“I know. I don’t have to worry about you, kiddo. You’re my spunky monkey, remember?”
Grandpa had a name for each of them. Emma had been Spunky Monkey from the time she’d been old enough to walk, spinning around the house, a determined little dervish, Grandpa said. Gracie was Grandpa’s Sugar Cookie. When Caleb was born and announced his presence—Gottenyu, what a set of lungs!—Grandpa christened him the Gonster Macher, which Grandma explained meant “big shot” but different, which it seemed was always the case with Yiddish.
Emma made a plan. She rushed into the living room, where Gracie curled in a chair reading. Caleb rhythmically swung Ursula’s Raggedy Ann against his shins. Melody lay asleep in the playpen, her plump bare legs on the naked sweaty plastic. The old-lady babysitter snored in the stuffed chair in front of the blaring television.
Emma tapped Caleb on his shoulder, putting her index finger to her lips, and then motioned for him to come with her, nodding at Gracie, You too.
“Shh,” she said when they’d left the room, and pulled Caleb to the guest bedroom, Gracie following. “Get dressed. And get me all your stuff.” Grabbing things at random, she threw underwear and socks at them and shoved their books and Caleb’s small electronic game into their backpacks.
“I didn’t take a shower. Mommy would hate that.” Gracie turned her back and pulled off Uncle Sean’s T-shirt. “Where are we going?”
“We’re all dirty, Gracie. It doesn’t matter. Do you have any money?” Emma opened Gracie’s backpack, pawing until she found a small plastic pouch. She unzipped it and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“That’s my emergency money!” Gracie grabbed for it. “Mommy said never to touch it.”
“Don’t you think this is an emergency?” Emma turned to her brother. “Where’s yours?”
“I’m saving it. Mommy said if we never touch it the whole summer we get to keep it.”
“You’re not touching it, I am.” Emma rummaged through Caleb’s pack and found the bill folded into a small tight square in a zippered compartment.
Gracie pulled on her wrinkled blue shorts. “What are we doing?”
“Going home,” Emma said.
• • •
The cab pulled up at the corner of Myrtle and Centre. “This is close enough,” Emma told the driver. She’d watched the fare click since they’d left Newton. When the meter hit thirty-five dollars, they got out.
They trudged the quarter block to their unpaved private way, backpacks dangling from their shoulders and hands. Emma saw the empty driveway, and for a moment she thought no one was home. Then she remembered about the car and the accident, though she didn’t know where Mom’s car was. She dug her key from the pocket of her tight jeans shorts and opened the door.
The quiet house smelled hot and dirty. Her father’s half-empty mug from yesterday still sat on the hall table. The mail was kicked to the side of the entry from where the mailman had dropped it through the slot.
They dumped their backpacks in the hall and went to the kitchen. Dishes from yesterday’s breakfast were in the sink; half a peanut butter sandwich lay on the counter. Mom hated when someone put food on the table without a plate or a napkin underneath it.
“Is anyone home?” Caleb asked.
“Only Daddy could be here, right?” Gracie looked at the sandwich fearfully. “Do you think he’s here, Emma?”
They looked at each other. Emma took their hands and led them to the stairs. The three of them stood at the bottom, staring up.
“It’s quiet.” Gracie gave a little shiver.
“He’s probably sleeping,” Emma said. “Grandma said he was up all night.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t wake him,” Gracie said.
Her sister made sense, but Emma needed to know—anything, something; she needed news about Mommy.
“Let’s go.”
They climbed the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step. They peeked in before they entered their parents’ bedroom. Their father lay sprawled horizontally across the bed on his back, papers and files and rumpled covers under him, his hand clutching a pillow. Caleb reached for Emma’s hand.
Gracie pulled off her sneakers and padded toward the bed. Carefully stepping over the files on the floor, she lay next to their father as best she could. Curled on her side, facing him, her chin touched his outstretched elbow.
“Daddy?” Gracie tapped his forearm with two fingers. “Daddy, are you awake?”
