by Jaye Maiman
“It’s not ethical, but if you could come to the hospital and meet her. She has an eight o’clock appointment tomorrow—”
“You want me to pose as your wife?” I blurted.
“Forget it. I just wanted . . . I mean, if Maggie knew... Damn. Why the hell doesn’t she come home? We could have so much —”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The guilt trip worked magic on me. Now, not only was I responsible for his wife’s safety but also for the future of an as-yet-unborn child. Kicking myself even as the words were stumbling out of my mouth, I said, “I’ll go with you if it’ll buy you time.”
He sighed again. “Forget it. The idea stinks. Besides, why would I want a child without Maggie around.”
“It’s worth a try, Dean. Who knows? Maybe I’ll locate Maggie by tomorrow and we can explain the whole situation to the birth mother.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying.
According to my therapist, my work is probably some stupid attempt at correcting the wrongs of my past. When she first said that to me, I told her she was so far out of the ballpark she could be sipping tea in China. But the truth was that she had slid into home base. I knew what I was about to do was wrong, but believed it was for all the right reasons. Or so I tried to convince both Dean and myself. “We’ll leave the exact nature of our relationship nonspecific. After all, I don’t have to actually say I’m Maggie, do I?” It was a stupid compromise, but Dean leaped on it.
“Tomorrow at eight then,” he said excitedly. “My office is on the third floor.” He hung up, a man with mission. I felt like a rabbit in a bear trap.
A floorboard squeaked behind me. Without turning, I knew who had just entered the room.
“What was that crack in the living room supposed to mean?”
I spun around and watched Helen close the door behind her. The trap just got tighter. I said, “Look, we’ll discuss this later,” and headed for the door.
She leaned against it and crossed her arms over her chest. “We have time now.”
“Fine. In that case, let’s start with Saturday night.”
“First tell me why you made that remark in the living room just now.”
“I heard about your adventure with Manny.”
With fire in her eyes she stomped over to me until we were practically nose to nose. I caught a whiff of alcohol that had been poorly disguised by a mint lozenge. In a tight hush, she said, “That’s Manny’s story. Frankly, I don’t remember much beyond my third drink.”
“But she did leave with you?”
She nodded. “I didn’t think her short visit was worth mentioning the other day. Guess I was mistaken.”
Her tone had turned conciliatory, which made me more wary. If this were a game of Hot Potato, I was definitely nearing cold-spud territory. The look in her eyes slowly changed from confrontation to come-on. “Were you jealous when she told you we had sex, or did it just turn you on?”
She was too close to the truth for my comfort. “I have a question for you. Why have you suddenly started pursuing me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?” she asked, raising her knee and bumping it lightly between my thighs. My body responded instantly. It wasn’t the first time my hormones had exhibited a will of their own, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. What saved me was the knowledge that K.T. was just beyond that closed door.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked with a gulp, my mind already racing ahead to what I intended to do with K.T. once we got back to the cabin.
“Amy told me you had the hots for me. If I had known earlier...” That clever knee had found a tender spot. She jiggled it like an expert. Ouch.
I stepped back with difficulty and said, “When did she make this announcement?”
“About a week ago. I thought she was teasing me since I’ve had a crush on you almost since the day we first met. In August. You were wearing a metallic blue swimsuit. I could barely stand to watch you rub lotion over those deliciously long legs. But when you rescued me at the party, I just knew it was true.” She had pursued me, step for step, until I was backed against the foot of the bed. I shimmied sideways and watched her stroke her own thigh, until her palm rested over her pubis. My eyes were riveted on her hand, the sensation between my legs drifting from delectable to downright painful.
“When Manny was sucking at me, I imagined it was your mouth.”
The magnetic catch broke off.
My eyes darted to her face. “You remember! You son of a bitch.”
Terror distorted her features. “Just now. I swear. I didn’t remember until now.”
All the sexual energy converted instantly into anger. “Cut the crap, Helen. You remember every goddamn detail of that night.”
