by Merry Jones
Myles shook her hand and headed off. Somebody taped up Harper’s cut. Somebody else took a brief statement and told her she and her husband could go.
But they didn’t go, not yet. First, Harper watched the police take eleven more pills from Anna’s pocket, along with another sedative-filled syringe. And she watched them zip Anna into a body bag and carry her out. Then she sat, looking out the window into the darkness, an air-conditioned chill creeping beneath her clothing. She shivered even when Hank wrapped her in his arms.
When she finally got up to leave, her body dragged, her weak leg stiff and sore, her muscles out of sync. Her burst of adrenalin had faded, leaving her depleted.
‘Hoppa. Go. Ride. Bike.’ The cycle was right outside the door. Hank cradled her hand, teetering beside her under the moonlight.
Somehow, despite their various limitations, they managed to climb on, Harper fitting easily between Hank’s thighs as she started the motor. In moments, they were blasting down the highway, hair flying without helmets, engine roaring through thick, moist air that smelled of summer and night.
Hank held on to her, his arms tight around her breasts, his robe billowing in the wind. ‘YEEEHAAAAA!’ His howl was primal. Joyful. Free.
Harper didn’t respond to the scream. She sped into the night, watching for random impulsive violence, without the vaguest idea where they were headed.
The Ramada Inn on Route 13 smelled of cleaning products and stale air, and the windows didn’t open. The worst part wasn’t staying there, though; it was explaining to Hank why they couldn’t go home. Telling him about the various crimes and violence that had converted their house into a multiple crime scene. Omitting the part about the escapade in their bedroom. Feeling like slime.
Hank listened attentively. He touched Harper’s face, took her hand. Sometimes, his jaw tightened, frustrated or angry at what she said. When she told him about Anna killing Larry and Monique, he glowered.
‘Not,’ he remarked. ‘No.’ Or know? He shook his head. ‘Killed. She. Why.’ They were talking.
It was after four o’clock when they got to bed. Harper had to help him out of the chair, but, after that, he was able to walk and take care of himself. He moved slowly, favoring his strong side, but he got undressed and into bed, watching Harper with laughing eyes, waiting.
Suddenly, Harper was shy. She felt embarrassed to get undressed in front of Hank. He’s your husband, she told herself. But she felt self-conscious, and more than a little unclean, as if Ron’s touch might show on her flesh. Beyond that, she was nervous. What would happen when she got into bed? It had been so long since they’d slept together. Hank had told her that he was horny. What if it was a disaster?
‘Give me a minute.’ She stalled, slipping into the bathroom for a shower, trying to scrub away both her deceit and her hesitancy. Reminding herself that she was with Hank again, that there was nothing to worry about. That she should be jubilant.
Finally, still hesitant, wrapped in a towel, she came out. The only light came from the flickering television; Hank had turned down the audio. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the steady drone of soft snoring. Hank was asleep.
Surprisingly disappointed, Harper climbed in beside him and lay back on the pillow, suddenly tired. Beyond tired. Paralyzed. Too exhausted to move. Without opening his eyes, Hank turned over, enfolding her in his arms as she rested her head against his chest. They were still in that position six hours later when Harper woke up.
Making love was effortless. It happened spontaneously, without any of the awkwardness or self-consciousness Harper had feared. Hank’s speech might still have been strained, but his kisses, his touch spoke eloquently. For a while, Harper believed she was dreaming. She smelled Hank’s scent, licked his shoulder to taste him. Rubbed her face along his stubble to feel the scrape. Details like these were too specific for dreams, weren’t they? Finally, she decided, it didn’t matter; if it was a dream, she refused to wake up. In fact, she wanted to stay asleep all morning. Or forever.
Soon, they were lying together, comfortable, familiar, as if it were a normal morning. As if they hadn’t been apart at all.
Hank’s eyes danced as he looked at her. ‘Missed. You.’
‘I missed you, too.’
‘Want. Coffee. Go. Eat.’
Oh. Hank was hungry. Amazingly, Harper hadn’t even thought of food. She sat up and looked at the clock. Almost eleven. Checkout time. Their tired clothes watched them from the chair where Harper had let them fall. Hank’s robe. Her T-shirt and shorts. First stop, after eating, would be to get some new stuff.
