“Just about everyone’s assigned to that one,” said Ross, with a big stupid grin.
“And the thing is,” said Scott, “we got an anonymous tip …” He paused to let Paul fill in the blank, but Paul didn’t, and Scott gave him another check in the innocent column. “… saying you had some information about it, and we’d like to ask you about that.”
Paul gave them a big surprised smile and touched his chest with the tile in his hand. “Me?” he said. “Are you kidding?”
Another check: a reaction just stupid enough to be real. Inspector Scott began thinking about his next cup of coffee.
“You think maybe I saw something without knowing it, or something like that?” said Paul.
“Yeah, that’s right, something like that.”
Paul shrugged. “Anything you want to ask.”
Scott opened his mouth, but before he spoke, he saw Paul’s eyes, for just a moment, darken. Or had they narrowed? Or had it been a cloud passing over the sun? It didn’t matter. The expression gave Scott a chilly feeling. It felt like your basic hunch.
Inspector Scott hated hunches. He had had six of them during his twenty-year career as a cop. Every single one of them had meant absolutely nothing. What he hated was that while you could be pretty sure they meant absolutely nothing, you also had to check them out and do a lot of paperwork.
He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Actually,” he said sheepishly, “we were sort of hoping you could come back to the station.…”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mrs. White lifted her head and dried her tears. She gazed out at the empty woods. She had been sitting there for a long time, and the sun had angled up over the trees. The sight of it made her feel that she should do something. But she had no idea what she should do.
Still sniffling, she stood. Mechanically, she began to straighten up the kitchen. It was what she had to do, what she always did. She paused when she saw Paul’s empty chair.
She got out of the kitchen quickly, and went upstairs to her bedroom. There, her hands pulling, tugging, darting in and out, she made the bed. It was what she always did. She picked up a piece of clothing that had fallen on the floor. It was Paul’s pajama top. She draped it over a chair and left the bedroom.
She went into Junior’s room. She scooped up the socks, T-shirts, underpants, that had been left on the floor. She tacked up a baseball poster that had wilted from the wall. She picked up some papers that had fallen beneath the desk. It was what she always did. As she put the papers on the desk, she saw a snapshot. It was of herself and the children when the children were young. She had been young then too. They were in the yard, sitting at a small fold-up table. There was a barbecue grill to their right. They were eating hot dogs, split open with a piece of bologna in the middle, the way Paul made them. They were smiling at the camera, at the cameraman.
She put the picture back on the desk and went to Mary’s room. There was less to clean up there. It was always that way. There were a few small socks, a picture book, and the dolls. Mrs. White stopped when she saw the dolls. They were seated around a toy tea table: mommy, daddy, sister, brother, their stuffed faces alight with stitched smiles.
Mrs. White backed away from them. Then she turned and almost ran down the stairs.
She had to get out. She grabbed her car keys and pulled her pocketbook from the counter.
She drove, even worse than usual. Nothing was right. Nothing was the same. Nothing was as it always was.
“He’s never coming home,” Mrs. White said aloud. “He’s never coming home.”
In the supermarket, Mrs. White wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles. She didn’t even know what she needed. The music played faintly above her. She looked at the items blindly.
Almost without her knowing it, her arm started moving, reaching, grabbing. A box of cookies, a loaf of bread, a carton of orange juice, a bag of potato chips. Everything, anything. Piling it into her cart. Buying it now while she could, while she still could.
“No one to bring home the bacon,” she muttered breathlessly. She pulled down a box of spaghetti, a box of garbage bags, two boxes of cereal. Her cart was overflowing. She had to buy it now; soon there would be no more money. There would be no more Paul.
She drove home quickly. The grocery bags leaned this way and that. One fell over. She heard the sound of glass breaking. Her head ached.
When she had parked in the driveway, she reached for a bag. Then she straightened. She heard the phone ringing, faintly, inside. She hurried to the door, fumbled with the keys, dragged the door open, and rushed to the ringing phone.
“Hello? Hello?” she said, panting.
“Hello.” It was a woman’s voice. “May I speak to Paul White, please?”
Mrs. White’s mouth opened, but it was a few moments before she could speak.
“Uh … well … he’s not here anymore, right now—I mean.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I’m calling about a job I wanted him to do. Do you know when I can reach him?”
Mrs. White tried very hard to say something, anything. At last, silently, she hung up the phone.
She could not stay here any longer. She had to get away. She barely knew what was happening to her, could hardly accept what she had done. Paul would not be coming home anymore, ever. There would be trials and newspaper stories and … everything—everything but life the way it had been.
Mrs. White picked up the phone and dialed.
The voice on the other end was small, familiar, cheerful. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mom,” said Mrs. White.
“Joan? Joan, what a surprise. How are you?”
“Fine, fine, I … I wonder if it would be all right if the children and I … came to stay for a few days.” She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. She couldn’t find the words.
There was a pause. “Why, of course. But what about Paul?”
“Oh, Paul. Paul’s not coming.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll explain. Can I come—tonight. Is tonight all right?”
