Rosie came into the room. “I want to wash it off.”
“We have to show it to the police,” Annie explained. “Just keep your shirt down and pretend it’s not there.”
“It’s a present,” Rosie said. “For Jesus.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Rosie nodded.
Annie took Rosie onto her lap and held her and rocked her as tears fell from her eyes. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” Rosie said. “You don’t have to cry.”
“I won’t, Rosie, I won’t cry,” she said, but she could not seem to stop, and she held on to her little girl tightly, as if the child was the strong one, not her. They sat there like that for a long time as the windows filled up with darkness. Neither of them made any effort to move.
60
EVEN THOUGH he’d promised, Michael would not be home within the hour.
He left the office at once and drove to St. Vincent’s. He parked his car in the loading zone in front of the hospital and went into the page operator’s office. The woman on duty was frail and white haired. An open box of candy sat on her desk. She’d taken bites out of several pieces and the small brown wrappers held remaining half-moons of chocolate. “How you doing today, Lorna?” he asked, reading her name tag. “I need a favor.”
“Why sure, Doctor. What can I do for you?”
“I want to send something to one of the chaplains, but I don’t have his address. I don’t even know his last name.”
“Oh, certainly. Who is it?”
“Reverend Tim.”
“Oh, yes, Reverend Tim Hart.” Her face lit up. “He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, he is.”
She flipped through her Rolodex and wrote the minister’s address down on a Post-it: 23 Dove Street. “Why, that’s right around the corner, isn’t it?”
Michael left the hospital and walked toward the park. The snow was falling heavily. As it landed on the tops of things it dazzled in the twilight. It made the world quieter, he thought. Michael wasn’t sure what he would do to the man once he got there, but he knew that he would have to use his gun. Dove was a cobblestoned street flanked with brick town houses and brownstones and small shops. Number 23, a brick walk-up, housed a hardware store on the ground floor. A big hammer hung on the outside of it. Michael stood across the street from it, looking up at all the windows. The windows above the store were dark. The street was crammed with parked cars and the snow was beginning to pile up. A little bell rang and he turned toward the sound of it and saw a man coming out of a shop, closing and locking the door behind him. The shop owner grunted a greeting and walked on down the street. Michael glanced in the large window of the shop and saw an array of animals, real animals that had been stuffed—a taxidermist’s shop. There was a wild boar, a tiger, a zebra, and beyond that, in the back, the unmistakable yellow fur of a golden retriever. Michael stood there, incredulous, and moved closer to the window to get a better look, focusing on the collar around the dog’s neck. Sure enough, with bizarre clarity, he saw the name on the tag. MOLLY.
Michael entered the vestibule and found Reverend Tim Hart listed on the registry, Apartment 2B. Feeling the gun nudging against his ribs, he climbed up the stairs. He stood at the door. There was the sound of a vacuum running inside. He tried the knob; it was unlocked. He opened the door slowly and stepped into a dark foyer. Beyond the vacant living room he saw a heavyset black woman vacuuming a bedroom. Michael stealthily entered the living room, taking in the surroundings. The room was modest, exceptionally neat. A white cat slept curled up on the couch. The cat looked up at him moodily, then settled back down to sleep. Michael had never liked cats, really. I’m not a cat person, he often told people. The vacuum went off for a moment and the woman said, loudly, “Stop your fussing, I’ll be done in a minute!” Michael noticed an oxygen tank against the wall, the line of which was attached to someone in the room, obviously not the minister. The vacuum went on again, and the woman continued her work, shaking her head angrily. All the other rooms in the apartment looked dark; Tim Hart was not at home. Michael searched the living room for something of value to destroy, but nothing really stood out. There were several books on the shelves. An oil painting of the Virgin Mary. A small photograph of a woman, perhaps the man’s mother, on the table. There was nothing that connoted a dangerous man. Nothing that implied a person who was behind what had happened to Rosie that afternoon. The cat meowed and stretched and Michael found himself studying the animal strategically, trying to convince himself that killing the cat would be the ultimate retaliation for what he believed had happened to Molly. If he killed the cat, he thought, Reverend Tim would get the message not to fuck with him anymore. The cat was an easy target, he thought, just as Molly had been for the minister. Surely, he could shoot it. He took out his gun and put it right up to the cat’s furry head. The cat nuzzled its head against the short barrel of the pistol. Stupid cat. He clicked off the safety and took aim, but his hand began to shake. Coward, he goaded himself. After all they’ve done to you. After what they did to Rosie. Anger burned through him, yet he could not go through with it. He clicked the safety back on and returned the gun to his coat.
