Lies of the Heart

by Michelle Boyajian

  Nick pushed his quahogging skiff back into the water, head bent forward, arms straining; he didn’t ask for Katie’s help, she didn’t offer it. When he was knee-deep in water, he put a foot on the ladder, pulled himself up, and hopped on board. He turned back without smiling, held out his hand to her.

  She waded into the water, the cold, liquid circles climbing her legs, and placed an unsteady foot on the ladder. She reached for him, and he pulled her up and inside, held her elbow steady as she stepped beside him.

  —Careful of the quahog rake, he said, motioning with his chin at the seaweed-covered claws.

  He took the keys from her, moved to the dash, started the boat. The engine hummed to life, the low bubble of the engine vibrating in her heels and up into her ankles.

  —Hold on, he said, flicking his eyes to the water, so she moved beside him and held on to the metal bar right above the dash. Nick pointed the boat toward the lights of Rocky Point, and then the bow was lifting and they were gliding over the water in silence. Only then did she remember Jill and Amy, how she hadn’t tried to get word to them that she was leaving.

  As they cruised through the darkened water, Katie reviewed her night. Spent mostly like this, quiet and alone and lost inside her own thoughts—but she wasn’t alone right now, was she?

  —At least . . . at least there was the night, Katie said almost to herself. —I like listening to its sounds.

  Nick turned to look at her then, closely, like he knew her from somewhere but couldn’t place her.

  They slid through the bay without speaking for a few minutes, the cold water spraying their faces, the sound of the engine humming along with the water as the boat crashed through the crosscurrent that led back to the marina.

  —There’s this stretch of beach at Point Judith where that’s all you can hear, Nick said, finally breaking the silence. He kept his eyes on the water, and she shook her head in confusion. He turned to her again, not bothering to hide his impatience.—The night, he said.—That’s all there is.

  She only nodded, trying to match his cool demeanor, and he shrugged and turned his attention back to the water. Katie was afraid she had failed some sort of crucial test, even if she didn’t know what the test was; she scrambled for a recovery.

  She moved closer to Nick, her mind clamoring, and then she saw: his hands tensing on the wheel, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  It made her feel suddenly courageous, so she turned all the way around and closed the space between them. Allowed herself to openly admire him in the moonlight. The deeply tanned smoothness of his back; the broad, slightly freckled shoulders; the thick black hair full of salt and sand that curled up at the ends. Nick didn’t move, didn’t shift an inch, but his face said that he was aware of her attention—that he liked her eyes on his body.

  —I’d love to see it, she said.—That stretch of beach.

  He kept his eyes on the water, nodded slightly. Spun the wheel. The bright lights of the Jamestown Bridge winked at them in the distance; beyond them lay Narragansett Bay, and the jutting cliffs and dark beaches of Point Judith.

  He beached the skiff on a small block of sand enclosed between two towering cliffs. Nick’s dark eyes shifted shyly to the moonlit beach, an invitation, and Katie finally understood, for the first time in her life, the possibility of not always feeling alone in the world.

  4

  The hallway outside the courtroom is quiet today, now that Judge Hwang has ordered the television crews out of the building. Katie pretends to listen to Richard, she doesn’t turn away from him, but most of her attention is focused on the large group of people from the Warwick Center huddled about twenty-five feet from where she and Richard consult, just outside the courtroom doors. Every time Richard pauses or stops to shuffle through papers, she strains to catch a word or two of the group’s discussion.

  “It’s definitely a risk,” Richard says to her, “but Carly’s really the only viable witness.”

  Katie nods, tries to assemble the last clear memory she has of Carly and Nick together.—Has anyone seen my baseball glove? Nick had asked after the yearly picnic ended and everyone was engaged in the chaos of gathering things up.—I’ve lost it and—Oh! maybe it’s in here, he said, and then his hands were plunged deep into the mass of curls on Carly’s head, searching.—Okay, I think we’ve got someone’s keys in here, he called out, and Carly had laughed for five seconds, a miracle, before she punched Nick squarely in the gut.

