What You Don't Know

by Merry Jones

  Idiot. Weirdo. Creep.

  Bobby stuck a hand in his pocket and shuffled a little. When he slouched to talk into her ear, she inhaled his cologne. “Thing is, I heard Annie throws some crazy parties. I didn’t think you’d come if it was going to be that kind of thing.”

  What kind of thing? Nora shrugged and smiled but had no clue what to say. “You smell good.” Oh God. She was so lame—how mortifying.

  “Old Spice.” He half-smiled, cowboy-like and oh so cute. “Glad you like it.”

  She stood still as a rock. She couldn’t think. Had nothing, no inkling of how to proceed.

  But Bobby didn’t seem to notice. “Honestly? I don’t know what to expect tonight.” He shifted from foot to foot, his voice low and husky. “But if it gets weird, just stick with me, okay?”

  Stick with him? With Bobby? She managed a nod. “Sure.”

  Bobby grinned, put his arm around her and led her toward the laundry room. Nora couldn’t absorb what was happening. Bobby Baxter, who sat across from her in math, woodshop, and art, but never actually talked to her. Bobby Baxter, her crush with the big hazel eyes, long lashes, and shaggy brown hair, who she’d never imagined even noticing her—that very same Bobby Baxter was walking with his arm around her to get a drink. Of vodka. After asking her to stick with him. She beamed. She glowed. She floated as if in a dream.

  But then, Annie shouted, “Game time!”

  Bobby rolled his eyes. “Here goes.” He squeezed Nora’s shoulder before leaving her to join the circle. Boys sat on one hemisphere, girls on the other.

  Nora tried to fade into a corner, but Jasmine saw her and patted the carpet next to her, making room for Nora to sit. Nora sat. She didn’t look at Bobby Baxter, but felt his presence. He was—oh my God—so cute and cool. His touch still warmed her shoulder. The scent of his Old Spice lingered on her costume. She felt dazed. Someone handed her a new drink. She gulped it, and asked Jasmine if she knew what the game was.

  Jasmine figured spin the bottle, for starters.

  A kissing game. Oh God. Nora’s stomach twisted, her hands got sweaty. Was that what Bobby had meant when he’d said Annie’s parties got crazy? Well, no way she would play. She remembered the mall and the boy with the wet, wormy lips.

  “Seven minutes in heaven!” Annie called.

  Everyone murmured or laughed. Nora had no idea what this game was but guessed that couples would spend seven minutes kissing. Seven whole minutes? Annie passed out paper and pencils and told everyone to write their name down. Nora thought she’d throw up. She eyed the bathroom again and sent Annie telepathic messages, begging for her help. But Annie didn’t even look at her as she collected the names in a bowl.

  “Hurry up, everyone. Write your names down.”

  As Annie approached, Nora had a brilliant idea. Instead of her own name, she scribbled “Annie” and put it into the bowl. No one would notice if Annie got picked twice. They were all tipsy. And, for sure, no one would notice if Nora didn’t get picked.

  “We’ll alternate picks. Boy, girl,” Annie instructed.

  And the game began. A guy with big shoulders and glasses named Mark picked Jen’s name and the two disappeared behind the sofa. Meg picked Joel and they went under the staircase. Adam picked Jasmine, led her into the storage room. Then Annie drew her own name which meant it was her turn to choose. She scanned the circle, eyeing the boys, then locked eyes with Nora. Why was she staring that way, holding Nora’s gaze so long and silently with her jaw set and chin high? The room hushed while everyone waited for her choice.

  Finally, Annie smiled smugly and said, “Bobby Baxter.”

  Her eyes remained linked with Nora’s. Nora stopped breathing. Annie had to be joking, must be playing a trick on her. But no. Bobby Baxter stood, flustered and bashful, and Nora understood that this was no joke. Annie flat out knew that Nora liked him. Why, of all the boys at the party, had she chosen him?

  Nora already knew the answer. Annie had chosen Bobby precisely because Nora liked him. She’d chosen him out of spite. Annie was punishing Nora for not bringing the photos. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about Bobby, couldn’t care less about kissing him. She’d picked him merely to display her power, to let Nora preview the hell Annie could tailor just for her.

