by Wendy Walker
I just don’t understand why they don’t have every forensic guy looking into this picture! Tom was holding the photo of my son from a yearbook. You could not see his face.
“This is from a lacrosse game? At the school?”
Yes! The spring Jenny was raped.
“And what do you think they will be able to tell with more forensics? This is a medium-sized teenage boy, nondescript body, a Fairview High School cap. I’m sure you’ve looked at it with a magnifying glass. Every inch, right?”
Tom stared at the photo. Yes. I have. I just … Look, I can identify one of the girls standing behind him, and one of the boys next to her. If they showed this to everyone who went to that game, surely someone would remember!
“Maybe. I’m sure that’s the problem. They’re talking to all the kids at the party again. Maybe they’re afraid to have this thing start looking like a witch hunt. They don’t have to come in for questioning, you know. Under the law. Right now, it’s all voluntary. That could change if people got the wrong sense of what this has become.”
Really. And what has it become?
“Well, we’ve talked about your guilt. About your parents and how they affected your self-esteem. Your sense of self. Your ‘id,’ if you will. Tom, these things will not be changed simply by finding the man who raped your daughter.”
Jesus Christ! Are we really going to talk about my id when we have this lead? Can’t I just find this fucker, and then, I promise you, I’ll come back in and disparage my poor parents until I can stand up to my wife and my boss and anyone else you want me to. How’s that?
Two words popped into my head then. Oh shit.
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you need to see this through. Maybe our work has to stop for now. But consider this before we do: This photo—all it shows is a boy with a sweatshirt. You can hardly see what the shape is on the sweatshirt from the angle it’s at. And the only reason you’re concerned with the sweatshirt is because of something a drug dealer said to reduce his sentence. Do you see my concern?”
Frankly, no. Not at all.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together and head hung to my chest. I could feel Tom’s eyes upon me, waiting for the words that I looked so pained to find. This technique is extremely effective. When I lifted my head, I wore the face of conviction.
“Over the past few months, we have dug very deep and stirred many feelings about your childhood. And in doing so, you have courageously faced your anger at your parents—and there is anger, Tom. It doesn’t matter how lovely they are, how supportive of your family. You parent your children in a way that is in complete defiance of everything they did with you and your sister. And that tells me that you know, in your heart, that they caused you harm. Emotional harm. You feel unworthy of everything in your life that’s good, like you’ve stolen it. And you have a subconscious belief that the bad things that come your way do so as retribution for your theft. You have guilt for that, Tom. Anger and guilt.”
Tom was following along, and I was gently leading him to the path I needed him to follow.
I was so fucking sick of that blue sweatshirt.
“Where has that anger gone? Where has the guilt gone?” I took the picture from his hand. “Here, Tom! Here!” I waved the picture. “It’s all here—directed at some kid wearing a sweatshirt. You’re not seeing the big picture—for yourself or for the investigation.”
You are weary of my descriptions about my patients crying. But I assure you, I have been very judicious in this regard. Every patient I see cries at almost every session. Do the math on that.
Tom cried. If it annoys you, don’t worry. We are moving on and moving quickly.
I held Tom’s hand and then I gave him a gentle push down the path.
“Tom. Have you considered that the police have other leads? And that maybe they’re not including you, because of this blind rage you have at the moment? Maybe it’s all under control and you can just hand them the reins and let them do their job. That would be a relief, wouldn’t it?”
Tom looked at me with a new fire in his eyes. Would they do that? Would they not include me? I’ve been part of this investigation for over a year. Since it happened!
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Tom. It’s just a possibility I would like you to consider. I was hoping it would put your mind at ease. Let you lay down your sword and shield and rest for a while.”
I have to go, Alan. I’m sorry. I know I’m being a bad patient. I will deal with these things you raise. Just not now. Not now!
We both stood up. I extended my hand, and when he gave me his, I cupped my other one around it. “Tom. Please. Consider what I’ve said. Lay down your weapons. Let the professionals do their work.”