As Hank limped to the shower, Harper thought about how long she could manage to stay away from the house. Not long. But before she took Hank there, she’d have to get the place in shape. Sterilize it. Fine. She would call a cleaning crew to scrub their entire house. Get rid of every trace of Larry and Monique and Anna and Ron; wash away the blood, replace every uprooted possession.
‘Some. Pants. Need. And. Food.’
Hank put on his robe, and Harper took out her phone, got the number of a cleaning service and made an appointment for that very day. Relieved that the house was taken care of, she leaned back, resting.
‘Hoppa.’ Hank pointed out the window. ‘Rain. Soon.’
Dark clouds promised a thunderstorm. Great. Finally, the heat was going to break, but the downpour would catch them on a motorcycle.
‘Go. Now.’
Hank didn’t need a wheelchair. In his robe, he walked upright to the coffee shop, where he ordered by pointing to the menu items. A stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, fried eggs, juice and coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at Hank’s attire; she simply poured their coffee.
Maybe it was going to be all right, Harper thought. Maybe they would have a new kind of normal. She reached across the table for Hank’s hand.
‘I love you.’ She smiled, happier, more hopeful than she’d been since his fall.
Hank didn’t smile back. His face was somber; his eyes aimed above her head. Harper turned; Detective Rivers was coming their way. She wasn’t smiling, either.
‘You two weren’t easy to find.’ Detective Rivers glowered, taking a seat in the booth beside Hank.
‘We couldn’t go home. The place is—’
‘Mrs Jennings, I’ve been up all night. I didn’t appreciate having to search for you. I made it clear that you should be where I could reach you. We called your house and your cell and five hotels before we located you.’
Harper’s cell battery must have run out. Why were they looking for her? Was she going to be arrested? ‘Well, it isn’t like we were trying to hide—’
‘Nevertheless. Before I go off duty, I thought I ought to advise you of some news.’
‘News?’ Hank sounded normal, like any guy asking a one-syllable question.
Detective Rivers eyed him. ‘Yes. Ron Kendall’s made a formal statement.’
Oh God. Harper held her breath.
‘His statement was fascinating. At first, we thought he was saying you had killed your students. But he wasn’t. Actually, he was trying to name someone. It sounded like he kept repeating, “And uh, and uh . . .”’
‘Anna.’
Rivers nodded. ‘Dr Kendall admits going to your house to look for the drugs. While there, he heard someone walking around and hid. Next thing he knows, he hears Larry arguing with a woman, but not you. Not your voice. She’s accusing Larry of cheating her. Finally, the house gets quiet again. Dr Kendall comes out of hiding, sees Monique’s body and splits.’
Harper blinked, allowing herself to exhale. Ron had told the truth. ‘That agrees with what I told you. That Anna killed them.’
‘People tell me all kinds of things. In this case, though, despite what we thought earlier, Dr Kendall’s account supports yours.’ She gazed at Hank, then at Harper, who silently prayed that the detective would say nothing more about Ron or how he’d come to be injured in the house. She didn’t want to think of what sh
e’d done, even if it had been under the influence of the drug. ‘For now, it looks like you’re off the hook. I thought you’d want to know.’
For now?
‘Thank you, Detective. That was thoughtful.’
Hank tapped Harper’s arm, imitating a needle. ‘Stuck Doc. Drug. How?’
‘Oh. Hank’s asking about Dr Wyatt.’
Detective Rivers shifted in her seat. ‘Dr Wyatt will live, but he has some questions to answer. At the very least, he injected your husband and restrained Anna. But there are undoubtedly other issues – obstruction, conspiracy, reckless endangerment, negligence. Fraud. He’s got problems.’ She stood. ‘OK, then. Enjoy your pancakes—’
‘What about Anna? And the policeman she injected?’
The detective frowned, sat down again. ‘We’ve notified Anna’s family. And, except for his ego, Officer Manning is OK. We’re still picking up complaints, though. A bunch of alumni looted the donut shop, and there was apparently an orgy of sorts down in the gorge. So far, no one else has died.’
So far.
‘OK. Will be,’ Hank reassured her.