There was silence. Mrs. White said: “If tonight’s no good, then I …” Don’t know what I’ll do, she thought.
“Of course. Of course. I’ll get the rooms ready,” her mother said.
“Thank you, Mom.” It was barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
As soon as she’d hung up she made for her bedroom. She opened the closet door and pulled the big suitcase from the top shelf.
She packed as if she were late for a plane. She yanked her clothing from drawers, then ran to the children’s room and did it again. She dumped everything into the suitcase without bothering to fold anything. Then she forced the zipper closed.
She checked her watch. Mary would be home soon. Her head burning, Mrs. White began to pace back and forth. She unplugged things: lamps, the toaster—then she came to the TV. She turned it on and sat down. She stared at the images. She didn’t understand what she was seeing, but she didn’t think either, and that was all she wanted.
After a while—Mrs. White didn’t know how long—Mary was home.
“We’re going to Grandma’s,” Mrs. White told her.
Mary looked confused. “But what about going to school?” she said.
“Well, you get to miss a few days of school,” said Mrs. White.
“But it’s show-and-tell tomorrow.”
“Don’t you want to see Grandma?”
Mary said she didn’t know. Mrs. White told her to get cleaned up.
“Junior will be home soon, and then we’ll go.”
“What about Daddy?” Mary said.
“Go wash up,” said Mrs. White.
But Junior did not come home soon. Mrs. White gave Mary a snack and watched out the window. No Junior. Mrs. White sat in front of the television set with Mary. Then she stood up suddenly. “We have to find him,” she said. Her eyes were wide with terror. “We have to make sure he’s all right.”
“There are all bags in the car, Mommy,” Mary complained.
She had forgotten about the groceries.
“I’ll put them inside later,” said Mrs. White, opening the passenger door to put Mary in. “We have to find Junior now. We have to.”
She walked quickly to the driver’s side. She opened the door. She heard, then, the sound of spinning wheels. Junior came into the driveway, riding his bike.
Mrs. White felt the sigh steam out of her. It was hot with relief. Her voice, when she spoke to Paul Jr., was snappish.
“Help me with the groceries,” she said. “We’re going to Grandma’s.”
Junior’s face fell. “Aw, Mom, what do you mean? What about school? I got a game tomorrow.”
The mother turned on her son, savage anger in her eyes. “Do it,” she said. “Do it now.”
Junior did it. They unloaded the groceries and carried them into the house. It seemed to Mrs. White to take forever.
“Isn’t Dad coming?” Junior asked.
“No,” said Mrs. White.
They were standing just inside the kitchen door. Now Mary came out of the car and wandered over to them.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“I told you …” Mrs. White stopped. She heard the high note of hysteria in her own voice. “All right. Go on,” she said.
Mary went upstairs. Mrs. White stood next to Paul, surveying the kitchen to no purpose.
“Is everything …? Is everything …?” she said.
“Sure bought a lot of groceries,” said Junior. “Dad won’t eat that much when we’re away. How long are we going, anyway?”
“Stop asking so many questions,” Mrs. White snapped, and Junior shut up.
When Mary returned from the bathroom, the two children stood by the door. They looked bewildered, but they remained silent. That seemed the safest bet just at the moment.
“All right,” Mrs. White repeated, more to herself than to them. “I’ll get the suitcase.”
Mary and Paul Jr. exchanged a glance as Mrs. White hurried up the stairs.
She came into the bedroom and grabbed the suitcase by the handle. It was heavy. She dragged it along the floor. She was breathless by the time she got into the hall, and was beginning to think of calling Junior for help when she heard Mary’s high-pitched shout floating, almost ghostlike, and yet fraught with joy, up from the floor below.
“Daddy’s home!” Mary cried.
Mrs. White dropped the suitcase. She stood absolutely still and listened. She heard Paul’s truck pulling into the driveway. She heard Paul’s footsteps on the gravel. She heard the kitchen door open. She heard Paul’s voice directly below her.
He was home.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mrs. White came down the stairs into the kitchen, where Paul was laying his toolbox down on the table. She stared at him. His eyes were ringed, his face weary, just as it was after any difficult day. He turned to her. She kept staring.
“What happened?” she said finally.
Paul started a second, then gave an uneasy smile. “What do you mean?”
Suddenly, she felt herself jostled. She saw Mary tugging at her dress from below.
“Mommy.”
Mrs. White, carefully but firmly, pushed the small hand away.
“Mommy, we …”
“Go on, honey,” Mrs. White said faintly. “Go upstairs and play.”
“But Mommy, we …”
“Go on.”
The little girl paused, then shrugged. Shooting a smile at her father, she ran upstairs.
Paul took the baseball cap from his head. “What did you mean?” he repeated.
Now Mrs. White met his eyes. They burned hers. “Nothing, I just … you look like you’ve had a rough day.”
Paul grew more animated. He shrugged. “Same old stuff.”
“Yes? Oh, well, that’s good.”
“Well, I don’t know about good today.” He laughed though. “Good is another story.”
