Lies of the Heart

by Michelle Boyajian

  —Very, very sure. This family is going to have to help each other out. We’re all going to have to pitch in, and you’re not getting out of it.

  Jerry’s eyes moved back and forth across the photo.—Like a brudah, Kay-tee?

  —Of course, Jerry. You’ll be like a big brother.

  —You and Nick love us both.

  —We’ll love both of you, yes.

  Katie’s hand came up to her stomach, hoping that this would be the month they’d find out she was finally pregnant. Seven months and counting, but she wasn’t worried. Not yet.

  —Kay-tee? he said quietly, looking away.—You have some for me?

  It had become a Saturday-morning routine, ever since they told him about the baby. Katie sneaking off to the bedroom, coming back with the pair of shoes. Bringing Jerry a pair of scissors now, too, or a screwdriver—something sharp to help with the destruction. The guilt rose again, the same as every Saturday morning. How to address this after so much time had passed? And what would she say? But each time she told herself she couldn’t lose his trust, and she was assured each time, too, that keeping it to herself was the right thing. Minutes later Jerry would be stretched out on their blue sofa, giggling over cartoons.

  —Okay, Jerry. But let’s wait until Nick is done and goes downstairs, okay?

  He nodded, mouth moving with unspoken words.

  When they’d first started trying the summer before, and the months had passed and she still wasn’t pregnant, Katie and Nick thought it had something to do with the spontaneous abortion she’d had years ago. But Katie’s ob-gyn told them that many women miscarried their first child—it was more common than most people realized—and then went on to have normal, healthy families. Go home. Enjoy your time together, he said with a wink that made Katie blush.

  Still, after nine months of trying to conceive and failing, they found themselves back at the doctor’s, running over a list of possible reasons. There were more tests than they could’ve imagined—needles and biopsies and mucus tests—but terms like “inhospitable womb” and “lazy sperm” and “acute endometriosis,” were ruled out, one by one.

  —Everything seems to be in working order, Katie’s doctor said to them in April, flipping her chart shut.—Not time to panic yet. Keep trying, he said, winking.

  This time, after he closed the examining-room door behind him, Katie wanted to grab the metal tray beside the bed and hurl it at the door.

  Nick squeezed her knee over the crunchy paper gown.—Well, we’re good at that at least, he said.

  She looked down at his hand on her knee, the tears close.

  —Oh, Katie, no, he said, leaning in to her.—Please don’t. It’ll happen.

  She couldn’t tell Nick that her tears had nothing to do with having a baby. Not exactly.

  Back when they first started trying, it was nearly possible to forget those six months of tension between them, the feelings of her failing Nick with the abandoned documentary. Their marriage, on the verge of collapsing in on itself, had changed in one night, and just last month something happened that Katie still considered a miracle. They were in bed, dreaming of the child that would come, laughing about what he would do and say, when Nick turned his eyes to the ceiling.

  —I won’t be like him, he said quietly.

  After all their silly dreaming (he will find a cure for hangovers, he will invent a delicious, fat-free chocolate cake), Katie had misunderstood. —No, but he’ll be just like you. What else could we want?

  Nick’s eyes met hers quickly, and then they were back on the ceiling. —No, like him. My father. It won’t be that way.

  He didn’t say anything else, but after all this time the tip of everything that made the world too big for Nick at times had finally broken the surface. Spilling out, after all these years.

  Katie needed to give him this child, but something wasn’t right. The doctors couldn’t confirm it, but she knew that the problem lay with her, with her own body. In the shower, while she shopped, even while she was reviewing the footage of her Animal Rescue project, her mind would travel back to that night in the hospital with Nick, soon after their wedding—the doubts that floated up through her Demerol-glazed mind, right after Nick tried to console her with the doctor’s words. He said it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Her reaction that night, creeping back to her in the past nine months. God was punishing her for loving Nick so completely.

  Every month when she felt the pains in her lower back and the slow cramping that would eventually build up and keep her in bed for half a day, she knew it: My fault. I’m failing him again, and it’s my fault.

