,” he muttered. He turned the key and hit the gas, taking it easy on the clutch. The Jeep lurched forward, then stalled a second time.
“What are you doing?” said Sean.
“Shut up,” said Brendan.
Again he started the engine. In the rearview mirror, headlights appeared, a car turning the corner. In a moment the red and blue lights came on.
“Oh God,” said Brendan. “The cops.”
“I think I’m going to puke,” said Sean.
He scrabbled at the door and got it open just in time. The cop got out of his car and approached the Jeep.
“Everything all right here?” he said, shining a flashlight into Brendan’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” said Brendan, like Fog in military school. Beside him Sean retched loudly onto the sidewalk.
“Have you boys been drinking?”
“I had a beer a few hours ago,” said Brendan. There was no point in lying with Sean puking out the passenger door. He glanced at Sean. “He’s pretty wasted, though.”
“I can see that.” The cop looked closely at Brendan. “You seem all right.”
Yes, Brendan thought: he was going to let them go.
“Please step out of the car,” said the cop. “But first, I need to see your license and registration.”
THEY LEFT the Jeep by the side of the road. Brendan had passed the sobriety test, but there was still the underage drinking, the driving without a license. The cop wanted to speak with his parents.
They rode in the squad car to Brendan’s house. Sean huddled in a corner of the backseat, pale under the street lamps. “I want to go home,” he moaned until Brendan kicked him in the shins. Fog was still back at Sean’s house, with a half ounce of pot and a mirror dusted with cocaine. As much as Brendan disliked the guy, he wasn’t about to send a cop to the Guthries’ doorstep.
Brendan’s house was dark. The cop rang the doorbell. When no one came he let Brendan open the door with his key.
“Mom?” Brendan called, turning on the light.
“Are you sure she’s home?” said the cop.
“She must be.” Then Brendan opened the door that led to the garage and saw that her car was gone.
“What about your father?” said the cop.
“Gone,” said Brendan.
In the kitchen the telephone rang.
“I’ll have to take you down to the station,” said the cop.
A quick beep; the answering machine picked up.
“Dinah?” said a male voice. Static in the background; a mobile phone. “It’s Charlie. I just got off the highway near your house and—”
“Let me get that,” said Brendan, running for the phone. “It’s my brother.”
Spring
Spring came late that year. March was as cold as winter; along the Potomac, disappointed tourists searched in vain for cherry blossoms. Then, in the first week of May, the world warmed overnight. By Memorial Day the heat had set in, the hazy skies of full summer.
Charlie stood on Dinah’s back porch, looking out over the yards of Falls Road, the manicured lawns the color of limes. Dinah’s grass was two inches higher than the neighbors’; yet her vegetable garden was carefully tended. More than a garden: she had planted a small farm. He recognized chard and butter lettuce, broccoli and cucumbers, row after row of peppers and tomatoes. Dinah and Jody sat at the picnic table chatting and laughing, stripping the husks from ears of corn.
He lifted the cover from the grill and poked at the coals. “What do you think? Are they hot enough?”
Dinah came over to the grill and looked.
“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll get the burgers. Wayne will be here any minute.” She gathered the corn into a paper bag and carried it into the kitchen.
“Wayne’s the boyfriend?” Jody asked. She’d become the summer Jody, a transformation Charlie witnessed every year: red hair hidden beneath a hat, nose smeared with zinc oxide. He detected the sweet coconut aroma of sunscreen, a smell he’d always associated with his sister.
“Yep.” He’d met Wayne a few times; the guy was usually at the house when Charlie came to pick up Brendan. That spring Wayne had thrown a party for Dinah’s fortieth birthday; he’d bought her a used Rototiller for the garden. Charlie had never seen a woman so delighted by a gift.
“He’s a good guy,” said Charlie. He poked at the coals, feeling his sister’s stare.
“Do you ever think about him?” she asked.
“Who?” said Charlie, though he knew. For most of his life he’d thought of Ken Kimble every day: every time he spoke to his mother on the phone, every time he saw a jogger in the park. Now, strangely, the man rarely crossed his mind.
“Not much,” he admitted. “Do you?”
Jody shrugged. “At first I did. It was hard not to, with his picture in the papers. But lately I never think about it.” She glanced at her watch. “Russell was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Don’t remind me.” She fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette and came up empty. “Got any smokes?”