I watched her hands flutter as if they were birds that suddenly had no place to nest. Finally they slunk into her jean pockets. “It’s not what you think. I only remember some of what happened. Like Manny’s head between my legs.” Still testing my response, she bent her head coyly and moaned. “Ooo, she was good, Robbie.”
I was sick of the game. Time to attack, I decided. “As good as your sister?”
Her face scrunched up in puzzlement. “What are you talking about? I’m an only child.”
I crawled further out on the limb. “You made a comment about incest to Manny. When she found you pouring booze on Noreen.”
Now she was the one backing away. Clearly flustered, she said, “Incest? Pouring…” Then her entire face altered. Her eyes widened, her skin paled. Her shock was no act. “Oh shit. I do remember.” She crashed on the bed, her hands hanging limp between her legs. “Oh shit.”
Watching her sit there, slumped and shaking her head in disbelief, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever sins Helen was guilty of, none of them included murder.
Finally she raised her head and looked at me. She seemed slightly ashamed. And horribly unsettled. “She’s right. Man, it all just came back like that,” she said, snapping her fingers for emphasis.
There was a knock on the door and I shouted, “We’ll be out in a minute,” then motioned for Helen to continue.
“When Manny bolted out of the house right after we...I guess I can’t say made love...after we...fucked—”
The way she said the word made me cringe. Even now there was a glint of triumph in her eyes. Poor Manny was no match for this woman. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was either.
“I was so pissed.” Helen’s animation was returning. “Noreen had everything I wanted. The house. A steady lover. I wanted some way to pay her back. I thought stealing Manny would be the best way to sting her. Besides, Noreen was such a horror to live with, in the long run I’d be doing Manny a favor. But she rejected me, and that was too much. That’s when I really started drinking.” She stared up at me with uncustomary earnestness. “I swear I don’t remember much after that. What you said just now—about pouring the booze—is just a dim memory. Like a scene from a movie I watched half-asleep.”
“Tell me what you do remember.”
“Just what you said. Somehow I ended up in Noreen’s kitchen and found her just as she was passing out. I can remember thinking, what a perfect threesome we were. Two drunks and an adulteress.”
There was another knock on the door and K.T. peeked in. “Robin?” She looked concerned. “We’re ready to eat now.” I could almost feel heat rising from her flushed cheeks.
I crossed the room and kissed her mouth lightly. “We’re almost done.”
I closed the door behind her and stayed there, one hand braced on the jamb, my back toward Helen.
“Do you remember using the word incest?”
“For chrissakes, it’s just an expression. Tell me you’ve never heard lesbians complain about how incestuous our community is. If Manny said I used the word, I probably did. I was monogamous for seven fucking years—with a woman that beat the shit out of me regularly. So now if I’m having a good time sleeping around, big deal. And if I sometimes happen to get a special
kick out of seducing certain unavailable women, well, we’re all grown-ups, now, aren’t we Robin?”
I believed her, but strangely I didn’t feel any relief. The fact that Helen was probably innocent of murder meant that the real killer was still outside of my reach. But there was something else. I knew exactly what she had hoped to accomplish by flinging that last barb. I was about to confront her on it when the door swung open under my hand.
“It’s Thanksgiving, for heaven—” As Amy took in the scene, her expression shifted from mild annoyance to apprehension.
She stepped into the room and closed the door softly. In a voice so thin I could barely make out her words, she said to Helen, “You promised.”
Helen wore a Cheshire cat grin I wanted to scratch off.
I watched the two of them, the tension in the room sucking me in like quicksand. “Get out, Helen,” I said, not in the mood to mince words. Amy didn’t argue. Neither did Helen. When the door closed again, I finally faced Amy.
“Robin, it was one time. Not even. I swear. Yesterday morning...right before you got sick. You interrupted us. Afterward, I felt so confused. What made it worse was coming home and finding you with Hassle. Shit. I was mortified. Later, when Carly came home and started raving about Helen and me having an affair, I felt like I was really losing it. I just wanted to run. I spent the night talking with Helen. Just talking. I don’t even know why I —”
I interrupted. “Does Carly know?”
