Things You Won't Say

by Sarah Pekkanen

  As she walked back toward the kitchen, she saw Mike leaning against the counter. He was still one of the best-looking guys she knew, she thought as she approached the doorway. Mike would probably have that thick head of hair forever, and he was even more ripped than he’d been in his twenties. She felt a wave of gratitude for Mike, for giving her Henry, and for always being there for the two of them. Mike had attended every school conference and every sports event, and he was the one who’d taken Henry for his annual physical at the doctor’s. Was it any wonder Henry was turning out so well, given his male role model?

  “Whatever they’re saying about you is bullshit,” Christie blurted. She walked into the kitchen and set the pizza roughly down on the counter. “The guy tossed his gun to his friend or something. Or someone else took it and ran.”

  Mike exhaled and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re the first person to—” He cut himself off, and Christie wondered what he’d been about to say. Hadn’t Jamie told him she believed him? Was Christie really the first person to do so?

  Christie took out a slice of pepperoni and put it on a paper towel, then handed it to Mike.

  He took a bite, and she hoisted herself up to sit on the counter.

  “I mean, this is going to blow over, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s got to.”

  “I thought so at first,” Mike said. “I figured I’d give my statement and that would be it. Maybe desk duty for a week or so, until things got straightened out. I thought—” He shook his head.

  “What?” Christie asked.

  “I thought I’d be commended for saving the other cop’s life,” Mike said quietly.

  “You should have been,” Christie said. She took another sip of beer and pushed the bottle back toward Mike, wondered what her life would have been like if she’d said yes when he proposed. Maybe they’d have had a lot of nights like this. She would’ve screwed it up eventually, but they could’ve had a few good years together.

  “You okay?” Mike asked. He took a step toward her, ­frowning.

  She reached up and wiped away the wetness on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Mike said, and she realized he thought she was crying about the looming indictment. She felt a hot rush of shame for being so self-centered. But then suddenly she was crying about the indictment. Mike could go to jail. Henry could lose his father, just as she’d lost hers. At least Henry would know Mike wasn’t going away voluntarily.

  “Here.” Mike handed over a clean paper towel, and Christie blew her nose.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked. “You’ve got to fight this, Mike! Do it for Henry.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I just kept thinking there was a mistake. That the video would show a gun. That they’d come to me and apologize. I was waiting for that.”

  “The video didn’t show anything?” Christie asked.

  “Guess not,” Mike said. “They wouldn’t be trying to get an indictment otherwise.”

  Christie reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. “So what happens now?” she asked.

  “The grand jury looks at all the evidence,” he said. “Witnesses come in and give statements. It’s like a real trial. My lawyer says it’ll take maybe two weeks. Then they vote for an indictment.”

  “And if they get one?” Christie asked.

  Mike shrugged, like it didn’t matter, but the look on his face revealed the opposite. “Then I show up in superior court to be arraigned. They say I’ll probably be released until trial.”

  “Jesus!” The word exploded from Christie’s mouth. “Can I do anything? I’ll testify if it’ll help, Mike. I’ll tell them anything you want.”

  “I appreciate it,” Mike said. “But you weren’t there. My lawyer told me that this never would’ve gone this far if it wasn’t for the guy I was partnered with that day. He was closer, and he said there wasn’t even any movement to pull out a gun. He just saw the guy gearing up for another punch. Apparently he told the investigators we were talking about the shooting at headquarters right before . . . everything happened.”

  “Aren’t cops supposed to stick together?” Christie demanded to know.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “But we’re also supposed to uphold the law. He can’t lie, Christie. And he was the one talking about the shooting, by the way. I was trying to tune him out.”

  There was a lull in the conversation while Christie tried to think of a loophole, some way for Mike to slide through this mess. But she came up blank.

  “Anyway,” Mike said. “I better not have this.” He slid the beer back over to her. “I’m driving.”

  Christie felt a stab of disappointment, but she just put it back in the fridge.

  “Hey,” Mike said. He frowned and reached for Christie’s arm, which was spotlighted by the glow from the refrigerator light. She looked down to see a few small bruises running down her biceps, like a tattoo. She hadn’t realized they were there.

  “What’s this?” Mike asked. “Some guy do this to you?”

  “Yeah,” Christie said. “But it’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t give me that—”

  “No, I mean, he’s not my boyfriend,” Christie interrupted. “It was for my job.”

  “Your job? At the hair place?”

  “Salon,” Christie corrected. “And no, I quit. I’m working undercover now. Or I was. I kind of quit, but I think I’m going to ask for the job back.”

  Mike’s eyebrows lifted. “Undercover?”

  Christie told him about Elroy, and how she’d successfully tricked her first few marks. She left out the details about her last case. She was still trying to erase them from her mind.

  “An expense account?” Mike said. “Nice. You’re moving up in the world.”

  Christie smiled. “I was thinking . . . I probably won’t need child support any longer.”

  Mike gestured to her arm again. “And the guy who did this?”

