by Michael Pool
This…thing, it mimicked their movements and clung to their heels. And when she recognized it for what it was, she felt a warmth spread through her cheeks, through her stomach and her heart. Even just laying there, strapped to her bed and describing it to me, that fog behind her eyes—you know what I mean? Well, that fog lifted, and a smile sort of teased the corners of her lips. All because of what she said waited there in the darkness following the children.
What was it?
Her son.
Let's just—let's stick with your own version of the events, Mrs. Bra—
Miss Hough, please. Or just Gale's fine, too.
Miss Hough. Okay, go ahead.
Well, it was an accident, what happened. Of course. I want that on the record.
Just one text and this brief blur crossing in front of me. That's all it took. [Hough snaps her fingers.] Barely a blink of distraction. And maybe I guess a little too much wine, but I don't think that played too big of a part considering how fast everything happened.
I told myself over and over, like it mattered, It was just an accident. Like that would help. As if that made any difference.
I'm sorry. Hold on. Sorry. [Hough digs a tissue from her pocket, blows her nose, wipes her eyes.] Sorry. Anyway, so yeah… I kept repeating this in my head like some kind of meditation mantra. I'd remind myself again and again to just focus on Jason. Think about Jason. You know? Like I was doing yoga or something. But still, against every instinct screaming through my body, I followed Father Richard into the back of that booth.
Mrs. Melfi's booth.
Yes. Well, it was at that point. It was supposed to be Mrs. Porbansky's booth, to sell her haluski. But I guess Marcy kicked her out.
"Been my spot the past four years," she told Father.
What was your initial impression of Mrs. Melfi that afternoon? What sort of state was she in?
She was a mess. I mean, she looked littler. Frail. Her hair had lost almost all of its color, and she was the kind of woman who, despite her age, never let a gray root show. Vigilant with the brown hair dye, for sure. I think she always felt uncomfortable being so much older than the other mothers in the neighborhood.
And she really never looked older than she did on the day of the fair.
That's no judgment on her part. Obviously, you know, anyone would look ancient going through what she was going through—what she's still going through and will most likely never stop having to go through. But I mean, she looked…scary. Skin pale. Eyes dull. Oh, her eyes. Her one eye—I'm sure you saw it—it was like half closed all of a sudden. Just hanging in this half-blink. [Hough shivers.] It was never like that before. Just watching her stand there talking to Father, this wicked feeling bloomed in my belly. Like some kind of….poisonous flower or something.
I knew something wasn't right.
What was Father Richard talking to Mrs. Melfi about?
Just that, you know, she shouldn't be there. He was worried. I think everyone was worried. Father Richard was just the only one who would do something about it.
And apparently yourself.
Well, I mean, guilt makes you do a lot of things you wouldn't normally do, I guess. But, yeah, Father stood there talking to her while she handed out baskets of her rigatoni. I could only barely hear most of what he said because he was trying to whisper. But he mentioned her husband, how she should be home with him. He said something about this being too soon or too early or something, which I definitely agreed with. He even scolded her for not coming up for communion at mass that morning.
"Faith can be a powerful weapon in times like this," I think he said.
Marcy just quietly nodded. Kept handing out pasta.
There was this teenager. A high school kid from down on Winterburn. He was kind of rude I guess, and Marcy made him say "please" like three or four times before she let him have any.
Still didn't charge him though.
And you didn't find it odd she wasn't charging people?
Maybe a little. That was the first I'd—
[Hough holds up a finger and gags, spits twice into the waste bin provided. Hough pauses before she wipes her mouth and continues.] Sorry. But I didn't really think much of it. When I'd dropped off a casserole at her house a few days earlier, she'd told me she was thinking of making her rigatoni for the fair. She said rigatoni was always Michael's favorite. Iganoni, she said he used to call it.
I thought maybe this was just her way of grieving. Or, I don't know, something.
You visited Mrs. Melfi's house before the fair?
[Hough nods.] Two days before, I think. Friday? She seemed in rough shape then, but nowhere near as bad as Sunday.
What else did you two talk about Friday?
Nothing much. I mean, she wasn't very talkative. Her husband, Bud, was drinking down in the basement. I could hear home movies, really loud, coming up through the kitchen floor.
But Marcy and me, we were never really close to begin with. I just stopped by to drop off some food and check to see if maybe there were any new developments in the case. If they suspected me at all yet. I guess I actually ended up being the only one from the neighborhood who ever actually showed up.
And that's when you met Detective Chauncey?
On my way out, yes, he was just pulling up.
The day of the fair, you remained in Mrs. Melfi's booth that whole afternoon. Correct?
I did.
You didn't seem too interested in keeping your distance.
Well, I guess I just felt sorry for her. You know? I'd done this to this woman. I wanted to make sure she didn't—I don't know, have a breakdown or something. Hurt herself, or whatever. I wanted her to be okay. So I stayed there with her after Father left.
Did you discuss what happened to Michael?
