—Go help Dad, honey, Katie told him.—I can handle Jerry. Nick still barely talked to her father, was awkward around him in small ways that were probably obvious only to Katie, but the second her father needed anything Nick would spring into action like this.
—We’ll be right back, Nick said quietly to Katie.
—Jerry’ll be fine with me, Katie assured him.
She didn’t miss the passing look of annoyance on Nick’s face as he nodded and turned to the back door.—Ready, Michael?
At least an hour, plenty of time. As soon as Michael pulled out of the driveway, Katie turned to Dana.
—Do you have a pair of shoes I can wear home? she whispered.
—What’s wrong with the shoes you have on? Dana asked, eyeing Katie’s black pumps.
—Shhhhh. Nothing. Do you?
—Yeah, but why?
—You’ll see. And to Jerry:—We’ll be right back, Jer. I have to change my shoes.
Jerry’s head jerked up, and he looked at Katie. Stole a quick look at Dana.
—Two seconds, okay, pal?
—Oh. Okay.
Jerry’s pencil stayed suspended over the paper.
Dana and Katie crouched by the back door of Dana’s house, peering through the window and onto the porch where Jerry sat on a bench with Katie’s shoes: one by his side, the other held up at eye level so he could inspect it from every angle. His mouth hung open and he squinted fiercely, turning the shoe from side to side.
—It’s a fetish, right? Katie whispered.
—Definitely, Dana said, mesmerized.
Her sister lit a cigarette, her first since they’d brought Jerry over. Nick still wouldn’t divulge Jerry’s specific history to her, but there were rules that hinted at his past abuse: no smoking around him, no loud noises or crowds during thunderstorms, no ironing with Jerry in the same room, and—after a disastrous thirty-eighth-birthday party for Jerry two weeks earlier at their apartment—no lit candles.
—How long? Dana asked. She blew out a stream of smoke, and they both ducked as Jerry snuck a look at the house. He turned back, head lowered.
—A couple of weeks, about an hour after the birthday-party episode. Nick was writing up an incident report on the computer in the bedroom, and Jerry asked me if I was done with an old pair by the door. Katie shrugged.—I just gave them to him. He took them into the bathroom.
They couldn’t see the floor of the porch, but they both understood by Jerry’s movements and lowered head: he was trying on Katie’s shoes now. His mouth formed silent words, as if he were struggling to coax his large feet into the shoes.
—Did he talk to you about it? Dana said.
—No. He was really awkward and embarrassed when he asked, but afterward he was relaxed, and it was like it never happened.
—Any more violent episodes?
—No, just those two. Otherwise he’s following Nick around like a puppy, and he’s working really hard in their sessions. And he’s so sweet to me, Dana, he’s like a little kid sometimes.
Dana kept her eyes trained on the window.—Makes sense. He feels safe with you and Nick. You’ve become parental figures, probably the first positive ones in his life. His past is finally coming out, because he knows he’s safe.
—That’s what Patricia said to Dottie. Dottie told me a few days ago that Patricia thinks the incidents were actually good.
Out on the porch, Jerry’s lips moved slowly, his plump face deathly serious. He held one shoe up with both hands now, a black pump with strappy sides and a pointy heel.
—But I haven’t told anyone about this, Katie said.—I don’t know why.
—You have to, Dana said, turning quickly to her.—I mean, it clearly isn’t hurting anyone right now, but his social worker needs to know, given his behavior lately.
—Maybe they’re not related.
—Everything’s related, Katie. Believe me.
—But telling someone might break his trust with me—
—Wow, Dana said, her voice soft with shock: Jerry’s hand was wrapped around the side of the shoe. He pulled hard, teeth clenched with effort, ripping at the leather. With a low grunt, he finally tore it loose from its backing
—Why does he do it? Katie asked. And then more quietly:—It’s sexual, isn’t it?
—Probably. Yes. Maybe not this part, Dana said, motioning to the window with her chin.—But trying them on? Yes. The sexual part doesn’t have to be directed toward a person, though. It doesn’t mean he has sexual feelings toward you. Only that he trusts you.
