by Merry Jones
What time did you say you went over there? What were you wearing? How much alcohol did you drink before the alleged assault? Was there actual intercourse? No? So, you’re alleging, what, that he kissed you?
She’d have to describe exactly what Paul had done to her. The cop would twist his mouth and eye her with unsubtle doubt, struggling to imagine Paul Ellis—dashing, elegant, wealthy, powerful, charismatic candidate—bothering to stick his fingers up the panties of a five- or six-rated house frau like Nora. He’d suck his teeth and ask why she’d waited so long to call police.
“All this time later, you understand, it’s too late to test for many types of drugs that you claim he put in your coffee, so we have no evidence. All we really have, ma’am, is your story.”
So, no. The police might not go to Paul’s house even if she reported him. At least not immediately.
“Let’s wait until morning.” Dave stared at the television screen, or maybe the wall above it.
At some point, they went to bed. They must have said goodnight, must have kissed. It was their habit, but Nora wasn’t paying attention. She kept her distance, staying on her side of the mattress, grateful that Dave was preoccupied, because if he touched her, she was sure he’d sense that something was different, something was wrong. He’d want her to explain. So she made sure her body was not touching Dave’s, giving him time alone with his thoughts. Taking time for hers.
When Nora closed her eyes, she saw Paul hovering over her, his eyes snakelike, lips snarly. So she got up and turned her phone on, tried Barbara one more time, even though it was after midnight. When Barbara’s voicemail clicked on, Nora went back to bed, lying with her eyes open, hoping Barbara was all right, watching the window for the first rays of sunlight.
When morning came, though, she was finally asleep, dreaming that Dave was making pancakes. Who dreamed about breakfast? Unless it wasn’t a dream? She smelled pancakes. And bacon. Still, her limbs didn’t want to move, nor did her eyelids. She pulled up the comforter, drifted toward slumber until voices interfered, smooth and professional, like newscasters. Were the girls watching television? The news? Surely not. And why was volume up so high? She curled her pillow around her head, muffling the sound. Even so, Sophie’s voice blasted loud and clear up the steps.
“Daddy, where’s the remote? We want to watch Paw Patrol!”
“Downstairs,” Dave yelled back. “Look under the couch
cushions!”
“We did. It’s not there!”
“It’s nowhere!” Ellie screeched.
Nora gave up. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. She lay still, collecting herself for the morning, recalling fragments of the day before. Paul’s office. His scent. His fingers. His words. If a man dares to mess with my wife, he’d better believe I’ll reciprocate.
A wave of revulsion passed through her. She had to stop thinking about Paul, had to stop reliving that humiliating, disgusting, infuriating incident. Had to get up and start a new day.
Don’t cry over spilt milk.
She pushed herself up and out of bed. In the bathroom mirror, she examined her face, checking to make sure it gave away nothing. Saw tangled hair. Hollow spaces under her eyes.
Nora splashed herself with cold water, brushed her teeth. Fluffed her hair. Good. She was reviving. A smile would squish the hollow spaces.
After breakfast, she’d call Barbara again. And if Barbara didn’t answer, she’d call Paul as if nothing whatever had happened in his office, as if she’d never even gone to see him. She’d say that Barbara’s phone didn’t seem to be working and ask if she could please speak to her. Good plan. Why hadn’t she thought of it last night?
As she headed downstairs, Dave came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of pancakes, bacon, and coffee, pouting when he saw her. “You’re not supposed to be up. I’m bringing you
breakfast—”
“Daddy!” Sophie interrupted, charging up the stairs from the playroom, Ellie right behind her, yelling over each other’s words.
“Mommy! Daddy! Guess what?”
“Auntie Barbara!”
“Just now! We saw Auntie Barbara—”
“—on TV!”
“She’s on the news!”
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
T
he news flash was that Barbara Ellis, wife of Paul Ellis, candidate for United States Senator from Pennsylvania, had died. Her car had gone into the Schuylkill River some time during the previous night.
The girls began to whimper, asking questions, orbiting Nora, clinging to her robe. Sophie stared at the TV, her eyes wide, head tilted.
Nora couldn’t think. Couldn’t absorb the information, let alone explain it to her children.
“Dave?” She hoped he’d know what to say to them.
But Dave was silent. Still holding her breakfast tray, he stared at the screen. His jaw was tight and rippling, his eyes wild.
“Dave,” she said again. She needed him to steady her, to help her make sense of this horrible development.
But Dave plopped the tray down on the coffee table and ran up the stairs, skipping every other step.
“Where are you going?”
“Daddy?” Ellie cried.
Sophie and Ellie clutched Nora’s arms and waist. They hung on her, asking questions she had neither the wisdom nor the strength to answer.
Where had Dave gone? And Barbara—Barbara was dead? How could she be dead? Nothing made sense. Nothing.
“Let’s eat, girls.” The words came on their own. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
Her daughters headed for the kitchen, probably glad to follow routine. She took her tray and they sat at the table as a normal family would, eating pancakes and bacon. Ellie poured a river of syrup over her stack. Sophie chewed warily, her eyes on Nora.
