Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  Ava takes a breath. “It doesn’t mean I wasn’t sad.” She puts her hand on top of his. “But, Jack, those were just things. A relationship is different.”

  He shifts, fingering the carpeting. “How?”

  “I-It can only be fixed if both people want to.” She pauses and chokes out the rest. “And right now, your dad’s not sure.”

  Jack frowns and sinks his chin to his chest. Then, with a sudden burst of resilience, he attacks. His words rush out, peppering Ava like tiny bullets. “You need to try harder. Make him see it. Promise?”

  She flushes. “Of course. I promise.”

  The scene, through the glass, pierces my soul. I jolt myself back to reality with a sip of hot coffee and a long look at Ava’s face. Ava wouldn’t be the first really, really good actress I’ve seen. Anyone can be sweet for an hour. No making judgments. No jumping to conclusions. My job is to observe. Let’s see what the rest of the story brings.

  CHAPTER 25

  AVA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 9

  Behind closed doors, my brave resolve fades a little. Without Sam and Jack, the house echoes like a mausoleum in a Hitchcock film. Dark, everything exactly in its place, books perfectly aligned and toys untouched. I run a finger over the rooftop of Jack’s Lego fire station, pick up Sam’s favorite red airplane with the neon-yellow propeller and press the plastic to my chest.

  Back in the kitchen, I slip the pink Valentine heart from my purse, secure it to the fridge with a magnet. It looks forlorn, the edges wrinkled. Alone. I want to find a stray Nerf football in the hallway, trip over a stuffed giraffe. See dirt-covered tennis shoes left by the doorway. Smell the eraser shavings and pencil lead left over after Jack tackles an extra-tough math set. Or inhale the scent of soap bubbles and baby powder after Sam’s bath.

  Until now, I haven’t allowed the emptiness to touch me. The boys’ rooms, beds unmade, covers rumpled, tricks me into thinking they’ll be back in an instant, a minute, an hour. Now it just confirms they are gone.

  A hysterical sob unleashes in the empty abyss of my living room. On the walls, family photos, carefully framed, bounce back the guttural sound coming from my throat. I spin and dissolve in my own grief, like sugar crystals poured into hot tea.

  After what feels like several hours, I run freezing cold water, splash my face, and let the rivulets fall into the sink. The tiny drops echo in the stillness, urging me forward. Enough with the pity party.

  Thirty minutes into staring at the Mac screen, my neck aches. Notebook to one side, pen in hand, I’ve googled Mitchell one hundred different ways. News stories pop up about Mitchell being named a VP of the college, his charity work for St. Jude’s, special events.

  Further back there are fewer photos, more articles. Graduation from the University of Alabama, then again with his PhD. The other pieces I find document his comet-fast rise in academia with stops all over the state: Gadsden State, University of Montevallo, Huntingdon, and UAB—the University of Alabama at Birmingham.

  Not a single out-of-the-ordinary notation. No arrests, no domestic violence, not even a traffic ticket. In fact, to the discriminating reader, Mitchell Carson is completely, nauseatingly normal. To the outside observer, borderline boring.

  Maybe I haven’t been completely, utterly fooled by the man I pledged my life to ’til death do us part. So much for Mitchell’s end of the bargain. He’s not here. He is somewhere with my children. With a gun. The thought makes me angry, fuels a fire in me and energizes me. Now, as Graham would say, time to figure out what the hell happened.

  Then I notice a tiny, but distinct, delineating fact. In every picture, Mitchell is alone. No Karen, his then very-much-alive wife. No Jack. No family shots. Always Mitchell. What about all of Jack’s school activities, scouting, peewee soccer? I click through more pages. Nothing. No Jack. Nothing but Mitchell.

  Dozens of photos flash past, his dark hair the perfect foil for a set of brilliant white teeth. Each looks identical. The same shoulder to the camera, same slight tilt of his head. Posed, measured, frighteningly precise. If I Photoshopped his head from the page, I’m certain it would sit seamlessly on the next, and the next, and the next.

