Bang.
Later she’s waiting in Richard’s office, the three reels of Jerry’s footage on her lap. For once Richard ignores her completely, his pen blazing across his notepad. The ticking of the small clock on his desk is like a pulse inside Katie’s head—the seconds slowly clicking away, one after the other, before she hands Jerry’s past off to a complete stranger. Outside the window the darkness is punctuated with the lights of downtown Providence, little stars blinking into life in the city’s skyline.
They’re waiting for the agreed-upon third party to pick up the reels, to do whatever it is they’ll do with the moments Katie has filmed from Jerry’s life. Over the weekend, Richard has explained to Katie, they will watch the footage from beginning to end—Donna Treadmont, Judge Hwang, Richard, and other “involved parties”—and they will decide among themselves what the jurors will see in court. For now it’s all still cloudy to Katie: what moments Donna will fight for, which ones have the potential to deflate Jerry’s rage on the screen. The only thing Katie really understands at this point is that the jurors will not be subjected to over seven hours of footage, that strangers will decide the relevant moments of Jerry’s life, and that his life can and will be edited for time and content by a roomful of professionals.
“Katie?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you needed anything. Water?”
“I’m okay.”
Richard checks his watch. “He should have been here by now. Look, why don’t you just leave them with me. I told you, you don’t have to wait.”
“I don’t mind.”
“All we’re going to do is hand them over to this guy.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to verify you’re the filmmaker until we get into court. He’s just picking them up.”
“I know that.”
“So—”
“I’ll wait,” she says, and pulls the reels closer.
Katie checks the bulb in her flatbed, snaps on a reel of film, and toggles forward through black space until Sarah and Arthur emerge on the thirteen-inch monitor stationed above it; they stand in front of their couch, facing each other and preparing for a new interview. Katie freezes the frame just as Sarah reaches up to brush lint off Arthur’s shirt—Arthur’s eyes stay fixed on the fingers resting flat against his chest, where Sarah’s eyes also rest. It’s the first time Katie has seen them on such a small screen, yet she can make out every detail of their features: the fine lines around their eyes; the trace of a smile at the corners of Arthur’s lips as he gazes at his wife’s hand; the small, fussy crease of skin on the bridge of Sarah’s nose as she frets over her husband’s appearance.
Katie toggles forward until she sees Arthur and Sarah on the couch, their hands folded in their laps and ready; she cues up the sound, listens to the casual banter between husband and wife. Back when Katie started this project, she quickly realized how important it was to get the elderly couple on track, to move them along by helping them recall where they left off the last time she visited their home. Otherwise, right at the beginning of filming, they would interrupt themselves and chew up valuable minutes to quiz Katie about her own life, her relationship with Nick. To appease them, she would chat with Sarah and Arthur for fifteen minutes or so before she turned her camera on, though even then, after she tried to get them on track, their questions still spilled over at times.
Katie digs through a large cardboard box and listens to her own mild prodding with the couple: Last time you told me about some changes in the house you both worked in? Within a few minutes, the couple begin to describe the change of command in the house, how the old general—transferred to a new camp—was replaced by a much younger one.
“He is a good man, Nick? A good husband to you?” Sarah suddenly asks, interrupting Arthur’s harsh assessment of this new general.
Katie looks up from the box and sees the concern and curiosity playing across Sarah’s wrinkled features. Arthur turns his eyes in Katie’s direction, too, waiting for her answer.
Yes, Katie answers from behind the camera. He’s a wonderful man, a great husband. You were saying that this new general was much younger?
Katie pushes the box aside, rolls her chair to the flatbed and toggles back.
“He is a good man, Nick? A good husband to you?”
She watches Sarah and Arthur closely. How did she miss this? This look of doubt that passes between the couple right after Katie answers? And then Arthur, worrying a crease in his pants.
He’s a wonderful man, a great husband. You were saying . . .
Katie sighs. She doesn’t have time for this now. Maybe when their film is finally finished, she’ll review these moments alone, figure out what all these little gestures mean, but for now she toggles forward until she sees a familiar break in the film. Sarah and Arthur reappear, bodies close.
“It was on Sundays,” Arthur says into the camera, “when the new general attended church with his wife. Do you remember, Sarah?” Arthur asks softly, his hand cupping her shoulder, and Sarah turns to stare blankly at him for a moment before she responds.
“Arthur?”
“The stories?” he says gently. “On Sundays?”
Her slow, demure smile is Arthur’s answer.
“He should have written books, this man,” Sarah says. “The things he would come up with, like fairy tales.”
“Oh, Sarah,” Katie says sadly, and Jack looks up from the center of the beanbag chair, where he is curled up in a ball. He wags his tail, tucks his head back into his paws.
Can you give me an example? Katie asks from behind the camera.
Arthur describes the place where they would meet on Sundays—Arthur sitting on one side of the wall in the hallway outside the kitchen, Sarah crouched close to the corner on her side. There, for ten minutes every Sunday, Arthur and Sarah would go on their “dates,” whispering back and forth while the kitchen supervisor, Adele, smoked cigarettes just outside the kitchen door.
