by Merry Jones
“What lesson?”
The question seemed to confuse him. “What?”
“You said you learned your lesson.”
Tommy shrugged. “Oh. To stay away from people like them. Not let anyone get to me ever again. Not even you.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Nora knew she should say she was sorry again or at least tell him how terrible she felt. But something in Tommy’s posture silenced her, made it clear that he was beyond listening to anything she’d say. She eyed Tommy’s swollen face and ached to beat up Craig and his tough-guy friends, to tear their limbs off.
“I’m going on up,” Tommy lifted his hand in mock salute. “Well. Bye, Nora.” He turned and climbed the rest of the attic stairs.
Nora stood alone, replaying his words, their hollow tone. Tommy had learned his lesson and wouldn’t let anyone get to him ever again?
And she knew.
No. She was being overly dramatic. He wouldn’t do anything so final.
Except, yes, he would. And was going to.
Oh God. She hurried up the stairs after him.
“Tommy!” Nora called, but he’d already locked the door.
She stopped, staring at the two inches of flat, dead wood that separated her from her brother. She didn’t bang on it or shout his name again. She didn’t move to get help or fight to change his mind.
Instead, Nora sat on the steps, listening, waiting, wondering. What was he up to? When would he do it? And how? Would she know when it happened? Wasn’t she going to try to stop him? Why was her heart pounding as if anticipating some remarkable, life-altering, climactic release? Long, silent minutes passed and finally, she went back to bed.
At some point, she must have dozed off, because screams woke her. Her father’s? Nora bolted upright, stared at a ray of sunlight beaming through a curtain gap. Footsteps pounded the ceiling overhead. Her father was yelling, his voice high-pitched and broken. Nora dashed from her room. Marla was in the hallway open-mouthed and wide-eyed, holding her belly as though she’d been punched.
Nora knew he was dead. She’d known before anyone told her, before the police had been called, before she’d climbed the stairs to see him hanging from a beam beside black and white shots of lightning bugs. Tommy was dead, and it was because of her, because of what she’d done, and because of what she hadn’t done. No one accused her, but Nora knew. She had killed Tommy as surely as if she’d strung him up herself.
And she felt fine.
Thursday, August 23, 2018, 12:15 a.m.
“A
fterward, I replayed our final conversation again and again. There were blatant clues that something was off. But I made excuses and pretended that I hadn’t known. That I couldn’t have prevented it even if I had tried. In the end, I made a choice. I did nothing.” Nora bit her lip. Why had she told Dave? What had made her think it was a good idea, after a quarter century of silence, to say the words out loud? No one, in all this time, had suspected the truth. No one had blamed her. Until now.
“My God, Nora.” That was all Dave said.
At first, Nora couldn’t look at him. She kept her gaze trained on her drink, then her wedding ring. The ring and the drink were almost the same color in this light, both shades of rosy gold. Oh God. What had she done? Why had she told him? Would he think less of her? See her as self-serving and cold-hearted, even stop loving her?
Dave finished his drink. Poured another and refilled hers. Drank some more. Did he need alcohol before he could even look at her?
Nora’s face burned. Her heart flew into her throat. Damn. She shouldn’t have told him. What she’d done was far worse than what Dave had done. Tommy had been a kid, not a fiend like Paul. Some secrets should never, not ever, be revealed.
Seconds tick-tick-ticked. Or was it her pulse? The walls, the liquor cabinet, even the too-expensive light fixture that Dave had said would make a statement and bring the whole room together, all of them lost their edges and blended together, smooshing like clumps of Silly Putty.
Tommy had risen from the grave, and would get his revenge by destroying her marriage, her life. A lump grew in Nora’s throat. She watched Dave, the motionless muscles of his face. He stood. Where was he going? Was he leaving her? Because of what she’d done?
She made for the front door. She’d run before he got the chance, even though she hadn’t considered where.
