Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  Enough.

  The antianxiety effect kicks in quickly, as it always has for me. The nap, the shower, my handsome husband waiting to take me away, it all bubbles over my worry.

  I open the purse I haven’t used in months and tap my fingers against an old lipstick, powder, and blush, conjuring the woman who once used them.

  Striding into the hall, I find Jack and Gilly waiting for me. He seems relieved, as if he recognizes my effort.

  “We’ll be home later,” I say as casually as I can and take his arm. “Text Jack if anything comes up.”

  That last sentence costs me something. I read on one mom blog to set limits on how often you text a babysitter. Every hour, maybe. They’ll text if something happens. No news is good news, etc. But to give Jack all the power is essential. I would stare at the screen all night, constantly checking to see if I missed the vibration of a text.

  We go too fast down Hope Street in Jack’s silver two-door Audi, but we’re running late because of me, so I’m not about to say anything. Uncle Cal’s home is located on a very nice block off Blackstone Boulevard.

  After Jack’s mother died when he was a boy, he spent a lot of time over at Uncle Cal’s house. Jack’s father was busy working to keep his four boys in Catholic school and refused any financial help. But he encouraged his sons to spend time with their successful and important uncle Cal. Jack, in particular, would have dinner there or catch a Brown University football game with him at the stadium down the street.

  We spent time with Uncle Cal before moving to Providence. We visited him in Boston for a Sox game, where we had box seats. He’d visit DC often, taking us both to dinner, giving me the third degree, which I enjoyed. Despite seeing their close relationship, it still surprised the hell out of me when he gave us a house in Providence as our wedding gift.

  It wasn’t keys to a place unseen, only a card with two qualifiers. Under 400K and on the east side of Hope Street.

  We actually bought on the west side of Hope (by two blocks), but he was so happy about Jack’s job as chief of staff for the mayor he didn’t mention it. He even bumped up our budget because I’d fallen in love with the formal dining room of our home. Uncle Cal said: “It’s what family does.” I’d never realized that was possible for me.

  Jack squeezes my hand before shifting into a higher gear. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  “We needed time to ourselves,” I say, even though we’ll barely see each other tonight.

  He’ll be too embarrassed to stay close.

  We park along the hill that’s a block from Uncle Cal’s house. Both sides of the street are already full of guests’ cars. As he’s gotten older, Uncle Cal’s Friday happy hours aren’t as frequent anymore, making them all the more popular and exclusive. When Jack was a kid, he served drinks and snipped cigars for the guests. That’s a pretty old-school political machine for formative years, but Jack’s actually a progressive guy. What it did do is create a connection between him and Uncle Cal that can forgive almost anything.

  But he’ll never forgive you.

  Jack turns off the car but doesn’t reach for the door, so we sit in silence. I know what he wants to ask, so I save time. “I’m not working with Uncle Cal,” I say. “He only did me a favor, adding Cynthia to the guest list.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “I want her to get that Economic Development grant,” I say.

  “Is that it?” he asks, probably hearing something in my voice that says it’s not.

  “Cynthia got Phillip to meet with me to talk about Belina.” I shift in the seat. “We’re going to help each other again.”

  “All right.” Jack stretches back, pulling me close. “It’s good that you want to work,” he says, brushing some hair behind my ear. “But not the kind of work that will make things . . . difficult.”

  I almost smile at that last word. Difficult. God, he’s cute. “You mean me going to federal prison? Obstruction of justice?”

  He inhales sharply but covers it with a grin. “That would be quite difficult.”

  “Quite,” I say. This moment is close to how we were before Ester. The teasing mixed with the truth.

  It’s all pretend now.

  Just like your marriage.

  Break it, then fake it.

  Before I can reach for the door, he grabs my wrist, gently shifting me back to face him. “High road, right? Not too much stress? You promised.”

  I kiss him softly, and he smiles against my lips as I pull back but not too far. “I still promise.”

  You still lie.