In a way, yes. She kept murmuring to herself, when she wasn't humming the same song I didn't recognize over and over, Could've been any of them. I mean, it was weird. All around us were these happy people out in the sun, just having a blast. You know? Families winning prizes and eating cotton candy. Kids, mothers, grandparents—all smiling. But under this little canopy at the corner of the football field, there was Marcy and me. Talking around this awful thing that'd happened. This nightmare.
I remember this pregnant woman coming up to the booth. Caitlyn McCormack. Smiling this great big smile of hers, brighter than the sun as always. "The girls were telling me you make the best Italian," she said to Marcy. "And I just had to come see for myself."
Marcy didn't smile. She just kind of shrugged. She asked Caitlyn when she was due and Caitlyn held up three fingers.
"Three weeks," she said. She rolled her eyes. "Can't come quick enough."
And Marcy stiffened. Her one eye went wide. "Don't you dare rush a thing," she hissed. "Not even that."
The look on that poor girl's face…
That poor, poor girl. And the baby.
[Pause.]
Anyway, Marcy handed her a basket after she apologized. Caitlyn went for her purse, but Marcy stopped her. "No," she said. "No money. Just…" And then she froze. Her eyes locked on the girl's plump belly, their focus somewhere past the shirt draped over it. Like she was really staring at that baby inside. You know? "Just enjoy," she said.
That was when I noticed the stain on Marcy's sleeve.
Stain?
Like a sauce stain. I told her about it, but she didn't seem to care. Or maybe she didn't even hear me. She just kept watching the pregnant woman as she walked away, sat down at a picnic table and started eating.
That was a busy part of the day. Pretty soon, a father with two kids came up and Marcy gave them free rigatoni too. Then an older couple, around retirement age. A volunteer on break. The Parkers from the street behind Marcy's house. Alison from PTO. The Roslens stopped by. The MacDowels. The youngest of the Shilling girls. Frank. Salina. Another middle-aged woman from church. A group of out-of-towners. All them and even more, they all smiled, said thank you, and Marcy would watch with a sh
aky hand held to her lips as each—[Hough clears her throat.]—as each of them ate. Then she'd mumble to herself again every once in a while, Could've been any of them.
You never asked her what she meant by that?
Well, I thought it was pretty obvious what she meant by it. I didn't know what she had planned, obviously, but why wouldn't she be wondering who did this to her son? What mother wouldn't?
So, at this point she didn't suspect you at all.
She had to. At least on some level. She kept asking me questions.
"Where's your Honda, Gale?"
"Why's Jason not here, Gale?"
"When's that book club of yours, Gale? And where's it at again?"
Why did she ask about your book club?
Some of the mothers around the neighborhood put it together. We meet once a month and drink wine and pretend we actually read whatever smutty novel one of us picked. But the thing is, we have it on Wednesday nights.
The same night…
Yeah. And we have it on Bigelow, at Meredith Glengarry's house.
Please explain why that's important.
On my way to and from Bigelow, I take the back road past Marcy's house.
So she did know.
I guess so. Maybe not at first, but by the end of the fair I think she'd pretty much figured it out.
When did the police arrive?
Pretty close to the end of the fair. Everything was kind of shutting down at that point. The music was off. People were cleaning up their booths, breaking down the games. Then these two cars pulled into the lot up by the middle school. A black Ford and a patrol car with its lights off. Detective Chauncey got out of the Ford.
And you hadn't eaten any of her food by that point.
No. We were just sitting there. I told Marcy the police were there and asked if she thought they maybe finally found a suspect. I was nervous, but I guess a little part of me was relieved. As much as I didn't want to lose—
[Pause.]
As much as I didn't want to lose Jason, I kept thinking what it'd be like if I was in Marcy's position. If it were my boy…
She deserves the truth.
Bud too.
How did Marcy react when you mentioned the police?
She didn't even seem to hear me. I think she actually—yeah, she actually asked if my divorce was done yet. I told her no, that we were still sorting everything out. Then she said I was lucky.
I was kind of shocked by that. Not just because of what happened with Michael, but because there didn't seem to be anything lucky about me and Carl's relationship.
"Jason's too young to know what's happening." That's what she said, what she meant. Then she said not to worry. "Mothers always win these things." Meaning custody. Although, I guess we can't say always. Not now that I'm in here talking to you…
[Pause.]
I—I ended up asking her what she thought the police were there for. Again, she didn't answer. Instead she asked me what I think about when I go up for communion. At this point, my mind was really just going about a million directions. These random questions and comments just made it worse.
I told her I didn't know. That I guess I prayed.
She asked what I pray about.
I don't remember what exactly I said, but I remember she again changed the topic right away, asking if I'd ever heard of some tribe in Papua New Guinea. The Forbes tribe or something? Anyway, she said she and Bud went there with Father on a mission trip before Michael was born. "I passed them off as heathens at first," she said. "But, it's such a fascinating culture." Then, rolling right off that she asked me again if my divorce was finalized yet, like she'd completely erased from her memory what we'd talked about the past five minutes. She stood there and stared at me, waiting for an answer as she scratched at the sauce stain on her sleeve.