Nora gave them a gentle, patient smile. “Aunt Barbara had a terrible accident. It’s awfully sad but try not to worry. Everything’ll be okay.” Her voice sounded empty.
Dave burst back in, breathless and holding his laptop. He took his seat at the table and punched up the news. Nora got up and read over his shoulder. Barbara gazed back at her from the screen, alive and glamorous. Smiling. Paul was there, too, in a sleek campaign shot. Then there was a third image: Barbara’s BMW being towed out of dark water, still half submerged.
The girls remained unnaturally silent. Nora folded her arms around her middle, reading the words in spurts. The car had swerved off the road. Had entered the water from the pier on River Road in Gladwyne. Officers had responded to Paul Ellis’s call late Friday night. The distraught candidate had reported his wife missing. Had stated that Mrs. Ellis had been suffering from severe depression Had threatened to harm herself. Specifically, by driving her car into the river. Within the hour, police located the car. Mrs. Ellis was locked inside, unresponsive. Declared dead.
Dave scratched his head and wandered out of the kitchen. He didn’t answer when Nora called for him.
Nora’s phone rang. She heard it but made no move to answer it.
Sophie said, “Mom! Your phone!”
When Nora didn’t move, Sophie ran and got it, handed it to her.
“Mom!” Sophie’s eyes were frantic. Her world had been turned upside down. First Auntie Barbara was dead. Now her mother wouldn’t answer the phone. It stopped ringing.
Sophie was beside herself. “Why didn’t you answer it?”
“I don’t feel like talking right now.” The breakfast table, the coffee and bacon, even her family seemed intangible. She forced a weak smile.
Ellie said, “Mommy’s sad, Sophie.”
Sophie waited a beat and nodded soberly, then gave Nora a hug. “Everything’ll be okay, Mommy.” She sat again and resumed eating, eyeing Nora as she chewed.
Breakfast progressed. Ellie wanted more bacon. Or was it orange juice? Distracted and consumed with thoughts of Barbara, Nora wasn’t sure, hadn’t been listening. She passed both the pitcher
and the platter.
The news reports had indicated that Barbara’s death had been either an accident or, as Paul had implied, a suicide. But Nora disagreed. She was certain, positive beyond the tiniest shadow of a doubt, that Barbara’s death had been neither. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but somehow, for sure, the candidate for Senate had murdered his wife.
Thursday, October 28, 1993
T
he door to Tommy’s room had been closed since dinner. Nora put her ear against it and listened for hints of what he was doing. She heard nothing, but Annie’s ice-cold warning echoed in her head. “Get me those photographs.”
Nora lifted her fist to knock, but hesitated, rehearsing what she’d say. She took a breath, ribs aching. What if he refused? What if he laughed and told her to get out? What would she tell Annie? She imagined showing up at the party without the pictures. Annie wouldn’t make a big deal of it. She’d just ignore her. Nora would be cast out of Annie’s circle. Friendless. Alone.
She contemplated the door, the flat wooden barrier to her brother’s world of weirdness, a world she’d prefer not to enter. But she had no choice. Steeling herself, she banged on the door, too fast, too hard.
“What?”
You’ll get more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Nora took another breath, slowing down. “Can I come in?”
“Why?”
Asshole. Why did he think, to deliver a pizza? “Just to talk.”
He didn’t answer right away. She waited, jittery, staring at the door. It was Thursday night. The party was just two days away. Not a lot of time to convince him. What was taking him so long? Why didn’t he just tell her to come in? What was he doing in there? What if he wouldn’t even talk to her? She put her ear against the door again, heard a rustle of fabric, a closet door slide shut, the creak of the floor.
Maybe she should knock again. She lifted her fist, but the door opened. Tommy, in an old T-shirt and sweatpants, allowed her to follow him into the dimness. He sat at the desk, leaving his bed as her only choice, unless she wanted to stand while they talked. Use honey, not vinegar. It would be cozier, sweeter, more sisterly to sit. The room smelled stale and musky—shadowy, like secrets.
“What?” He sat with his shoulders slumped. His desk lamp was the lone source of light, glaring over stacks of framed insects, spare pins, hunks of foam board, glass slides, jars of glue and chemicals. A large dead moth, pinned with its wings splayed. And in the corner, Tommy’s camera.
But no photographs.
Nora put on a smile. “Is that what you were working on?” She nodded at the moth.
He blinked. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m interested, that’s all.”
“Since when?”
What was wrong with him? They both knew she didn’t give a fig about his damn bugs, but couldn’t he accept her question as a friendly gesture? A kind of peace offering?
She walked to the desk and looked closer at the poor creature. “Did you net this?”
“No. It got caught in my trap.” He turned to look at it. “But it panicked. See? Its wing got torn.” He pointed. She leaned in. The thing was pathetic, lying there helpless and dead, spread-eagled. She scanned the rest of his desktop and saw no sign of the pictures—no envelope, no box that they might be kept in. She glanced at Tommy. His lips looked red and irritated, a little swollen, even bruised. Why?