  She should have known he wouldn’t be so easily distracted. “An overly excited mark,” Christie said. Mike studied her face, his expression even.

  “You need to get yourself a can of Mace,” he said. “And if anyone does anything like that again, tell me.”

  “It’s not like you could arrest him,” Christie said. She worried Mike would think she meant it was because he was on administrative leave, so she hastened to clarify herself. “I mean, he didn’t do anything illegal. And I’m never going to see him again.”

  “Doesn’t mean a visit from a cop won’t scare him,” Mike said. “I’ve still got friends on the force.”

  Mike wanted to protect her. What a lovely feeling. Christie smiled, feeling a glow that was from more than just the ­alcohol.

  “Hey!” she said suddenly. “The guy I work for—he’s a private detective. Maybe he could help you?”

  Mike leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Yeah?”

  “Could the cop who testified against you have it in for you?” Christie asked. She saw something ignite in Mike’s eyes, as if he was considering it.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Mike said. “I mean, I didn’t know him well before this.”

  “But what if he thinks you crossed him somehow?” Christie said. “Or what if the fight was over drugs and he’s working with one of the gangs? You’re the one who told me drugs sometimes go missing from the evidence room.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different from abetting a gang,” Mike said. “You wouldn’t think it if you met this guy, Christie. He’s practically got a pocket protector. He’s the geekiest cop you’ve ever met.”

  “But those are the guys who always surprise you,” Christie said. A fleeting image of Jim shoving her onto the hotel room bed, his eyes containing something dark and ugly, invaded her mind before she pushed
it away.

  “You really think your boss would help?” Mike asked.

  “Worth a try,” Christie said. “I’ll call him tonight.”

  Henry came loping into the kitchen just then. “Do I smell pizza?” he asked.

  “Try to get this kid out of bed on a school morning and he plays dead,” Mike said. “Set out some food and he comes running from a mile away.”

  Christie handed Henry a slice. “We saved you most of it,” she said.

  “He’s a growing boy,” Mike said. “I can’t believe his feet are bigger than mine.”

  “Where do you think he got his height?” Christie asked.

  “I had an uncle who was six three,” Mike said.

  Christie nodded. “And my mom’s father was pretty tall. You can tell from photos.”

  “Six three?” Henry said. “That’d be cool.”

  “Do you remember the first time he tried pizza?” Christie asked Mike. The memory was returning to her, a little fuzzy but blooming quickly.

  Mike shook his head.

  “Oh, come on,” Christie said. “His first birthday party?”

  “Right,” Mike said, and he laughed.

  “What’d I do?” Henry asked.

  “You grabbed a handful and threw it across the room,” Christie said.

  “Some of it landed in my mother’s hair,” Mike said.

  “Seriously?” Henry seemed delighted by this. “Grandma’s really into her hair.”

  “I’ve got it on film somewhere,” Mike said. “I’ll dig out the videotape and show you.”

  “But he liked the cake,” Christie said.

  “What kind was it?” Henry asked.

  “Chocolate,” Christie said.

  “You sure?” Mike said. “I remember carrot cake.”

  “That was when he turned two,” Christie said. “I made him a big chocolate cake for his first birthday.” It was from a mix, but still. “Remember, I put little Matchbox cars on top?”

  “That’s right,” Mike said, nodding. “That was a good cake, once we wrestled it away from this pig and got a piece.”

  “Hey,” Henry protested, giving his dad a push. Mike responded by putting Henry in a playful headlock and ruffling his hair.

  Christie smiled as she watched them.

  “I should get going,” Mike said. He released Henry and gave him a fist bump. “See you tomorrow.”

  Christie walked Mike to the door, leaning against the frame after he walked out so she could watch him head down the hallway toward the elevator. She reached up and covered the bruises on her arm with her opposite hand, thinking of how Mike had offered to have Jim threatened. Maybe she’d take him up on it, after all.

  “Thanks,” she called out.

  Mike turned around to look at her.

  “I was just going to say that to you,” he said.

  * * *

  Part Three

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  FOR THE WIFE OF a cop, Jamie knew surprisingly little about how someone was indicted. During the long days when the evidence was being presented to the grand jury, Jamie wondered what would happen next. Would a police officer show up at the door with a warrant? Would a process server hand them an official piece of paper?

  She kept the kids busy with crafts and videos and trips to the playground and community pool. She drank too much coffee in the morning and too much wine at night. She cleaned toilets and folded laundry and filled the refrigerator, sometimes forgetting bread but buying three cartons of juice when the shelves already contained two full ones. One evening, when the kids were asleep, she raced out to get a flea collar for Sadie, whose itching had kept her awake the previous night, and found herself pulling into a gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes. She sat in the darkness, smoking three Marlboro Lights in a row—something she hadn’t done since a brief flirtation with cigarettes in college—then she crumpled up the box and hurled it into a trash can. That was all her kids needed, for her to get lung cancer.