They watched Jerry’s fist close around the heel. He pulled, forehead scrunched up, and tried to break it off.
—He probably doesn’t even know why he wants to do it. It’s probably an unconscious thing that gives him relief.
—You mean he—Katie stopped, embarrassed.
Dana shook her head, blew out a stream of smoke.—No, he doesn’t necessarily ejaculate or anything like that. But he feels the need, has to act it out, and it probably releases tension.
Jerry held the broken heel in his palm now, staring at it, lips mumbling quickly.
—I take it he’s been abused? Dana asked.
Katie shrugged.—His history is confidential. Some of the staff have mentioned bits here and there about his mother abusing him, but I’m not allowed to read his file.
Jerry had the other shoe in his hand, both strappy sides in his fists, pulling in opposite directions. His face turned a deep maroon, both eyes locked on the shoe.
Dana’s eyes narrowed as she watched.—I tell my clients who have fetishes that it’s typically associated with someone they were close to in childhood, even if that person was abusive. Acting it out as an adult is equated with love and being needed.
Over on the bench, Jerry examined one of the broken straps in his hand, talking to himself.
—But this is a little out of my league, Kate. With his past trauma and his handicap, it takes on a very complicated nature. It’s not necessarily “bad,” but if it starts to affect his overall daily functioning . . .
—It hasn’t, Katie said firmly.
—And maybe it never will. But you never know.
—I wonder if a part of destroying them might be that he’s punishing the shoes? Like they’re bad and maybe a kind of stand-in for his mother?
—Definitely a possibility. A good one. Dana stubbed out her cigarette. —But I told you, it’s complicated. There’s this element of sexuality and destruction that people who work with him should know about. Including Nick.
—You can’t mention this to him, okay? He gets angry when I try to discuss Jerry’s past.
—Sure . . . oops, I think he’s done.
Jerry rose from the bench, and Dana jumped up, waving the cigarette smoke away. She spritzed the air, scooted to the other side of the kitchen.
Jerry knocked softly on the door, and Katie opened it, smiling.
—Hey, Jerry. All set?
He nodded, avoided her eyes.—You tell Dana? he whispered.
—No, of course not.
—Oh. He gazed at his hands.
—Jerry? It’s okay.
—Oh.
—It’s private, and you aren’t doing anything wrong.
He finally met her eyes.—It bad, Kay-tee? he whispered.—I bad?
—No, buddy. Of course not.
—You not tell? You please not tell no one?
She watched the torment playing on his face, hesitated for only a second.—No, she said quietly.—No, I won’t tell anyone.
—Swear?
—Cross my heart. You can trust me.
—You? he whispered, staring. Sure?
She didn’t hesitate this time.—One hundred percent sure. I promise, Jerry.
He finally smiled.—You are my good friend, Kay-tee, he said, enunciating carefully. His eyes skipped back to the bench.
—Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them, she said.
Jerry nodded, pushed past Katie into the house.
> Katie walked to the bench, picked up her destroyed shoes, and moved quickly to the garbage can out back. Buried them deep at the bottom.
That night they drove Jerry back to their apartment for his first overnight. As soon as they stepped inside, he became quiet, hugging his backpack to his chest and looking around the apartment.
—You’ll sleep on the couch this time, Nick told him.—But we’ll be moving very soon. And you know what? I think there’s a spare bedroom at the new house with your name all over it.
—My name? On walls? Uh-oh.
—No—no, it’s just an expression, Nick said, leading Jerry to the living room.
—You’ll sleep right here, okay? And we’ll leave all the lights on.
—Oh.
Katie dropped a pillow and a blanket on the couch.—It means when we move into the new house, you’ll have your own room there, Jer. And you can fill it with all your own stuff.
His eyes opened wide.—Real?
—Yes, Katie said, turning to Nick with a smile. But he was staring at Jerry’s hand, reaching for Katie’s.
