by Ricky Fry
“Did they find anything?” It was obvious from the way he asked the question that it had been weighing on his mind.
She took a moment to think about how best to answer. After all, she couldn’t be sure who might be listening, and thought it was stupid for her husband to ask. “Of course not. You know as well as anyone there was nothing for them to find. Still, it didn’t keep them from destroying my kitchen.”
He breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Please Nancy, you have to understand.”
“Understand what, Byron? What am I to understand?” She was in no mood for his excuses.
“This is all just a misunderstanding. Did you speak with Mr. Bennett?”
“Briefly,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“He’s busy with my case—says he’ll have me back home by the end of the week.”
She wasn’t certain she wanted him to return home after the embarrassment he’d caused. “There were police cars in front of the house, Byron. Police cars! It’s bad enough I’m stuck inside day and night with Nora, but now all of Boston will be talking.”
“Let them talk.”
Had he gone mad in jail? There was nothing worse than people talking, unless of course it was out of envy or admiration. “How can I ever show my face again?”
“It’s just business, Nancy. These things happen. Even Martha Stewart wound up behind bars. Try to be patient. Mr. Bennett said it’ll all blow over.”
He was lucky there was plexiglass between them, or she would have slapped him then and there. She’d never been very good at being patient.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m truly sorry.” He lowered his gaze and looked back up at her with sad puppy eyes. “Everything I did was for you and the baby. It’s not so easy, you know, maintaining our lifestyle.”
“Plenty of men provide far more extravagant lifestyles without winding up in jail. Daddy would never have allowed himself to be subjected to such humiliation.”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “You know how I feel about your father.”
He had good reason to be upset. Nancy’s father had never approved of their marriage. Her husband was nothing more than an ambitious young upstart when they met. Even worse, he was from a working class family in the Midwest. Her father had insisted on someone from a more established family—someone who hadn’t attended university on financial aid, as he’d put it. But she was full of love and big ideas. She could mold him, she’d thought all those years ago, into the man she knew he could be. An orange jumpsuit was not what she’d had in mind.
“Nancy—” He pressed a hand to the glass like a character in one of her novels. “I love you.”
Perhaps it was the way he said it, or the tired and wretched look on his face, that ever so slightly softened her defenses. “Are they feeding you well?”
“Please don’t ask.”
She almost laughed at his sour expression. “You mean James Hook doesn’t deliver in jail?” Their lobster had always been his favorite.
“Don’t remind me. You’d starve to death before you ate what they feed us.”
“We’ll order delivery when you get home.” She still wasn’t sure about showing her face with him in public so soon after his unfortunate arrest.
“How’s Nora?”
“She’s fine. She was sleeping again when I left.”
“Funny,” he said. “She used to cry all the time. I thought you’d go crazy. Who’s watching her?”
“Inez.” It was a lie. He’d find out about the new nanny soon enough. She knew he’d be upset to learn she’d left the baby in the care of the old woman, and thought it best to avoid the discussion. He’d brought this on himself, after all, and had little say in the matter from behind bars.
A surly guard in a stiff uniform approached and put a heavy hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Time’s up, Hardaway.”
“I love you, Nancy.”
She didn’t have time to respond—at least that’s what she told herself—before they hurried him away.
Mr. Bennett was waiting for her in the hallway. “Nancy! How good to see you. You’re looking lovely, as usual.”
She’d never liked her husband’s lawyer, and liked him even less for the false compliment. It was easy, she thought, to give compliments when you were billing five hundred dollars an hour. “Thank you, Anthony, though I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well. I’m concerned about my husband’s case.”
“Don’t concern yourself too much. My firm will do everything we can to see these frivolous, and might I say egregious, charges dismissed.”
If there was anything she hated more than false compliments, it was to be patronized by men. She had good reason to be concerned. He was her husband. Her future, and everything she’d worked to build, was at stake. “Don’t bullshit me, Anthony. What are we talking about here?”
The lawyer’s face tightened up, as if he wasn’t used to being spoken to in such as way. “It’s not pretty.”
“I can take it,” she said.
“Your husband has been charged with several felonies. It’s all white collar stuff, really. Mostly just a case of bad accounting. Still, the federal government isn’t taking kindly to creative bookkeeping ever since the Obama administration started cracking down on financial reporting.”
“Will he go to prison?”
Mr. Bennett glanced over his shoulder. “I’m afraid this is not the appropriate place for such a discussion, but without your quick actions things could have been a lot worse. It’ll be tough for them to prove intent without access to certain information. At most, he’s looking at a year or two in federal prison. For now, I’m simply concerned with getting him home. There’s going to be a hearing in a couple of days and the judge will set bail.”
She’d never thought about what would happen if Byron went to prison. It was one of those things a busy wife blocked from her mind, as if choosing not to think about it would prevent it from coming to pass. For a quick moment, she imagined it might be nice to have the bed all to herself. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with his ferocious snoring. “And best case scenario?”
