Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  I shrink back. “What?”

  “Really?” He tosses back the shot and slams his glass on the counter. “Why don’t you read my mind now, Ava?”

  Without so much as a glance, he stalks from the room.

  CHAPTER 12

  AVA

  SUNDAY, MARCH 28

  Worry pulses through my veins, matching the patter of rain on the kitchen window. As the rest of the house sleeps, I stare out at the morning sky, painted in thick swaths of steel gray.

  Thunder grumbles in the distance, echoing distaste, and a tree-branch crack of lighting follows moments later. I squint at the yard, illuminated in shades of silver-white.

  Swallowing a shiver, I turn and face the espresso machine. At the touch of a button, the device whirs to life, grinding and brewing. As hot liquid fills my cup, the smell wafts through the house, intense and caramel-sweet.

  “Ava.”

  I whirl around. Mitchell’s standing three feet from me.

  “Oh, you frightened me!” One hand on my chest, I grip the counter, steadying myself.

  My husband doesn’t blink or smile. “Ava, where’s the bread I asked you to buy?” Mitchell peers at the pantry shelves.

  The whole-wheat loaf I left at the market. With the milk. I bite my lip and open the fridge. Take out red grapes, a few crisp, green apples, and cheese as my frantic breathing slows.

  “Mitchell—”

  “Sweetheart, you forgot?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “What about the dry cleaning?”

  I hesitate. “There was nothing to pick up,” I tell him. “They checked twice.”

  Mitchell holds a hand up to stop me. “There must be some mistake.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I adjust the cutting board, take a knife, and start to slice the apples. The blade slides through the firm, crisp fruit. Slices fall to the side in an even pile.

  “Any receipts for me?”

  I shake my head no, and see Mitchell glance in the mail holder, where I’m expected to file proof of any purchases. Every week since Sam was born, he has taken the receipts and tallied the total. His rationale? To make sure I’m not spending too much on the boys. Or myself.

  This morning the slot is empty. I haven’t spent a dime.

  Mitchell doesn’t believe me. “You must have forgotten that too. Listen, it’s clear you can’t handle things on your own. Hire someone.”

  My throat constricts. I inhale and blow out, then silently count to ten.

  “Mitchell, even if I needed the help—which I don’t—there’s no way to afford something like that.”

  “Really? I think your budget is quite generous.”

  If Mitchell wasn’t so seriously off the mark, I might laugh. I decide I’m better off negotiating than tossing back a negative comment. My monthly “household allowance”—Mitchell likes to call it that—is a few hundred dollars. Hardly enough to cover standard groceries, let alone gas or anything extra. My gaze travels into the hallway and out into the foyer. We’ll have workers here tomorrow, banging and hammering.

  I don’t mind the noise. It’s the outlandish amount of money being spent on house renovations meant to impress board of trustee members, not to make me happy. If I had a fourth of what he’s paying them, I wouldn’t have to scrape and scrimp, buying off-brand diapers and picking up pennies in parking lots.

  “I could go back to work,” I say and begin chopping again, knowing I’m treading into dangerous territory. I cut harder, faster. “What about part-time?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Even a few hours a week?” The words fly out, despite my brain flashing a neon caution sign. I am pushing it. Deliberately. And I already know the answer.

  “Ava. I’m not going to play games. Or listen to you beg me about this trivial—”

  The knife slips and catches the tip of my finger. “Oh, ouch.” I hold up my hand to examine the cut, then press to stop the bleeding. “This is not trivial. This is my life.”

  My husband sets his jaw, crosses his arms. “Funny, I thought it was our life.”

  “Mitchell, just wait. I need to get a Band-Aid.” The bathroom is clear across the house. I have a first-aid kit in the car, steps away inside the garage. “Could you grab the door, please?”

  Mitchell opens it for me, and I head for the Jeep’s passenger side. On my way around the vehicle, I notice a bag hanging in Mitchell’s Range Rover. A dry cleaning bag, with his blue shirt. The shirt he asked me to pick up. I squint into the window to make sure I’m not seeing things.

  “Ava.” Mitchell’s deep voice follows me into the garage. “Sam’s up. Jack too. And you have a visitor.”