But Tom was already gone.
Now for my son.
The interview could not be put off any longer without raising suspicion. Attorney Brandino went with him. I did as well. I told my wife to stay home because she did not have the ability to hide her emotions. Two young male cops asked the questions. They were tired of all this, of Tom Kramer, of the daily calls to small-town districts, asking about old rape files, sitting on hold with the phone pinned between their ears and necks, giving them cramps and headaches and keeping them from their tweets and Snapchats and Facebook updates. This was their town as well, so in addition to the boredom, they were reluctant to ruffle feathers. It is not fun to go through one’s day being scowled at.
Questions were asked. Answers were given.
What time did you arrive at the party? What time did you leave? Were you with anyone? Did you exit the house at any time? Was anyone with you? Did you see Jenny Kramer? Was anyone with her? Et cetera, et cetera … Do you own a blue sweatshirt with red symbols or letters?
Jason held up well. His guilt came across as teenage fear. He reminded me of a boy meeting a girl’s father for the first time on prom night. Was he a good kid? Yes. Did he want to have sex with the man’s daughter? Yes. Would he? Probably not. It’s an accepted deception. It has been many words since I told you what I think about honesty, about the need for lying in the human relationship. If that boy told that father that he had pictured his daughter naked, imagined her breasts in his palms, his tongue in her mouth, his hands reaching up her dress, and that he imagined all of this while masturbating just an hour before this civilized introduction—well, you can imagine how many kids would show up at the prom. I have been crude. But I wanted my point to be made.
I don’t think so, Jason said about the sweatshirt, squirming a bit. I mean, I don’t have one now. I don’t remember having one before.
This was the brilliant part. He executed it perfectly.
Did you leave the party at any time to go outside?
Jason paused before answering. He looked at his lawyer, who nodded and patted his hand. He looked at me. I did the same. I may even have said, “Go ahead, son. Tell the truth.”
Jason sighed. Now, mind you, none of this was acting on his part. He is not a good liar. He is a good boy. A wonderful boy. My boy.
I went out for a few minutes. I was looking for that man. The one in the blue Honda.
The cops got a little more interested then, but their interest was, of course, being misdirected. No one else had admitted to doing anything wrong, because nothing could be proved. Cruz Demarco made over a grand that night, and yet, somehow, only John Vincent had admitted to buying anything. This interview was like finding a small nugget of gold in the pan.
I see. One of the cops said, So you were going to buy drugs?
Jason nodded sheepishly.
And did you?
No. I saw the car and I got scared so I walked right by it and then turned around and walked on the other side back to the house so he wouldn’t see me.
What time was this?
I don’t know. It was before nine thirty. After eight. I’m not sure.
Did you see anyone else?
No. But people were coming in and out from the street all night, looki
ng for that guy. Everyone was talking about it. I think he came to the house, to the back, also.
Attorney Brandino jumped in. Are we done? As you can see, my client has been very forthcoming and honest. It was not in his interest to tell you of his intention to buy drugs. I hope you can give him some credit for that.
Yes. Credit. But it was done not for any “credit,” whatever the hell that meant, but to explain his nervous disposition, his squirming in his seat when he was asked about the sweatshirt. You see?
There was more to the interview. But it was of no consequence. The lie about the sweatshirt and my son’s poor performance in telling it had been perfectly deflected.
When we got home, my wife was in the kitchen, having a glass of wine. It was just early afternoon, but she had been a ball of nerves.
“Sweetheart, I could have given you something. Now you’ll have a headache.”
She ignored me, rushing to our son and pulling him into her arms. Are you all right? Oh, my poor boy!
Jason let her squeeze him for a moment before pulling away. I’m fine. Can I go?
We let him leave. The new TV went on. Then the violent video game. I didn’t care.
Julie looked at me with the questions bleeding from her skin. I did not make her suffer.
“It’s fine,” I said.
She fell into my arms. Promise?