His breathing changed; he opened his eyes, looking confused. “Gracie?” As he raised his head, his eyes met Emma’s. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to come home,” Emma said.
“Me too,” Gracie said. “We all did.”
“Does Aunt Vanessa know you’re here?”
Emma avoided the question. “She wasn’t there when we left.”
Caleb patted his father’s leg insistently. “Where’s Mommy?” His voice clutched on the words. “Were you driving crazy? Was it your fault?”
Her father rose on his elbows, grimacing. Emma’s stomach flipped.
“Are you okay?” Gracie asked.
He inched into a sitting position, hanging his feet over the side of the bed. “One question at a time, okay, guys? Caleb, who said that? Emma?”
He looked at her.
“No one said anything about it being your fault. Caleb heard it wrong.” Emma turned to her brother. “Aunt Vanessa didn’t mean Daddy made it happen on purpose. She said the accident might have been Daddy’s fault, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an accident.”
“Sorry.” Caleb sounded not at all sorry, but confused. “But why did you hurt her?”
The three of them looked at their father, waiting for him to explain everything. He took air in and pushed it out, slowly. “Nothing was on purpose. It was a big horrible accident.”
“Can we go see Mommy now?” Gracie asked.
“I need a shower. Emma, could you hold down the fort?” Her father groaned as he stood.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He shook his head; she couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no. He stumbled toward the dresser as though his legs didn’t bend anymore and he were a thousand years old.
• • •
Emma straightened the kitchen while her father showered. Rancid odors came off the soaked sponge when Emma squeezed it. “Gracie, get a new sponge from the drawer.” She ran her hands under water and then pumped out a large dollop of lemon-scented hand soap from the jar on the counter. “You shouldn’t leave the sponge sitting on the counter without wringing it out.” Emma took the new fresh sponge from Gracie.
“Who said I did it?” Gracie asked.
“Who said you didn’t?” Caleb spoke through a mouthful of chocolate bits from the Nestlé bag he held.
“Where did you get those?” Emma asked.
He shrugged and shoved in more chocolate.
“Those are Mommy’s baking bits. They’re not for eating. Do you want me to tell Daddy?”
“He won’t care.” He flung the bag on the table and spread the chocolate bits around, coating them with bits of cereal and toast crumbs, mashing them into his hand.
“Stop it, Caleb,” Emma said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you think Mommy is doing right now?” Gracie put a few chocolate chips in her mouth and then began clearing the table of the crusted breakfast dishes. Caleb began eating the abandoned peanut butter sandwich.
“Everyone says she’s sleeping. That she’s been sleeping since her operation.”
“Is she in a coma?” Gracie asked.
“What’s that?” Caleb asked.
“It means like a dream place that you can’t wake up from.” Gracie turned to Emma. “Like Sleeping Beauty, do you think?”
Emma pictured her mother, eyes closed, silent, her rosy cheeks and dark curly hair. “I guess, sort of.”
“Maybe Daddy should kiss her to wake her up,” Caleb said. “Should we tell him?”
“
Don’t be stupid,” Gracie said.
“But what if it worked?” Caleb started to cry. “He should try, right? I want Mommy.”
Emma put her arms out, and he ran to her. “I want Mommy,” he repeated, crying and gulping for air.
Gracie fell into the chair Caleb had left. “Me too.”
“I know, Gracie. Me too.”
Gracie slid her chair close to Emma. “I’m going to pray. Like you said.” She genuflected and lifted the tiny cross Grandma Frances had given her and kissed it. Closing her eyes, she held Emma’s hand as she moved her lips in a soundless prayer. Emma closed her eyes.
The three of them were locked together when the bell rang. Emma opened her eyes. “I’ll see who it is. You guys start cleaning up in here, okay?”
“I want to see who’s there,” Gracie said. She stood and followed Emma.
“I’m coming too.” Caleb lined up behind Gracie. The bell rang again in three short bursts before they got there. “Hold your horses,” Caleb said, imitating his father.