  Nora trembled as she watched Annie lead Bobby to the patio where they would spend their seven minutes, or who knew how long, pressing their lips together. So much for his offer to stick together. Nora would have to sit there alone, staring at the silent television, listening to the thumping music, all the while imagining what they were doing. Would anyone notice if she walked out? Why had she even come to this damned party?

  “I pick Nora.”

  She looked up. Craig was grinning at her, holding a piece of paper. He gestured with his thumb. “Let’s go.”

  What? How could he pick her? She’d written “Annie” on the paper. It had to be a mistake. She should refuse. Demand that he show her the paper.

  “Yo.” Craig reached for her with his big, thick hand, the same big, thick hand that had more than a few times crashed into her brother’s face. Somehow, she was on her feet, watching herself as if from outside her body, somewhere on the ceiling. She was aware of Craig’s fingers, huge around hers. His body beside her. Tall, solid. Hard. His smell heavy with cologne and harsh with tobacco.

  How had Craig picked her? What was she supposed to do? Run, she told herself. She glanced at the sliding doors to the patio where Bobby Baxter had gone with Annie. To kiss her. “If things get weird, stick with me,” he’d said. But things had gotten weird and he was gone. Annie had taken him away, just because she could.

  Craig led her to the laundry room. Nora felt limp, didn’t resist. He backed her against the wall, his pelvis pressed against her. Oh God. Nora’s mouth went dry. Her throat clamped shut. What now? Was he going to kiss her? He was in high school. Boys that age did more than just kiss. She stared at the tile floor, keeping her lips out of his reach.

  “Annie told me you’re the shit bag’s sister. Who’d of guessed?”

  Annie had told him? Of course she had. Annie and Craig were friends. Buddies. That was why Craig had chosen her, because Annie must have told him to.

  “Pick Nora,” Annie would have said. “You’ll have a blast. She’s the sister of your favorite creep.”

  Pairing Nora with Tommy’s tormentor was another part of Annie’s show of power—a taste of how miserable she could make Nora’s life.

  Nora was caught between Craig and the wall, couldn’t breathe.

  Craig pecked at her neck with quick sharp nips that made her shiver and almost gag. He stopped and leaned back, grinning.

  “Hey. That piece of crap ever tell you how he keeps getting locked in his locker? Or how his stinking sneakers disappear from gym class?” He laughed. A hoarse, barking sound.

  Push him away and leave, Nora told herself. Just go. Now. But she didn’t move except to shudder.

  “Freshman year, I made him buy my lunches for like, a whole semester. God, what a fucking loser.” He grinned, shook his head. “Oh, yeah. Your brother and me? We go way back. We got what they call history.” Craig examined her closely, breathing on her face. With his thumb, he stroked her nose, chin, lips, cheeks.

  Her stomach turned inside out. She pushed his hand away. “Stop.”

  He didn’t. “You, on the other hand, you’re not a piece of crap like your brother. No. You’re a piece of something else altogether. And Annie said you like a good time.”

  Craig came at her fast, his mouth hard against hers. His lips were dry, and his tongue darted in and out of her mouth, lizard-like. He stopped, laughing out loud. At what? Her? Her brother? Did Craig think she was going to let him do stuff to her? Oh God. Where was Bobby Baxter? Was his tongue in Annie’s mouth? What else would Annie do with him?

  Craig started again, his hands gripping Nora’s backside. His teeth nibbled Nora’s lips gently. Then less gently.

&nbs
p; When he punctured her skin, Nora yelped. Tasting blood, she shoved him hard. Was he trying to bite her lip off? Was that even more fun than trapping her brother in his locker? Craig was a pig. She fled through the family room, past shadowy, heavy-breathing couples, to the garage door. Behind her, Craig was laughing, but she didn’t look to see if he was following her with his beefy fists, razor lips, and sharp, white teeth. At the driveway, she didn’t stop or slow. She raced down the street, around the corner and up the block. Tears streamed, her chest burned, and still, she ran. Nora ran as if she had hope. As if there were somewhere safe to go.