“Yes. I promise.” And I meant it more than I have ever meant anything.
If we can’t protect our own children, we are wretched.
Chapter Thirty-one
Can you imagine what was going through the mind of Bob Sullivan when he saw the fear in full bloom on Charlotte’s face?
They met at the house on the outskirts of Cranston five days after I saw Charlotte. She had been remembering Bob’s hand on her shoulder, the other one in her hair, sometimes pressing against the back of her head as his hips pushed into her thighs. The deep penetration, the moans he made each time. And sometimes when she did this, she imagined Jenny in his grasp instead. She did not tell me this. I think it would have been far too personal. But I knew just the same.
I couldn’t even look at him. I felt like I was in an alternate universe, where everything was the same, but not the way I thought. Does that make sense? I imagine it happens all the time, right? When people learn their spouse is having an affair or stole money? God—I just realized that Tom will look at me like that one day, won’t he? If he finds out about what I’ve done? When he has to accept that good Charlotte doesn’t exist.
“Let’s not dwell on good Charlotte today. Let’s focus on what happened with Bob. This is very important. Very traumatic, even though you may not realize it yet. You loved Bob, or at least the man you thought he was. And you believed he loved you as well, that he really loved you, all of you with all the secrets of the past.”
I don’t even know how I feel, Alan. Truly. So, let me just tell you what happened. Tell me what you think, all right?
I nodded. “Of course.”
I did not bring up the wine dinner again. He had been so insistent that I was wrong the last time, and I really wanted to know how I would feel being with him. If I could live with the lie and all the uncertainty or not.
“Charlotte,” I said. “You haven’t started to wonder if Bob was the one, you know, who did those things to Jenny. Have you? Or is this about wondering where he was that night, and whether it was another woman?”
No! I mean, I could never believe that about Bob. She lied well. But I knew he remembered where he was that night. That was the problem. Why wouldn’t he tell me?
“All right. Continue, then.”
So he poured me a drink, which I sometimes accept if it’s not too early. He poured one for himself as well. It was good to have things in our hands, since neither of us seemed eager to touch the other. I asked if everything had been resolved. And he said it had not—that the issue with the wine dinner had gotten out of control. He said he’d had to hire a lawyer, and that they, he and his lawyer, were refusing to answer any more questions. I guess he doesn’t have to, right?
“That’s right. He doesn’t. It sounds as though he’s calling their bluff.”
Yeah. That’s what he said as well. That the only thing they could do next would be to get a warrant, and that would require going public. His lawyer made it clear that he would immediately sue them. The loss to his business, to the election, his reputation, and his family … Well, they’re betting the higher-ups won’t go for it. I mean, really—what do they have? An ancient college record. And a misunderstanding over a dinner that happened over a year ago? They won’t get a warrant, right?
“I don’t know, Charlotte. But it sounds as though he was still worried. Or did he seem confident?”
No—he was not confident at all. He was angry. He said things like, “How can this be happening? To me, of all people? How could anyone think that I would rape a young girl? I’m worth over twenty million dollars! I’m about to become a state representative! I’ve met the fucking president!” Then he said he felt like his head was going to explode, or something like that, something very dramatic. All of this was just one huge insult to his ego.
“That’s not very attractive, I have to say. Could he not understand their position? That they did have an obligation to follow through?”
I told you—it made me see him in a different way. I couldn’t just put it out of my mind, have sex, go home.… I just couldn’t this time. I said what I was thinking, which was what you said just now. That they had to cover their bases and make sure. I told him he needed to tell them where he was that night and then it would all just go away. I told him I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t do that.
“How did he take that?”
Not well. He got furious with me. He threw his glass across the room, and his face got very hot, you know, red and wide-eyed, frantic. He got very close to me, and he took my arms, and he looked at me, studying me. And he asked me straight out if I thought he had raped my daughter.
Charlotte gasped then, her hand drawing up to her mouth. She shook her head slowly, her eyes on that sticker.