Mrs. White could only nod, her hands trembling at her side. “I mean … at least you had no trouble.”
Paul shrugged again. “I guess that is something.”
Mrs. White watched the floor, her feet. Her eyes moved across to his hard, heavy workboots. She sighed deeply.
“What’s with you?” he said. “You’re the one who looks a little rattled.”
Mrs. White only shook her head. Then she watched the big shoes advance. Soon his blue work shirt, the smell of his sweat were all around her. His hands held her arms.
“And not even a kiss hello,” he said.
She raised her eyes. They reached his gray, speckled chin, his smiling mouth, his own eyes. How could it have happened? How could she be seeing this again?
Paul pressed forward. His mouth touched hers. She felt it like a blow. He retreated. Mrs. White shut her eyes.
“What about Grandma’s?”
Her eyes snapped open. It was Junior, still standing by the kitchen door.
“Is Dad coming or not?” he asked.
Mrs. White started to speak, but Paul beat her to it.
“What do you mean, sport? Coming where? Grandma’s?”
Junior shot a glance at his mother. Her shaking hand was touching her lips.
“Yeah, we were going to Grandma’s. I thought you weren’t coming.”
Paul watched his wife. He smiled very slightly. “Joan?” he said.
Mrs. White’s mind raced, but her voice, when she spoke, was almost composed. “She’s—she’s ill,” she said slowly. “Mother is ill. She called. I thought …” It was as far as she could get.
Paul nodded, frowning. “That’s rough,” he said. He seemed sincere. “No wonder you’re upset. Well—” He said to Junior, “It’s all news to me. Depends what Mom wants.”
Then they both faced Mrs. White, waiting for her pronouncement. For the decisive word from wife and mother. At last it came.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. White said.
Her chin began to tremble. Slowly, as if she were trying to stop herself, she walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She heard Paul behind her as she ascended, saying, “Let’s leave Mom alone for a while, bud. Then we’ll see what we’ll see.”
Mrs. White made it to the bedroom. The suitcase was on the floor. She dropped to her knees next to it and her fingers held the zipper a moment, then yanked it back. Everything fell out at her.
She dipped her hands into the shirts, skirts, underwear, pants. Then she raised the load and buried her face in it.
She didn’t know what she felt, she knew only that she hated herself, hated everything. Had she been glad, for a moment, when he came in the door? When that monster …?
Why hadn’t the police questioned him? Had they not believed her? Or worse—it seemed inconceivable—had they questioned him and then let him go? It would mean her one chance was gone. Mrs. White wept. The tears ran into the clothes, dampening them.
She heard someone enter the room behind her. Quickly, she wiped her face on a shirt. Then, sniffling, she turned her head.
Paul was standing in the doorway, looking concerned. He crossed to her, towered over her.
“How bad is it?” he said.
Mrs. White stared up the endless distance at his face.
“What?”
“Your mother.” He smiled compassionately. “Silly.”
She sighed, remembering. She nodded. “Not so bad, really. She … she’ll be all right. It just—you know—makes you think.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Mrs. White found the strength to stand and Paul stepped back to give her room. She faced him, brushing away a last tear. “I think we’ll wait to go,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe I panicked.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I know.”
Then she was in his arms again. To her surprise, i
t did not hurt. He was shushing her, stroking her hair, kissing her brow. Had he embraced her or she him? She did not know.
“Everything will be all right,” he said.
She closed her eyes. She could not move from his arms.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Through the bright late spring sunlight of Tuesday morning, Mrs. White watched her husband drive off—again—to work. Tonight, he would be home—again. And then the next day he would go and return, and the day after, just like always. And then, one day, he would say to her again, “I’ll be working late tonight.”
And then it would happen again. Again and again and again.
Mrs. White sat at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee. She tried to keep the thought away from her. She tried not to recognize how intolerable it was. Outside, in the sparkling sunshine, Jonathan Cornell passed by with his fishing pole over his shoulder. He waved to her as he disappeared over the lawn into the woods.
A heavy feeling—a feeling like loneliness—welled up in Mrs. White’s stomach. She knew—somewhere—that she was going to call the police again. She had to. She had to know, to find out what had happened, why Paul had come home. And yet she wished she could speak to someone about it. She wished someone would give her some advice. She wished she could talk it over with Paul.
When, finally, she did stand up, did move past the breakfast dishes piled on the counter near the sink, past the samplers and the colorful potholders, she did it like a woman in a dream. She moved to the phone the same way. She picked it up with dazed eyes. She dialed and listened to the distant ring.
“State Police barracks K. Trooper Hartigan.”
Mrs. White opened her mouth and began to cry. The tears were uncontrollable and she sobbed silently.
“Hello.”
“I called …” was all she managed to get out.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
Then: “Is this the woman who called yesterday—in reference to Mr. White?”
The crying woman seized on it like it was a piece of driftwood in the middle of the sea.
“Yes, yes,” she said, sobbing.
“Listen,” Hartigan said. “Could you—would you please hold on. I’d like you to speak to the investigators in the case.”
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