  And maybe this was what really caused the tears. Because even though Katie knew what it meant for Nick, for their marriage, even though her body was betraying her, she finally accepted the truth. It wasn’t the baby she wanted at all, it was still Nick—always Nick. Only a few times, in all these months, had she pictured herself holding a tiny infant, or dressing him in little outfits, or watching him sleep in his crib. She wanted this child because she wanted Nick. All of him. Only him.

  Her tears were for her husband, for what she was going to lose. It wouldn’t last forever, this kind solicitousness of Nick’s, this revelation that he would finally have a reason to give himself over to her completely. As the months dragged by and she still couldn’t conceive, it would end. And then he would turn away from her again, and she would fail him for the last time. Finally and completely.

  3

  Katie peels herself off the kitchen floor, head still foggy from the

  Valium, and peers through the window: still dark, but Jack is standing at the slider, sidestepping to go out.

  There are only three messages on her machine from last night. The first, from her mother, is casual—she’s just calling to check in, to say she is thinking of Katie and misses her (her father yelling out his agreement in the background)—and then there is a pause, and her mother’s voice comes back, tremulous in the effort to be controlled. “You know I love you, Kate. You know that.”

  The second one is from Richard, wanting to discuss Katie’s flight from the courtroom. “Not cool,” he says, then hangs up without saying good-bye.

  Ben Cohen is the third message, left at his leisurely pace, as if he is actually speaking directly to Katie: he needs to see her for a moment, would it be possible for her to come by his house tomorrow or the next day, or could he drive to her house if it is more convenient, and when would be good for her?

  “I know you’re busy, dear, but I do think it’s time,” Ben says in that slow way of his, which is like metal dragging along asphalt this morning.

  There are too many hours ahead of her before she meets Richard in his office to watch the final footage that made it onto the videotape, too many things to think about, so after Jack comes back in, she tramps down to the basement. Escape, she thinks, realizing that maybe her mother had a point after all.

  On the screen Arthur and Sarah sit on their couch, looking as they always did on a new day of filming: a little unsure and self-conscious, Arthur’s fingers quickly checking to make sure buttons are buttoned, Sarah picking invisible lint from her shirt.

  We left off last time with the new general and your “dates” on Sundays, but I wanted to know if your lives changed in other ways with his arrival? Katie prompts.

  In an instant, Sarah’s face bunches up, a network of seams. “In some ways,” she says, and turns to Arthur, whose body becomes rigid with attention.

  “In all other ways, it was the same,” he states, both hands on the rims of his thick glasses. “The same work, the long days. We did not know then that our time at the camp was coming to an end, thank God.” He turns back to Sarah. “It was almost over, remember?”

  “But first,” Sarah says nervously, tugging at his arm.

  “It is not important,” Arthur says, and looks startled when Sarah shifts away from him on the couch to stare at him.

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “How can you say that, Arthur? An i
mportant part.” Her voice small but insistent.

  Arthur’s shoulders sag. Sarah sits forward, at the edge of the couch, her hands flat against her chest. “The general before him, he was an old man. But this new one . . . ” Sarah says, and now Katie sees the effort Sarah uses to keep her hands quiet against her chest. Her fingers find her necklace, move over the pearls as over rosary beads. “This new one was very young. His wife was young as well, beautiful, but nothing agreed with her, none of the food we made in the kitchen.”

  “We eat food they would not give to the guard dogs,” Arthur growls, “and this woman complains about steak, and potatoes with too-rich gravy.” He directs this at Sarah’s back, turns to the camera. “Sarah would throw this woman’s food into the trash, she was not allowed to eat the leftovers. I would sneak into the kitchen, whisper before anyone would see us. ‘Try, Sarah, be careful. A small bite one night, another the next.’ Do you remember that, Sarah? All the food?” But these questions are directed at the camera, not at his wife.

  Sarah’s eyes drill into the space next to the camera where Katie was sitting.

