Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

I sigh because he really doesn’t miss much. “Meeting him at Uncle Cal’s house,” I say.

  The anger flashes, but he swallows it. He nods until he’s regained his composure. “You have some grapes, Devon.”

  “I know he caused us a lot of pain—”

  “Pain? That man is a pox.”

  “He’s family.”

  Phillip laughs. “He’s your husband’s uncle, not yours.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Please.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “When I agreed to work with you, I didn’t know it’d be him pulling the strings. He set us up to take out his enemies until finally I became one.”

  “The people you and I went after were criminals,” I say. “The FBI carted their offices out of the Providence statehouse in boxes marked evidence.”

  “But they were very specifically Cal Burges’s enemies,” Phillip says loudly, his voice reverberating. “He had you dig up dirt on his enemies and leak it to me to report it. Now he’s the only kingmaker left in this state. That was his plan, and it only worked because of us. Don’t say it’s because he’s family, and we were fighting bad guys.”

  “You benefitted plenty from our work,” I say. “That regional Peabody still on your desk?”

  He blinks at Ester, the anger warring with some uneasiness, and then takes a step closer. “You’re damn lucky we didn’t get caught. Your hacking and blackmail was dangerous to both of us.”

  I shake my head at his indignation. “You sure as hell never asked or complained.”

  “Wow,” he says. “This was a mistake. Do you need a ride home?”

  I adjust Ester’s hat, hearing her shift as if she’s sensing the tension. “I didn’t choose Uncle Cal over you.”

  He looks up at the canopy of bare trees, as if that’s where patience lives.

  “I protected you both,” I say, getting to the heart of my betrayal.

  You protected yourself.

  Phillip and I worked great together. I did dig up dirt on people that Uncle Cal asked me to look into. Those Rhode Island politicians were so corrupt it was hardly work at all. Phillip was suddenly the hottest reporter in town. He was even talking book deal. But then one of Uncle Cal’s enemies wised up on our arrangement. He sent Phillip some information about the Economic Development Council being a front for money laundering. Uncle Cal swore it wasn’t him and that he’d force anyone involved to resign.

  Stupid enough to believe him.

  I wasn’t worried about the money laundering. But I was terrified of what would happen if Phillip took on Uncle Cal. It was suicide. I also believed Uncle Cal, that it was a mistake. Not something to ruin the good name of his Council as well as his own.

  Tried to have it both ways.

  Ended up with nothing.

  I dug up a little dirt on Phillip. Found some lightly plagiarized texts from his college newspaper days. I told him I’d use them if he didn’t back off Uncle Cal. Word got out that he dropped his investigation into Uncle Cal. Made him seem like a puppet. All his sources dried up. He was back to being a basement blogger. Until Belina.

  You’re gonna wreck his life all over again.

  “I didn’t use it,” I say, referencing the plagiarized articles that were more accident than ethical breech. “It kept you both from destroying the other. It was my only move.”

  His shoulders relax a little, and he nods. He hasn’t forgiven me, but he’s not trying to make a beeline for his car. I wore him down, which is good. But he doesn’t seem closer to working with me.

  “Things are different now,” I begin. “Jack has never liked how Uncle Cal does things. I promised him I was done crossing those lines.”

  “Great,” he says. “But here you are, bleeding in the middle of Swan Point. Getting yourself involved in a murder investigation? You don’t see where this will lead?”

  “Belina was my friend,” I say. “So is Alec. I know he didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Belina left me her day planner.” I pause to enjoy how his expression changes, the hunger for the story surfacing. “It’s eighteen months of legally obtained data about her time working for the Mathers.”

  “And the day she was murdered?”

  I pat my messenger bag. “She used a code, but the meeting in Swan Point is noted. Alec wasn’t there, based on her own hand.”

  I pause to let his mind imagine that headline. How he’d pitch it to a national producer.

  “She wrote about who she was meeting?” he asks, measuring each word.

