“You need it!”
“No, I don't. We're … we're getting one. A new one. It's coming tomorrow,” she says, clutching the front of her robe.
He feels foolish, used. The rich boyfriend, that's what this is about. “Hammond's buying his way back in, huh? What the hell's wrong with you? Don't you get it? He's just using you, that's all.”
“What I do or don't do is my business, not yours.”
“Yes it is!” he yells. Bad move, he knows from her stricken look. “Because I'm your friend,” he quickly adds, mind racing. “I worry about you. Here all alone, you and the kids. That's all.”
“Well, don't.” She speaks so coldly, snidely that he wants to slap her. “Bob's coming home tonight, so we'll be fine.”
Insulted, he speeds off with the television in the open box teetering behind him, angrier with its every thump against the seat. He doesn't believe her. Lying bitch. Got what she needed, then threw him out. Like he's nothing. To her or anyone.
Nora underlines another mistake in the copy, the third time Franklin Memorial Hospital's president is referred to as its superintendent.
“I'm sorry,” Jessica Bond says. She keeps biting her lip. This is her first postcollege job after backpacking around Europe for a year. Her writing is terrible, but she is Bibbi and Hank Bond's daughter, credentials enough for Ken. After her abysmally juvenile middle school science fair story for the local page, Ken begged Nora to take her on. Just until he can find a place for her. Ordinarily, she would have refused, but this is one less struggle she needs right now, especially with Ken. And especially here at the paper. It's painfully apparent that the staff, with Stephen's instigation, has little faith in Ken's management skills. Yesterday Clement, the city editor, threatened to quit when Ken killed another CraneCopley story. Stephen called in a rage late last night, demanding that the three of them meet this afternoon. She knows how that will go. Stephen will get indignant, angry, or depressed, and Ken will pretend to appease them while continuing to do exactly what he wants.
“It's that way all the way through.” Turning the page, she highlights superintendent four more times.
“I thought that's what it was.”
“It didn't occur to you to check?”
“I know.”
“But you didn't. Why?”
“I know,” Jessica sighs.
Nora catches the young woman rolling her eyes. “Am I annoying you?”
“No! God, no!”
Nora looks at her pretty face. “Working at the paper, whose idea was it?”
“Mine.” But her flat tone says it all. She doesn't want to be here, or at least not working for Nora.
“This is the real world, Jess. Your parents might have helped you get the job, but it's up to you to keep it. Right now, there are probably fifty résumés up in personnel, all perfectly willing, desperate even, to do exactly this. Anything. Whatever grunt work is available.”
“I know.” Her resigned sigh skims the surface, depthless, easily bored like her mother, who must have been thrilled to make their boat available whenever it was needed by Ken and Robin, whom they'd known forever, because, after all, she overheard Bibbi say once, “Poor Kenny, all he wants is to be happy,” little knowing it was an indictment of her.
“No, you don't. You don't have a clue. You think this is what comes next, don't you? You don't really want to work, you just want a position, something to tell people you do. Well, I'm sorry, Jess, but I have neither the time nor the patience to be holding your—”
A great sob erupts from Jessica. “You're firing me?”
“That's not what I said.” What she meant, though.
“It's, just … I have a hard time with details,” Jessica gasps through her tears. “A really hard time.”
“You do?” Nora says with a glance at the marked-up copy, her sarcasm going right over Jessica's head.
“The thing is, I have these, like, issues.” Her nose is running, but she makes no effort to wipe it. “Didn't Kenny tell you?”
Kenny. He's not sleeping with her now, is he? she wonders, pushing the tissue box across the desk. That'll be next, won't it? Younger women, daughters of their friends, friends of Chloe's. No. She's got to keep her head on straight. Tonight is their first family counseling session. She had a hard time talking Ken into it. Maybe this is why— Jessica Bond. “Issues. What kind of issues?”
“Learning problems. Like, disabilities?” she says.
“I'm sorry, Jess, I didn't know that.” Suspicion bleeds into guilt. For being such a bitch. For taking out her own problems on someone so vulnerable, and so annoying. Typical of Ken, dumping this on her, instead of being frank with Jessica.
“Basically, I'm just not … not … very good at anything,” she bawls.
The red light on her phone flashes.