  Our car doors slam in the cold air, and for a few seconds, I’m as whole as I’ve been in months. But then I notice a few leaves on the trees, orange and red stragglers, floating onto the smooth black pavement. Today is Ester’s real due date.

  I can almost feel the blood on my legs at the thought of those bright-yellow leaves taunting me through the ambulance’s back glass. Everything was wrong.

  It’ll never be right again.

  “Coming?” Jack says with a concerned smile.

  “I was noticing the houses. I forgot how pretty they are,” I say in a rush, grabbing his hand too tight.

  I try to make the lie true and focus on each large and expensive home we pass along Hazard Road. Oversize Capes and brick Tudors and even a stucco. There are split-rail fences and charming stone walls, each lawn professionally cultivated. Our house is far nicer than the one I grew up in, but I’ve adjusted to feeling like it’s ours. A home on Hazard Road, where a million is the price of entry, is a place I’ll never belong.

  Uncle Cal’s house is dark stone with a turret on the front. It was built in the 1940s and has lots of charm amid the size. It’s a favorite with neighborhood children, especially the girls who like to think there’s a princess living there. Not quite. Uncle Cal’s house is the largest, which is impressive since no one really knows what he does.

  But he’s got an office in city hall, four doors down from the mayor’s. He’s had the same title for twenty years, public works commissioner. His crown jewel, the Economic Development Council, is all he focuses on now. It helped Alec, and hopefully it’ll help Cynthia too.

  You don’t have what it takes to help her.

  Jack’s hand in mine, I focus on the lamplights shining bright. My boot heels click against the pavement, and the tendons in my feet are already tight from not being in ballet flats or UGGs. I pull my wrap tight around my shoulders and wish I’d remembered hose for this red skirt. It’s not short, but there’s a breeze.

  Stupid hick doesn’t even know to wear hose in December.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Jack asks as we near the house. I was squeezing his hand.

  “Nervous,” I say, which is mostly true. There are a lot of people in there who know my history with Uncle Cal.

  From one failure to the next.

  I check my phone to see I’ve got one hour until I need to have Detective Ramos right where I want him.

  You’ll never pull it off.

  “Keep your head up,” Jack says, which I don’t like. I do not need to be handled.

  At the moment, anyway.

  “You look frightened.” Jack squeezes my hand, which is still in his as he glances through the lead-paned window. “They’re more scared of you.”

  He’s grinning like it’s a joke. Like there’s not a room full of people who know me. Know that I helped get Uncle Cal’s political enemies thrown in jail. That I used Phillip Hale to get them there. And they must assume that, with the snap of Uncle Cal’s fingers, Phillip and I stopped investigating. We both stepped back. Until now.

  Chapter 12

  Jack opens the front door to Uncle Cal’s house, and the voices roll over us. The person manning the entry quickly shuts the door, and we stand by a small fireplace as he gets a tag for our checked coats. I use the delay to put on my confident mask as if I’m not an exhausted mother who has barely had a nonmom conversation in two months. I’m someone who belongs in this r
oom. I’m someone who can help solve a murder.

  No one wants you here.

  The entryway leads to a large double parlor with wood-paneled walls and paintings of dogs and ships. It’s exactly what I’d pictured even before I stepped inside. A huge fireplace blazes on the wall opposite the windows. People are already flushed from the heat and martinis. Two men are out on the back patio, the distinct orange glow of lit cigars blinking in the darkness.

  You’re not in that club anymore.

  I set a small smile on my face and glance around for Uncle Cal. Not that we need to rush over. He’ll find us when the time is right. Or find Jack anyway. He’s been distant from me since learning about Phillip’s move against him and my threats to keep them from going after each other.

  I’d never thought besting Uncle Cal would be so simple, but it was because Phillip, again, had done great work. The Economic Development Council did have some ties to money laundering. Not any connected to Uncle Cal. But close enough that it would have looked bad if Phillip had run the story. Likely would have gotten the whole Council shut down. Ruined Uncle Cal’s reputation and the good they were doing for small businesses in a state that doesn’t make that easy. Businesses like Cynthia’s.