  “If it backfires with this girl,” Richard says now, “we’ll have plenty of time to make up for it.”

  “Right.”

  Katie’s eyes skip back to the Warwick Center employees. She can easily imagine the words that are being shared in that group, the certainty in the speaker’s eyes. We are a team, we are a family, we are strong. Nothing and no one can change that. And she can see the nodding heads, too, the faces full of pride and confidence from these people who stand so close to her, who so diligently ignore her.

  “Katie?”

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, at the very least the jurors will see the emotion and horror of that day firsthand through this girl’s eyes. We have that going for us, even if she is technically for their side—Hey, you okay?”

  Richard’s eyes have a dull, plastic look of concern in them as he reaches out to touch her arm, and Katie flinches before she can catch herself. She is rewarded by the quick pulse of recognition in Richard’s face, the brief flicker of understanding that he’s aware of her opinion of him. He doesn’t miss a beat, though, just reaches down to retrieve his black briefcase from the floor between them. When he raises his head, his face is neutral, calm.

  He points the briefcase toward the courtroom door. “Ready to go in?” he says, pushing the door open for her.

  She heads inside, knowing that the Warwick Center group is ready to move into the courtroom as well, now that they don’t have to pass by her and make small, contrived signals of surprise and greeting.

  She can’t believe she’s forgotten to warn Richard about Carly, knows she should motion to him right now, whisper it in his ear. But as she leans forward, struggling to catch his eye, she sees Richard bowing his head at the defense table, suddenly trying his best to look concerned and grim as Carly makes her way up the aisle. So Katie leans back in the middle of the front row, folds her hands neatly in her lap. Feels the anticipation starting to build slowly, despite herself.

  Her attempt to keep her eyes trained on the front of the room falters for only a moment. A quick glance at the defense table confirms that Jerry has the same yellow tablet in front of him, the same confused, sleepy look in his blue eyes. It’s unnerving, the blank stare he gives Katie before she turns back to watch the bailiff swear Carly in—as if overnight Jerry has forgotten what Katie looks like. And then a second later, she understands: Donna must have instructed him to take out his contacts, but Katie’s not sure what Donna hopes to keep from his field of vision. Her? Carly? Everything?

  Judge Hwang, who has looked perpetually hungover and sullen since jury selection—dark purple circles under her eyes, a permanent scowl on her face—is actually smiling for once. She adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses, softens her normally raspy voice.

  “You understand what’s expected of you, miss?” she asks Carly, whose pudgy, four-foot-ten stature makes her look like a doll next to the bailiff.

  “Course I do,” Carly says in a nasally, clipped voice that sounds like she’s hearing-impaired—a speech pattern common with Down syndrome.

  Carly hikes up her long pink dress into both fists and settles into the chair. Her small, pinched face is full of determination, her normally wild curly brown hair pulled into some order by a large clip on the top of her head.

  “I’m ready, let’s go,” Carly announces, crossing her arms over her chest.

  There are nervous chuckles in the courtroom, especially in the rows behind the defense table.

  “Your witness,” Judge Hwang says to Richard.
>
  “Thank you,” Richard says. He rises, buttons his suit coat. “My name is Richard Bellamy, Carly,” he says, offering her an avuncular, “I’m sorry I have to do this” smile. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yah, I know,” she says with a little toss of her head.

  “Okay, good,” he says. “So then you know that I have to ask you some questions today, right? And that some of them might be really hard?”

  “Bring it on, buster, I don’t care,” Carly says, lifting her chin.

  Richard turns to the jury, eyes wide, as the laughter bubbles up around the courtroom. Judge Hwang glares, her gaze shifting left and right, and the laughter stops instantly. She squints at the back of the room, and Katie hears the whoosh of the door closing; most of the courtroom turns to see Dana sheepishly make her way down the aisle.