“Nope,” said Charlie. He hadn’t smoked in months; he and Brendan had made a pact to quit. They’d made a number of bargains since the night Brendan was stopped by the police. Brendan had agreed to stop smoking, to stay out of trouble at school; in return, Charlie would teach Brendan to drive. They’d gone out twice already, practiced three-point turns in empty parking lots. All the while Charlie thought of Curt Mabry, who’d taught him the spring he turned sixteen; who wouldn’t let him take the driver’s test until he could back up for a mile straight, the whole length of the dirt road in Curt’s pickup truck.
“Have you talked to Mama lately?” he asked.
“I tried calling last night, and again this morning,” said Jody. “No answer. I don’t know where she could have been.”
“Maybe she has a boyfriend.” Charlie laughed. “Maybe she’s off on a romantic weekend.”
Jody giggled. “Can you imagine?” She reached for her sunscreen on the table and applied another coat to her nose.
“What about you?” she said. “Have you heard from Anne-Sophie?”
“Nope.” His chest still ached at the thought of her. It’s getting better, he told himself. He hoped it was true.
“She’s seeing someone else. Some French guy.” He poked at the coals. “In a few years I’ll be sending Christmas presents to her kids.”
“Oh, Charlie.” They both smiled. There was nothing else to say.
DINAH SOAKED the corn in milk and added a teaspoon of sugar, an old trick to make it sweet and tender. She glanced out the kitchen window. Wayne and Jody stood chatting at the grill; in the yard, Wayne’s dog stole a Frisbee from Brendan’s fingertips. Brendan had grown that spring; he was almost as tall as Charlie. He’d slimmed down, too: his pants were finally too baggy even for him, and he’d agreed to let Dinah buy him new ones. Once she’d actually persuaded him to play tennis with her; he’d moved a bit sluggishly, but his serve was strong.
At times he still confounded her, but she was learning how to handle him: when to insist, when to
back off. The tennis, for example. She’d hoped to make it a regular thing; but when she’d proposed a rematch, Brendan had balked. “Let it go,” Wayne advised her. “He’ll play when he’s ready.” A month later Brendan had approached Wayne for lessons. Now the two played once a week.
He was an independent boy; she understood that now. It was a quality she admired, one she hoped to acquire herself. She was forty years old, a woman making choices. That spring she’d launched a catering business; she was tired of spending Ken’s money. In Great Falls alone the potential was enormous: most of her neighbors used caterers several times a year. Wayne had helped her apply for a business license, shown her how to track expenses and revenue on Brendan’s computer. He’d offered to keep the books for her, but she was a grown woman. It was time she learned how the world worked.
She watched Brendan fling the Frisbee across the lawn, a powerful throw; lately he spent an hour a day throwing Frisbees to Wayne’s dog. Wayne joined them for dinner every night; afterward he and Dinah washed dishes while Brendan played with Buster. All through his childhood he’d begged for a dog, but Ken had claimed to be allergic. Dinah suspected a different reason. He’d always been vain about the house. Often she imagined Ken’s horror at hearing Buster’s toenails on the hardwood floors. The thought pleased her.
The house was messier these days, but it was the sort of clutter she liked: a basket of clean laundry near the back door, fresh from the clothesline; herbs growing in clay pots on the windowsill. Framed photographs decorated the front hallway; Charlie had given Brendan one of his old cameras, and they spent nearly every Saturday at his house in Baltimore, developing film in his darkroom. For the first time in years, Dinah’s house looked lived in, though she spent less time there than ever before. Most weekends she had catering jobs; it bothered her at first, taking the time away from Brendan, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had plans of his own: he’d transferred to public school that spring and had a whole new group of friends. Dinah had resisted the idea of his changing schools, but both Wayne and Charlie thought it a good one. She’d been surprised to learn that Brendan had been miserable at Godfrey from the beginning. “He’s a good kid,” Charlie had told her. “All he needs is a fresh start.”
