What You Don't Know

by Merry Jones

  Patty was quiet, probably pondering the question of where Paul’s body could be, but her answer never came. A child in the background called for mommy just as Patty’s phone beeped with another call. Nora said a quick goodbye and a see-you-at-book-club. Then she stared at the clock for a full minute, or maybe two, before getting up to dress for the gym. It was important to keep moving.

  December, 1993

  N

  ora had assumed that after Tommy’s funeral, life would get better. But at home, it got worse. Her parents were consumed by heaviness and grief. Marla shrank into her herself, wandering rooms and hallways silently with vacant eyes, staying in days-old nightgowns, not talking or eating, swallowing only prescription pills. Her father’s shoulders collapsed. He forgot to shave and smelled of sourness and whiskey, wandering off to work early and coming home late, reeking like a bar.

  For her own sake, Nora stayed away from home as much as she could. The house drooped, the walls sagged. It was depressing there, overflowing with death. Tommy’s room still had all his stuff, his bugs, his khaki pants and blue shirts, even his stale musky scent. The room’s dark door remained closed, its contents untouched. His absence dominated the house, sucked the life from it. The lack of Tommy was larger, more pervasive than his presence had been.

  But school was the opposite. There, life blossomed. Nora was suddenly popular. The friendships she’d craved when Tommy had been alive were now hers. At the age of twelve, she had a following. Everyone knew who she was and sought her out, even high school bullies, like Craig. Kids cleared a path when she passed through the crowded halls. Girls clamored to sit at her lunch table or ride with her on the bus or just hang out.

  Overnight, Tommy’s death had made Nora a celebrity. She heard—no—she felt their whispers. “That’s the girl whose brother died. Did you see her family on the news? She’s brave about it, isn’t she? It’s not like she mopes or expects special treatment or anything.”

  Bobby Baxter asked her to be his girlfriend. He called her every night and walked her to classes during school days. He kissed her hello and goodbye. Nora wasn’t sure if he liked her for herself or for her notoriety, but, either way, everyone knew she was Bobby Baxter’s girlfriend.

  Nora ended contact with Annie. She cut her off completely and suddenly, like a rotten tree branch or a reeking, gangrenous limb.

  Life was good. Nora put on smiles when she didn’t know what else to do. Laughed when others did. She adapted to her role as the girl whose brother died, the girl who was handling a tragedy so bravely and so well.

  Most of all, she blended in.

  Underneath, she carried a curious void where Tommy had been. His absence fascinated her. At night, when her parents were asleep, her mother having taken pills and her father too much whiskey, she sometimes crept into Tommy’s room and climbed into his bed to see what he’d seen. The mounted butterflies and moths. A framed scorpion. A blown-up photograph of a grasshopper. What had drawn Tommy to these hideous creatures? What had he seen in them that Nora could not? After a while, she’d get off his bed, stand in the middle of the room and picture him there, showing her maybe a butterfly, maybe a cockroach. Or holding up his latest trapped bug, something he’d found in the yard freshly dead or still struggling. Why had he wanted her to see his creepy-crawly specimens?

  Now and then, she’d take one of his blue plaid shirts and wrap it around her shoulders. She’d lived with Tommy for all her twelve years. He’d been a burden to her, an outcast who’d thwarted her life, who’d preferred bugs to people. But despite all their time together, her brother had remained a stranger. A mystery. A nagging riddle she couldn’t solve.

  Night after night, in her own bed, Nora would see Tommy’s feet dangling as he choked on his last breath. Night after night, she thought of what she’d done and what she hadn’t. But when she weighed his life against what she’d gained since his death, never, not once, did she regret her choice.

  Saturday, October, 21, 2018

  B

  ook club was to meet at Nora’s house on Saturday. On Friday morning, she was chopping walnuts for banana bread, thinking of that day’s newspaper article about the college student who’d died falling out of a window. Had it been an accident? Suicide? Had someone pushed him? She pictured him in a flannel shirt and jeans, his hip leaning on the sill, arguing with his roommate or maybe his girlfriend, someone who hadn’t intended to kill him, just to poke him in the chest and tell him something, maybe to shut the fuck up, and who watched in confusion or disbelief as he fell to the ground, arms flailing. Splat.