Dave grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “Nora, stop. Where are you going?” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheeks, even though they were salty and wet, and her lips ever so gently. “Sit. You’re not going anywhere.” He guided her back into her chair, then kneeled in front of her and stroked her cheek, smearing tears until she met his eyes. “How have you lived with this all by yourself?”
Nora tried to turn away.
“Look at me.” He guided her chin upward until their eyes met.
She could sense Tommy watching in the distance, his face battered and eyes blackened. She concentrated on Dave, tried to ignore Tommy.
“You were a kid. What were you, twelve years old? You were struggling to fit in with your peers, trying to figure out who you were. You couldn’t have realized the gravity of your actions, let alone what their outcome might be. You certainly didn’t intend for your brother to be hurt, never mind to die.”
How could Dave be so sure? Nora knew better. “I wanted to be free of him, to get even with—”
“Enough. The self-blame stops now, tonight. You were a child. You were not responsible for Tommy’s pictures. Or his cross-dressing. Or any of his other issues. And above all, not for his death. A lot of factors converged—”
“Don’t be a lawyer. That last night, I let him go up to the attic alone. If not for me, he’d be alive.”
Dave’s capillaries snaked around his irises, exhaustion, or something darker, shadowing his brow. He pulled her close, holding her too long and too tightly. Even when he released her, he clasped her hands, not letting go.
“So, like I said,” she said, “I know what it feels like to take a life.”
“No, you don’t. Tommy committed suicide. You didn’t kill him, Nora. Listen to me. You. Did. Not. Kill. Tommy.”
Nora nodded. No use arguing the point. Dave hadn’t been there. He hadn’t known how desperate she’d been back then. He would never accept that she’d been fully aware, even at age twelve, of the gravity of her choices. She’d known that posting those pictures all over the school might be as lethal to Tommy as a gunshot, but she hadn’t fought to stop Craig and his friends, hadn’t really even tried. She’d known when Tommy called her by her actual name, not something like shithead or pisser. She’d recognized the futility in Tommy’s voice—Bye, Nora—but she’d left him to his despair. She’d known and had deliberately and purposefully done nothing.
Dave leaned close, his eyes teary. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m glad—No—I’m honored and moved that you’ve finally trusted me enough to tell me.” He planted a kiss on her mouth, gentle and feathery, the way he’d kissed her after she’d labored through childbirth.
Nora wanted to cover her face, run up to bed, and pull the covers over her head. She wanted Dave to stop staring at her. God. Was this what openness felt like? Naked, with every flaw and scar exposed? She couldn’t bear feeling so bare. Why was she punning? Obviously, she needed to make light of the situation, make it seem less significant. But Dave was still watching her. How long would this last? When would Dave be himself again and stop gaping at her in rapt amazement?
“So.” She put on a cheerful smile, began talking in the soft authoritative tone she used with the children. “Now, we know each other’s darkest secret. We’re even. Balanced. We each have one killing.”
“Except you didn’t kill Tommy—”
“But that’s all we get.” She ignored his distinction. “One apiece. From now on, we live right. We raise our kids. We stay honest and open with each other. And we move on. Okay?”
Her smile made her face ache, but she held it.
Dawn was only a few hours away when they climbed under the covers. They made love silently, tenderly. Afterward, Dave’s breath deepened in seconds, but even with the late hour and the quantity of rye in her system, Nora stayed awake. You did not kill him, Nora. You did not kill Tommy. Was that possibly true? More likely, it was what Dave needed to believe.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
I
n the morning, Nora was greeted by Dave’s empty pillow and a gnawing sense that she’d done something awful, the memory clawing its way from her belly to her brain. Now, Dave knew she was a sociopath pretending to be a stay-at-home, cheerful, suburban mom. He’d seen beneath her skin, witnessed the raw writhing reptile that coiled there. What had she done? Why had she told him?
Openness, she reminded herself. It had been her idea, so that Dave could forgive himself for what he’d done to Paul. So he could see that he was not alone, that she understood. She and Dave were unique, closer than most couples. They could share the truth no matter how difficult.