Her eyes were brimming. “Yes.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “Then that’s it.” I enfolded her in my arms, her slender body trembling against mine, and wondered if Thanksgiving would ever be simple again.
Chapter Twelve
From the bed I reached an arm out and lifted the edge of the blinds. Moonlight flickered over the treetops.
Thanksgiving dinner had been “tasteful.” Good food. Stilted conversation. No one talked about what she was thinking or feeling, and eye contact occurred only once—when Carly asked me to pass the balsamic vinegar. K.T. tried to fill the silence by talking about her childhood in West Virginia. But by the time dessert was served, we had crashed into a conversational lull that threatened to engulf us like a black hole.
K.T. and I left a half-hour later. We remained silent even after we stomped into the cabin. I rolled my shoulders as if I could shrug off the nights events. But they clung to me like stale cigarette smoke.
I bustled around the fireplace, stacking enough wood in the black iron ring to last the entire winter, while K.T. slapped the couch pillows vehemently. Our combined efforts raised a mushroom cloud of dust, and ash. I quickly learned there are few things less romantic than hacking with a new lover in front of a raging fireplace. I grabbed K.T.’s hand and hustled her up the stairs.
I wanted to make love, but when we lay down in bed she wiggled her butt against me in a tight spoon and asked me to turn off the light in a tone that said, “Don’t argue.” I complied, but the darkness made me edgy. I spun restlessly in bed, K.T. shifting with me reflexively in her sleep—first a leg around my calf, then an arm draped over my waist. No matter where I moved, she managed to maintain physical contact. And that’s exactly what I craved.
With a light sweat beading up between us, I turned to face her. In the moonlight, with her steady breath soughing against my lips like a warm ocean breeze, she was more exquisite than ever before. Her lashes, a golden ocher, fluttered against well-defined cheeks. I traced the shape of her mouth with a fingertip.
Words—no, not words—emotions percolated inside my body. Julie Andrews on the mountaintop. Anna dancing with the King. The entire cast of Oklahoma! warbling about beautiful mornings. Aching for K.T. in corny-musical mode, I tried to tell myself that it was just lust. Just lust that made my stomach fill with drunken hummingbirds. Just lust that made my heart beat just a little too fast.
Just lust.
I swept her curls away from her forehead and kissed her there, tears unexpectedly rushing to my eyes.
I can’t do this again.
The words ricocheted in my head as my lips swept across the line of her jaw, obeying a will of their own. My mouth covered hers greedily. She stirred in her sleep, shaking her head as if dodging a mosquito.
“K.T.” I whispered her name with surprising desperation. “Wake up. I need you.”
A small frown skimmed her face. I licked the base of her neck and murmured hoarsely, “I want you, baby.”
All of a sudden she was wide awake and kicking at me blindly. Startled, I threw a leg over her and tried to still her, crying her name over and over as she beat at me with her fists. “Get off of me, you son of a bitch!” she hollered.
I spun off and bolted for the light. When I flicked it on, K.T. was sitting upright, the blanket tucked tightly under arms, her eyes wide. They focused on me slowly, embarrassment replacing the fear. A rash the color of ripe strawberries blossomed on her chest and her eyes turned glassy.
“You all right?” I asked, and as the words left my mouth comprehension ignited in me like a brush fire. Shit. I moved toward her then halted abruptly as an almost imperceptible shudder flowed through her. Uneasily I asked, “Is it all right if I just hold you?”
The strain in my voice didn’t go unnoticed. Her eyes flitted over my face, her eyebrows pressed together in concern. “I’m sorry, Robin. I didn’t want—” She broke off with a forced laugh.
“Who was it, K.T.?” I made sure she could hear the certainty in my voice.
She averted her eyes. “It was a nightmare, that’s all. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.” Still wrapped in the blanket, she shifted to the far edge of the bed and picked up her Gone With the Wind T-shirt from the floor. The fabric hung loosely from her narrow shoulders, making her look like a teenager at a pajama party. Except that her shoulders were hunched and her body shivering.