  “Sorry,” Dana whispers to no one in particular.

  Even though Katie has asked her not to come, she is suddenly relieved that her sister has ignored this request. There clearly isn’t any room for Dana in the front row, but she glides through anyway, squeezing in between Katie and Richard’s assistant, Kristen—a stylish young woman with a blanket of blond hair draped over one shoulder—who lets out an indignant huff, then a louder one when Dana ignores her. Dana leans into Katie’s shoulder with her own, keeps her eyes glued to the front. The air around Katie fills with the comforting smell of fruity perfume and cigarette smoke.

  “Hey,” Dana says out of the side of her mouth.

  “Hey.”

  They both watch Richard wink conspiratorially at Carly, his smile widening.

  “Okay, Carly, I can see that you’re a smart cookie,” he says, walking toward the witness stand.

  “Uh-oh, did you tell him not to—” Dana whispers, pulling her arms out of her coat, but Katie shakes her head quickly, pretends she doesn’t see her sister’s questioning look.

  “I know better than to try to fool you,” Richard says. “So I’ll just ask my questions, and then we’ll be all done, okay?” He pauses for a moment, doesn’t even blink at the suspicious look on Carly’s face. “Can you tell me how you know Jerry LaPlante?”

  Katie feels her sister’s hand move on top of her folded ones and squeeze twice. Their signal since Nick’s death: I’m right here.

  “Jerry is my good friend,” Carly says, forehead rippling.

  “Is he just your friend?”

  “No, ’cuz of we work together, too.”

  “Do you know him from anywhere else?” Richard’s voice is mischievous; he raises his eyebrows and smiles like he knows a secret.

  Carly’s face suddenly lights with curiosity, as if they’re playing a game. “Oh, dumb!” she bursts out, slapping her forehead, “I almost forgot. And he’s my roommate. Yup.”

  “So Jerry lives in the same house as you?”

  “Yah, in the same group home. He . . . he . . .” There is a fleeting look of confusion, a small shake of the head. “He did, I mean. Before.”

  “Before what, Carly?”

  Carly stares blankly at him.

  “Before what?” Richard repeats softly.

  “Before . . . before that day.”

  Carly lowers her chin, and her lips begin to move almost imperceptibly—counting her fingers, over and over, a relaxation technique Nick taught her shortly after her mother was killed in a car accident.

  “Carly?” Richard’s voice is soft, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, but I need you to tell me what you saw that day when you were playing basketball with your friend Nick.”

  Carly raises her head, and Katie sees that same look on her face, the one she used to see years ago, right after Carly moved into the small house on Dixon Street in Cranston, where Jerry already lived with two other clients. Katie and Nick would drop Jerry off on a Sunday night, and they would see Carly, her face filled with that same strange mixture of ferocious anger and helplessness as she sat on the wooden stool by the phone. Waiting for her sister Jennifer to call from Tacoma, even though, week after week, she never did. Vivian and Eric, the weekend house staff, would nod and whisper, Since ten this morning, or Eight hours and counting, and Katie would have to keep herself in check and remember that she couldn’t just reach out and hug this small, vulnerable girl with the fierce eyes. That she had to somehow earn her trust first.

  Richard sees this look, sees Carly’s eyes searching and then fastening in on the defense table, so he shifts slightly, blocking her view of Jerry before he speaks.

  “I want you to just take your time now, okay?” Richard says, but his voice has assumed a slow, encouraging tone, as if Carly were a small child, or worse, an idiot. It’s his first mistake, and Katie is actually glad for it, glad when she sees Carly lean forward and glare at him, her hands coming up to rest on the banister like she’s trying to gain leverage to jump over.

  Richard instantly sees his mistake—he lowers his head apologetically, scratches at the back of his head in discomfort. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, shakes his lowered head. I’m such a jerk, his whole body says, and Katie has to admit it’s perfect. When he lifts his head and sighs, Carly squints suspiciously at him, but the tension begins to leave her body.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Richard says in the respectful tone he usually reserves for Judge Hwang. He walks over to the banister, and before Judge Hwang can object—he hasn’t asked to approach—he reaches over to Carly as if he will give her a hand an apologetic pat.