  “She did,” I say, recalling my whiteboard and the three letters, spy. “I believe she was working for someone else. The angle isn’t ‘hot nanny.’ She brought some business idea to Alec. There was someone else involved. Maybe someone she was working for, pulling the strings?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet. But Belina was meeting with people to discuss Alec as soon as she took the job.”

  “Alec seems like . . .” He pauses, and I see where he’s going.

  “A privileged dipshit?” I offer.

  He laughs. “Look, he’s your friend. So was Belina. There’s a lot of bias there, Devon. Maybe he’s not so innocent? Maybe she’s not either.”

  “It’s not him,” I say. “And I don’t care what she did. She didn’t deserve to die. And not alone, cut up—” My throat cuts off the air. Tears burn. I swear and dab at my eyes. “I’m so mad.”

  “Okay,” he says softly. “I understand.” He gives me a minute before continuing. “Let’s talk about this planner. Did you take it directly to the police?”

  “I’ll tell Detective Ramos all this tonight.”

  He stares up at the trees again, but this time, his gaze darts back and forth as if he’s calculating how he can legally break this news before I take it to the detective.

  “I saw her the afternoon she died,” I say, offering a solution. “I can give you that account firsthand right now.”

  How could you do this to him again?

  “That could help me,” he says, running his fingers along his short beard, lightly scraping at his chin. “What’s it going to cost me?”

  “The slut-shaming narrative needs to be changed. It’s untrue and distracting.”

  He nods, waiting for the rest.

  “You have to share everything you’ve got as soon as you get it. I’m going to rebuild this case from the ground up.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Quid pro quo, Clarice?”

  I laugh lightly, but he’s serious. “Two-way street. You’ll be breaking more news than Rachel Maddow in the first hundred days of a Republican presidency.” Ester starts to shift, and I bounce a little. “We’re better together.”

  He agrees. I can see it, but he’s not convinced. “I’m not a partner person anymore.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry for what happened, for what I did. But I need you, and you need me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Phillip,” I begin, switching to a tactic I hoped I wouldn’t need. “Your articles have decreased in shares, likes, and comments every day for the past two weeks. Even your big scoop that Alec was going to be arrested was only Tweeted by Huffington Post. They didn’t even do a write-up. You need my information to stay relevant. I need your brain and sources.”

  He’s shaking his head, but he knows it’s true. I see him running through the scenarios, weighing how we once worked together with how little he trusts me now.

  “You’re sure with all this baby stuff”—he pauses to nod down at Ester—“you’ve got the . . . time?”

  He can see how worthless you are.

  You’re embarrassing yourself.

  “I’ve got time, Phillip,” I say. “But does it really matter? You need this story.”

  “Yeah, Devon, it does matter.”

  “I’m good,” I say softly.

  Right back to the lies.

  “This is not a yes.” He clears his throat, wiggling his Harvard ring on his right r
ing finger. “I want the day-of murder details right now.”

  “You got it,” I say. “You can call your Dateline producer as soon as we’re done. I’ll walk you through everything.”

  “And the planner?”

  “A copy is in my bag,” I say, sure that handing it over is the right move. Or my only move, as if there’s much of a difference. “Take it with you. But don’t post anything without talking to me first.”

  “My condition,” he says, “is you don’t make deals with Cal or anyone behind my back.”

  “I’m done with all that,” I say. “We can solve Belina’s murder the right way.”

  He frowns sharply, taking another handkerchief out of his pocket. “Let’s try it for a week,” he says softly, almost to himself. He dabs at my hairline again. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

  “You won’t,” I say, relief easing the constriction in my chest.

  I tell him about my interaction with Belina on her last day in detail, how she was distracted and clingy with Emmett.

  He takes notes and records my testimony. He asks several questions, particularly about Belina’s state of mind. He’s working on something.

  “When can I break this?” he asks.

  “Tonight,” I say. “After I share the planner with Detective Ramos.”

  The delay should cover me for any obstruction of justice threats.