“Sometimes we would have a long dinner together,” Arthur says, “and we would talk about happy things, serious things. I would describe our children, how smart they were in school.”
Sarah is nodding. “Arthur said he wanted ten children. And he wanted them all to have my eyes.”
Arthur watches her, lowers his voice. “We wanted a son first, a strong man. We told each other what he would do one day so that nothing like this could ever happen again. You see, we were proud of this boy before he was even born.”
And are you proud of your son now?
Sarah smiles remotely, her attention focused on a space above the camera.
“Always,” Arthur says, turning away from Sarah. “He is a clever man, just what we expected.” He adds in a soft voice, an afterthought: “And our Ben, he has his mother’s eyes.”
Sarah’s wrinkled face has glazed over, lost in the past.
“One Sunday,” Arthur says in a loud voice, “we went on a trip together, to Venice—”
Katie pauses the film, rises. Walks slowly to the shelves, eyes the reels with a sinking heart. She picks up a new canister, brushes the dust off the lid with one finger. She hasn’t revisited this footage once since filming it, unsure how to work it in with the romantic scenarios Arthur and his wife exchanged to make their weeks, their months, pass more quickly. Hoping she could ignore it completely, work her way around it. But it’s a part of their story, too. An important part, Sarah says on this reel, despite Arthur’s resistance. But Sarah was right. Katie knows that now.
“That’s the problem with fairy tales, Sarah,” Katie murmurs, pressing the canister to her chest.
10
Jerry’s transformation had an almost storybook quality to it, the kind Katie was used to seeing in movies from her childhood. On their visits now, he would buddy around with Nick and tease back and forth with both of them, and he was finally working hard in his speech-therapy sessions. He was starting to make friends in the workshop, too, talking with the clients
on either side of him as he worked steadily to wrap pipe cleaners with rubber bands or pack pencils into boxes. In the cafeteria Jerry started helping the workers hand out the midmorning snack, his face beaming with embarrassed pride as he placed a yogurt cup or a banana on a client’s tray. When Katie visited and found Nick at the rec center, shooting hoops between sessions, it was only a matter of time before Jerry burst in.—You play me, Nick? he’d say, out of breath as if he’d raced all the way from the work building. And then his eyes would move to Katie, who sat in one of the folding chairs on the sidelines.—Oh! You!
Sometimes Katie had to remind herself that this was the same man who had been so terrified of Nick that he had to cajole his own body to step into the same room with him; the same man who had to be prompted word for word by Patricia to communicate with anyone. Now, Jerry had no problems speaking to Nick, no hesitations when he looked at Katie and said,—It May, Kay-tee. You tell it again? And Katie would smile and think of chance meetings with a small shiver.
She loved visiting the center even more now—so many of the staff members eager to talk to her about Jerry, cornering her in the hallways or in the workshop, or pulling her into the employee kitchen to share their news about his progress.
—I’m so glad you’re here, Katie, listen to this—
—I was hoping you’d stop by! You aren’t going to believe this—
And then Dottie Halverson or Marty or Eddie Rodriguez would grab her hand or wrap an arm around her shoulder, and lead her to a private space usually reserved for the employees.
Sometimes, when Katie was at home alone and reviewing footage of her current documentary in the darkness of her living room, she’d find her attention wandering, dreaming of Jerry—of the way he impulsively grabbed at her hand on their visits, or how he looked at her at times, like she was the most important person in the room. Or she’d recall how happy the employees seemed when she arrived at the center, how eager they were to swap stories with her, and within minutes she was in her car and on her way.
One afternoon Katie and Nick stood at the entrance to the workshop, watching Marty give Jerry a quick hug for a job well done. For just a beat, Jerry rested his head on the elderly man’s shoulder, and then he was squirming out of Marty’s arms and heading back to his place on the bench. Patricia walked up behind them just in time to see Jerry sit down and peek over his shoulder at Marty with a shy smile.
—It’s amazing, Nick, Patricia said quietly.—I never imagined that it would happen so rapidly. All your hard work and effort has really paid off.
Katie waited for Nick to mention something about her influence in Jerry’s life, but Nick kept his glance on Jerry.
—He’s working so hard, Nick said modestly, and Patricia rested her hand on his shoulder.
—Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.
Jerry came to their apartment for lunch for the first time, looking around their home with worried, questioning eyes.
—You okay, buddy? Nick asked, and Jerry nodded, suddenly shy.
He waited until they had all finished their tuna melts and chips, until Nick had left to get them a movie, and then he stood from the table where he was drawing quietly. Handed an entire folder of pictures over to Katie. She opened the folder, turned the pages slowly: different scenes of their visits to restaurants, or parks, or out on the boat, but all with one recurring image—three stick people holding stick hands and smiling, the middle stick figure towering over the other two. Connecting them.
—Beautiful, Jerry. I love them all. So will Nick.
—Not for here, Jerry said, his face grave for the first time in weeks. —For dat new one.
—Our new house?
He nodded, wouldn’t meet her eyes.
—We’re moving soon, but you know you’ll get to visit us there all the time, too, right?
He looked right at her then.—True?
—So true, she told him, laughing at the relief in his face, at the awkward way he grabbed her into a hug. She patted his back.—You aren’t getting rid of us that easy, buddy.