  And sure, his tragic story of loss attracted me at first. Then the movie-star good looks, a jawline impossible to ignore. Now the frozen-plastic angle of his face seems more Stepford spouse than sweet husband. I click back further and further. Widen the search parameters. Include Jack’s name. Nothing. Then Karen’s. I hold my breath and tap the Enter key. I hit pay dirt.

  “Local children’s author and illustrator to launch book tour.” Wow. The image of Karen captures a beaming, waif-like creature wrapped in a gauzy moss-green dress. Her long, straight brown hair hangs to her waist in a shiny waterfall. The photographer captured her laughing shyly at the camera, sharing the moment with a man identified as her agent.

  It’s clear the agent, Will Harris of Harris Talent of Mountain Brook, adores her. They’re holding a children’s book between them, a gray-silver mouse on the cover. And there’s the title: Beach Mouse Magic. The very same book I bought for Sam. I scan the photo for clues and notice Will’s eyes on Karen, not the camera lens. And Mitchell, for once, is nowhere to be found.

  The author of the story praises Karen’s work, mentions a three-book deal from a major publisher, and talks about the successful book signing held that morning. Evidently a Beach Mouse Magic craze hit Birmingham and every nearby city, with busloads of schoolchildren and their parents clamoring for signed first editions.

  Karen was scheduled to leave on a ten-city book tour less than a week later. I check the date with the details about Karen’s car crash and swallow hard. A mere three days after the event and photo ran in the paper. Officers ruled out weather and poor driving conditions. The police speculated Karen might have swerved to avoid an animal or object in the road. Nothing definitive. My unease ratchets up a few notches.

  There’s a story about Karen’s obituary; next, her funeral, attended by dozens of people. Donations to the Alabama Art Commission in lieu of flowers. Mitchell and Jack are listed, as well as Mitchell’s father, Frank, who died shortly after Karen’s accident. No other family members are listed.

  I weigh my discoveries. People don’t just drive into cypress trees with perfectly functional cars. And why didn’t Mitchell say anything about a book tour? In retrospect, I didn’t ask much when Mitchell and I were dating. The past is the past. I always thought Mitchell just wanted to focus on the present. Our family. Not hurt my feelings by bringing up his former life.

  But maybe Mitchell wasn’t trying to protect me. With a click, I shut down my overworked Mac. In my brain, I reorganize the puzzle pieces, slide them around to find connections. Karen. Spotlight. Birmingham. Mitchell. Book tour launch. Ten cities.

  In the time before the accident, Karen was leaving—albeit temporarily. Possibly with Will Harris. Or not.

  It may be that I am totally overreacting and my imagination’s gone berserk. But what’s certain? It’s obvious I didn’t examine what lay behind my husband’s shiny-clean exterior. And now I may end up paying an extraordinarily high price.

  CHAPTER 26

  GRAHAM

  MONDAY, APRIL 12

  “Graham, the thought occurs to me”—Marley Kennedy, proprietress of Miss Beulah’s café, glances at me—“that it might be faster to hook you up to one of those IV drips every morning.”

  She’s married to a town cop, Mike, and she’s adorable and bohemian, a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a scarf intricately woven into the layers of golden strands. Marley also has an incredible memory for names, favorite drinks, and preferred sweets. She hands over my travel mug, her bracelets jingling. “We can set it up over in the corner.”

  I hide a smirk. I’ve actually come to adore my morning harassment. As Marley moves to ring me up, the raw edges of her red tie-dyed dress sweep the wooden floor.

  “Well, I’ll take that under advisement. After all, we
attorneys are all about efficiency and productivity.” I nod with mock courtroom seriousness. “However, it might scare the tea drinkers. I’ll get back to you.” I raise a hand to wave at Marley and push open the wooden door.

  The humidity rises up and swirls around my legs as I stir up the morning-still air. It’s no more than a hundred steps back to my office, and the streets are dead quiet. A dragonfly buzzes my head, wings beating silent against the fence post where it lands.

  Ava is waiting on the steps, elbows on her knees. Her hair is tousled and shines red-gold in the early light.

  “Hey, good morning,” I call out when I come closer. Immediately, when I see her face, I want to take back the words. She’s breathtakingly pretty without a bit of makeup, but her sea-green eyes are brimming with worry.