  In the end, I came over to Uncle Cal’s house; made chicken fried steak with him, like my grandma taught me; and told him the truth: We were done working together, and he was leaving Phillip alone. Phillip would, in turn, leave Uncle Cal and the Council alone. He agreed, and neither of us ate the chicken fried steak.

  He used you.

  You’re too stupid to see it.

  Then my pregnancy. Specifically, Ester and I are taking all Jack’s time when he should be focusing on his career and building political connections. Uncle Cal never married, never had children—that I knew of, anyway. He made only one comment that our starting a family was sooner than he’d expected.

  We obviously bought a large home, one he paid for, and had mentioned kids before. Jack loves having three older brothers and even hinted that maybe five would be ideal. I am open to it. I have no number, only an idealized vision of bread baking and math homework and stinky hockey equipment and piano scales and a dog chomping on a book report. A house as full as our lives. With a crying infant and a voice back in my head, I’ve never felt further from that home.

  Keep dreaming, girlie.

  There’s nothing inside you that deserves that life.

  Enough.

  I see Detective Ramos is in the corner by himself, trying not to look uncomfortable. The track lighting reflects off his shaved head. He shifts in his suit, buy-one-get-one-free bad, loose despite his tall, muscular frame. His tie is nice, matching his light-brown eyes. Dollars to doughnuts his wife bought that tie.

  But I can’t start with him. People are watching me, and making a beeline would show my hand. Plus, there is a timing issue. My punch line is Phillip breaking the story about a friend meeting Belina on the afternoon she died. Something the police didn’t catch.

  He’ll never work with you.

  What value could you possibly bring?

  My tongue is thick in my mouth, and I need to warm up before seeing the detective.

  I find Cynthia in the corner, chatting up a pasty white guy who’s on the Economic Development Council with Uncle Cal.

  I hover so I can hear her at work. The man is on the Council because he’s a big Democratic donor, not because he’s smart or particularly good at business.

  “Tell me about my ROI,” he says with some spittle on the corner of his mouth.

  ROI is a phrase stupid people think makes them sound smart. One of a hundred reasons I was glad to leave DC. It’s full of people smugly dropping acronyms into happy-hour conversations.

  Cynthia makes surprised sounds like this old white dude is really imparting some pearls of wisdom on this young black woman.

  “If ya open more locations,” he says as if he’s Sam Walton thinking up the superstore, “the money comes in faster.”

  Cynthia blinks because that’s not true. But she doesn’t give him a Well, when I was getting my MBA at Harvard. Instead she nods and says, “Oh yeah?” with a bit of Rhode Island on it.

  She’s not the only one. The Rhody accent floats through the room, Ws becoming Rs and Rs drowned by As. It makes me feel like I’m in a Mark Wahlberg movie or an episode of Family Guy. But it also reminds me (and anyone with the accent) that I’m not one of them.

  “I’ll give that some thought,” she says to something I missed. The man glances down her white blouse. She’s wearing gray trousers: tailored but not tight. She’s beautiful but doesn’t have to advertise it.

  “I’m looking forward to reading your comments on my application to the Council,” Cynthia says after his gaze makes it back to her eyes. “There’s a lot I can learn from you.”

  His face lights up, the pudgy bulldog thinking he sees a bone.

  I feel some guilt. He seems genuine, smiling at Cynthia as if he’s helped her. This guy is probably a loving husband and kind grandfather. I am judging him because he glanced at her boobs and wanted to feel smart.

  He pats her arm, and she does a good job not recoiling, which is what I do anytime an older man suddenly touches me. Some habits will die only with you.

  “You’re very articulate,” he says. “Be sure to smile, and you’ll do fine.”

  Poof. The guilt is gone.

  “Your smile coach is here!” I flash a wide one for both of them.