  Sunday, August 19, 2018, 3:40 p.m.

  N

  ora went downstairs, past the waiters and mourners, and out Paul’s front door. She walked all the way home found Dave in his study, sipping whiskey in his easy chair. He didn’t move when she came in.

  “He killed her. I’m sure of it.” She planted herself on the chair’s leather arm.

  “Yep.” He still didn’t move.

  “We have to do something.”

  “Like?”

  “Like talk to the police.”

  “I’ve done that, remember?” His jaw was tight.

  “Right.”

  “And I gave the police all my files. Everything.”

  “So, he’s going to get away with it?”

  Dave took a long drink. “Not if I can help it.” His tone was grim.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Dave?” She nudged his arm. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Nothing. I’m not thinking anything.” His eyelids twitched, giving him away.

  Nora waited but Dave said nothing else. She’d intended to tell him about Paul and his smug description of the murder, but Dave was withdrawn. Was he hiding something? She slid into his lap and put her head on his chest, needing to hear his heartbeat, feel his breath, reconnect. After a while, Dave wanted another drink, so she had to let him up. Other than that, neither of them moved until the front door opened and, with shouts and hollers, their daughters thundered into the house, home from the neighbor’s house.

  Sunday, August 19, 2018, 6:15 p.m.

  N

  ora was drained. Her face hurt from faking smiles, her throat ached from forcing a lilt into her voice. She wasn’t in the mood to cook, deal with sibling bickering, or listen to details of their day. But she had to. Dave hadn’t come out of his study and was probably still drinking, brooding about Paul. Blaming himself for Barbara’s death. So, Nora cooked, waiting for him to appear and help with the girls. When they asked for him, she said he was working and would join them as soon as he finished.

  While the chicken broiled, she decided to go get him. She stood outside the closed study door, listening, hearing nothing. Why was she hesitating to knock? He was her husband. She should be able to talk to him any time. How could Dave be so self-indulgent, withdrawing from the kids and family responsibilities just because he felt bad? What about how she felt? She’d lost one of her best friends, but she still had to cook, plan play dates, converse, wash camp clothes, give baths.

  What was really going on with Dave? He’d made a spectacle at the funeral, storming out while Paul spoke. He was acting as if he were the only one affected by Barbara’s death, the only one who thought Paul had killed her, the only one who wanted to see the bastard in jail. Why did he feel entitled to mope and sulk all day? What was he doing in there? Had he fallen asleep? Or passed out from drinking? Was he catatonic, staring at the wall? Or worse…

  She didn’t knock. A single stained-glass lamp was the only light on in the study. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Dave sat in the same place she’d left him. His shoes were off, feet propped on the ottoman. When she came in, he looked up from his drink, red-eyed and somber-faced.

  “Nora?” He seemed confused, as if he’d forgotten where he was, or was startled by not just her entrance, but by her existence.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  He sat up, set his feet on the floor and his glass on the end table. “Okay.” His hair was disheveled, and he blinked repeatedly. “What time is it?” He lifted his wristwatch close to his face and stared at it as if he couldn’t read what it said.

  “Almost six.”

  “Seriously?” He stretched his neck. When he looked at her, he seemed altered. His gaze seemed faraway, walled off.

  She crossed her arms. “Seriously, Dave. You need to spend time with the girls. They need to know everything’s okay.”

  “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to stay in here so long. Must have dozed off for a while.” His words bled together. How much had he had to drink?

  “You can be with them now. At dinner.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.” He didn’t move. “Look. I know I shouldn’t be sec—” He stopped, stuck on his word, paused and tried it again. “Secluding myself in here. But, truthfully,” he enunciated each syllable, careful to say ‘truthfully’ without a slip, “I’m not fit company. I honestly don’t trust myself right now. Not with the kids, not even with you.”

  “What are you talking about?” A chill ran up Nora’s back. Even a bit hammered, Dave’s words alarmed her.

  His voice was low and flat. “I let her down.” He closed his mouth, his jaw rippled. He looked at the wall. “She counted on me.”

  “Dave, it’s not your fault. Paul’s the one who killed her.”