I said I did not. I said I knew he would never do anything like that. But then why, why would he not say where he was? And then there was Jenny and the voice in her head. I don’t know. I think he just didn’t believe me.
She was lost then, in her memories of that meeting. I let her stay there for a moment, long enough for the memories to mix with more of the doubt. You know why, don’t you? So they would return to their files just slightly altered, decorated perhaps with the doubts about Bob.
“Charlotte, how did it end? How did you leave things?”
Ohhh. Well, it wasn’t good. He said “fuck you,” and then he left.
“‘Fuck you’? That’s all he said?”
Uh-huh. After three years together, after all those professions of love and tender moments making love. After all those times he looked lovingly into my eyes—how is that possible? How is it we can do those things, things that feel permanent, like even if the relationship ended, those feelings would still be there? It makes me not believe in anything, in any feeling, in any profession, in any love at all. It’s all just bullshit. Just hormones and lust and needs and filling people’s gaps, the holes in their souls. We all just use each other, don’t we? Nothing is what it seems.
“Well, that is a lot to discuss, Charlotte. You are right. People do that to each other. But sometimes it becomes more than that. Sometimes the weaker loves, the lust-driven loves, the filling holes, turn into more. And sometimes those momentary connections, the ones that catch us off guard like a cold wind coming around the corner of a building, sometimes those stay put and then become an anchor for a more permanent connection. That is what most people in stable relationships describe. It’s the connection, and the need for that connection. And from there, like anything we need, we take care of it with kindness and caretaking—acts of love. But that is really too much for one day, isn’t it? Tell me how you
feel now, after Bob said ‘fuck you’ and left?”
I feel disoriented. I feel like I’m lost in my own life.
“That’s perfect, Charlotte.”
Perfect? It’s miserable.
“Let me ask you this: If Bob called you and said he was sorry, would you go to him? Would you make love to him again?”
I would want to. But I couldn’t. How could I possibly do that after all of this? After I saw the person he is, the lying, the cruelty, the way he dances in and out of affection and aggression. But I would want to. It feels very hard to know that it’s gone. It was the thing that made my life possible.
“I know. It will be hard to quit Bob. Just do one thing for me? Don’t find a replacement. Just sit with the discomfort. Be lost for a while and see how long you can stand the pain. It’s my guess that it will pass. Like when you stub your toe on the edge of the sofa.”
Charlotte agreed. She had given up her one cigarette, at least for now. And I was so very proud of her! Yes, I had been monomaniacal about saving my son. And yes, I had also wanted to finish my work with Jenny. I had not considered Tom or Charlotte. There was no room for them. But that does not mean I no longer cared. I was deeply invested in both of them. As Jenny would say, they were a math problem I knew I could solve, and solve easily. How could I not want to do that? I am a doctor. It is my calling to heal and to cure.
I had not considered the possible synergies embedded within my plan, but I could see them now. It might have taken years for Charlotte to quit Bob. Years! And by then, it may have been too late. I felt deeply satisfied for Charlotte, and at the risk of sounding egotistical, I was very pleased with myself. Charlotte was going to be all right. I could see it. The quitting was the hardest part.
Bob would not fare quite so well.
Chapter Thirty-two
Fran Sullivan is a woman after my own heart. That is such an odd expression, but we all understand its meaning, don’t we? She was not a good person. Nor was she a kind person. But she took care of her own.
Fran and Bob had met in high school. She was one of those people who likes to indulge, and so she does not exercise or watch her diet or inhibit her cravings in any way. She wears what she likes. Sleeveless dresses in the summer that highlight the flesh under her arms. They swing like elephant tusks as she marches down the street with her brood of men—her three sons and her rich husband. In the winter, she pulls out her furs, coats made of dead baby animals, which repulse most people these days. Her hair is big, her makeup bold. You can smell her perfume blocks away. I imagine she was no more attractive when they met as she was now, but I can also see why Bob married her. She was a valuable member of the team.