Safer

by Sean Doolittle

  I’d only been half- joking when I’d told Roger I wouldn’t have made a very good Boy Scout.

  “Well,” he said as we reached the sidewalk in front of my house. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For the company. Hell of a walk back up there.”

  A hell of a walk. Yes.

  “I guess I just wanted to explain where I was coming from last night,” Roger said. “Felt like we got onto some bad footing, and I’m sorry for that.”

  Over in the common, Trish Firth pushed the twins on the kiddie swings. She saw us and waved. We waved back. We’d been gone nearly two hours. I wondered if Sara was home yet.

  “Roger,” I said. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your family.”

  He nodded. “I know we haven’t talked about it much. But you and Sara shouldn’t feel like it’s off- limits.”

  “I didn’t know Brandon,” I said. “And I didn’t know Clair. But I can imagine how much you loved them.” I meant every word of this. “I can’t imagine what a thing like that does to a person.”

  “Well, I’d be a liar if I said you get over it. But everybody loses someone eventually.” He shrugged and smiled a little, watching the Firth twins. “I guess we all learn how to move on.”

  “The place you showed me just now. What you shared with me up there?” I nodded as sincerely as I could. “I want you to know that I don’t take it lightly.”

  “Meant a lot to have you there, Doc.”

  I said something cruel then. Part of me regretted saying it even as the words left my mouth. Part of me would say it again. “I also want you to know that I’ve never, in my entire life, felt as manipulated as I feel right now.”

  Roger’s face seemed to jump. He looked at me as though I’d slapped him.

  “Shame on you,” I said.

  Over in the common, the Firth twins giggled and kicked their legs, swinging back and forth in their bright blue safety harnesses. Trish smiled and tickled their feet as they came near, pushing them away again. If she could sense anything wrong between Roger and me, she didn’t show it.

  For a moment, Roger’s expression seemed flat. Then his eyes went dark.

  I realized that I’d never seen anger on Roger Mallory’s face before that moment. If I had, maybe things would have happened differently. Or maybe not.

  Either way, I left him standing there and went inside.

  18.

  THERE S WEAR AND TEAR IN A MARRIAGE, my dad once told me. He was a lawn chair philosopher, Joe Callaway, with tavern- tested analogies for almost any occasion. For some reason, he seemed especially drawn to the topic of family relations, and by his retirement years, my father had accumulated more homespun marriage advice than Dr. Phil. You drop it sometimes. Bang it around a little. It picks up tiny little cracks you can’t even see.

  He told me that everyday moisture finds its way into those cracks over the years. Sweat, tears, plain old rain. If you don’t stay on top of things, when the weather turns cold, the moisture expands. The cracks get wider.

  That’s how it happens, he said. People think they’re solid, then boom—one day the floor falls in.

  By late October, the weather in our house had cooled. It wasn’t any one thing. That summer and fall had been an exercise in displacement and exhaustion; first had come the discom-bobulating news of the pregnancy, followed by the move from Boston to Clark Falls, followed by the attack, and finally the miscarriage. This string of events had been like one cold shower after another, and Sara and I hadn’t been physically intimate in months. Now, with school in session, we saw each other less. Argued more.

  We’d been jarred out of alignment before, but for some reason, this time, the harder we tried to recalibrate, the more we seemed to tweak things out of shape. After a while, the constant need to wrestle the steering wheel became a frustration all its own.

  As the semester wore on—as Sara’s new job increased its demands on her time, and as my own step backward into what amounted to academic grunt work gradually wore my spirit down—it seemed almost as if we’d run out of gas.

  I’d been looking forward to the last weekend in November. Sara had a conference in Albany, not far from Boston—a lovely afternoon’s train ride through the Berkshire Mountains on the Lake Shore extension. I saw a chance for us to get back to the basics. A trip together back to our old stomping grounds. Find a B&B in Brookline or Cambridge. Spend the weekend. Come home remembering each other again.