“Oh. Oh, hon,” Nora says, ignoring it as she comes around the desk and puts her hand on Jessica's shoulder. “Come on, now. Look, don't worry. We'll work this out. There's—”
Hilda buzzes her. Nora grabs the phone. “Leave it on voice mail. I can't—”
“But it's the high school,” Hilda says in a rush. “Drew's sick and they need to speak to someone right away.”
Since when does it take two parents to pick up a sick kid?” Ken asks as they rush down the corridor.
“I know,” she says in a low voice as two reporters go by.
“I'm meeting Stephen and Clem in twenty minutes.”
“Call and reschedule.” She's racing toward the door.
“Why do I have to go? I don't get it.” He holds open the door for her.
“Because he's drunk,” she blurts. Outside now, she's finally able to repeat what the school nurse said. “He fell asleep in math, and when the teacher couldn't wake him up, he realized what it was.”
Drew is waiting in the nurse's office. Slumped, chin on his chest, he doesn't acknowledge their presence. Even with the window open the office reeks of booze.
“Hey, Ken,” the school nurse says, grinning.
Drew looks up, but Ken only nods. Apparently, Linda Raymond and Ken know each other, though Nora has only ever met her here before. Until Nora put her foot down, menstrual cramps had often been Chloe's ploy when she was unprepared for a test.
“What're you doing?” Ken demands, and Drew closes his eyes.
“I put down flu,” Linda Raymond says. “Better than being suspended.”
“Thanks, Linda. I appreciate that,” Ken says.
“Least I can do.” And with her brief shrug Nora knows a favor is being repaid, a job, maybe, or buried story. Connections, everywhere. Tentacles.
Leaving quickly is impossible. Drew is too unsteady. Their shameful procession moves slowly, between them a child they dare not let walk alone down corridors, stairs, through the heavy school doors, locked against intruders, mayhem, harm to their treasured children.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, staggering into Nora as they emerge into dazzling sunshine. Birds are singing. A girl and a boy pass them, carrying a narrow wooden bench.
“Hey! Where you going with that … that … thing you got,” Drew mutters with a foolish snigger.
The girl and boy hurry by and don't say anything. Behind them come more students carrying benches. One girl is a friend of Chloe's.
“What're you doin'?” Drew calls, coming to an abrupt teetering stop, but they pull him grimly along. “Hey!” he protests, struggling against their grip.
“Be quiet,” Ken says through clenched teeth.
“I'm just tryna—”
“Stop it. You're just making it worse,” Nora hisses. The departure bell rings and students stream past them. This is the first time she's ever been ashamed of her own child.
They're finally at the car, but Drew balks, refusing to get in. He needs his books, he insists. They're in his locker and he has to go get them. Chloe will get them, Nora assures him. No, she doesn't know his combination, Drew protests, jerking free of their grasp. Then she'll call Chloe and he ca
n give it to her, she says, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone, as if the books matter in the least, trapped as they are now in this bizarre scenario. Students move through the rows of parked cars. They keep glancing back.
“Get in the car!” Ken orders.
“No! First I gotta go—”
“Shut up!” Ken forces him down into the backseat.
Nora scrambles in beside him. As soon as they turn onto the road he falls asleep. She struggles to fasten his seat belt, but he's sitting on part of it. Pull over, she tells Ken, so she can buckle him in.
“Just forget it,” Ken calls back. He keeps driving.
“No!” Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and she is devastated by what she sees: more than disgust, more than anger. Hateful despair.
She clicks the seat belt into place. Not another word passes. They ride home in silence. They can't get Drew out of the car. He won't be roused no matter how often she calls his name or jostles his arms. Ken waits by the open door. “Drew, Drew, come on, now, wake up, we're home. Come on. Let's get inside. Please, Drew,” she begs.
With the twitch of a smile, his eyes flutter, then close, as if surrendering to a glorious dream.
“Come on!” Ken barks as he drags out Drew's legs. He grabs his arms, yanks him onto his feet. “Let's go. Walk, goddamn it!” he orders as Drew reels into the back of the car, then doubles over, retching.
“He's going to be sick!” she cries, enraged to see her son so brutally handled.