  “Mrs. Burges,” the man says with his eyes bulging. “You had the baby? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He’s blinking rapidly. “Are you here . . . for work?” He shoots Cynthia a look. “Are you working on Council matters?”

  “What matters?” I ask, torturing him a little. Letting him worry I’m going rogue, digging into his businesses and boys’ clubs for ties back to the Council.

  “I . . . don’t know . . .” He takes a deep breath. “It’s all beyond reproach.”

  “Good for you,” I say with a nod. “I’m sure fantastic businesses like Chip Bakery will thrive with your support.”

  His face falls. “Oh. Yes, yes, of course.”

  Cynthia shakes his hand, and he nearly runs away from us both.

  “That went well,” I say, watching him whisper to another board member.

  “Pretty sure that was coercion.” Cynthia sets her untouched glass of white wine down on a passing waiter’s tray. “But probably got his vote, so thanks?”

  “Sure, I’ll take it,” I say. “How many members of the Council do you have left?”

  “Most of them.” She glances in the direction of the other two applicants working the room, same as her. I see doubt in her gaze and then resolve.

  “Your business plan is by far the best,” I say.

  “You can’t control everything,” she says. “You’re as bad as Cal.”

  I see her confidence slip. “What’s going on?”

  “I got a really high bid yesterday from a coffee distributor,” she says. “It’s all state monopoly nonsense. This grant will save me so much time. The ‘She’s okay’ stamp of approval.”

  I touch her arm because it’s not fucking fair. But who wants to have that conversation for the hundredth time. Not when she lives it. Not when she’s doing everything she can to overcome it. Double standard is the only standard Cynthia has known.

  And you’re only making things worse.

  She will never forgive you this time.

  “How’d it go with Phil?” she asks.

  “Tacit gentleman’s agreement,” I say. “He’s a forgiving person, so that’s always going to hold him back.”

  “What’s your plan while you’re here?” she asks.

  “Avoiding most of these people,” I say.

  “Who are you really here to see?”

  It is good I’m not married to Cynthia because she never lets anything slide. That’s why Jack and I work. He’s smart but stays in his lane and respec
ts mine.

  “I had Uncle Cal invite the detective working Belina’s murder.” I nod toward him lurking behind his captain.

  I can see she is holding back some real talk. It’s possible she wants to scare me off this to focus on Ester or maybe myself. But she isn’t going to discourage me either because I am helping Phillip. “The detective doesn’t look chatty,” she says.

  “I’ll take him a martini and see what happens.”

  “Twenty says he doesn’t drink.”

  “Not willingly, that’s for sure. But I’m pretty good at persuading babies to take their bottles.”

  She smiles, but it’s fake. “Good luck.” She glances at her Rolex. “Phil said he’s breaking something around—”

  “In twenty minutes.”

  She’s surprised, and then an eyebrow arches. “Anyway, after it, he’s got a call with a producer from Dateline.”

  She is warning me. “I’m not going to screw him over.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you on the next lap.”

  I move to Jack, squeezing his arm as he nods me toward the bar and continues his chat with a newly elected state representative. The rep is one of several dozen faces I recognize from these happy hours, or fund-raisers for the mayor, or the evening news. Politics always feels small, even in DC, but in Rhode Island, it’s a petri dish.

  Behind the large bar at the center of the room, Uncle Cal sees me coming. He nods away a donor from South County and steps around his station to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “You look lovely,” he says, smelling of his spicy cologne, cinnamon gum, and gin. “How’s everything at home?”

  “Ester is wonderful. I’ll bring her by soon.”

  He doesn’t want to see her.

  Witness what a terrible mother you are.

  Be reminded that his nephew married trash.

  “Great, great,” he says. “What’s Jack got you working on?”

  “Having a good time. Thank you for inviting Detective Ramos. And Cynthia.”

  “I was happy to do it,” he says. “I have a favor of my own, if you’re up for it.”