  “We need to figure out who those mystery meetings were with,” he says slowly. “I called Belina’s mother right after it happened. She sounded drunk at nine a.m. and was rambling. She said her daughter was trying to catch a big fish.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe an affair? I couldn’t get a lot out of her.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” I say.

  He nods, but I see his mind is somewhere else. “Can you get some rest before your happy hour tonight?”

  He says it softly, a tone typical in 90 percent of my interactions since having Ester. A tone I resent 100 percent of the time.

  “I will,” I say. “Break the story tonight at five forty-five on the dot.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Let me know how it goes with Detective Ramos. He’s yet to take my call.”

  “You got it,” I say, but it’s Uncle Cal who is the real first test between us.

  Chapter 11

  It’s the witching hour. Two words that strike fear into the heart of every new parent. I read extensively about the phenomenon but am unprepared for Ester’s jag of crying in the late afternoon when my nerves are already spent.

  After two hours of failing to soothe Ester, I am a possessed form, thighs burning, tears in both our eyes as I obsessively bounce on the workout ball to exorcise these wails from my child.

  You were never meant to be a mother.

  If she had a different mother, she’d never cry at all.

  Another half hour passes, and she’s quiet, sleeping deeply in my arms. I try to think of my meeting at the cemetery with Phillip, his prescient warning that I get some rest, because right now, I’m too wrung out for the happy hour.

  There is a soft knock at the front door, and my whole body clenches in fear of more cries. But Ester remains sleeping. I debate ignoring it, no visitor or Amazon Prime package worth her waking.

  I roll off the ball to a standing position but continue bouncing movements up and down on weak legs. I open the front door, staring through the half-fogged-over glass. There’s a smiling older woman at my front door. She takes a sip of her to-go coffee cup from Chip and has three days’ worth of the Providence Journal under her arm.

  “I’m ya sitter, Gilly,” she says. “Got ya papers.”

  Gillian O’Bryan is a central casting grandmother. I read her resume, called three references, but it’s her smart eyes that ease some of my worry about leaving Ester.

  “Jack sent me over early,” she says in a whisper. “Get ya a nap and shower.” She pulls the glass door open and shoos me into the house. “Here go ya papers.” She pauses to drop them onto the entryway table. “Now, let me hold the little love.”

  I can’t move.

  Ester has been with only Jack or me since we left the NICU. She usually sleeps from five p.m. to eight p.m.—the length of the party—so I’m not completely terrified about leaving her. My panic is more subdued, like realizing you’ve run a red light but survived.

  The smart-eyed woman is glancing around my living room, which looks like a garage sale, or tag sale, as they say in New England. To prepare for her arrival, I set up from most effective to least: the rocking bassinet, mamaRoo, cheap bouncer seat, play mat, and tummy time pillow. Any of these could be solutions when Ester begins crying.

  She lifts her out of my tired arms, and the relief is sharp, causing me to grab the edge of the couch for support.

  She’s safer with a stranger than you.

  “The bottles are in the fridge,” I say in my chipper voice. “You don’t need to heat them up.”

  She smiles at me in a way that says, You’re fucking crazy, but let’s continue pretending you’re not.

  “Your references had such nice things to say,” I try to say casually, though it sounds like a question.

  “I’ve raised five of my own. Help with nine grandchildren.” She pats Ester’s back with a placating smile. “Why don’t ya go upstairs? Have yourself a nice nap and long shower.”

  I take the stairs two at a time.

  You don’t even know her, you shitty mother.

  The words roll through my mind as I drop onto the bed. I set my phone alarm for one hour, and even those terrible but true words don’t keep me awake. They are my lullaby.

  Shitty mother.

  Shitty mother.

  Shitty mother . . . mother . . . mother . . . mother.

  I awake to my chirping phone alarm. The heaviness of sleep is rich, and I savor it. Burying my cheek into the pillow, I stretch and wallow in the mental evenness from rest.

  Gilly’s voice carries from downstairs. Quietly opening the door, I listen.