“But I’m mounting it anyway because of the great markings and its size. It’s not perfect, but—What are you staring at?” He scowled and touched his mouth.
“Nothing.” She backed away. Felt her fake smile waver.
“Bullshit. You were staring at me.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Tommy glowered. “What do you want, Nora? We both know you don’t give a flying fuck about me or my collection.” He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles.
“I’m trying to make peace, that’s all. So we won’t be at each other as much. I mean we’re family.”
Family is forever.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t move.
“And it’s stupid how we, you know, do things to make each other mad.”
He crossed his arms.
“I thought if I got to know more about the things you like, it’d be a start. You might do the same, and—”
“Okay, enough. The answer’s no. You can go now.” He laughed at her, his braces glimmering.
“What do you mean no?”
“You’re so transparent. Do you think you can just hop in here and sweet talk me into giving you those pictures?”
How did he know?
“I already told you. I took them for your own good, so you’d think twice about what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.”
“Where are they, Tommy? You have to let me have them.”
“Not happening.” He turned back to his moth.
“Tommy, please. Please. I’ll do anything. I’m begging you—”
“Leave. Close the door after you.”
She stood for a minute, watching him ignore her. The cowlick. His thick, matted hair. She ought to grab a baseball bat and smash his head in. But Tommy didn’t have one. He didn’t play baseball, and she couldn’t very well smash his head in with a butterfly net.
What could she do? Nora closed the door behind her and leaned against it, trembling. Without the pictures, her life was ruined. Over. From inside Tommy’s room came a faint rustling, like swishing fabric.
Wednesday, August 15, 2018, 10:45 a.m.
D
ave sat silent in front of the family room television, massaging his temples.
Nora had to tell him what she suspected, that Paul had killed Barbara. She called him into the hallway, away from the children. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
Dave held up his hand, fending her off.
“Dave, I need to tell you—”
“Not now.” He rushed past her and disappeared into his study.
Nora followed him, but the door closed in her face. She stopped, stunned. Dave had never shut her out like that before. She bit her lip, fought tears. Did he think he was the only one who was hurting? She’d lost a friend, too. She stared at the door that separated them, resenting its sturdiness. It was solid pine. Or maybe oak. She didn’t know much about wood. But it was respectable and thick, promising bookshelves, leather chairs, soft lighting, and pipe smoke, a comfortable room beyond. Nora raised her hand to the knob. Never mind that Dave had shut the door, she could still go in. It was her house, too. She had every right. But she didn’t turn the knob. Maybe it would be better to knock. She considered it. In the end, though, she took her hand away from the door, neither knocking nor going in, deciding that Dave wanted to be alone. Or at least apart from her.
Nora’s eyes filled. She smeared tears away, annoyed with herself for crying over a closed door when she hadn’t shed one tear for her dead, probably murdered friend. She pictured Dave in the study. Was he weeping? Pacing? Downing a shot of whiskey? Maybe all of those things? But picturing him in there, she realized that he hadn’t intended to hurt her by shutting her out. No, Dave just needed to be alone with his guilt. Clearly, he blamed himself for Barbara’s death. If he’d gone over there last night or arranged for her to move a week, even a day ago, Barbara would still be alive. Paul wouldn’t have had the chance to kill her.
Nora wanted to reason with him, remind him that he wasn’t at fault. She knew Dave wouldn’t listen. She put her hand gently on the door and let it rest a moment before she walked away.
The girls weren’t ready for the camp bus. Nora waved it away, then bundled them into the car and headed to Patty’s. They were somber and quiet on the ride but, when they saw their friends in the back yard, they perked up, running to join them.
Alex, Patty, and Katie were sitting around the umbrella table. They greeted Nora with hugs and raw, teary eyes. For a while, they all sat silent, watching the kids dart
around almost as if it were a normal day. But nothing was normal. To Nora, the sounds of the children at play—their squeals, shrieks, and shouts—were sharp and jarring. The sunlight was cloying, the blue of the sky painfully bright. Nora stared at an empty lounge chair, sorely aware of the friend who wasn’t there.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw the news,” Alex said. “Did you all see it?”
They’d all seen it.
“The news said Barbara was depressed.” Patty’s eyes were red and puffy. “Like they want people to think it was suicide.”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Alex’s mouth hung open.
“Totally. Since when was Barbara depressed? She had an amazing life. What did she have to be depressed about?” Katie dabbed her eyes with a paper napkin.
“Nothing.” Patty fought with her hair, tried to force it into a rubber band. “She wasn’t. No way it was suicide. I don’t buy it.”
Nora lay on her lounge chair, thinking of Barbara’s last minutes. Had she been conscious at the end? Had she known that she was going to die, that Paul was murdering her? Had she watched the water rise around her, felt its chilling grip? Nora closed her eyes, and the person trapped in the car, banging on windows was no longer Barbara but Tommy, and water was rising over his neck, his chin, his nose. Nora blinked him away, gripping her armrests.