The vacuum went off again and the woman walked across the doorway, complaining, “Now, what you go and do that for? How many times I told you not to pull that thing out. You won’t be able to breathe, honey. That what you want?”
It was time to go, he realized. Any minute the cleaning woman would come out and see him and he did not want that, no. He did not want that at all. Looking back at the cat, he was struck with a new idea. He picked the animal up and put it inside his coat, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door soundlessly behind him. He hurried down to the street. In just a few moments, the snow had grown deeper. Cars moved sluggishly down the street. He drove home slowly with the cat on the seat beside him. He would not say a thing to Annie about where he’d been that night or what he’d done. He would say he found the cat in the hospital parking lot. The cat would serve a dual purpose. It would distract the children from the loss of Molly. And it would befuddle Reverend Tim.
61
MICHAEL HAD SAID an hour; now it had been three and he still wasn’t home. Sheriff Baylor had come out to take Rosie’s statement, but when Annie asked Rosie to lift up her shirt to show him the cross, Rosie started to cry. She ran up to the bathroom and started to wash it off. Baylor stood in the hallway waiting while Annie tried to change Rosie’s mind, whispering through the door, begging Rosie to come out and show him what had happened. But Rosie would not come out. “Unless I see it, Mrs. Knowles, it’s kind of hard to file a complaint,” Baylor said.
Annie remembered a throwaway camera she’d used a while back; there were a few shots left. In the privacy of the bathroom, Rosie let her take pictures of her stomach. Rosie had scrubbed herself raw, but the image still showed through.
Annie gave Baylor the camera and he left, the chains on his tires clinking into the night. Then Michael’s headlights flashed across the walls. Furious, she was ready to let him have it, but he only smiled at her. He unzipped his coat and pulled out a fluffy white cat. Her mouth fell open.
“What? Where did you get it?”
“Found it in the parking lot.”
“What a miracle.” Annie took the cat into her arms. “What a pretty kitty.”
“I stopped at PetsMart and got some cat stuff. That’s what took me so long.”
They brought the cat up to Rosie’s room. The children were thrilled. “But you’re not a cat person,” Henry said rhetorically.
“I’m a changed man,” Michael said.
“I love you, Daddy.” Rosie kissed his cheek.
“Is it a boy cat or a girl?” Henry inspected the cat. “Girl,” he announced like a proud father.
“Let’s call her Snowflake!” Rosie said.
“Snowflake it is.” Michael kissed Rosie and held her tight. “What happened today wasn’t because of you, Rosie. Do you understand? It w
asn’t your fault.”
Long-faced, Rosie nodded, and Michael tucked her into bed. “You and Snowflake get some rest, okay?”
Later, in bed, Annie said to him, “When the weather clears, I’m taking them to my parents.” Michael consented with a nod, but said nothing. They lay there for a long while in silence. Finally, she turned and looked at him through the dark. “I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
And then she said it, because she could not keep it to herself any longer. “I’m pregnant.”
Michael turned on the light and reached for his glasses and put them on. He studied her carefully with the scrutiny of a seasoned physician. “What?”
“I did the test this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She paused, her guilt blazing like a rash. “I’m not keeping it,” she said quickly. “Not like this. Not now, after what happened to Rosie.” Although she wanted to tell him about Simon, to come clean, she knew she could not. She wouldn’t tell him that the baby inside her might not be his. She could not bear to speak the words aloud. “I’m not keeping it,” she said again, as if to convince him of her conviction. “I’ve already made the appointment.”
Snow brought peace to the house, and when they woke the next morning the land was covered with it. The trees stood white and silent. Nothing moved.
Annie crept out of bed and went to check on Rosie, relieved to find her sleeping, the white cat curled up at the end of her bed. She said a prayer, thanking God that her daughter had been safely returned. Back in their room, Michael was awake, already on the phone. He’d put on a pair of jeans and his old Lacrosse sweatshirt. Seeing him there, like that, made her want to cry, she didn’t know why. Maybe because the sweatshirt was proof of their history together. They’d come this far. And now, like two explorers, they’d lost their compass. They had no map. “Just covering my tracks,” he explained, hanging up. “Everything’s been cancelled.”
She stood there. She said nothing.
“I know things have to change, Annie.”
“I’m not going to live like this anymore.”
“I don’t expect you to. Give me time.”
“I don’t know, Michael.”
“We’ll move somewhere.”