‘Between you and me,’ Rivers confided, ‘I never bought Anna’s wide-eyed I-didn’t-mean-for-any-of-this-to-happen act. She planned the drug heist; she killed two of her partners; she delivered the goods to the contact. She managed to do all that just fine. Don’t you think it was a little too convenient that she just fell asleep every time things got hairy or she wanted to listen in? Not to speak ill of the dead, but there was something just plain scary about that girl.’
‘Hairy? How?’
‘I’ll leave the explaining to you, Mrs Jennings – I mean, Harper.’ Detective Rivers stood, mock-saluting a goodbye. ‘It’s been a long shift. I’m heading home before it storms.’
‘Bye.’ Hank turned to Harper. ‘Now. Tell. Hairy.’ He wanted to hear everything.
Harper picked up her cup and took a gulp of cold coffee. ‘First, let’s eat.’ As thunder rumbled outside, she lifted her fork and stuffed her mouth with cold eggs.
That afternoon, thunder kept rolling, but it didn’t rain. The cleaners arrived. Harper spent her time directing their work or on the phone. She answered weeks of email, mostly from Professor Schmerling, who’d sent updates daily from the dig site and worried that she wasn’t responding. She talked with her mother, telling her little more than that Hank was home and doing well. And she arranged for outpatient physical therapy for Hank through his former internist’s office.
For most of the afternoon, Hank wandered around the property or sat peacefully on the newly scrubbed and polished front porch swing, reading the newspaper, watching the dark, cloudy sky. By evening, the house was sparkling, and they were alone at home for the first time in months.
Harper cooked. There wasn’t much in the house, but she fixed tuna salad and a can of vegetable soup. At night, Hank made it up the steps, one at a time. Slowly, carefully, holding the railing. They went to bed, their own bed. Neither could stop smiling as they lay in each other’s arms, listening to the rain on the roof as the thunderstorm finally broke, falling asleep to the music of the pounding rain.
Days streamed along, sun-drenched and warm. Dr Steven Wyatt, fired by the Center, faced a medley of criminal charges, including assault and kidnapping. Dr Ron Kendall avoided significant legal troubles by abruptly resigning his position and, according to one rumor, accepting a position at a teaching hospital in San Salvador.
Summer session ended with fewer than half of Harper’s students finishing the course. Harper’s mother threatened to visit, insisting that Harper couldn’t care for an invalid on her own; Harper assured her that Hank, although still having trouble with his speech, was hardly an invalid.
Determined to pick up where he’d left off with renovations, Hank stained the deck out back, installed the new tub and toilet upstairs, put wallpaper up in the dining room and redid the floors in the nursery, which Harper finally finished painting. With time, the physical labor increased his strength. His limp became less pronounced, and his arms moved more evenly.
There were setbacks, too. With Hank unable to teach for the foreseeable future, the Geology department passed him over for tenure and offered the position to Trent. Their letter to Hank guaranteed him a teaching position when he was ready and promised that when he did return to work, he’d be reconsidered for tenure. Hank seemed indifferent to academics. In fact, he seemed uninterested in life outside their small property, content for now to spend his time with a paintbrush or spackling and putty.
Harper, by contrast, focused much of her attention elsewhere. For weeks, she scoured the Internet, scanning newspapers across New York State and into New England, looking for sudden odd suicides or random murders. Almost every day, she found one or more such incident, wondered if it was related to the missing drugs. Finally, she realized that there was no way to connect any of the crimes to the drugs and abandoned the effort, consoling herself with the knowledge that not all impulsive acts would involve violence or crime. Some might be impulsive acts of kindness or generosity. Either way, the supply of pills was limited and the number of acts they inspired would be finite.
Harper continued to meet with Leslie, but Sameh, the faceless boy and Marvin still showed up, and occasionally she heard explosions or bursts of gunfire. Now, though, she was able to distinguish these intrusions from reality, enduring them without panicking or running for cover.
By August, life for Harper and Hank had become routine and quiet; the drama of early summer faded, seeming almost unreal. Harper resumed preliminary research for her dissertation, met often with Professor Schmerling and assisted him with data analysis from the Peruvian dig, became immersed in her studies.