  “I know.” His eyes were empty, defeated.

  “Come have dinner, spend time with your daughters, and let’s all go to bed early, okay?”

  Dave stared at his glass. “I’ll be right there.”

  Nora went back to the kitchen. Ellie was folding napkins and Sophie was setting out silverware. Nora took the chicken out of the oven, put the mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad on the table, and reminded Ellie to stop chewing her fingernail. Dave joined them, eyes red and swollen, and feigned cheerfulness as he dished out portions. The family sat quiet, the girls pouty and subdued, Dave withdrawn and morose. Nora searched for peppy conversation. But about what? Sophie’s new camp friends? Ellie’s lack of them? Dave’s policeman friend, Lou? Barbara’s funeral? Or Paul Ellis’s description of a murder?

  Nora swallowed chicken and counted. One. Two. Three. She blanked her mind and eyed the trashcan. “I spy, with my little eye. Something yucky.”

  And miraculously, as if they were a normal family at a regular dinner, the game was on.

  Monday, August 20, 2018

  W

  hen she heard the front door close, Nora tried to convince herself that the sound was part of her dream. That she should roll over and drift back to sleep. Yet, even half asleep, she had to admit that, no, it hadn’t been a dream.

  She opened her eyes and found Dave’s side of the bed unrumpled, unslept in. He hadn’t come to bed again. Had probably spent the whole night sulking and drinking. How long was his self-blame, self-pity party going to go on?

  The clock said twenty to six. Had she really heard the front door? Normally, Dave didn’t leave for work until eight, even eight-thirty. Nora went to the window just as his car backed out of the driveway in the rain, windshield wipers whapping back and forth. She grabbed her phone off the nightstand to call him, find out what he was doing. She punched in his number.

  And heard his phone ring downstairs.

  A chill rippled through her as she moved into the hall. She gripped the bannister, gazed down the staircase. Saw Dave’s briefcase in the foyer, his phone on the table beside the front door. Dave hadn’t gone to work.

  “Mommy?” Sophie stood in her doorway, curls messed, pajamas askew, head tilted. “Where did Daddy go?”

  Nora had no answer. “Not sure,” she tried to sound less frantic than she felt. “I guess he had an early appointment.” Was that answer believable? Would it satisfy Sophie? Sophie frowned, studying Nora. Sensing the lie?

  Ellie broke the tension, bursting from
the bedroom. “Sophie, it’s raining. No swimming today.”

  Sophie considered this news.

  Ellie pulled on Nora’s arm, asking if she could have French toast.

  They all headed for the kitchen. Nora focused on making breakfast, helping small hands crack eggs into a ceramic bowl and whisk them with milk, soak the bread. She praised her children at every step and focused on the sizzling hisses of butter melting in a cast iron pan, the warm smell of cinnamon. The intent faces of her daughters as they mastered their tasks, cooked their own meal. She answered all the questions about why there were yolks and whites, about whether eggs were really baby chickens. Nora struggled to remain in the moment, but her mind kept drifting toward Dave, who—damn it—must have been up all night, drinking and lathering himself into a fury.

  While the girls ate, Nora made their lunches. She was taking out slices of white bread when she realized where Dave had gone. The chill of her bones told her. The adrenaline surge in her veins told her. She knew the where, and only guessed at the why because what he intended to do there was too terrifying to consider. Her hands were unsteady as she spread the peanut butter, as she packed peaches and yogurts into lunch boxes. Her heart thundered as she packed camp bags. But when she kissed the girls and watched them splash through the rain to the camp bus, she smiled and waved as if everything was normal and their father was perfectly fine.

  As soon as the bus drove off, she tugged on jeans and a T-shirt and hopped into her car. She drove, sloshing through wet streets, never doubting her destination.

  Sure enough, Dave’s BMW was in front of Paul’s house. Not in the driveway. In the street. Parked helter-skelter, at least a yard from the curb. Had he been too angry to pull over to the curb? Nora pictured him running through the rain to the door, confronting Paul, pushing a finger into the candidate’s chest, accusing him of killing Barbara.