—Okay, Jerry, Nick said, pulling his backpack out of the one arm that still held it close.—Let’s get your pj’s out, and then we’ll get you set up on the couch.
In the middle of the night Katie woke with a start. She turned on her side, checked on Nick: snoring loudly, one arm thrown across his face, elbow pointing at the ceiling.
—You’re snoring again, she grumbled, pushing at him.—Roll over.
He mumbled, turned onto his side. She closed her eyes, half asleep, when she heard the sound again. But it wasn’t Nick snoring. And then she remembered—Jerry. Jerry was in their living room. And he was moaning. A low, feral sound, like a trapped animal.
Katie sat up to prod Nick awake, then stopped herself. All those meetings about Jerry’s violent behavior, all behind closed doors. I should know more, Katie said to Nick more than once. I’m a part of this, too. And Nick, looking in that slightly haughty way at her across the table. I’ve told you already, it’s confidential.
Jerry lay like an ironing board on the couch, arms by his sides, the pillow over his face. The living room was bright from the overhead lights and a lamp right beside him on the end table.
—Jerry? You okay?
He stopped moaning.
—Jerry? It’s Katie. What’s wrong?
—It dark.
—Well, let’s take that off your face.
—Oh.
She sat at the edge of the couch, pulled off the pillow. His light blue eyes were stretched wide.
—Do you want me to stay for a while?
He nodded.
—Here, sit up.
He obeyed, and Katie placed the pillow behind his head. She pushed him back against it gently.
—Were you afraid?
—I am.
—Nothing will hurt you here. And Nick and I are just in the next room.
He nodded doubtfully.
—Do you want to read? She leaned over to the side of the couch, grabbed a book out of his backpack. Held up his “best”: If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
Jerry shook his head.
—How about some water?
—I not dirsty.
Jerry stared at her, his lips starting to move in that familiar way, talking without sound.
—What is it, Jer? You can tell me.
—Kay?
—Ka-tie, she corrected without thinking.
—Kay-tee?
—What is it, buddy?
He practiced the words first again, but this time it was a little different: eyes moving back and forth, as if he could actually see the words, but had no idea what they meant. As if the words were in a language he didn’t understand.
—You . . . you like to look at me? he said at last.
—Of course, you handsome guy, she teased lightly, and pulled the covers up to his chin.—And that was a great sentence, by the way.
He didn’t smile.—My mom don’t. She say I sin before me.
—Sin before you?
His face turned urgent, eyes suddenly round with fear.—Dat me, Kay-tee. Sin.
—No, no, you’re not sin, honey. You’re—you’re a gift, Jerry. Absolutely the opposite of sin.
—Uh-huh. My mom say.
—Then she was wrong. I know it.
Jerry turned away, faced the back of the couch. He curled his huge body up into a ball, knees touching his chest.
—Jerry?
—My fadder come, he said in a low whisper, a voice that reminded Katie of campfires and ghost stories.—He come and see Mom. God got mad. Sin is me. His body started shaking, and he curled his fists and mashed them into his face.
Shit. But no—she could handle this.
—Your father and mother made you, and God got mad?
He nodded at the back of the couch.—Sex, came his terrified whisper.
—Do you know what that is, Jerry? Sex?
—Someding too bad.
Katie thought about the shoes then, about her role now in the entire hazy mess that was Jerry’s past.
—Jerry, am I your good friend?
—You?
—Yeah, me.
He turned his face toward her.—You, Kay-tee?
—Yeah.
He turned over.—You, he finally said, face crumpling with a sad-happiness she had never seen.—You da bestest in da world.
Katie’s heart swelled, and it came to her, quickly: like a son—this troubled, enormous man was like a son to her. She put her hand on his shoulder.
—Then listen to me, okay? I will never, ever be mean to you. Ever, she said.—Not like your mom. This last sentence tentative, more like a question.
He nodded, started gulping air.—She hurt.
Katie rubbed his shoulder gently.—I thought so, and that makes me so sad. You didn’t deserve to hurt.