“Good!” Ken says, dragging him up the walk, along the length of picket fence, architectural ornament, artifice, keeping nothing in or nothing out, for here it was, all damage done, the worst of it, to her child. And already she is deciding their next course of action, therapy, private school, a trip, a long family trip. Far away from all this anger and resentment, even as Ken gets him inside and is forcing him down onto the kitchen chair, yes, reschedule tonight's session, the family counselor, she'll call now, soon as they get Drew to bed, but Ken is insisting he has to stay awake. They don't know what he's been drinking, or how much. Alcohol poisoning. Can't let him pass out. Keep him conscious, he says, wringing a dishtowel under cold running water. Torture, she thinks, looking on. The boy needs to sleep, and all Ken wants is to teach him a lesson.
He wraps the cold wet towel around Drew's neck. Drew's head snaps up, his eyes bulge with shock. Ken is wetting another towel. The side door flies open. Chloe hurries in.
“What happened?” Friends told her. Jay and Maddie. Some kids said he'd been drinking vodka all day, from a spring water bottle. Mr. LaPlante brought him to the nurse.
With Drew's deep groans, Nora takes the towel off his neck. His eyes roll and he sags over the table.
“Ken!” she cries.
“He's passing out!” Chloe screams. “Do something!” Chloe lifts her brother's head. She shouts his name, begging him to wake up. “Please, please, Drewie!”
And he does. Looks up and laughs, as if they are little again, conspiratorial in this fuss. Drool trickles down his chin, but he keeps grinning. Chloe asks if he wants some water. He doesn't answer, so she gets it anyway. His eyes keep closing. Ken tries to pat his face with the wet towel. Recoiling, Drew's head jerks back.
“Hold still!” Ken orders, pressing the dripping cloth against his temple.
Muttering, Drew bats his father's hand away. But Ken persists. Nora remains at her son's side, arms folded, in this strange suspension. Looking down at them, at herself, with surreal curiosity and the realization, the acceptance, that the dream is past, all of it a dream, because only this is real. And would forever be this way.
“Here.” Chloe offers the water glass.
Drew refuses, so she holds it to his lips, and he strikes out in panic, in confusion, knocking the water from Chloe's hand. The glass explodes on the tile floor in a burst of gleaming splinters. Drew struggles to stand up.
“Sit down!” Ken yells, forcing him back onto the chair.
Propelled into action, Nora grabs a mop, and Chloe is unrolling long furls of paper toweling onto the floor.
“I said, sit down!” With Ken's shout, Drew lunges at his father. Ken shoves him back, away from him, again, again, ducking his blows, leaning, not wanting to hurt him. But Drew persists, in his drunken clumsiness, staggering against the refrigerator, now, the narrow table display of Delft plates that teeter, but Chloe steadies them in time.
“Fuck you! I hate you, you fucking asshole!” Drew bellows and sobs, but Ken gets behind him, arms around his son in a bear hug that only makes him cry out more. Sobbing, Chloe begs her father not to hurt him. Ken grunts with his fierce grip, afraid to let go, his own face grim, sick-looking, as afraid as Nora is, of what he will do, not to them, or to anything in this room or house, but to himself because he is frantic, beyond their reach.
“Calm down, just calm down,” Ken begs.
“Listen to your father,” Nora pleads, stroking his pinioned arms and bony shoulders, his face. “Please. Please, Drew. It's all right. Dad's just trying to help you, that's all.”
“No, he's not!” Drew yells, laughing, in his struggle. Tears and snot streak his face. “He wants me to shut up, that's what he wants. Shut up! Shut up, Drew, you fucking little freak! You just forget everything. Cuz you don't know, you don't know what the hell you're talking about, you freakin', fuckin' little freak.”
“Stop. Please stop.” Ken's face presses against Drew's head, and something inside Nora is breaking off, piece by piece.
“It's a secret. His dirty little secret—”
“Don't,” Ken groans at his son's ear. “Don't. Don't—”
“Stop it, Drew! Stop it!” Chloe screams, pounding her fists on the table as Drew shouts over her.
“Ask him who Lyra's father is. Go ahead, Mom. Ask him.” The words pour out as if he can hold them in no longer. “Because it's not Mr. Gendron. It's him. That's who it is, it's him.”