The lawyer exhaled. “It all depends on the strength of the government’s case. I’ll have to wait for discovery to review the evidence. If you’d like to come by my office this week, we can discuss things in more detail. It’s unwise to say anything further here.”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re quite right.”
“Oh, and Nancy—”
“Yes?”
“I’ll have my secretary inform you of the bail hearing. It’s important you attend. And bring the baby. The judge will want to see strong family ties before setting bail. Otherwise, they might consider him a flight risk.”
“I can assure you,” she said, “that he won’t be going anywhere.”
“Great.” Mr. Bennett smoothed his Italian suit and straightened his silk tie. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the prosecutor.”
“Yes, of course. Just one more question, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Anything.”
“Will he lose his professional license?”
“Almost certainly. Of course, the board will hold a separate hearing, but in these circumstances it’s little more than a formality. Should the charges be dismissed, he can petition for reinstatement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bennett. I appreciate your candor.”
She watched the man disappear down the hallway and wondered what they’d do with her husband unable to work.
The house, cursed as it was, wasn’t going to pay for itself.
She was in her favorite boutique, shopping for a suitable dress for Mr. Hardaway’s hearing. After a night spent tossing and turning, she’d decided not to trouble herself with money worries. Perhaps her husband’s unscrupulous lawyer was right and the whole thing would simply blow over. Maybe it really had been nothing more than a few accounting errors.
“It’s an e
xcellent fit,” said the young woman who managed the boutique.
Nancy agreed. She wanted to appear elegant, but not so elegant as to seem flashy. A dark, understated number by Betsy Jenney had caught her eye. It was perfect, she thought, as she stood before a vintage mirror and turned from side to side. Her figure was the only thing holding up these days.
“You look positively wonderful. May I ask, ma’am, what’s the occasion?
“My husband,” she said. “He’s returning from a stressful business trip and I’d like to do something special.”
“Oh, how thoughtful.”
She’d just shimmied from the dress and passed her American Express card to the salesperson when the little bell over the door of the boutique rang. Two women entered arm in arm. Nancy recognized them as the Sybill sisters—perfectly styled from head to toe in the season’s latest fashion. It was easy for them, she thought. Their husbands had both come from wealthy families and died, rather conveniently, in the same small plane crash during a shared holiday on the Maine coast. The sisters had hardly pretended to mourn. Just weeks after their husbands were buried, they’d returned to hosting some of the most extravagant social affairs in Boston. Nancy was always invited, though it had been months since she’d last been in attendance.
“Nancy!” It was Karen Sybill, the younger and rounder of the two, who spoke first. “We haven’t seen you in ages. I do hope you’re holding up in light of recent events.”
She recognized it for what it was—an insult rather than a sincere expression of good wishes. Word must have spread quickly of her husband’s arrest. She knew better than to let them see her discomfort, and worked to maintain a smile.
The older sister spoke next. “How’s the baby, dear?”
“Nora? Oh, she’s fine.”
“Have you managed to find a replacement nanny?”
It was another veiled insult. “Why yes, in fact the nanny is watching Nora while I do my shopping.”
A surprised look crossed the woman’s face. “So glad to hear it, Nancy. Is she French? No, I’m aware of only two French nannies and they’re already engaged. Perhaps she’s Mexican?”
“Canadian, actually.”
“French Canadian?”
It seemed like a pointless question, though one she would have asked not long ago. “Ukrainian. But she was born and raised in Newfoundland.”
“How fascinating. Ukraine? Isn’t that somewhere in Europe?”
Nancy had decided she was tired of their questions, and was relieved when the salesperson motioned her over to the counter.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am, but there seems to be a problem with your card.”
“Try it again, please.”
“I’ve tried it twice already. It could be our card reader. Sometimes these things happen. Maybe you’d like to try a different card?”
“Yes, of course.” She passed the young woman her Visa card and did her best to appear unbothered.
The sisters, always on high alert for any deviancy from good social standards, had noticed her exchange with the salesperson and were zeroing in their attention like cats stalking prey.
“I’m sorry,” said the young woman. “The Visa card’s not working either. Can I offer you the use of our phone to call your bank? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
She’d been a regular at the boutique for years, and not once had her cards been declined. They should give it to her on credit, she thought, or least do a better job of not making a scene. The Sybill sisters would tell everyone she’d gone broke. “That’s quite alright,” she said. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“Is there a problem, Nancy?” Karen’s round face stared back at her.
“It’s the alterations. They won’t be finished until tomorrow.” It was her best attempt at a diversion. But it was hopeless. Karen was already smiling.
“There’s no reason to be ashamed. I’ll swipe my card and you can pay me back later. I’m quite certain you’re good for the money. Better yet, consider it a gift.”
She would have rather died right there, spread out on the marble floor with blood pooling beneath her like the poor nanny, before accepting charity from the likes of the Sybill sisters. It was too late to save face. Half the people in Boston, at least the half that mattered, would soon be talking about her.