  “The general’s wife was beautiful. Long hair, almost white,” she says, touching her own gray hair. “He was a young man. Tall and quiet, but strong. And she was sick all the time. She took to her bed, and she stayed there, sometimes for days.”

  Did he talk to you about her?

  Katie remembers asking this question only to fill the awkward silence, the way it felt to have Sarah’s eyes on her.

  Sarah nods. “He told me one afternoon—I made a pie, apple, he came to compliment me, the first time. And he told me I had a pretty face. Like his wife’s around the eyes and nose. He touched my lips, he said his wife was not able—”

  “Enough!” Arthur cries, raising a fist in front of him.

  For a moment it looks like he will slam it into Sarah’s back to quiet her; he fights to control his breathing, his thin chest rising and falling, the spotted skin on his knuckles tightening until the spots stretch and fade. Sarah does not move, and finally Arthur lets his fingers unfurl, his arm drop onto the couch.

  “This is not what we want her to know,” he says weakly.

  When Sarah speaks next, Katie can see that her mind has traveled somewhere else—not in the camp any longer, or in the kitchen with the general, or even in the room with Arthur and Katie; she looks at the ceiling, talks in an odd, high-pitched voice that Katie has never heard before. Like a young girl, speaking to her mother, or confiding in a girlfriend at a sleepover.

  “I told Arthur, after it happened, that I pretended it was him. My eyes were closed the whole time”—closing her eyes here, a wistful smile on her face—“and I could see him, I could see my Arthur. We were on a date, and it was Arthur’s hands touching my body like that . . .”

  No one says a word while the videotape plays this morning. There are five of them inside Richard’s office: Katie, Dana (who had arrived only minutes before they closed the door), Richard, a male intern, and a female assistant DA from across the hall. All silent, their faces taut as they watch the images play on the TV.

  Richard was right. Seeing Jerry grinning on their boat, watching him carefully make his bed before the screen skips to one of his explosions, is jarring and utterly effective. A harmless man, a sweet, simple man—but then. What was hidden all along beneath the surface.

  Only twenty minutes have made it into this final copy, but they’re enough.

  They’ve watched it two times before this, but every time Jerry bursts into a violent episode on the TV, their faces still light up with excitement. Only Katie and Dana, whose hand is tucked into hers, appear upset by the swollen fury on Jerry’s face.

  Richard hits the pause button.

  “Okay, Katie,” he says, without smiling. “For today we’ll just need you to verify you’re the one who shot the footage.”

  It’s obviously a signal for the party to break up. The female assistant DA touches Richard’s sleeve. “Good luck,” she says, and heads to the door.

  “Would you check on Dr. Sorenson and tell him we’ll need him tomorrow morning?” Richard says to the departing paralegal.

  The man nods, and Richard watches him close the door, holds his palm up toward the two chairs in front of his desk.

  “Do you mean Andrew Sorenson?” Dana asks, sitting down beside Katie.

  “You know him?” Richard asks, pulling out his chair.

  “I’ve met him a few times,” Dana says.

  “In addition to the history/aggression issue, he’s going to tackle Jerry’s IQ as well,” Richard says. “He’ll confirm that Jerry’s low IQ of fifty-one doesn’t account for overall intelligence, and therefore culpability.”

  “He’s going to argue that Jerry’s IQ is actually higher?” Dana asks, turning from Richard to Katie and back.

  “Your sister and I have talked extensively about this,” he says, looking at Katie briefly. “Even if a person is diagnosed as mentally retarded based on his or her IQ, if they reach a high level of functioning, it proves that the ‘label,’ if you will, isn’t exactly appropriate. If they acquire strong life skills and choice-making abilities, and adapt successfully to their environment, then IQ becomes somewhat beside the point. Plus, we have the added benefit of Jerry’s ability to quote from the Bible and understand sophisticated language. All these things should show that he’s actually smarter than we think.”

  “You honestly think Sorenson can prove that?” Dana says. “Talking to Jerry is like talking to a child.”