  Sara said, “You want to hang around an econ conference.”

  “Under no circumstances,” I told her. “But the conference ends Thursday.”

  “What about your classes?”

  “I can fly out Friday morning,” I said. “Meet you at the train station. I’ll be Cary Grant and you can be Eva Marie Saint.”

  She smiled. “It sounds nice.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Her smile faded slowly. After a minute, she sighed.

  “To be honest,” she said, “I’d been thinking I could use the time away.”

  “Exactly. It’ll be perfect.”

  “For myself.”

  She looked at me like she wished she could think of a better way to say it. Her eyes said, Don’t be mad. Her mouth said, “To recharge my batteries, I guess. I don’t know. Empty out my head.”

  Class, do you see what I’m doing here?

  Observe these techniques:

  I begin with a brief anecdote about my father. As far as anyone knows, the anecedote might not even be true. But I’ve salted it with believable, blue- collar detail, and there’s probably no way to judge its authenticity for sure.

  It doesn’t really matter what my father actually said or didn’t say. My intent is to establish tone and perspective. My own reliability as narrator. The tone is meant to be down- to-earth; the perspective is meant to be that of a regular Joe. The kind of Joe who thinks of his father’s advice. Did you notice that I named my father Joe?

  Joe happens to be my father’s name, but I could have named him anything. I have a PhD in English literature; I could just as easily have started with a passage from Shakespeare, or Faulkner, or even Gertrude Stein.

  But then maybe I’d seem elevated when I want to seem re-latable. Notice the way I describe my marriage as though it were a car. Most everybody has driven a car.

  Sara’s job is “demanding.” We infer that perhaps she’s been spending more time at work than at home. My job is described— no offense to you, Class—as a “step backward.” An understandable disappointment for a once- tenured professor. Maybe even vaguely unfair.

  No doubt my wife and I had any number of conversations between August and October. Maybe, at some point in time, one of these conversations hurt Sara’s feelings. Maybe there was a time when I’d made her feel rejected? Like I cared more about my own feelings than I cared about hers?

  We can’t be sure. At my choosing, I’ve related only one conversation. A conversation that left me feeling rejected. In this conversation, I’m the one who appears to be trying. Do you see what I’m doing?

  Time to get it over with.

  The night I slept with Melody Seward:

  She came over to talk to Sara, who was still in Albany. I was working my way through a bottle of overpriced Shiraz and feeling sorry for myself.

  Melody was obviously upset, perhaps bordering on distraught. It was past nine o’clock on Friday night, and I asked her to come inside. She hesitated; we’d never gotten to know each other especially well, and we’d never been alone together. But she clearly needed to be somewhere other than home. Sofia was at Melody’s mother’s house; Brit was sleeping over at her girlfriend Rachel’s.

  And so she came in.

  Pete was having an affair, she eventually told me. A woman Melody worked with at the bank. A loan officer, not one of the other tellers.

  He’d claimed to have broken it off two months ago, but he hadn’t been truthful. As a matter of fact, he was with the fucking bitch right now. Tw
o glasses of wine, and her hands were still shaking.

  I opened another bottle. If this is starting to sound like a horrible cliché, it’s not over yet.

  I don’t spill the ups and downs of my marriage. Not to my dad, or even to Charlie Bernard. I’ve always been firm in thinking that my marriage is between Sara and me.

  But Melody poured out her guts on our living room couch, and I commiserated with tales of my own. It only seemed fair. Humane, even. We finished the second bottle of wine, and I opened another.

  After all of that wine, it happened just like it happens in the movies. One minute I was being a good listener; the next, she was returning the courtesy.

  And then, somehow, we were all over each other. Music swells, clothing drops to the floor.

  From there, it wasn’t like the movies at all.

  It was awkward. Mechanical. Even cold. No gasps or moans or breathless sighs. We grappled and struggled and stopped before either one of us had finished. After we’d dressed, we could barely look each other in the eye.