  As she measured the flour, Nora wondered about the roommate or girlfriend, how they were managing. She wished there were a support group for killers, a non-judgmental place where they could unburden themselves and seek community. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was almost time for Murderer Next Door, her favorite true crime show, so she got her bread dough into the oven and went to the family room to watch television. She got flour on the remote, so she was distracted, wiping it off, when she noticed that Paul’s face was on TV.

  Nora stopped breathing. Oh God. Something must have happened. She’d caught the anchor mid-report. “… early this morning. Details concerning the cause of death have not been released.” Nora swallowed air. “Once again, the body of Paul Ellis, missing Republican candidate for Senate, has been found in his Villa Nova home.”

  Nora didn’t move. The anchor kept talking, and the screen showed police cars in front of Paul’s house, but she couldn’t follow the words. Her mouth hung open, her heart slowed, blood barely flowed. They’d found the secret room. Who? And how? And now what? The anchor must have ended his report because a game show popped on with bright colors and buzzers and jubilant contestants and a buoyant, friendly host.

  They’d found him.

  The secret she’d shared with Dave for so many weeks was out, public knowledge, which made Paul’s death somehow more real. Her hands trembled. Damn, flour had gotten everywhere, into all the spaces around the numbers of the remote.

  So. They’d found him. What had she expected? They were bound to, sooner or later. But how had they found him? By the smell? What had he looked like? Not handsome and smarmy anymore. He must have had a bloated belly, a decaying face. Bulging blue eyes.

  Her phone rang, jolted her. Must be Dave. She ran for a dishtowel, wiped her unsteady hands, took a shaky breath, and answered the phone.

  “They found him.” Dave’s voice was too fast and too thin. “It’s all over the news. Nora, what now? What should we do?”

  “Nothing. We don’t do anything.” Nora paused to slow the conversation. “This has nothing to do with us, right?”

  Dave was breathing too fast. She imagined wet stains under the armpits of his dress shirt. “Right. Of course not. You’re right.” Still breathing fast. Still sweating.

  “It’s good they found him. Now people will relax and move on.” Speaking slowly, she recited calming and reassuring phrases until his breathing settled. She suggested that he come home, but he insisted that after talking to her, he was fine. The news had just shaken him.

  “Nora,” he sounded calmer now. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “You know what. For talking me down when I get nervous. Again and again. For getting us through this. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “And you’ll never have to find out.” Nora made light of his comment, but the words made her glow. Dave had never before acknowledged her help regarding Paul. He must finally be feeling better, and life would go on as it used to be.

  Nora changed the channel to the Murderer Next Door. The narrator’s voice soothed her as she stepped back into the kitchen. Time to check the banana bread.

  Saturday, October 21, 2018

  “S

  o, tell me…” Patty chewed a mini Italian hoagie. “why’d it take a whole month to find him if he was in the house the whole time?”

  “M
aybe he wasn’t,” Alex suggested. “Maybe the killers moved him there.”

  Nora sipped pinot noir and passed the tray of small sandwiches to Katie.

  “No,” Patty said. “Uh-uh. It’s been locked up. No one would risk going in there.”

  “Besides,” Katie said, “they said he was in some secret room nobody knew about.”

  “I heard that too.” Alex took a turkey on wheat and passed the tray. “I keep going through the house in my head. I can’t imagine where it could be.”

  “Let alone why he had it.” Patty took another bite. “I mean, what was he, a spy?”

  “Think he was in the CIA?” Alex asked. “Nobody knew what he did, other than being rich and running for Senate. They call him a businessman. What the hell’s that? I bet he was a spy, killed by other spies.”

  Laughter barreled up from the playroom. Patty had brought James and Graham, who sometimes picked on Ellie. Nora was on edge, hoping Ellie was fitting in.