Since New Year’s Eve, Charlie had been Brendan’s hero. He’d appeared at the house within minutes, spoken with the cop, and stayed with Brendan until Dinah came home. At first she felt guilty—she’d been gone when Brendan needed her, off at Wayne’s house instead of at home waiting for her son—but Wayne had persuaded her that it was for the best. She’d have gone ballistic seeing a police car in the driveway, he’d pointed out, and that wouldn’t have done Brendan any good. Charlie, apparently, hadn’t gone ballistic; he’d convinced the officer to leave Brendan with him; then the two of them drove Sean Guthrie home. According to Brendan he never lost his cool, even when Sean threw up in his car. Brendan had gotten off with probation; Charlie had even gone to his trial. The perfect older brother, Dinah thought. His resemblance to Ken no longer spooked her; only occasionally, in profile, did she catch a glimpse of his father’s face.
She watched them race across the lawn, Ken Kimble’s two sons. They’d inherited his height, his thoughtful frown; they had the same laugh. Their father’s laugh; it had to be. Yet Dinah couldn’t say for sure. Married to Ken Kimble for fifteen years, she couldn’t recall hearing him laugh.
He was a deliberate man. For weeks after he left, she’d wandered around the house in a daze; then, one dark afternoon, she’d ransacked his closets, his home office, looking for proof that he’d loved her. She found no letters, no photographs, no mementos saved in a sentimental moment; only canceled checks, bank statements, receipts for things he’d bought. These were the only traces he’d left behind, a history of luxuries purchased and consumed.
She searched her memory. Fifteen years of ordinary days, meals eaten, Sunday mornings with the newspaper, holidays come and gone. Surely there had been a day, a moment, when he’d revealed himself to her: his deepest self, his capacity for love. She recalled an evening many years ago, in Richmond, sitting in his car in her parents’ driveway. Where did it come from? he’d asked, touching the birthmark on her cheek. You can get it taken care of someday. You’re a beautiful girl. He’d had nothing to gain from her; his concern, as far as she could see, was pure. He’d loved her better, then, than he did later, when she was just another thing that belonged to him.
“Come and get ’em!” Wayne called from the porch. Next to him Jody piled the hamburgers on a plate.
Dinah drained the corn and carried the pot outside. Just then the telephone rang.
“Somebody get that,” she called. “I’ve got my hands full.”
Wayne ran into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him. In the yard Brendan and Charlie washed their hands at the garden hose. The dog nosed around the grill, panting loudly. Inside the house the ringing stopped.
Dinah piled the steaming corncobs on a plate. The table was loaded down with food; but for once she had not cooked too much. She had a large family, and everyone was hungry. The dishes circulated, Dinah to Jody to Charlie to Brendan. Then Wayne appeared in the doorway.
“Dinah,” he said. “It’s the Florida state police. They want to talk to you.”
Praise for
Mrs. Kimble
“Clever…. An admirable debut novel…. Haigh has certainly succeeded in creating a trio of memorable characters. The three Mrs. Kimbles—a deserted housewife, a frustrated feminist, and a disappointed mother—present the whole gamut of family values gone awry.”
—Washington Post Book World
“An affecting tale of the power of a charismatic predator and the acquiescence of his victims. Ken Kimble…is a chilling creation.”
—Boston Globe
“Vivid and moving…. The book’s detail-packed, omniscient point of view makes it a guilty pleasure for readers who love to snoop on the woman next door…. Mrs. Kimble exists as a work of unique poignancy. Read it to grieve with its characters, to sit with them as they struggle to go on in their troubled worlds, and to cheer them when they somehow find the way.”
—Buffalo News
“Luminous…. A beautiful novel with memorable, vibrant characters.”
—Booklist
About the Author
JENNIFER HAIGH grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. She is an alumnus of Dickinson College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was awarded the 2002 James A. Michener Fellowship. Her short stories have been published in Good Housekeeping, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Idaho Review, Global City Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Boston, Massachusetts.
Credits
Designed by Claire Vaccaro
Copyright
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following: Excerpt from “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season),” words from the book of Ecclesiastes, adaption and music by Pete Seeger © 1962 (renewed) Melody Trails, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Melody Trails, Inc., 11 West 19th Street, New York, NY 10011.
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2003 by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
MRS. KIMBLE. Copyright © 2003 by Jennifer Haigh. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition December 2004 eISBN 9780061749858
First Perennial edition published 2004.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:
Haigh, Jennifer.
Mrs. Kimble: a novel / Jennifer Haigh.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-06-050939-2
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Married women—Fiction. 3. Bigamy—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A544 M77 2003
813’.6—dc21 2002070304
ISBN 0-06-050940-6 (pbk.)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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