  At four in the morning, Melody went home to 36 Sycamore Court like a disgraced bridesmaid sneaking back to her hotel room. Pete hadn’t yet returned.

  I collected our empty wine bottles, our stained glasses, and threw them all in the trash.

  Twelve hours later—around four o’clock that Saturday afternoon—our front doorbell rang.

  When I answered, I found Roger standing on the stoop. He looked at me like he’d heard a story that made him sad.

  “This isn’t working,” he said.

  19.

  “HOLD THERE A MINUTE.” Douglas Bennett leans forward. “Mallory actually stated a date. December sixteenth.”

  “A loose thread,” I tell him. “That’s what he said. He had this whole speech worked out about how a strong community was this tight- knit fabric, and if you pull on a loose thread, everything starts to unravel.”

  “He verbally directed you to move out of the neighborhood by sixteen December. Yesterday. I have that right?”

  “He said that once a hole gets started, it only gets bigger. He said that there’s no use patching the hole if you don’t fix the snag. On Planet Roger, apparently, I’m the snag.”

  Bennett folds his hands. “Who else have you told about this?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Not even what’s-his-name. Michael?”

  “Nobody,” I say.

  That statement, of course, includes my wife. I force myself to look at Sara. I’m cringing inside. Waiting.

  She’s staring at the floor. Her shoulders are rigid, hands limp in her lap.

  Bennett glances at me and says, “Why don’t I leave you two alone for a few minutes.”

  Before he can make a move, Sara draws herself together and stands up. Without looking at me, she walks around the table, collects her coat and purse, and leaves.

  I sit like a block of wood and watch her go. What else can I do? It’s pointless to run after her. I can’t change anything. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound absurd. I can’t make myself disappear into this chair. Did I really think this moment wouldn’t happen? How could I let it happen like this?

  In a minute, I hear the glass doors rattle at the front of Bennett & Partners Trial Law. A minute after that, I hear the muffled sound of a car door slamming. An engine turning over. A distant bark of tires.

  The silence settles.

  Bennett finally sighs. “Tough day.”

  I nod.

  “Listen,” he says. “I know it doesn’t mean much right now, but you’ve done the right thing. Now that I know the whole story, we can start looking at ways—”

  “Oh, I’m not finished.”

  Bennett raises an eyebrow.

  “There’s more,” I tell him.

  “How much more?”

  “I’m just getting started.”

  He settles back.

  “I need you to meet somebody,” I say.

  20.

  IT’S ALREADY DARK by the time we get on the road.

  We take the Interstate forty minutes south, to a Flying J truck stop at the I-680 junction. Bennett drives us in a Mercedes instead of his personal BMW. The Mercedes is owned by the firm and parked in a secured lot behind the building.

  By changing vehicles and using the rear exit, we manage to leave the Channel Five Clark Falls news van parked out front of Bennett & Partners. The Mercedes has heated leather seats and a speakerphone system, which Bennett can dial by voice. He talks on the phone half the trip, calling people at their homes, interrupting their weekends, explaining the basics of my situation one time after another.

  He speaks to one of his interns back in Clark Falls. He speaks to a youth psychologist in Des Moines. He speaks to someone in Omaha who apparently knows everything about computers. He speaks to someone who apparently knows everything about photography in general, digital photography in particular.

  Thirty miles out of town, Bennett leaves a voice- mail message at the county attorney’s office, asking for a return call. Then he punches a button in the console by his hand.

  “As long as we’re exploring avenues,” he says, “we should discuss Miss Seward.”

  “What else is there to discuss?”

  “I’m sure this is something that you’ve considered,” Bennett says, “but let’s suppose that Mallory is right. She’s developed an infatuation, or whatever you want to call it. A crush on you.”

  “I really don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Paul, if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that nobody— and I mean nobody—knows the teenage mind.”

  “She’s barely a teenager.”