Emma moved the door curtain aside. A man in a suit stood on the porch. When he saw Emma peeking out, he nodded.
“I’m Detective Perez. With the police,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the door. “Is your father home?”
CHAPTER 12
Ben
“Dad!” Emma screeched through the closed bedroom door. “A policeman’s here.”
“Hold on.” Ben fumbled as he buttoned his jeans and then opened the door. “Tell him I’ll be right down. One second.”
“Are you in trouble because of the accident?” Alarm colored Emma’s face.
“It’s just normal procedure, honey.” He gave her a one-armed hug, cautious of his aching ribs. “No big deal. Promise. Go be with Gracie and Caleb. I’ll be right there.”
“I love you, Daddy.” She hugged him hard around his middle.
Ben’s throat closed, realizing how grateful she was for a crumb of attention. He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be right there,” he repeated. It struck Ben in a great wave of sadness how alone his children had been since the accident.
After he’d closed the door behind her, he picked up his dirty clothes from the middle of the room and added them to a growing pile on the chair. The clean blue T-shirt he pulled from the drawer and jerked over his head muffled the harsh sound of the phone ringing. He tugged the fabric down and looked at the caller ID. His private office line number.
“Ben Illica.”
“It’s Elizabeth.”
Her tentative tone was unfamiliar and probably a portent of days ahead. For a moment, he was breathless with a lack of desire to speak with her.
“How are you?” she asked. “Sorry. Stupid question. I called to see if I could help.”
“Thanks. I can’t think of anything.”
“Do you need someone to handle the papers? Did you read them?”
He pictured the rolled-up Boston Globe, still bound by a rubber band, on the hall table where he’d thrown it. He hadn’t read it—seeing the headline and photo in the Herald had been enough.
“Not really. Tell me. Quickly, please. I have a policeman waiting.”
“The police are there? Maybe I should come over—or someone else from the office?”
“I’m fine.”
“You should consider having someone there when they talk to you.”
“I’m not being grilled in the box. He just came for a statement. Tell me what’s in the Globe. Quickly.” He put the phone on speaker and pressed his fingertips to his temples, working to stave off his rising anxiety. Rustling paper sounds mixed with Elizabeth’s nervous breathing.
“It’s inside the Metro section. The headline is ‘Crash on Jamaicaway. Investigation Under Way.’ ”
Ben closed his eyes in thanks for there being no headline about speed or road rage.
“It could be worse, Ben,” Elizabeth assured him. “They don’t name you in the headline.”
“I’m not famous. And it is worse,” he said.
“I mean . . . I just meant in terms of this coverage.”
Shame nipped. Why had he pitched that ugly retort at Elizabeth? There was no reason for it except that in some awful way it soothed him.
“I thought it would be hard on you and the kids,” she continued. “It’s probably good school hasn’t started. This will probably be a one-day story.”
“I have to go, Elizabeth.”
“Reporters have been calling. Do you want me to say anything?”
“No comment.”
“Is that meant for me, or are you telling me to say that to the reporters?”
Was she serious? Elizabeth was no joker. Perhaps this was his first taste of people’s caution around tragedy, tiptoeing around him and his family, worrying they’d shatter with the first off-target word.
“No comment to the reporters, Elizabeth. And thanks for calling.” Now, being kind felt soothing. Conferring onto others, not receiving emotional handouts.
• • •
The police officer stood as Ben entered the living room. He was a detective; Ben knew because the man wore a suit, not a uniform. He looked older than Ben, but not by much. Like Ben, he was built wide and powerfully. They must look like bulls facing each other.
“I’m Detective Perez.” He put out his hand. “Sorry about having to come at this time. How is your wife?”
“Not good.” Ben needed to keep it brief and never sound self-pitying. Better to have the stiff upper lip had been his experience with cops. “We’ll deal with whatever comes our way.”
“Mr. Illica, I have to take your statement. Actually, your brother—your attorney, correct—led us to believe you’d be at the station this morning.”