He shook his head, sat up suddenly, his fists pushed into his chest. His face was too close to Katie’s, and she forced herself to stay seated, to keep her hand on him.
—Yes, Kay, I do. Tears springing in his eyes.—God tell her. He want it.
—No, Jerry, you did not deserve it. God couldn’t want that. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
—He mad for me. At night He come.
Jerry raised a fist, and Katie held her breath—but he only wiped his knuckles against his wet face.
—God is not going to come, and He isn’t mad at you.
—Is. He make my fadder go to hell because of me.
—No, Jerry, you haven’t done anything wrong—
—Me, Kay! he said, and threw his body into hers, almost knocking her off the couch.—I wrong! Sobbing now, clutching Katie, his body racked with tremors.
She wrapped her arms around him, held him tight. Forever, it seemed, she held on tight.
After he finally fell asleep, she tiptoed into the bedroom, checked on Nick: on his back, again, both arms slung over his face now. She walked into the kitchen, to the small table by the door where Nick kept his briefcase. One quick look confirmed that Jerry was still asleep, too, his arms hugging the extra pillow Katie had slipped there to replace her body.
She clicked the briefcase open. The sound, amplified in the quiet apartment, made her freeze for a full ten seconds.
She looked off toward the bedroom door. Nothing, just soft snoring. Katie slid her hand inside.
—Ow.
She popped her finger into her mouth—a paper cut from a piece of paper sticking out of a book. She eased it from the briefcase with her other hand. Not a thick textbook on speech-language therapy as she expected, but the Bible; not a piece of paper either, but one of a dozen yellow Post-its poking out.
She sucked at the thin line of blood on her index finger, flipped to one. In the Old Testament, from Nahum, chapter 1, Nick had underlined parts of Scripture in verses 2, 3, and 6. The Lord is furious . . . will take vengeance . . . will not at all acquit the wicked: the Lord hath his way in the whirlwind and in th
e storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet . . . his fury is poured out like fire . . .
She flipped to another one, also from the Old Testament, Psalm 68. underlined in verses 2 and 5: As wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God . . . A father of the fatherless. Katie read it again, thinking of birthday cake and candles.
And another, Psalm 51:5. I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.
And still another, Psalm 51:3. For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.
She heard Jerry’s words again: Sin before me.
—Holy shit.
She slept in the next morning, found Nick’s note taped to the door. Taking Jerry to breakfast. Call you later.
She tried Nick’s cell phone, left a quick message, jumped in the shower. Checked the answering machine and her cell after she was dressed and done drying her hair, but there was only one message, a return call from an old classmate who worked at PBS in Boston. Katie had called him over a month ago, and she listened to his apology now, his sudden awkwardness.—Um, so, sure, I guess so, Katie. I might be able to take a look at your work at some point, but I’m pretty busy over here. He paused. —Do you think . . . could you just remind me who you are again?
She looked around the apartment, hands on hips. She folded Jerry’s blanket and plumped the pillows, stored them back in the linen closet. She vacuumed all the rooms, dusted every surface in the apartment, used a sponge to clean out the glass shelves and the rounded egg cups in the refrigerator. In the bathroom she scrubbed the sink and the tub with Clorox, then got down on her hands and knees to clean around the toilet with a Brillo pad. She washed their bedding, organized their CDs and DVDs alphabetically, watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie while she paid the bills. By two o’clock she had called Nick’s cell phone a half dozen times, had left as many messages. Where are you guys? Is everything okay? But the phone never rang.
By four o’clock she was sitting at the desk cramped up against a wall in their bedroom, staring at the computer; the cursor winked at her, waiting. She didn’t think Jerry would mention their conversation last night with Nick, but what if he did? She imagined Nick’s reaction, how their conversation would most certainly degenerate, within minutes, to his scornful, explosive observations about Katie’s intelligence, her body. She typed her name onto the computer, stared blankly at it.
Lies of the Heart Page 24