  “We live in troubling times.” He checks his mirrors and merges into the passing lane. “For the sake of argument. She’s got a crush.”

  “Okay.”

  “The girl finds out about you and Mom.” He raises a finger. “Stepmom. The woman I talked to on the phone just now, she’d tell you that can be a whole other can of worms.”

  Isn’t he right? Isn’t there a part of me that’s already considered this? “I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t think—”

  “I’m only telling you what our youth counselor might say.” He passes a pickup truck pulling an empty livestock trailer and fades back into the cruising lane. “And what she might say is, this pattern of Brittany’s—getting herself into trouble, getting herself grounded every five minutes—all of that could be her way of getting Daddy’s attention. Maybe even her way of punishing him.”

  “Or she’s bored.”

  “And maybe this,” Bennett says, gesturing between us, indicating our otherwise nonexistent relationship, “is her way of punishing you.”

  My face hurts where Pete kicked me, and my head has been throbbing all afternoon. Despite my having gobbled a handful of Advils, the pain seems to be getting worse instead of better.

  The oncoming headlights hurt my eyes. Even in the smooth-gliding Mercedes, the whine of tires on cold blacktop sounds like a drill in my ears. It occurs to me that maybe I should have seen a doctor after all. I could have a concussion or something.

  “Maybe we’re fixated on this deadline of Mallory’s,” he says, “instead of a more plausible explanation.”

  “Hell of a coincidence.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I know he’s behind this.”

  “He’s certainly involved. We know that much.”

  “He’s got to be manipulating her somehow.”

  “Or maybe it’s the other way around.” Bennett glances over to gauge my reaction. “Can you be absolutely sure that Brittany Seward wasn’t aware of this disagreement between you and Mallory? Even this eviction date you say he imposed on you?”

  How can I be sure of anything? I see the bright lights of the Flying J a mile or so up ahead, illuminating the winter dark.

  “In any case, you need to prepare yourself. This is going to get unpleasant for everybody.”

  “What does that mean?” />
  “It means that you’ve been accused of felony sexual misconduct,” Bennett says. “And whether this girl is lying of her own accord or lying for Roger Mallory, she’s your accuser. Which means we’re going to need to beat her up a little.”

  “No it doesn’t,” I say. “I don’t want—”

  “It’s not my idea of a good time either,” Bennett assures me. “My niece is Brittany’s age. But you’re over a barrel. You need to understand that.”

  “I need to talk to Brit. This is ridiculous.”

  “Oh, no.” He wags one gloved finger. “That’s not going to be an option.”

  I say nothing. Our exit is coming up.

  “Listen up, Professor. If I hear you went anywhere near that kid without me in the room, you won’t have to fire me again. I’ll drop your ass like it’s radioactive. Let me know that you’re hearing this.”

  “I’m hearing this.”

  “That’s good.” Bennett takes the off- ramp and falls in line behind a convoy of eighteen- wheelers, all following each other down the exit lane, around the curve of a service road, and up the hill toward shelter. “Now. When are you going to explain to me why the hell we’ve driven to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere?”

  “There.” I point to a neon sign around the corner of the main building. The diner. “He said to meet him there.”

  “You know, I’ve handled a number of noteworthy cases for a town this size.” Bennett tilts his chin as though casting his mind back. “Five years ago, I defended a man who accidentally hired an undercover state trooper to murder his wife. Not a nice fellow. But a clear case of entrapment.” He peels away from the caravan of trucks on their way to the bright halide glare of the fueling pavilion. “Nothing quite as cloak- and- dagger as this, however.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I was being sardonic.”

  There aren’t any parking spots near the building. I see a few open spots in the middle rows. Bennett rolls slowly past each one, tires crunching over scattered road grit on the cracked surface of the parking lot. At last he pulls into an open space beneath a lamppost fifty yards away. We’re perched on a treeless knob off the Interstate, miles of wide- open farmland all around us, and I can hear the wind howling outside the car. Bennett senses me looking at him.