  Charlotte was back after several missed meetings. She piped up, sharing theories she’d heard about the murder. One was that Paul was a spy, not for the CIA, but for Russia, which was trying to get him elected so they’d have clout in the Senate. And the CIA, wise to the plot, killed him.

  Alex had heard that, too.

  Patty had also heard that he’d been killed by right-wing extremists or the Mob—some organized group because, against the majority of his party, he’d spoken openly about supporting gun control.

  Katie heard that he’d been killed by a rival, but not a politician. “Oh my God. Do you guys think another man was in love with Barbara?”

  Patty shook her head, doubtful. “Remember what she said about affairs? Something about how she’d never do it.”

  Nora didn’t answer. She drained her glass and refilled it as if no one had said anything about Barbara and her love life. She walked around the room and topped off her friends’ drinks.

  “Do you like the sandwiches, Charlotte?” she asked.

  “They’re great. I love the bread.” Charlotte chewed. “Where’d you get them?”

  “Wawa.” Nora smiled. “So. Anyone want to talk about the book?”

  No one answered.

  “I wonder if his death is connected to Barbara.” Alex chewed.

  “I bet it was,” Patty said. “I bet he killed himself because he couldn’t live without her.”

  “But they said he was shot in the chest. That doesn’t sound like suicide,” Katie said. “They said he might have been shot trying to get to his secret room.”

  “And what about the stuff they found in there?” Alex spoke carefully. She’d had a few refills of wine and gestured as she spoke, splashing wine against the rim of her glass. “Jump drives with records. They think they might prove illegal campaign contributions. Money laundering. Damn. We all thought he was such a stand-up guy.”

  “They think they might prove. Might,” Nora said. “They haven’t proved anything yet.”

  “But they wouldn’t have said anything if they weren’t pretty sure.” Charlotte took another sandwich.

  “Think Barbara knew what he was into?” Katie asked.

  “Doubtful.” Nora twisted her wedding ring. “How many women know what their husbands do at work? I sure don’t.”

  Patty chuckled. “Really, Nora? The worst your husband would ever do is sneak off to play golf.”

  “Which is bad enough.” Nora smirked.

  “Well, I don’t worry about Stu,” Alex said. “I know exactly what he does.”

  “Only because you work together.” Patty rolled her eyes. “Unless you’re right there with them, you can’t know what they’re up to. So, I say Barbara didn’t know.”

  “And yet, they both died within, what?” Katie asked. “A few days? They say he’s been dead about a month.”

  “Well, I hope they catch the guy,” Alex said. “It’s creepy that somebody got killed right in the neighborhood.”

  “A Senate candidate with top-notch security in his house.” Charlotte shook her head. “If he’s not safe, who is?”

  Everyone nodded or made some sound of agreement.

  “Plus, they have no suspects? His security cameras were off? Seriously?”

  “Yeah. That’s why they think the killer was a pro. He left no clues.”

  Again, Nora emptied her glass.

  “You’re quiet, Nora.” Patty said.

  “Just listening. Thinking.”

  Patty leaned over, squeezed her shoulder. “It’s good to get the club together again, isn’t it? Even without Barbara.”

  Nora smiled. She made it a sad smile, though, in honor of Barbara. She set her glass down and stood. “I’ll go check on the kids. Be right back.” She grabbed a plate of banana bread.

  On the steps to the play room, she heard Sophie talking softly. “James is just a bully, Ellie. You’re not what he said. Forget him. I’ll play with you.”

  Nora froze.

  Weirdo. Freak. Tommy’s feet didn’t touch the ground, and the single lightbulb elongated his motionless dark shadow.

  But Ellie wasn’t like Tommy. She was just shy. She would blossom in time.

  Nora brought the tray downstairs, gave Ellie the job of passing out the snack. Gave James a simmering glare.

  Monday, October 29, 2018, 9:15 a.m.

  O

  n her third mug of coffee, Nora stood at the counter, gazing at the breakfast dishes in the sink. The leftover bits of frozen waffles. Clots of syrup. Splats of milk.