Is that when the police arrived at the booth?
No. Not yet. It took Detective Chauncey a while to make his way around the football field to find us. There were a lot of booths. Lots of people.
But a boy came up—Aiden Palmeri. Just this little, precious angel. Blonde hair and red, round cheeks. [In a small, high-pitched voice.] "Rigatoni, please, Mrs. Melfi?"
[Hough pauses, smiling until she again begins to gag, her eyes watering.] I'm sorry. Anyway. Sorry. But, um, Marcy stood there staring at the baskets. I'm not sure for how long, but long enough that Aiden gave me this confused look for a second. Finally, Marcy's head bobbed up and down and she handed the boy one of the paper baskets of rigatoni. She leaned down to come face-to-face with him. "You eat all that now," she said. "You're a growing boy. Need to eat good so you can be big and strong someday, live a long, happy life." She reached out and wrapped her hand around Aiden's boney arm. "Hear?"
Aiden held up a crumbled ball of money his mom or dad must've given him.
Marcy just shook her head. "Go play a game or something," she said. "Have some fun."
Aiden smiled, but when he stepped back Marcy's hand stayed where it was. His arm was locked in her fist.
I took a step forward, not sure what was happening or what exactly I should do. But before I could reach out or say anything Marcy loosened her grip and Aiden slid out. He was about to wander away when he stopped and asked with his brow furrowed, "Where's Michael, Mrs. Melfi?" Hearing him ask that—
[Hough pulls another tissue from her pocket and blows her nose.]
Hearing that, it hurt enough for me. I can't even begin to imagine what was going through Marcy's head. And Marcy, she just rested a hand on the table. "Oh," she said. "I think he's around here somewhere." Her voice was just a croaking whisper. We both watched as Aiden ran off. He stopped between the long row of booths. With that ball of money in his one hand and the pasta—that pasta in the other, he stood staring at all the game tables still open.
[Hough takes in a deep, shaky breath.]
All the overwhelming possibilities before him.
[Pause.]
Do you need a break, Miss Hough?
No. No, I'm fine. Thank you. I'm sorry. I just—Where was I?
Oh, after, um—after Aiden left, a…uh, a balloon popped or something a few booths down. Loud and sudden, reaching out across the football field until another sound filled its place—this shrill, shattering scream. It took me a second to really realize what was happening.
Marcy was huddled on the ground at my feet, covering her head as she screamed over and over into the grass beneath her. I bent down and wrapped her in my arms, rocked her like I do Jason when he's having an episode. I kept telling her as her screams faded that it was okay, she was going to be okay.
It took her a few good minutes before she looked up at me, her face just a total wreck.
"You know that's true," I said to her. "Don't you? What you said to Aiden?"
She didn't seem to recognize me, those dull eyes of hers staring into mine. "Michael is still here, still looking down on you. He always will be."
Marcy didn't even blink.
"You should feel blessed," I said, "for the time you had with him."
Finally, she turned to the children playing by the swings. "Blessed?" she repeated.
I nodded. "Of course."
People all over our side of the fair stood staring at us on the ground. None of them made any move toward us.
"I remember sitting in the hospital bed. Holding him. His little fingers wrapped around one of mine. I knew I didn't deserve him, Gale. That I was too old and I'd been too selfish all my life to deserve such a glorious gift like him. First time in my life I thanked God. First time. I felt so blessed then. So blessed."
One-by-one the others around the booth went back to whatever they were doing.
I was crying now. Sobbing. Just completely lost in that guilt tearing me apart.
"I just want him to have the life he should've had," Marcy said. She looked at me again. "What mother wouldn't?"
I tried telling her then. Tried saying everything I promised myself I would never say to anyone. So I—s
o I wouldn't lose my son. So I wouldn't lose my Jason.
Tried?
Marcy wouldn't let me. She stood and every time I opened my mouth, got the start of what I wanted to say—what I needed to say—out, she shut me up. "It was an accident," she said. "There's no changing what happened."
I stood too.
"It was fate," she said. "That's all accidents are: God's plan in disguise. God wanted this to happen to my boy and God needed to make someone do it." She waved a crooked finger around the field. "Could've been any of them." Her eyes lifted to me a moment, struggling to stay there before dropping to the table next to her. She grabbed a basket of rigatoni and shoved it in my hands. "He's dead, Gale. My Michael's dead. Stop talking," she said. "And just eat."
I didn't understand. I couldn't. I'd never…I mean, never forgive someone if they took my son—my only child—from me. You know? But Marcy… I guess I don't know if she really meant it or not now. It seemed like she did. I want to believe she meant it. I don't know why she did what she did, but I don't think—as strange as it might sound—I don't think there was any hate or anger in it. At least not toward me. I don't think she wanted to hurt anybody. What she said seemed to kind of convince me of that, especially now.