Hank’s speech improved little by little, and friends began to return from their summer travels. Janet and Dan got back from Italy, Ruth from Martha’s Vineyard. People dropped by to eat burgers and drink beer. And late in the month, an invitation arrived, inviting them to a celebration of Trent’s tenure.
Apparently, Vicki and Trent had not separated. But Harper hadn’t seen or spoken to Vicki since the day she’d punched her in the nose. Harper had let Vicki’s phone calls go unanswered, letting the questions of Vicki and Hank go unanswered, as well. Now, there was this invitation.
They couldn’t go. Why would they? The friendship had disintegrated. Trent and Vicki still hadn’t come to see Hank. And, more important, Harper wasn’t sure Hank was up to seeing his old colleagues yet. Or to having them see him. No, they couldn’t go. She didn’t even mention the possibility, set the invitation aside. But then one afternoon, she saw Hank reading it.
‘Trent’s party.’
‘Yeah. No big deal.’
‘Going.’
‘We don’t have to. Don’t worry about it.’ She had little trouble understanding him anymore.
Hank stared at the calligraphy. ‘Neat ink.’
‘Uh huh.’ She didn’t ask if he wanted to go. It would be painful for him to celebrate Trent’s tenure, the position he should have gotten.
Hank picked up the invitation, turned it over, set it down. Scratched his head. ‘A suit? Wear?’
A suit? ‘Really?’ He wanted to know what people would wear? ‘No, it’s not formal. I think just a sport shirt.’
‘Go. We.’ Hank was insistent. ‘Let’s.’
‘Are you sure?’ Harper knew even as she asked. She could tell by his voice; Hank was determined to be there.
A large white tent covered the yard beside Trent and Vicki’s house. Professors and administrators lolled about, holding cups of punch, chatting, posturing, chuckling at bad puns. When Harper and Hank arrived, heads turned and conversation hushed. Not many had seen Hank since his accident. Now, suntanned and toned, almost steady on his feet, Hank strode across the lawn to the festivities.
Harper spotted Vicki near the tent, standing with Jim Hayden, head of the Geology Department.
‘Hank.’ A colleague – Harper couldn’t remember his name – stretc
hed out his hand, then hesitated, unsure if Hank would be able to shake it with his weakened right arm.
Hank did, though. ‘Ellis.’
Amazing, Harper thought. Except that Hank hadn’t smiled, the interaction had been completely normal; listening, nobody would have guessed that Hank had aphasia.
‘How the hell are you doing?’ The guy named Ellis slapped Hank on the shoulder, glad to see him. The head of the department left Vicki’s side, rushing over.
‘Hank. Great to see you.’
‘Jim.’ Hank glared at the man.
Other people were gathering around them, but Hank continued to glare at Jim. Why was Hank looking at him that way? It was embarrassing. Was he sore about Trent’s tenure?
‘Nice to see you again, Dr Hayden. I’m Harper. Hank’s wife.’ She intervened, shaking Jim’s hand, not sure he remembered her.
‘Of course, Harper. Glad to see you. Call me Jim. We’re all just colleagues here.’ His smile was permanent, his handshake indefinite.
Hank continued to eye Jim oddly, even as the crowd gathered, asking questions. Hank, how are you? When are you coming back to work? How the hell do you manage to look so good? ‘How’s he doing, really?’ a stranger whispered to Harper. ‘It’s such a shame what happened.’
At first, Hank seemed uplifted by the swarm of attention, smiling at one colleague, embracing another. But the questions and comments came too fast for too long, and Harper saw his frustration rise. He simply couldn’t say what he wanted to.
‘I’m fine.’ Hank frowned, concentrating, needing time. ‘How been. You?’
‘What’s that, Hank?’ People quieted, trying to hear him. Jim, the department head, turned his ear toward Hank, as if that would help.
‘You. Good. Fine?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You want something, Hank? A drink?’
Whispers. People buzzed, well-intentioned, trying to be helpful.
‘What did he say?’
‘No clue.’
‘I can.’ Hank shook his head, emphatic. ‘Talk. Now.’
‘He has aphasia,’ Harper explained. ‘He’s getting better, but it takes a while for Hank to get his words out.’