“It’s so damn cold in here,” she said suddenly. “Can’t you turn up the heat?” She crossed to the dresser where she had unpacked her clothes, pulled out a pair of slouch socks and hopped into them, focusing on the task with obvious relief.
“K.T.?” I wanted to reach out to her, but the abyss was still too wide.
Ignoring me, she scuffed back to bed, swept the blanket around her again, and curled into a ball. “Let’s go back to sleep,” she said. “Make sure you turn out the light.”
I crawled in next to her and held her so tightly I could feel the angle of her ribs under my palms. “Please, K.T. Don’t shut me out like this.”
Her breath grew ragged and my heart jerked in response. Again I asked, in a voice so thin I wasn’t sure she’d hear me, “Who was it, honey?”
Her words came with a tremor. “A friend of the family. I used to call him Uncle Potter. It happened only once, two months after my father died.” She turned to face me. “Can you imagine how hard it was for my mother—a widow with seven kids and a father who spent half his days in the mine and the other half drunk as a fiddler’s bitch? Potter’s wife, Sara, was real fragile, but she did whatever she could to help my mom out. So did Potter.”
She shook her head, her features revealing a sadness whose edges had been worn down by time. “I was pretty close to one of his daughters. Lurlene. Anyway, one day Potter tells my mom she needs a break. He offered to take me in for a couple of days.”
Potter caught up with K.T. as she was returning from the outhouse a few nights later. “I don’t remember much of what happened. Just the way his cheek was all bristly when he started to kiss me.” She shimmied against me and said softly, “I was eight.”
I stroked her wet cheek and waited for her to continue.
“When we got back to his house, Potter sent me back to Lurlene’s room. Lurlene was sitting up in her bed, crying real quietly. As soon as I saw her face, I knew. I can’t explain where I got my strength from, but I grabbed Lurlene off the bed. The two of us ran back to my house.”
All at once, she sat up. “My mother was incredible. She decided there and then
she had enough of Wizard’s Clip. She took a poker from the fireplace, hiked over to Potter’s and had it out with him. Sara never said a word, even when my mother saidshe was taking Lurlene. A week later, she handed her house keys to my grandfather and jammed us into my dad’s battered pick-up truck.”
The family moved into a cousin’s house just a few miles outside of Charlottesville, Virginia.
“We invented new lives there,” K.T. whispered, her damp, ice-cold limbs so entangled with mine I could feel her blood pulsing as if it were inside me. “My mother practically killed herself trying to make it up to me —” She stopped, waiting until her voice grew stronger. “She worked day and night at my cousin’s bakery.”
By the time K.T. entered high school, her mother was ready to launch a catering business. K.T. worked alongside her and in a few years their reputation had spread north to Washington, D.C. A highbrow inn in northern Virginia hired K.T. a few months later and her career was secured.
“So I guess I owe it all to Potter. We never saw him again, though we heard he was mule-headed about finding Lurlene. Two years after we moved, he died in a mine accident.” Then the anger was back. “The day we found out he died, Lurlene came to me and said, ‘He lived too long. I should’ve killed him myself.’”
All of a sudden K.T. flopped onto her back and stared up at me. “Robin, one of the Finnegan children started the fire that killed Noreen’s parents. I’m sure of it.”
There was such harsh certainty in her eyes that I wondered if she was right.
We didn’t fall back asleep until almost five. I woke just two hours later and left K.T. in bed after a quick kiss.
K.T. had said that she could understand how an abused child could be desperate and angry enough to set fire to her family home and watch it burn without regret. How was it possible that someone could consciously kill a member of his or her own family? I had accidentally murdered my sister Carol and her death had plagued me almost every day of my life.
But I had loved Carol. I tried to remember if I had ever wanted to kill my father, whose deliberate silence had condemned me from the moment of the accident to the day he passed away— his tightened lips thin, cracked, and unrelenting.