“I was at the hospital all night and most of this morning. Then I had to be with my children, of course.” Ben waved his arm toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Detective.”
The detective chose the chair, leaving Ben to sink into the couch.
“Could you tell me everything you remember about the accident?” Detective Perez took a cheap-looking black notebook from his jacket pocket.
Direct and simple.
“I was on the Jamaicaway, heading toward the bridge going over Huntington Avenue. A car was right behind me, tailgating in a dangerous manner. Practically kissing my bumper. A Ford Expedition.” Ben didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Slick roads played into the accident, but it was the Expedition. Pushing me, trying to get me to speed up or move over—which, as you know, is not easy at that hour on that road. When I finally had an opportunity to move to the right, he sped up and tried to go around me at that same moment. Cutting me off. He crashed into me when he tried to pass me. As I said, the rain was an accelerant. I gave a blood sample at the hospital.”
Ben stopped himself. Less was always more.
“How fast would you say you were going, sir?”
“I’d be hard-pressed to estimate.”
“Within the posted speed limit?” Every scratch of Perez’s pen on the lined pad added to Ben’s nervous irritation.
“Certainly.”
“What happened next?” Perez kept his pen poised above the pad.
“Next thing I know some old guy is looking at me. And a woman. I guess they stopped. Good Samaritans. Then the EMT.” Ben paused so the scratching pen could catch up.
“Right. Go on.”
Ben kept his eyes looking up. He knew facial detectors—he used them in his work. Looking up meant retrieving information and looking down signified searching for a decent lie. He struggled to keep his mind linear. “Then I saw my wife.”
“Do you know what happened to her? Was she wearing her seat belt?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Do you usually wear a seat belt?”
“Me?”
“Anyone in your car?”
“Always.”
“And was your wife?”
“I would think so.”
“Can you swear she was?”
&
nbsp; “I don’t recall. So swearing would be impossible.”
“Do you remember your speed?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What do you recall?” the detective asked.
“The pain. The deflated air bag. Trying to get out. Looking for my wife.” His voice got lower. “Seeing her on the stretcher. I saw her briefcase—it’s red. I saw her shoes—they’re red. And the blood.”
Detective Perez tapped the pen on his paper a few times. “Do you think speed and recklessness played a role in the accident?”
Ben nodded. “No doubt. The Ford was being driven in a reckless manner. Tailgating too close. Speeding.”
“And you?”
Gracie charged into the room. “It was our fault! He had to drive us to camp, so he was already late. And then he had to get Mommy. It wasn’t his fault.” Emma and Caleb stood in the doorway. “Tell them, Daddy.”
“Honey, of course it wasn’t your fault. Or Mommy’s. And I wasn’t that late.”
“Were you in a rush because you were late, sir?”
“I was not late in any extraordinary sense. Nothing of note. And I was not rushing.”
“Were you disturbed?”
“I was not disturbed,” Ben said.
• • •
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was trying to help.” Gracie sat next to Ben on the couch. Her tears seemed to come from some unlimited source. He folded his shaking hands into fists. He needed to get back to the hospital.
“It’s all right, baby.”
Emma sat staring at the Boston Globe, with Caleb looking over her shoulder. A fuzzy photograph of the accident scene was juxtaposed with a file photo of Ben taken at the famous Franker rape trial he’d won. No one could believe he’d gotten the kid off. It had been a huge win.
“Listen to me, all of you. Honey, put that away.”
Emma’s hand remained on the newspaper as she looked at her father.
“This is going to be a difficult time.” Ben paused, trying to think of a stronger way to word it without terrifying them. “A very difficult time.”
“Did you do something wrong?” Caleb asked. “Is that why the police came?”
“No, of course not. It’s just . . . It’s just . . .” His children looked at him, expectant, waiting for the father who always had the answers, who never said I don’t know. Ben prided himself on being that sort of father—if he didn’t know the facts, he’d look them up. He relied on facts. “It’s just a procedure the police have to go through whenever there’s a crash where someone gets hurt.”
Accidents of Marriage Page 10