Shrieks of laughter flew up the stairway along with the aroma of coffee. Nora looked at the clock. Almost ten. Ten? Dave had let her sleep in. But why was he home on a weekday? Why wasn’t he at work?
Getting up and brushing her teeth took effort. Normal tasks like face-washing required deliberate concentration. Nora’s life had shifted. Her movements, her routine, felt altered, as if the whole world had taken a step away from her, making her former relationship to space and time obsolete. She made her way downstairs carefully, then stopped at the kitchen doorway to watch her family from a distance.
Dave was at the stove in a T-shirt and boxers, fixing eggs, the girls buzzing around him. What would happen when she joined them? Would Dave look at her differently? Would the girls notice a change?
“Mommy’s up!” Sophie spotted her and pulled her into the kitchen.
“Daddy’s making breakfast.” Ellie withdrew her fingernail from her mouth.
Dave grinned, spatula in hand. “Morning, honey.”
Honey? Dave never called her that. Not sweetie or dear, either.
“You’re home?” she asked.
“Taking the day off. We deserve a family day.” His smile was too big, too bright.
Nora moved toward him slowly, cautiously. She studied his face, watching for tiny muscle twinges, for involuntary tics of revulsion. She saw none. When she came close enough, he grabbed her for a kiss. A real one, not a quick peck.
“Daddy, can I put the toast in?” Ellie held bread slices.
“I want to!” Sophie tried to grab the bread.
“Take turns. Two slices each.” Dave flipped the eggs, completely in charge.
Nora sipped coffee, watchful. Especially of Dave, who was acting cheerful and funny, painting faces on the toast with jam and blueberries. Was this real? What happened to his grief and guilt? Was he pretending for the children’s sakes?
He set a plate of steaming breakfast in front of her. She chewed, swallowed, forced scrambled eggs and bacon down her throat. Smiled at her family and laughed when they laughed. She demonstrated that she was happy and loving, living in the moment. Feeling fine.
Dave winked at her as the kids stuffed their mouths. His jolliness didn’t quite fit. It flopped, sloppy and loose, like a borrowed suit.
When everyone finished eating, Dave had the girls help clear the table. Nora joined him at the sink, and he kissed her forehead. As he put the pan in the dishwasher, Nora noted chunks of egg sticking to the surface. Normally, she’d have taken the pan out and scraped it off. But today, she swallowed her words. Why was Dave staying home and playing happy daddy? Was he overcompensating? Pretending not to be disgusted about Tommy?
Finally, Dave turned off the water, dried his hands and turned to her. She was relieved to see that his smile was gone, his brow furrowed. She waited, expected him to say something poignant, something profound.
“How about,” he said, “we all go to the zoo?”
The girls ran circles around the table, shrieking, naming animals that they wanted to see.
Who was this giddy, manic, overzealous man? How long before he’d let her real husband come back?
It was her own fault though. She shouldn’t have told him.
Late September, 2018
D
ays became weeks. Dave’s forced ebullience gradually subsided, but he remained altered. When they were alone, he seemed somber, lost, his eyes walled off and distant, even when they didn’t avoid hers. His needs were intense. Deep in the night, he’d often reach for her, pulling her to him with a desperate, but somehow impersonal hunger. During the days, he’d touch Nora whenever he could. Physically, he clung to her, embracing her unexpectedly from behind while she was cooking or putting dishes away or even brushing her teeth, his arms appearing as if from nowhere, enclosing her, clutching her as if she were an anchor that would keep him from drifting—no—a life raft without which he’d drown. Just like Barbara had.
Nora told herself that Dave’s seesaws of highs and lows, exhilaration and dejection, would pass, his neediness would fade. He was, after all, recovering from the trauma of killing Paul and failing to save Barbara, while simultaneously enduring the tension of waiting for Paul’s body to be discovered. She was determined to remain patient with his recurring moody silences. She endured his needy, hungry hands, the unfamiliar look in his eyes, and the tight, insistent way he shut them when they made love.