  Be professional, Graham. Clearly, she hasn’t slept. And she’s here on business.

  “Hey,” she says, offering a weak smile.

  “What brings you over here this morning?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “The workmen are at the house. Every day. They’re making great progress, but the pounding and banging are getting to me.” She looks down at the ground. “I thought maybe we could talk about the case.” Gingerly, she stands up, reaches out a hand to steady herself on the railing.

  “No problem. Want me to go back and grab you some coffee?” I hold up my cup. “Just takes a second to walk down there.”

  “Thanks, no.” She presses a hand to her lower stomach and grins weakly. “Nerves.”

  We step inside; I push a pile of paper to the side of my desk. I am careful to sit across my desk from Ava and give her lots of space. It takes her less than five minutes to run down yesterday’s events.

  “I don’t need to tell you this now, but I’m going to say it anyway,” I lecture. “Your husband is a smart man. He has an agenda, which seems to involve getting you into as much trouble as possible.”

  Ava clasps her hands tightly.

  “Stay away from him, Ava. I mean it. His truck, his apartment. Try not to talk to him on the phone. If you have to have a conversation, make it only about the kids. Got it?”

  She nods.

  After clearing my throat, I continue. “In the meantime, unless you disagree, I’m going to draw up a proposal, a parenting plan. It’d relieve Mitchell of all financial responsibility; give him liberal visitation, you physical custody. I’ll fax it over to Douglas’s office by lunchtime. How does that sound?”

  “Will it work?” Ava lifts her chin, hopeful.

  “No telling.” I begin to jot down a preliminary outline. “It’s worth a shot. If he says no, we haven’t lost anything. We’ll go forward with the mediation.”

  The fact is Mitchell is unlike anyone I’ve ever come across. Normally, most guys would cut and run with a deal like this. Free and clear, no child support. But this almost-ex-husband . . . no telling.

  “If Mitchell goes for this . . .” Ava hesitates. “Graham?” She waves a hand in front of my face and snaps her fingers. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. Just brainstorming.” I run a hand through my hair. “Any luck finding out about the wife?”

  She fills me in on the book, the tour, the article, and Will Harris in Birmingham.

  “Remind me about your husband’s family.”

  Ava swallows. “Mitchell’s dad passed away right after Karen died. He had an awful time of it, losing both of them at once.” Ava winces and closes her eyes. “His mother committed suicide when he was really young. Had to be terrible. I can’t imagine.”

  “Convenient dead end. If it’s all true, though, it’s certainly enough drama to make anyone a little crazy.” My fingers drum on the desk as I weigh our options.

  Ava props her head against her fist, pressing the knuckles into her temple. “I can do some more research—”

  “Look, I’m trained to be skeptical. And pessimistic. Forget the Internet.”

  Ava hesitates, puzzled. She cocks her head and purses her lips.

  “Go to Birmingham.” I make a pushing gesture toward the street. “What’s stopping you?” I shrug my shoulders. “You can hire a PI, but that’s some big bucks.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Where would I start?” Ava is hedging. I can’t blame her. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on the idea.

  I feel a little uneasy pressing her too much but shake off the worry. “Anywhere.” She can do this. She’s got to learn to trust herself.

  Ava considers this. One finger runs down the table, stops, and taps. “With that Will Harris guy? Mitchell’s old neighbors?”

  “Yes,” I urge. “What you find out could make all the difference.”

  CHAPTER 27

  JACK

  TUESDAY, APRIL 13

  Mobile Prep’s nearly deserted when I flop down on the school’s front steps. I peel off my navy-blue backpack. The weight of it hits the cement with a thud. I pull at the neck of my uniform shirt, shading my eyes from the sun piercing through the oak leaves overhead. Afternoon heat rises from the circular driveway, paved smooth and black. Bees, fat with nectar, buzz around azalea blossoms so bright pink you have to squint.

  Behind me, the glass door opens. “Jack,” a voice asks. “Someone coming to get you?”

  “My dad’ll be right here.” I twist my neck to look at my teacher.

  “You’re sure? I’m happy to drop you off somewhere. But I have to leave now. My daughter has a doctor’s appointment at four thirty,” she says.