Chloe is sobbing into her hands, not with the shock of revelation, Nora realizes, but with pent-up anguish over what must happen now. Ken's arms fall away from Drew, who looks around in panting, stunned surprise. Relieved, finally, of this, their last secret. For a moment she thinks she's having a heart attack. She can't breathe. Or move or speak. And yet, this calm voice—hers.
“Leave, Ken. Please. Just leave.”
pparently, Ken has found refuge in the huge, run-down home of his privileged childhood. So far, he hasn't called, but Oliver does from rehab. He asks if she and the children are all right. Whatever they need. His voice breaks. His speech has improved, yet when he tries explaining that he just got off the phone with Ken, he says he's just gotten off the john with Ken at FairWinds. She's not to worry, he says again. He's told his doctors he wants to be discharged. As soon as he gets home, he'll take care of everything. Everything his asinine brother is hell-bent on destroying. The paper, Stephen, but especially her and the children.
“You and the kids, Nora, that's the most important thing,” he gasps.
She's shocked, hearing him trying not to cry. He's never been sentimental or the least bit emotional with her.
“I feel so damn guilty. I should've said something. But I didn't know about that, their having a kid, I swear I didn't. I didn't!” he cries. “He never said that. Then, after that night, you at the house, after, I told him. I was sick of him, I said, sick of his bullshit, all his phony, goddamn, phony … phony …”
Her eyes close with his painful struggle for words. “Oh, Ollie, I know. I know. It's not your fault. In a million years, it's not.”
When Stephen arrives later in the day she pretends to be surprised and pleased. He pretends to be sorry, embarrassed for just dropping in on her like this. But he wanted to tell her in person, and privately, that if there's anything she needs, anything he can do, whatever it is, he'll be there for her. Anytime, day or night. Anything, he says, squeezing her hands, peering into her eyes with his usual withering intensity. Time to call a lawyer, she thinks, already knowing his mission
, to put out another fire. As Oliver's most trusted envoy, he's surely been sent with a generous offer. She'll be well taken care of as long as she goes quietly, doesn't put up a fight, doesn't embarrass anyone. Without asking, she opens the liquor cabinet: whisky neat, as always. How lovely, she looks, absolutely lovely, especially in that sweater, he says with a sigh of relief as he follows her into the study, drink in hand. With such dark hair and fair skin, she should always wear violet. And black, too, he's always admired her in black. His mother used to wear a lot of black. He remembers that, he says, settling into the oversized leather chair by the stone hearth. She sits in the smaller chair, awaiting the terms.
“I used to think it was my father's abandonment. You know, that she felt like a widow or something. And so I asked her once. I told her I thought she'd feel so much happier if she'd only wear bright colors. ‘But I am happy’ she said. ‘And I'm sorry, to break the news to you, Stephen, but, you see, men prefer me in black,’” he explains, in a breathy imitation of his mother. His exuberant laughter is always unsettling, a surprise from such an ascetic.
They pick their way round the minefield. Pleasantries first: Chloe and Drew are doing well. And though she doesn't say so, they seem almost relieved. It's only now that they're older, Stephen admits, that he enjoys them. Not that they weren't always very well behaved, he says, but he's just never known how to talk to little ones. Well, anyway, he sighs, thank goodness for the warmer weather and longer daylight. Actually, this has been his best winter yet. Well, his least depressed one, that is. Light therapy, an hour every morning, it's been amazing, the difference.
The usual coughing, sniffling mess, he replies when she asks how Donald is. Red-nosed, wadded tissues everywhere. Allergies. As soon as the trees start to bud, his misery commences, from now until November. Of course, two farty old Labs in the bedroom don't help. They discuss various treatments, Stephen's new car, another Audi, the paper's dwindling ad revenue, ever-shrinking circulation, her dismissal of Jessica Bond, which delights him. Right now she's doing something on the entertainment page, but if it were up to him, he'd fire the ditz. Simple as that. One more nail in the coffin. Well deserved and long overdue. “And the next head to roll, his princess in circulation,” he says with a lift of his glass, and it's a moment before she realizes he means Sheila Nedderman, Ken's old paddle tennis partner. Typical of Stephen, needing to put a vile spin on Ken's kindness. Desperate for a job after her divorce, Sheila pestered Ken for months. The calls came night and day.
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