The pattern of Nora’s life continued until school started. Abruptly, with her daughters gone all day, she was alone with empty time. But within days, she developed a new routine. She began each morning by scanning the newspaper for news of Paul’s disappearance. When she found no mention of his body, she looked for reports of other murders. Any murders, all murders. Shootings, stabbings, stranglings, poisonings, beatings, in places all over the city, the country, the world. She read accounts of these crimes closely, repeatedly, focusing especially on descriptions of the murderers. These descriptions comforted her, assured her that she and Dave were not alone with their brutal truths.
Having finished with the paper, Nora tuned the television to the cable crime network and left it on as a soundtrack for her day. Without her children to distract her, killing took over her thoughts. She remembered Paul bleeding, imagined Barbara drowning. Tommy hanging. Eventually, she came to see herself as a natural killer, a person who murdered regularly. Pulling weeds from the ground, squashing a house fly, spraying a wasps’ nest. Cooking lamb chops. Letting her brother go upstairs to hang himself.
By midday every day, Nora resolved to resist her grim proclivities and resume a normal life. She made phone calls, sent email, went to the gym. Volunteered at the school, helping in the office, chairing the PTA book fair committee, acting as room mother for Ellie’s class. When she could, she met Alex and Patty for walks or coffee, but they weren’t often available with little ones still at home, and Katie was working full time. Besides, when she got together with them, especially at book club, Barbara’s absence weighed heavily, even when they talked of other things.
By Thursday of the third week of school, she was ready to pull her eyelashes out from boredom. She folded laundry, checked Dave’s shirts for loose buttons and sewed them tight. She picked up a novel but caught herself staring at dancing letters and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, not because she wanted it but because she had nothing else to do. She considered cleaning out the front closet. Lord. How would she survive the empty days and weeks and—oh God—years ahead? The hands on the kitchen clock jerked and paused, jerked and paused, marking seconds until, in five hours and ten or so minutes, the three-thirty bus would bring the girls home and she would reanimate. Nora might have stayed in the kitchen, watching the clock for all five hours if the phone hadn’t rung.
“They took the kids away.” Patty blew her nose, weepy.
“What? Yours?”
“God, no
! Colin and Harry. Their grandparents took them to live with them. I think they have a place in…”
Oh, thank God. Patty’s kids were fine. Patty was talking about Barbara’s.
“It’s for the best, isn’t it?” Why was Patty so upset?
“Well, no, I don’t think so. The boys have been with Anna, the nanny, since they were born. But, with Paul missing, Barbara’s parents fired her.”
“How do you know this?”
“Anna called me. I thought she was calling to schedule a play date. But she wanted to say goodbye. She was sobbing. It was awful.”
More endings, more goodbyes.
Nora watched the second hand move from the seven to the nine. Then, with an unflinching voice, she said, “Maybe Paul will turn up and rehire her.”
“Seriously? You think he’s still alive?” Patty’s voice had tensed. “His campaign’s come to a halt. And the media act like he’s gone for good.”
That was true. The news reports, when last Nora saw a mention of Paul, had hinted at his likely death. If he were alive, they’d said, why had no one heard from him? If he’d taken off to clear his head, surely, he’d have left word with his campaign, or at least for the nanny and his children. If he’d been kidnapped, wouldn’t there have been a ransom demand?
Nora chewed her upper lip, deciding how to answer without reflecting what she knew. “What do you think?” There. She’d thrown the question back, dodged a comment.
“He’s got to be dead. Honestly, Nora? I think he killed himself. He was devastated by Barbara’s suicide. I bet he blamed himself.”
Rightly so, since he’d killed her.
“Still, if he’s dead, why haven’t they found him?” Nora tried to sound baffled. She picked up a cloth and rubbed invisible stains off the countertop.