  I stiffen, snatch a Band-Aid out of the glove compartment, and wrap it around my finger.

  “Who in the world?” I step back into the house and ask Mitchell, as Sam toddles toward me as fast as his legs can carry him. “Hey, babe.” I take Sam in my arms, give him a smooch, and set him down.

  When I look up, my husband is shaking hands, jaw tight, with Officer Mike Kennedy in the middle of our kitchen. Mike is dressed in full uniform, his gun belt strapped around his hips. His face breaks into a wide smile when he sees me.

  “Mike, what a surprise!” I gulp and maintain my distance. “Jack, can you come get your brother for me?” I glance at Mitchell, who’s maintaining a mask of polite detachment.

  Jack dashes in, scoops up baby Sam and waves at Officer Mike. “Hey, sir!”

  “Nice to see you, son.” Mike leans down to examine Jack’s bandaged face. “How’s the chin?”

  “Good, it was nothing. Few stitches is all.” Jack grins, leaving the room with his brother.

  “Be right there,” I call after him and step closer to Mitchell, nudging up against his arm. “So to what do we owe this honor? Just in the neighborhood? Catching any bad guys?”

  Mike’s lips twitch. “Special delivery. I found this in the cruiser.” He holds out his hand and opens his palm to reveal my pink paper heart.

  “Oh, I’ve been looking for that,” I exclaim and pick it up carefully. “Thank you so much. It’s my Valentine’s Day card from Jack and Sam.”

  “Thought you might want it back.” Mike tips his hat. “Hope y’all have a good day.”

  Officer Mike and Mitchell amble toward the front door. I hear Mitchell laugh and Mike say something in return. The crunch of gravel tells me he’s on his way out the driveway.

  When Mitchell returns, any traces of pleasure have vanished. “That was interesting.”

  “I must have dropped it in his car when we were on the way to the hospital.”

  “A convenient excuse.”

  My palms grow tacky with moisture. “Mitchell, that’s what really happened.”

  “Ava.” He heaves a sigh. “This is so tiresome. The truth would be so much easier. You obviously have something special going with Mike Kennedy.” Mitchell snatches a blue receipt from his coat pocket and waves it like a flag. “He paid for your damn tires. And the tow.”

  I gesture in the air, aghast. “I didn’t ask him to. He took care of it while Jack was in the ER. You didn’t answer your phone, remember?” My temples begin to throb. “Can we drop this, please? Mike put that on his account. I’m going to take care of it.”

  “In more ways than one?”

  “Mitchell? Really?” My lungs, punctured with his words, struggle to expand.

  “I asked you to stay away from him. And here he is in our house.”

  My finger is throbbing, but his accusation cuts me to the core. Words fly out of my mouth like angry bees from a jostled hive.

  “You can’t forbid me to see a childhood friend—”

  “If you loved me, you’d do that for me.” Mitchell’s gaze burns through me.

  I ball my fist and press it to my lips. I have to get him to see reason. “I do love you. I’ve made a home with you. I’m the mother of your children. I try, Mitchell.”

  His lips twist into a sneer.

  “So if we’re talking about love
and respecting each other, why is the dry cleaning I was supposed to pick up hanging in your truck?” I ask.

  My husband frowns. “My truck?” He hesitates, then points a finger at me. “Oh, that’s a good one. I walk out with Mike; you slip the bags into my truck.” He pretends to laugh. “So you did remember. You just thought it would be fun to play games? That’s mature.”

  “That’s not true.” I frown and cross my arms. “Why don’t I call the dry cleaners? I’m sure someone will remember.”

  Instead of lashing back, Mitchell straightens his shoulders and turns away. “Really, Ava. I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

  Heart thumping with anxiety, my mind goes blank. Mitchell doesn’t turn around. “If our marriage is so awful, if you really don’t trust me,” I finally say, “then maybe we both need space. Is that what you want? Time apart?”

  Mitchell walks away.

  I lean over the counter. Tears drip and splash onto the ceramic squares. I’m horrified at myself for losing my temper. My vision’s so blurry even my fingers can’t find the fruit. Upstairs, there’s a heavy thump on the bed. The bedroom closet opens and closes, drawers slam open and shut.