  “S’okay. Thank you,” I reply, forcing my mouth into a big smile.

  She pauses, nods with a frown, then disappears back inside.

  I turn back to the street, pull up my knees, and lean back against the brick of the building. Yesterday, Mo’s sister Molly took pity on me and dropped me by the apartment. Of course, Dad bawled me out for a half hour because he thought someone kidnapped me.

  I close my eyes and imagine I’m not here at all. Different time, different place. Namely the Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four. Now my biggest issues would be foiling Doctor Doom or Silver Surfer when they try and stir up trouble. Sure, this superhero family argues with each other, holds some grudges here and there, but they always end up as a team. That’s the kind of family I want.

  Mr. Fantastic is a scientist and absolute genius, but stretching out my arms and legs in all directions isn’t my idea of the best superpower ever. He’s married to the Invisible Woman, who can shield everyone with force fields and disappear. Their friend, The Thing, crushes everything in his path and survives almost anything, but—like him—I’m not sure I’d be happy looking into the mirror at a stone face every day.

  It’s the Human Torch who’s the coolest. He’s the Invisible Woman’s brother. Johnny Storm can burst into flames, absorb fire, and control any nearby blaze by thinking about it hard enough. Best of all, he can fly away.

  Which is what I’d do, if I could, when I see the Range Rover finally make its way to the empty car pool lane. Of course I can’t, so I take my time getting up from the curb. My dad’s on his cell phone and waves me into the truck. He’s animated and relaxed, oblivious that I might be worried he’s not coming at all. Dad’s mood has been rock-paper-scissors every day this week. Monday—pretty mad; Tuesday—okay; Wednesday—not so great. You never know what you’re gonna get.

  “Hey, how was your day?” Dad hangs up, claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “School good?” His fingers drum on the steering wheel.

  Here’s the truth: I’ll probably survive third grade, but I hate geography, miss my brother during the day, and worry about Ava.

  However, there’s no sense ruining the ride home. “Fine.”

  My dad waits a beat. “I’ve been thinking. You must need some of your things, more of those comic books, your ball caps, the Demarini bat I bought—you know, from the house.” He coughs. “Ava’s house.”

  It’s still my house too. Buildings race past, their doors and windows a blur of white and gray. Neighborhoods com
e next, and Dad slows down to make the turn. Older teenagers cut neat stripes of green on shiny riding lawn mowers. A few girls balance on training-wheel bikes. How many of them have to divide stuff up between houses, deciding what stays and what goes?

  “Why don’t you call her? I’m sure she’d be happy to drop off whatever you need.” He wrinkles his forehead, expecting an answer.

  “Um, sure.” We pull up to the apartment. Dad keeps the engine running and doesn’t apologize for dumping me off with the sitter. He hasn’t made it home before dinnertime yet. “I have to get back to work. Use Isabel’s phone. She won’t care.”

  I heave my backpack onto the seat and start to slide out. “Okay.”

  My dad puts the truck in park. “Having your stuff here is important, don’t you think? This is home now.”

  What he’s saying—what he’s trying to get across—is probably meant to help, but it only makes me feel like throwing up my lunch.

  “You’ll feel better,” he says. “Really.” Like he’s trying to convince me a big, fat tetanus shot won’t hurt. It’s moments like these, it’s the flicker of worry on his face that gets me. Like the parents on the news whose kids are missing. Sheesh. Enough already with the guilt.

  I slam the door and watch him pull away.

  “Sure,” I say and attempt a halfhearted wave at the Range Rover’s taillights.

  “Hola, Señor Jack.¿Cómo estás?” Isabel shouts above the music. She has the radio cranked to a Spanish-only station. It’s loud enough that the neighbors might complain, but Sam seems to like it.

  He’s bouncing up and down in the kitchen in time to the beat. Isabel’s juggling at least three frying pans full of smoky, savory food. She tosses chicken, peppers, and onions like an expert. Tortillas sizzle in another, refried beans in the third.

  “Estoy bien,” I reply, trying out some Spanish Isabel taught me. I hover over the sizzle and spit of the stove grease. “Who’s coming to dinner?”