—Love Kay-tee, he whispered inside her arms.—Love her.
The first time it happened was at the indoor playland at McDonald’s in Cranston. The rain hadn’t stopped for days, and it pounded the roof and swept across the windows, rattling their tall frames. In the parking lot, young trees bent over in half, their tender, exhausted leaves ripped off by the relentless wind. Mothers who had herded their fidgety children inside sat together in clumps, sipping coffee. Their kids screamed to each other from the bin of bouncing balls up to the twisting, colorful tubes, and slid around the floor in their socks in a whirling blur.
That afternoon Katie’s gaze was fixed on the pile of little shoes and sneakers by the pink entrance tube, thinking how odd it looked to see Jerry’s size-twelve-and-a-half hiking boots in the middle of the mess, when a long branch from one of the trees outside broke loose and slammed into a window. The leaves were fanned out and stuck to the glass, and for a moment they looked like fingers, and the branch like a long, skeletal arm—a huge hand holding the building in place. Katie saw Jerry standing in the middle of the children, staring at the branch. His fingers gripping the black netting on the ladder to the slide.
At first Katie thought he was simply caught up in the netting and was trying to untangle his hands. But then his face turned puffy and red, his fists curled up, and she understood: he was trying to tear it off.
She grabbed Nick’s arm.—Look, she whispered.
Jerry’s socked foot punted out a plastic window on a tube filled with children—their terrified screams echoed inside the room. Mothers were on their feet in seconds, bolting into action. Katie watched Jerry’s arms swinging through the air, his fists full of black netting.
—Someone stop him! a mother cried, and then Nick was by his side, talking in his ear, his hands wrapped around Jerry’s fists. Ignoring the mothers who stood in a mass now, watching, their arms protectively hugging their small children.
—Kaaaaaaaay! Jerry howled.
He ripped himself out of Nick’s grasp, came charging at Katie, the tears streaming down his face. She couldn’t move. Nick was right behind him, but Jerry reached her first; he hurled himself into her arms and Katie teetered for a few seconds on her high heels. They crashed to the floor, Jerry’s arms fastening around her so tightly that she had to fight for breath.
For a few seconds, there was only Jerry’s loud sobbing, the pain on the side of her face where it lay on the sticky floor, her thigh throbbing where it had knocked into the corner of the plastic picnic table on her way down. One of her shoes lay beside her head, twinkling in the light.
Nick stood over them, speechless.
—It’s okay, Jerry. You’re okay, she said, untangling an arm to pat his back.
After a few minutes, they guided him to a sitting position, one of his arms still locked around Katie.
—What’s wrong, buddy? she asked, and then his other arm closed around her. She listened to his wails, his incoherent babbling—a string of muddled noises and words that sounded like he was talking in tongues.
—What’s he saying? Katie whispered to Nick, who crouched beside them.
But Nick couldn’t answer, just watched Jerry inside her arms, a helpless look on his face.
They drove a silent Jerry back to the group home, where Patricia and his social worker waited. Patricia ushered Jerry inside, and he followed obediently, meekly, his lips moving in silent conversation with himself.
After they described the incident to the social worker—a young, mousy woman who nodded too much, unable to keep the confusion from her face—they waited in their car for the storm to slow down before heading home. The rain and wind rocked the car right to left, the windshield wipers utterly ineffectual: it looked like someone was pouring bucketfuls of water from the roof of their car.
—It was Scripture, Nick said at last, breaking a long silence.
—What?
—What Jer
ry was saying, Nick said.—While you were holding him. “The Lord hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm.” It’s Scripture.
—How do you know?
Nick kept his eyes on the windshield.—There are things in his file. I’ve been doing some research.
—This happened before?
—Once. Not the violence, just him babbling Scripture during one of our sessions.
—Why would he do that?
Nick shrugged.—Part of his history catching up, I guess.
—But his social worker just said he’s never been violent.
Nick shrugged again, fiddled with the keys hanging from the ignition.
—Some of the staff mentioned that his mother abused him, Katie prodded.—But I don’t understand the religious part.
—You know I can’t get into that. It’s confidential.
—It’s me, Nick.
—Look, Katie, there’s this, Nick said, holding his hand up toward the house.—Picking Jerry up for these visits, and taking him out, helping him socialize and have fun. And then there’s the professional side. My side.
—What just happened was fun? she said.—He wanted me back there. He needed me.
—I know, Nick said, fixing his gaze on her.—I know he did.
Michael and Nick wouldn’t be long—probably only an hour or so to help Katie’s father pick up his new leather recliner and let his son-in-laws haul it into the house.
—I can’t see paying eighty-five dollars for delivery when I have two strong son-in-laws! he had yelled over the phone to Dana. Loud enough so they all heard, even though they were spread out in Dana and Michael’s huge kitchen.
It was the first time they’d brought Jerry to Dana and Michael’s house, and it was clear that Michael was hesitant to leave his wife alone with him. But Nick was already grabbing the keys of Michael’s Jeep and turning to check on Jerry, who sat at the table drawing, his tongue poking out in concentration.
Lies of the Heart Page 23