“There’s no escaping these people.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
She was struck with the sense that they’d reached the end of something and that everything would be different from now on. She wouldn’t tell him the truth, she decided, because it wouldn’t accomplish anything. He would never be able to understand that sex had not been her motive for the affair. It had been about so much more. The unspoken rhythms of her heart, the voice deep inside her that Michael had never been able to hear.
Maybe now he could.
Exclamations of glee sounded in the hallway. “No school today!”
Michael smiled at her, and she smiled back—a knowing exchange between parents—and he seemed reassured, content. The kids charged into the room and jumped on the bed. “What do cats eat for breakfast?” Rosie asked, holding the cat. The two had become fast friends.
“Pancakes, of course,” Michael said, getting out of bed. “Where’s my assistant chef, Monsieur Henri?”
“Voilà!” Henry jumped off the bed, and they all went downstairs to make pancakes.
The snow fell hard, buckets and buckets of it. All morning, they lingered together as a family, quietly, gently. It seemed so quiet, as if the outside world had disappeared. As if they were the only ones left. Annie looked outside at the seamless white fields. No footprints. No car tracks. They were completely alone. For the first time in months she felt safe.
They played Monopoly for hours, during which Henry’s contemplative, frugal nature made him rich and Rosie’s whimsical spontaneity made her poor. Afterward, Michael dozed on the couch with the cat on his lap. Annie sat in the big easy chair watching him sleep, wondering what tomorrow would bring—would he go back to work? She tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. The incident with Rosie preyed on her mind, the most disturbing aspect of which was the fact that a woman had taken her. She couldn’t help thinking of Lydia Haas.
She covered Michael with a wool blanket and waited a moment, making sure he was in a deep sleep, then went into the kitchen and dialed Simon’s number. It rang and rang. Finally, to her relief, Simon picked up. “Yes?”
“It’s Annie.”
“Hello, Annie.” His tone was distant. Or was he contrite?
“Something happened to Rosie. I wanted you to know.” She told him the story.
At length, he said, “My God. That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s someone from that group,” she taunted. “Someone with a major problem.” She could hear him lighting a cigarette and pouring something over ice. Was he drinking at this hour? It wasn’t even noon. “It was a woman who took her.”
He said nothing to this.
“Simon? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Are you all right? You sound a little down.”
“I’m sorry to be so obtuse, Annie, but please don’t call here anymore.”
“Simon—”
“You were right, she knows. She knows everything. Things have been difficult.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m sorry, Annie. I have to go.” The line went dead.
Annie stood there in the kitchen with her heart beating. What about me? It wasn’t that she wanted him—she knew it was over; it had been she who had ended it—but now, in light of the fact that she was pregnant, and that the baby she carried might be his, she could not help feeling betrayed. No matter what he’d told her, it was clear to her now that he still had feelings for his wife. There was some intangible element that seemed to bind them together, she didn’t know what. And then it came to her. It was fear.
In the afternoon the children wanted to go sledding. With the roads closed, there didn’t seem much chance of danger, and like astronauts preparing for a launch, they all pulled on snow pants, boots, ski jackets, hats, and mittens, and ventured out into the dazzling white world. Henry started a snowball fight and they ran around, dumping snow on each other. Then Rosie wanted to make an igloo. They went sledding down their long hill, laughing together as if none of the awful things had happened, as if they lived a charmed existence, free of danger of any kind.
But by four o’clock the air had warmed, and the snowplows had made it out. The plows roared down the main roads, putting her in mind of army tanks in an occupied country. The gunshots of deer hunters echoed in the neighboring fields, completing the eerie suggestion. It felt like an omen.
“Hunters,” Michael said. “The roads must be clear.”
They went inside and locked all the doors and pulled down all the shades and closed all the drapes. Michael made a fire and they sat huddled together, all four of them, on the living room couch, watching the flames jump and snap. They cooked dinner together like they used to. Annie made a roasted chicken and baked potatoes, while Michael and the kids made a salad. Henry chopped the cucumbers and Rosie, for her part, ate them.
Over dinner, Henry entertained them with his repertoire of terrible jokes. Rosie served dessert, having a splendid time with a can of whipped cream. “How about a little ice cream with your whipped cream, Rosie?” Michael said. When they’d finished, the kids escaped into the family room to watch TV. Annie poured Michael a cup of coffee.
“I’ve been thinking it over,” Michael said. “I want you to cancel that appointment. Will you think about it?”
The Doctor's Wife Page 37