  Richard is too caught up to notice Dana’s tone or incredulous expression. “Well, if it backfires, we can always use their own argument against them. If Jerry isn’t more intelligent than we think, he still acted deliberately, and with the expectation that his actions would result in death. If he’s unable to learn from this experience or from his own mistakes, then that makes him even more dangerous, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess you’ve got it all covered,” Dana says, and this time Richard picks up on her tone.

  He turns to Katie. “You ready for today?”

  “Yes, but why am I only verifying that I shot the footage now? I’m not testifying?” Her voice high and tight, a stretched violin string ready to snap.

  “Change of plans,” Richard says. “I want to end the day with these images, let the jurors mull them over tonight. So now we’ll have the regional pathologist and the forensic expert today, and then end with you. I’ll ask for permission to recall you, which I’ll do after Sorenson’s had time to deal with the images and the IQ issues tomorrow.”

  “But what if the defense has questions for her?” Dana asks. “She won’t be prepared.”

  “I’ve got it timed, so let’s just get through today,” he says, consulting his watch. “We can always meet later if we have to. If you’ll both excuse me. I’ll see you down there.”

  Dana waits until the door shuts behind him.

  “You okay?” she asks Katie.

  “Fine.”

  “You look the opposite of fine, honey. Did you sleep last night?”

  “I was up early. Working on the Cohens.”

  “Do you think that’s the best—”

  “Not now. Please.”

  “Okay,” Dana says. “I’m sorry I just showed up this morning, but I felt awful about the other night. I just wanted to be here with you. I wanted to be here yesterday, too, but I thought you needed a break from me.”

  “Something’s wrong, Dana.”

  “With what?”

  “Richard. I think something happened over the weekend. I don’t know what, but he’s been so different with me.”

  “Maybe the pressure is getting to him?” Dana says in an oddly hopeful tone, which makes Katie stare for a moment.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Let’s just get through today, okay? He said we can talk later, so we will if you need to,” Dana says, but Katie can hear the worry inside her words.

  “I’m glad you’re he
re.”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow, too. If you want me.”

  “Tomorrow,” Katie says heavily.

  “Why don’t I sleep over tonight? We don’t even have to talk. We’ll just have dinner or something, maybe practice your testimony a little, and then call it an early night.”

  Katie finally looks at her sister. “I think I’m starting to get it. What you were talking about the other night.”

  “That’s good, Katie. Really good.”

  “Yeah? Then why does it feel like I’m standing on a very narrow ledge?”

  The regional pathologist pushes his square glasses back with slender white fingers that look like they’ve never been outside the protective walls of a lab and confirms the distance between the gun and Nick’s face using one of Richard’s diagrams. It’s larger than the other placards Richard has utilized in the trial, chilling despite its relative abstract-ness: a black, almost formless figure pointing a gun at a smaller figure, an arrow drawn between the barrel of the gun and the smaller figure’s face. Above the arrow, in red lettering: 3 FEET. The pathologist describes the specifics of the bullet’s path, the destruction of Nick’s brain, the cause of death—things Katie’s heard before, but now it’s enough to make her refocus her attention on anything but the diagram, because these abstract figures are taking form, their outlines filling with breathing, moving flesh.

  She flips her eyes to Jerry: heavy-faced and morose at the table, Donna’s hand on his forearm, moving up and down. Behind them the Warwick Center staff is a solid, quiet mass, their faces reflecting the battering they took the day before.

  Katie knows now, in her heart, that Jerry will be convicted. Along with everything else, this pathologist’s descriptions of Nick’s body, the clinical way he describes his death, is unsettling and potent: Nick has become a scientific specimen, a body on a table with a brain sawed open, poked and prodded, fragments of the bullet that killed him pulled out with long metal tools. The jurors watch with alternating expressions of interest and horror as the pathologist describes Nick, who is simply “the body” now. No longer a man, a speech pathologist, a husband, a son, a coworker, a future father. Just a body, his shattered brain spread out on a sterile metal table for inspection.