  But it’s mistake number two.

  Katie leans forward, holds her breath, watches his hand snake over to the banister—it happens in slow motion for Katie, who stays perfectly still and watches the distance disappear between the two hands, the anticipation rising. Richard’s hand finds its mark, lands confidently on top of Carly’s little one.

  “Oh, shit,” Katie hears Dana say beside her, just before Carly jumps up and thrusts her finger at Richard.

  “False touch, false touch!” Carly screams, and there is a sudden, almost inaudible popping sound, and the hair clip is flying up and over, and Carly’s curls are bouncing into life, springing out in every direction. Richard falters, both hands come up, and he takes a shocked step back.

  “False touch!” Carly screams again, pointing, her face flushing a deep red. She struggles for a moment—it looks like she’s trying to rip off the top half of her dress—but then she yanks a long string necklace out from underneath the top and inserts the end of it into her mouth.

  The courtroom fills with the piercing sound of Carly blowing her emergency whistle, and then there is complete chaos. The bailiffs rush forward, the court reporter half rises out of her chair, and the entire courtroom erupts, Judge Hwang pounding her gavel and saying, “Miss, miss!” The court officer, a heavy, balding man, rushes back and forth, his hands bouncing up and down to signal quiet.

  Jerry is standing, too, his fleshy lower lip hanging in confusion, his body slanted forward over the defense table. Donna grabs at his arm, pulling, and other arms extend forward from the front row of the courtroom audience to rest on Jerry’s large shoulders. They are trying to get him to sit.

  Carly points at Richard with both hands now, arms straight out in front of her and bouncing up and down as she jumps, still blowing her whistle. Richard looks at Judge Hwang and then at Carly, then back at Judge Hwang. The Warwick Center employees, and people with alarmed, serious faces—probably from the several advocacy groups that are monitoring this case—rise and move forward, offering advice.

  “Why don’t we try to stay calm—”

  “Maybe if we could just give her—”

  “If everyone could please—”

  Judge Hwang bangs the gavel even louder, but for once no one is looking at her.

  For the first time since forever, Katie feels the laughter building inside, feels it starting deep in her belly and moving upward. She covers her face with both hands, pretends to go into a spasm of coughing.

  “Oh, Katie,” she hears Dana say beside her in a s
ad voice, but Katie doesn’t care, just lets the luxurious bubbling of laughter rise up within her.

  And then, just like that, as the laughter gains momentum in her body, she remembers that she has forgotten, and Nick returns.

  Katie’s eyes slide around the room now: all of it, all this chaos, because of Nick. Because Nick is gone. She turns to Jerry, who is squinting in her direction, and then he is back, too, inside Katie and Nick’s story again, even before they met him.

  But there is this one satisfaction, something small to hold on to in the midst of all the confused voices and the relentless banging of the gavel: I didn’t give you all of us, Jerry. I kept most of this part of the story all for myself.

  5

  Katie’s class that summer was an elective, a boring survey course of films from the sixties, taught by a short, stocky man who spoke in monotone, his sentences drifting off at the ends. His voice lulled Katie back to her weekends with Nick, and when her professor shut off the lights and turned on the projector, the effect was complete. In the darkness she felt Nick’s fingers on her again, pulling at her skin, caressing her neck, his tongue trailing slowly from her breasts to her pelvis. Sitting there in the back row, the hum of the projector in her ear, Katie could actually feel his elbows gently urging her legs apart, the heat of his breath on the inside of her thigh. Sometimes she hid her face in her arms, sure that even in the dim light another student would turn and see the telling glow on her cheeks; other times she had to squeeze her hands between her knees to keep them still, to keep her fingers from gingerly touching places where Nick’s hands or lips had traveled.