  At my feet, Sam clings a hand to my ankle and begins a hiccupped cry, a sure sign that my baby needs to eat—now. I kneel down and pick him up, cradling Sam’s warm body to my chest. “Let’s get you some breakfast, honey.”

  Before I can get to my feet, I hear his footsteps on the tile floor. Mitchell stands still in front of me, blocking the light from the window. With an overnight bag in hand.

  “Ava,” he begins and then hesitates, “this is not what I want. But perhaps the time apart you’re asking for will give us both the chance to see more clearly.”

  My throat burns hot and dry. I can’t speak.

  “I’m going to the office until I can think this through,” he says, monotone, robotic. “In the meantime, I’d appreciate you not discussing any of this with Jack or your mother.”

  He yanks open the door, heading for the truck without a backward glance. There’s a sudden, metallic crank and the whir of the garage door opener drowns out every other sound.

  I sink against the nearest wall, making my body into a tight tangle of arms, legs, and baby. A flurry of emotions attack, vultures at a carcass. Disbelief. Agony. Failure. Holding Sam tight, I sob into my sleeve.

  CHAPTER 13

  GRAHAM

  MONDAY, MARCH 29

  The door slams hard enough to rattle my empty coffee cup. A teenager races through the front door. Breathing hard, he ducks down near the bookcase, crouches on the floor. The pungent odors of whiskey and perfume billow from his dusty overalls.

  “All I was trying to do was get across the street,” he mutters. “And some asshole nearly runs me over in his Range Rover.”

  I blink in surprise. “Did he hit you?” I ask, leaning forward, trying to make out any injuries.

  The teenager scowls. “Nah. I made it okay.”

  I frown and rub at my forehead. “So I take it that’s not why you’re here?”

  The kid shakes his head. The office crasher shifts his eyes, sweeps the room. He pushes a stray lock of dirty-brown hair out of his face, pulls at the neck of his camouflage T-shirt.

  I ease back in my chair, letting my arm drape over one side. “Want to sit down?” I ask and motion at the seat across from my desk.

  After a morning of twisting paper clips and making sure the office phone has a dial tone, the interruption is a welcome distraction. Much better than popping Advil like candy and trying to ignore my aching leg.

  He slides into the chair and starts to grin, but then thinks better of it. “I kinda got into the Jack Daniels last night. Then I got a wild hair to ride Daddy’s new John Deere. I took her down Main Street.”

  “Her the tractor?”

  “No, sir.” The kid rubs his forehead. “Her being my Becky. Becky Marshall.”

  Marshall. Marshall. I pick up my mug, take a drink.

  He grins. “Um, yeah, she’s the DA’s daughter.”

  I nearly spit out the coffee. “How old?” I sputter. My pen pauses above the page.

  “Sixteen next week. She’s a looker, now, my Becky.” He crosses his arms, smiles to himself. “That she is.”

  I want to choke him. “Property damage?”

  He taps his forehead. “The corner store, Mac’s grocery, missed the telephone pole . . .”

  List made, details recorded, I take a breath. Being new in town, I need the clients, even a mess of one like this kid. Farmer’s son, first offense. Just a joyride with major consequences. “So,” I ask, “how’d you end up in my office?”

  “Because if my Daddy finds me, he’ll kick my tail. My sister was pretty sure he won’t look here.” He glances around my office. “And you don’t have coffee regular at Miss Beulah’s like all the cops and judges and them.”

  I stifle a laugh. “They probably don’t much take to outsiders.”

  The farmer’s kid grins. “Especially one who rides a Harley.”

  “Is that a fact?” I eyeball Mr. Smart-Ass.

  The alcohol-induced cockiness vanishes. He turns pasty-white. “Don’t mean no harm.”

  “None taken.” I pretend to look over my calendar, empty as a tomb. “After checking my schedule, I believe I can find time to take your case.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he breathes into his hands and wipes his face.

  I stifle a grin. I’ll take any assistance at this point, even from unknown and unseen forces. “First, you’re going to have to bathe, comb your hair, and put on some clean clothes. Okay?”