She clutched her purse and ran from the boutique. Her head spun as she struggled for breath on the sidewalk. It was an all-too-familiar feeling, the onset of a panic attack. The psychiatrist had a fancy name for it, but the only thing that mattered now was the little blue pill she took from a small plastic container and swallowed.
TWELVE
The scent of a thousand wildflowers filled the air. The sun warmed his skin. It was a place he’d been before, even if it was only a dream. Was he dreaming again? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Who could say what was real and what was a dream?
The only thing that mattered was her—more beautiful than ever—wearing the same white dress he’d lifted gently over her shoulders on the night of their wedding.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m here.”
He tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth the words wouldn’t form on his lips.
She took him by the hand—a delicate touch—and they ran through green fields until they fell together to the earth and made love. It was as it had always been, not just two bodies, but two timeless souls joined together in one eternal moment. Not even her death could destroy it.
“Bogdan—” The soft touch of her fingers upon his cheek sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. “—you must go now, my love.”
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay lost with her in the dream from which he knew he would soon wake.
“You must go. The people need you.”
The people always needed him. He was born to die for them, and had given up everything, including the one he loved. Let me dream a little longer, he thought. Was it too much to ask?
But someone else was calling his name now. “Bogdan. Wake up, Bogdan.”
“Don’t go,” he said to her. “Please don’t go.”
She smiled one last time and fell away like the leaves fall from the trees in autumn. He clung to her, but there was nothing in the place where she had been.
“Bogdan, you must come.” Svyatoslav stood above him in the dark space of the room. The big man shook him with a rough hand until he stirred and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. A heavy rain battered the roof and ran in wet streaks down the glass of the window.
“What’s happened?”
His friend fed a log into the hearth, and the room was lit by the faint glow of crackling sparks. “It’s Oleksander.”
“What of him?”
“He’s dead, Bogdan. His wife woke to find him cold and lifeless in the bed beside her.”
Bogdan rubbed his tired eyes and struggled against the pull of his warm bed. It had been less than a week since they buried young Kyrill in a grave not far from where Yekaterina rested. He’d slept little in the days and nights that followed. “Did you fetch the priest?”
“Yes.” Svyatoslav poked at the embers of the fire, sending sparks swirling up into the darkness. “I’m sorry, Bogdan. He told me to bring you.”
The priest would never let him rest. A man’s death was the concern of the church. Oleksander, though not particularly old, was old enough to have died in his sleep the way most men pass when their time has come. He wondered why the priest would have need of him at such an early hour. If only he could sleep again, perhaps Yekaterina would return. But he knew there was little chance. His thoughts had already been stirred and sleep wouldn’t come.
They made their way across the muddy clearing to the house where Oleksander lived with his family. Bogdan’s cloak was wet and his boots tracked mud across the threshold as they ducked inside. But Oleksander’s wife paid it little mind. She was crying in a corner, blankets wrapped around her tiny frame, while a woman Bogdan recognized as her sister worked to console
her.
The priest stood beside the bed in his long, black robes, reciting a prayer for the dead in a language Bogdan didn’t understand. The old man stopped to acknowledge his arrival only when he’d finished making the sign of the cross in the air above Oleksander’s lifeless body. “Bogdan the Great,” he said. “I’m quite relieved to see you here. I wouldn’t trouble you at such an hour unless I had cause for concern.”
“What is it, priest?”
The old man took his wrist with a bony hand and pulled him into the far corner of the house. “This is the work of the Devil.”
Bogdan couldn’t be sure what he meant. Perhaps the old man had also been suffering from sleepless nights since Kyrill’s early death. “Are you well, father?”
The priest tightened his grip on Bogdan’s wrist. “You must listen, Bogdan. I beg of you, please listen to Oleksander’s wife.”
He had no desire to listen to anyone, but he would do as the priest asked. Svyatoslav wrapped the body in linens, and when the wife had regained some small sense of composure, they gathered together around the table in the kitchen.
She sniveled and worked to hold back her tears as she muttered something about a strange visitor. “He comes in the night.”
“Who comes?”
Her eyes widened like the eyes of a deer the moment a hunter’s arrow found flesh. “I’m afraid, my lord.”
“I’m not your lord, good woman. But I wish to know what’s been troubling you.”
“It’s a dark figure,” she said. “There’s a crushing weight upon my chest. I can’t move. I can’t breath. And the eyes, oh Dear Lord, the eyes—red as hot coals in the fire.” She burst into tears again, her body shaking and rocking side to side beneath the blankets.
The priest reached across the table and took her trembling hands in his own, the same way he’d taken Bogdan’s hands after Yekaterina’s death. “Rest now, for your husband is joined with the angels in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
The poor widow’s sister, joined by Svyatoslav's wife with her herbs and salves, consoled her as the men stepped out into the rain. Svyatoslav lit his pipe and they passed it around. In the distance, the first sliver of light fought against the dark storm clouds towering overhead.