  “She’s fine, Jack,” she says softly.

  I hope he’s asking about Ester, but I doubt it.

  “She’s exhausted all right. I checked on her. She’s sleepin’.”

  He’s tired of caring for you.

  He’s sent someone else to do it because you’re not worth his time.

  I swallow thickly, the sleep giving me the strength not to cry. I am balanced or at least not wholly unstable. I resist checking on Ester. Instead, I pump and then head for the shower.

  The hot water quickly steams our small master bathroom. I hesitate because it’s going to hurt.

  Wrapping my arms over my bare breasts, I step into the shower back first. A little spray still scalds the three blisters I have on my left nipple from pumping. No matter how much lanolin ointment I apply, they keep getting worse.

  I shampoo my hair three times. I’m dizzy with the freedom that if Ester cries, I don’t have to dart out, dripping, cold, and frustrated. I shave the forest that’s grown on my legs, reminding myself that tonight is important. I used to live for important.

  Minutes later, I stare at my red face in the steamed mirror. It’s the best shower I’ve ever had. I’m a new life form, scrubbed and defurred. My face shines from the fancy exfoliant I haven’t used since learning I was pregnant. I’d read chemicals we use from hair dye and face wash could somehow reach the baby growing inside me.

  Taking my time, I blow-dry my hair so my curls are defined and controlled. My feet are warm against the cool wooden floors in the bedroom. I retie my robe and sit at my vanity. There’s a glass of chilled white wine waiting. Gilly is a little too good.

  I’ll have another drink at Uncle Cal’s, so I’m going to pump and dump when I get home, even though research says that’s unnecessary. Because I worry that next year the research will say something else.

  Sipping the wine, I put on my makeup and run through my questions for the detective.

  I select a red skirt and cr
eam silk blouse. I pull on high-heeled black leather boots that haven’t been worn since last winter.

  My heels echo against the stairs as I descend a woman reborn. Gillian has Ester in the mamaRoo and MSNBC on at a low volume.

  “Look at ya,” she says and puts the TV on mute.

  “Thank you for the wine,” I say. “Sorry I ran off. I’m not myself.”

  “Dontcha worry,” she says.

  She’s still smiling at me when I recall where she works, Phillip’s warnings still fresh in my head. “You’ve been one of Uncle Cal’s assistants for . . . ?”

  “First job and only job,” she says. “We joke we’ll both be carried out feet first, ya know.”

  I manage a laugh.

  “Jack’s on his way home.” She glances at her watch. “Should be here now if traffic’s not too bad.”

  It feels like she is pushing me to leave. “I’ll grab my purse so I’m ready.”

  Upstairs, I stand in my office but hesitate. But if I don’t do this, I’ll think of nothing else. I grab my computer and all the documents, along with Belina’s planner. I shove them in my wall safe and reset the code. Jack texts that he’s outside, but I’ve still got to walk Gillian through the house.

  I hurry back with my small red purse and throw on my coat. “Can I show you a few things?”

  “Sure,” she says and mutes the TV again. She clears her throat as if to tamp her impatience.

  I show her around the house: the bottles, the thermostat setting (Post-it), contact information (second Post-it), the stack of diapers, creams, extra clothes, and how various bouncers work best for Ester.

  Jack arrives through the back door at some point and is standing in his jacket with the bottle of wine we’re taking. He watches me walk her through everything again (but for a slightly different scenario—tummy troubles versus hunger versus separation anxiety).

  Their gazes go from me to each other and back. I feel them wishing I’d stop talking.

  Jack regrets bringing you before you’re even there.

  I leave them in the living room for the kitchen, where I do something I haven’t done since my DC job: pop a Xanax.

  You’ll damage Ester with this drug, you weak failure.

  I’m pumping and dumping already, I counter. The truth is my new mother’s skin won’t work for this happy hour; it’s too raw, too exposed, and too vulnerable. I drink some water and take a few deep breaths.