  The news cameras were gone for now. But she and Mike were barely speaking to each other. When he’d finally come home, hours after they’d finished the consultation with J.H., it was growing dark outside and his clothes were soaked with sweat. The kids were already asleep by then, and Jamie had asked Lou to go into Sam’s room so she and Mike could talk privately.

  “Are you angry with me?” she’d asked. He’d grimaced as he sat down on the couch and eased off his hard-soled dress shoes.

  He’d leaned his head back against the cushion and she’d waited for a long moment. Then she’d realized his breathing had evened out. He’d fallen asleep, exhausted from his long walk.

  He never returned to their bed after that. Instead he brought some clothes and magazines down into the basement, and took the spare quilt from the hall closet. Jamie wondered if he wanted to move out for good. Maybe the only reason he hadn’t done so was because he couldn’t afford an apartment. She didn’t press him to talk anymore—he wasn’t the only one who was upset—but every afternoon, J.H. called and updated Mike on the grand jury proceedings. Once after J.H. called, Jamie had sworn she’d heard a muffled barking sound. But when she’d gone down into the basement on the pretext of checking the laundry, Mike was dry-eyed, jumping rope in place. She’d watched him whip the rope around his body until she’d felt dizzy.

  She lost nine pounds without even trying. A year ago, she would’ve been jubilant, hailing it as a mini-miracle. Now she just stared at the numbers on the scale as they blurred.

  Jamie had seen footage of earthquakes that had left cars teetering on the ragged edges of bridges that had suddenly split apart. She’d wondered what it would feel like to be trapped inside a vehicle that could, at any moment, tilt toward safety or plummet into a crevasse. Now she knew.

  When the moment finally arrived, though, their phone simply rang. This was how everything had started, Jamie ­remembered—with a call from the police letting her know Mike had been involved in a shooting and that he was safe. But the person on the other end of the line had been wrong. Mike wasn’t safe.

  “They voted to indict for involuntary manslaughter” was all J.H. said after Jamie saw his name on the caller ID and picked up on the second ring.

  When she’d imagined this moment, Jamie had seen herself crying or collapsing, but all she did was nod. She’d done her crying in the shower during the preceding weeks, blasting the water to muffle the sounds. She’d allotted herself a few minutes every morning to lean against the tile and sob, her body heaving, her throat raw. Then she’d turn the water spray to icy cold, letting the physical shock dry up her tears and erase the red splotches from her face so she could get dressed and go downstairs to unload the dishwasher or scramble eggs for the kids. She still marveled at the existence of ordinary chores, summoning her attention even in the midst of a crisis.

  J.H.’s voice was as bland as ever as he explained they would need to wait a few more days until Mike was scheduled to appear in superior court. That surprised Jamie; she figured Mike would need to go immediately.

  “It shouldn’t take too long,” J.H. said. “He’ll be in and out in a couple hours.”

  Jamie tried to say something, but her voice made a strange cracking sound.

  “Do you want me to tell him?” J.H. asked, his tone finally softening.

  Handing over the phone would be easier. But Mike deserved better. She cleared her throat.

  “I’ll tell him,” Jamie said.

  But when she went to find Mike, she didn’t have to say anything. He read the news in her face, just as she’d always imagined she’d be able to discern a tragedy in the expressions of police officers who would come to the door if Mike was killed in the line of duty.

  Time seemed to speed up during the next few days. Mike came upstairs more ofte
n, to cuddle with the kids on the couch, read books to Eloise, play checkers with Emily, and do Mad Libs with Sam. He built a fort out of sofa cushions and brought in flashlights and sleeping bags and he spent the night there with Sam, who was thrilled to be “camping out” with his dad. Jamie was glad to have him rejoin the family—or at least the kids, since he wasn’t seeking out her company—but she sensed a desperation underlying his actions. Once she reached for the video camera to capture him wrestling with the children, then she put it away without filming a single moment. Mike would probably know she was doing it to preserve a memory, in case it had to substitute for the real thing someday.

  The day Mike was scheduled to be arraigned dawned sunny and bright. Maybe it was a good omen, Jamie thought as she laid out his only nice suit, the one he wore to weddings and funerals.

  He came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets rolling down his broad shoulders and disappearing into the dark hair covering his chest.

  “You think?” he asked, gesturing to the suit. “I was going to wear my sport coat . . .”

  “Hold your head high, Mike,” Jamie said. “It was an accident.”

  She brought him a white button-down shirt and selected a blue-and-red striped tie, then took his dress shoes out of the closet. The shoes were scuffed from Mike’s long walk home, so Jamie found a jar of polish and went to work on them until they gleamed. She straightened Mike’s tie and smoothed an unruly section of his thick hair, her fingers lingering on him, grateful for an excuse to finally touch him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” she asked. “Lou can watch the kids.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the last thing I want.” His rough tone and words stung her. She thought he’d meant that he didn’t want her to witness his shame, not that he didn’t want to be near her, but she didn’t ask.

  “I’ll have my cell phone on,” she said. “I may take the kids out, but if you need anything . . . Or if you change your mind, I can rush down there . . .”