  The kid bobs his head. “But I can’t go home. I told you Daddy’ll kill me. I’ve missed my chores, blew off school, messed up things bad.”

  My mouth twists. “Seems like your father will tear your hide anyway—it’s just a question of when.”

  “I reckon,” he agrees. “But I’d rather face the law before I head home.”

  With a quick glance at his stature, I can guess the kid is about my size. “Can you manage to walk into that house behind the office and get a shower? There are clothes on the bed—or get Miss Becky to drop some off?”

  His eyes widen.

  “It’s my place,” I explain. “You can sleep on the couch if you don’t have anywhere to go. We’ll sort all this out in the morning.”

  Bug-eyed, he digs a wad of bills out of his overalls and sets the crumpled mess on my desk. “It’s not much. A few hundred. I hope it’s enough. I’ll get paid next Friday.”

  My first paying client. A tractor-driving delinquent with a dad who probably resembles Arnold Schwarzenegger. A man who will also want to kick my ass when this is all over.

  “We can settle up the rest later.” I stuff the bills in my middle drawer, then lock it.

  “Yes, sir,” the office crasher says. “I owe you big.”

  My head starts to throb. I put up a hand for him to stop. “Listen, don’t steal anything,” I warn. “And don’t drink my beer. You need at least one person on your side. We clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “I’ve got thirty minutes to get to my nephew’s soccer game.” I scramble to find my keys. “And I need some caffeine.”

  CHAPTER 14

  JACK

  TUESDAY, MARCH 30

  My dad stayed away for two nights. So when the garage door opens this morning, and I hear him come back in, I think it’s all over. I actually smile. My stomach quits hurting. Things will go back to normal. It was just a bad dream.

  Dad walks in with the workmen, who carry hammers, saws, and steaming cups of coffee in small, white Styrofoam cups. Downstairs, everything smells of wood shavings. Yesterday the piles were so thick in places I could leave an entire golden footprint.

  I creep out of my room and peer over the edge of the railing, careful to keep out of sight.

  The foyer is cluttered with hammers and saws, the metal teeth sharp and gleaming in the sunlight coming in through the front windo
ws. White drop cloths cover parts of the floor like fallen parachutes. Dad’s in the center of the room, dressed in his dark suit and tie. The man he’s talking to is short and wiry, his muscles tight and tattooed with blue ink.

  My dad hands the man an envelope, shakes hands with him and nods, murmuring something I can’t quite make out. As he turns to round the stairs, I scurry back to my room like a badger down a hole. I crawl into bed and pull up the covers just as my father walks past.

  When the coast is clear and the bedroom door closes behind him, I sit up and fix an ear to the smooth wall. My stomach gurgles, nervous. I’m craving biscuits and gravy to fill the empty space. Below us, boots clomp and echo. Toolboxes squeak open on their hinges, and there’s the sharp sound of a measuring tape snapping back in place.

  I close my eyes, trying to listen for Dad and Ava. After a moment, the arguing starts again. I peel away from the wall, nauseous.

  Stumbling from my room, I press my hands over both ears and make my way to the end of the hall. There’s a set of narrow steps there, leading down to the kitchen. The original owners built it for servants in the late 1800s.

  My socks slip on the bare wood, but I manage not to fall, even though my legs are rubbery and weak. I go straight to the hall closet under the steps and shimmy between the brooms and dustpans. When I pull the door shut, the dark air falls around my shoulders. Since I can’t leave my brother, or catch a plane to Canada, it’s the safest place to get quiet and think.

  Hey, it worked for Harry Potter. Deep in the dungeon-house of Number Four Privet Drive, Harry is forced to live with his awful relatives—the evil, fat Dursley family. Harry’s an orphan, treated worse than a stray cat with mange. There’s little food, lots of chores, and long punishments. His bedroom, and only escape, is the tiny cupboard under the stairs.

  I close my eyes and concentrate. On Hogwarts. And magic. Shifting staircases and wands. I’m in there a long time, until my breath feels hot and sticky in the space. Then footsteps cross the kitchen floor. I nearly leap out of my skin when the hallway door flies open.