  Dave hadn’t eaten, said he’d grab something at the office. In the month since Paul’s death, Dave had dropped ten pounds. His clothes hung on him. He’d gotten substitutes for his tennis games every single week. She wondered what to do for him. Obviously, he couldn’t go to a therapist and talk about what was wrong. “I killed a guy and I feel terrible.” Time would help. Dave’s devastation about Barbara, his guilt about Paul—all of it would fade with time.

  Until then, she’d keep cooking comfort food. Roasted chicken and potatoes. Soothing food. Certain dishes made life seem normal and safe: meat loaf, roast beef, spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie. She was listing the foods that she found reassuring when the doorbell rang. Nora set her mug down beside Sophie’s half-empty glass of chocolate milk. Was it the police? Had she left some thread of evidence in Paul’s secret room? A fingerprint? Were they going to arrest her? Or Dave? Both of them?

  Nora bit her lip. She could run out the back door. Or not answer the bell. Just stay silent and quiet by the breakfast plates with the uneaten waffle pieces and not move, not breathe, not make a sound until they went away. But what if they had a warrant? What if they broke the door down and found her standing by the kitchen table? Or was that just on television? Speaking of television, they probably could hear hers through the door. Probably assumed she was home, since it was on.

  The bell rang again. They weren’t going away. How could she answer now? She’d waited too long. It would seem suspicious to answer entire minutes after their first ring. Never mind. She could say she’d been upstairs and hadn’t heard the bell. Or she’d been washing dishes, and the water must have drowned out the sound the way it had drowned Barbara. Then again, if the sound had been drowned out, she wouldn’t know that she’d missed their first doorbell ring. She didn’t need to explain anything.

  She started for the door. And stopped after a couple of steps. Oh God. If they arrested her, what would happen to Sophie and Ellie? Would Dave confess to killing Paul? Would they both go to jail? Dave’s brother would take the kids, so the girls would have to move to Jersey and be raised by Sheila, his whiny wife. But maybe she wouldn’t go to jail. Dave would get them a good lawyer. For now, she’d just answer the door, play innocent and helpful. Find out what they knew and figure out a reasonable explanation for whatever evidence they’d found. It was doable. She could do it.

  The walls, the hallway, the furniture shimmied, telescoping the front door, large
and stark and ominous. She drew a breath, let it out. Floated forward. She reached out, turned the knob and pulled, closing her eyes for a moment, and opened them, prepared for a plain-clothes detective with tight buttons and bumps from shaving, or two detectives, both grim faced.

  But no one was there. No detectives or uniforms. The porch was empty.

  Out front, an engine revved. Nora leaned out the door, saw a FedEx truck pull away.

  And on the stoop, a package.

  Monday, October 29, 2018, 9:18 a.m.

  T

  he package was addressed to Dave. Had he ordered something online? New shirts maybe? She checked the return address, expecting something like L.L. Bean. Instead, she saw the address of the Philadelphia Police Department.

  The police? Nora tossed it onto the foyer table as if it were a hot coal, as if her fingers were burning. She ran a hand through her hair. Blinked at the package.

  It wasn’t large. Felt dense, as if it contained a book or papers. Documents.

  Of course. Dave had given Barbara’s documents to the police, hoping his files would convince them that Paul had murdered her. But with Paul dead, there would be no need to pursue it. The police were probably returning Dave’s property. Closing the case.

  Still, Nora didn’t move. She chewed a thumbnail, watching the package, unable to walk away.

  In the next room, the television blared. A gunshot fired. Ominous music followed. A narrator asked a question: “Was it suicide? Or murder?”

  Dave and Barbara. I’m helping Barbara with some confidential matters. Personal matters. Their plans for Barbara’s escape were all in that envelope. Where had they arranged for her to go? What name had she planned to use? How much money had they squirreled away? Had they included proof of Paul’s abuse? Was there other incriminating information about Paul? He’s not the man he seems to be. He’ll never let me leave, he’s proved that time and again. Barbara and Dave.