“I understand your divorce was to be finalized soon?”
He nodded. “I thought it would have been by now. It takes longer than you think.” He lifted his eyes to look directly into the lens, and just like that he appeared himself again—the handsome man with the smooth bedside manner who was not unfamiliar with the task of delivering difficult news. “You say things you don’t mean. You have to divvy up things you don’t want to share. It takes a toll.” The camera zoomed in, cutting Stacy out of the frame. “Kristin, if you’re watching, I want you to know that whatever this is about, it’s fixable. If this has to do with the money, you can keep it, obviously. It’s yours. I wasn’t really going to make a play for half. All the money I’ve contributed to raising the twins these past years—it was the best money I ever spent. I don’t regret a cent.” He looked woefully at the reporter, as if it were worth breaking the spell to explain himself. “Like I said, you say things you don’t mean.”
She nodded, and he turned his attention back to the camera, eyes wide. “The police say I could petition the courts to make this a more serious charge, but I don’t want to file more paperwork in the courts. I don’t want the courts in our lives at all. Just come home, and I’ll make all this go away. I’ll give you whatever you want. That’s what I set out to do, back from the very beginning … Remember the beginning?” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“I know you don’t love me anymore, it’s over, and I accept that. But the idea of not knowing where Abby and Aaron are, not being able to give them a hug, or even just take them to their soccer game on Saturday—” His eyes filled with tears. “Please come home,” he finished.
“I hope she hears you loud and clear, Doctor,” Stacy said, turning back to the camera as he jogged up the porch stairs. Flashbulbs lit up the dim morning.
“Doctor, what can you tell us about the money that’s allegedly missing?”
“Doctor, why didn’t you adopt the kids when you married their mom?”
“Doctor, where do you think she went? Any theories?”
The barrage of questions from the other reporters on the lawn chased Paul up the stairs and into the house, the door shutting quietly behind him, and then the screen flashed back to the live shot of Stacy, standing in the brighter sun of an incongruously beautiful day.
“Police are working this case around the clock, and we’ve learned that the money Kristin is believed to be traveling with is a million-dollar life insurance payout she received when her first husband was killed, along with his parents and sister, in a tragic boating accident at Buck Creek State Park. Having worked in the insurance industry, her first husband left his wife and children well provided for. We don’t know how much of that money might have been spent over the last few years, of course, but we do know it’s been cashed out little by little over the past twelve months, which could indicate that she was planning this for some time. Unless, of course, the money was used for something else and she’s not traveling with it at all. More questions than answers today, Margot.”
Benny flipped off the TV, and they began to eat in silence. “I’ve never cared for the guy,” he said, “but I feel for him. He looks awful.”
Clara didn’t answer. She didn’t buy that Paul’s speech had been sincere, but if pressed, she couldn’t have said exactly why not.
“Wow,” Benny said. She looked up from her plate to find him staring at her.
“What?”
“The look on your face right now is something else.” She swallowed the bite she’d been chewing a bit too thoroughly and reached for her coffee, averting her eyes. “Penny for your thoughts?”
She took a long sip of the lukewarm drink and met his gaze. “It’s not that I don’t feel for him, but … don’t you think the doctor might be a bit of a spin doctor too? I mean, I don’t think he’s ever been to one of their soccer games.”
“So he was using that as an example. I bet he does wish he could go this Saturday.”
“I don’t like that he’s making her sound greedy. The obvious implication is that money is her motive. End of story.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Look. I know Kristin is your friend, but if I’ve learned anything from my years in accounting, it’s that you can solve a lot of so-called mysteries by following the money. Even when good people are involved. It’s predictable, and sometimes it’s a little depressing, but that doesn’t make it less true.”
She pushed her stool back from the counter and turned away to rinse her plate at the sink. There was no real reason to be irked at Benny, and yet she couldn’t help but think that his buying Paul’s story meant that Paul was somehow winning. “Don’t you think that’s a little too easy an explanation in this case?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Maybe.” He slid his own plate, unrinsed, into the open dishwasher and gave her a peck on the cheek. “But sometimes the most obvious explanation is the right one. Even if you don’t want to hear it.”
She waited until he turned away before pulling the crusty plate back out. As a general rule, she tried to reserve nagging for things she couldn’t just as easily do herself.
7
The missing, the hidden, the murdered, and the otherwise lost never get to tell their sides of the story. It’s the last and sometimes cruelest injustice. Because often the people left behind to shape the narrative have an agenda that doesn’t necessarily revolve around the truth.
It’s not always out of malice. There’s self-preservation to consider. One’s image, state of mind, well-being. The human desire to attempt to make sense of a world with no real order to it, to demand to know why when there is no reason—or at least no good one.
The explanations given, the conclusions drawn, might be willfully dishonest, they may be obliviously ignorant, or they could be part of the truth—but rarely are they the whole story. Still, by default, those versions are the only ones that will ever be told.
Consider, for instance, the suicide note. You might think that’s an exception, a victim who does get to have the last word. Yet rarely does it satisfy those left behind. They read between the lines and still they ask: But why? They arrive at their own conclusions. As well they should. Who’s to say if that note is true? It may have been what they thought you wanted to hear. It may have been what they wanted you to believe. It may have been an act of kindness, one easier than the truth.
What if the rest of us had the luxury of foreseeing our premature exit, one way or the other? Would we entrust our own truths to someone else after all? Would we make sure that someone we’ve left behind could speak for us? Or would we merely curse the fact that no one would ever know?
Because some of us were silenced long before we disappeared from view.
8
Family law focuses primarily on protecting marriage and traditional families. Stepfamilies, it seems, are considered more problematic and often underrepresented.
—“Knowing and Understanding Stepparents’ Rights,” DadsDivorce.com
Clara pushed the stroller to a stop against the brick wall and knocked lightly on the locked glass door of the boutique. Rhoda glanced up from the counter, where she was filling the register drawer, and Clara raised her hand in a silent wave. She caught sight of Randi, sprawled in a hemp hammock for sale in the corner with Adele propped up on her lap, and her friend turned the baby and pumped her tiny fists in the air in a greeting.
She was reminding herself not to call the baby Radele, as Benny always jokingly did at home, trilling his r’s whenever he caught sight of them across the yards or down the sidewalk—”Rrrandi! Rrrhoda! Rrradele!”—when Rhoda swung the door open, ringing the whimsical chimes that hung in the doorway. “I was just going to text you,” Rhoda said cheerfully, gesturing for her to come in. “Now there won’t be a written trail of what a gossip I am!”
Clara lifted Maddie from the stroller and slipped inside, taking care not to disturb the CLOSED sign as Rhoda shut and locked the door behind her. She paused for
a moment, as she always did upon entering the aptly named Moondance boutique, to breathe in the feeling of being surrounded by beautiful and somewhat frivolous things.
Clara had once had style. Something close to a signature one, actually. A frugal but patient shopper, she’d delighted in her finds as if they were endangered species she’d tracked through miles of wild terrain: the cashmere cowl-neck with a near custom-fit drape, the vintage dress so well preserved it could pass for a reissue, the distressed gray riding boots that hugged her skinny calves just so. Now she looked down at her khakis and plain navy T with a kind of shock and wondered where it had gone.
To the grab-and-go purgatory where you shopped with kids in tow, that’s where.
“I take it you saw?” Clara asked.
“Struck us as quite the performance,” Rhoda said.
“But to be fair, we’ve never really been fans of Dr. Paul,” Randi added. She swung her legs over the side of the hammock and carefully laid the baby in the soft center of an oversized throw pillow on the floor. “What did you make of it?” she asked Clara.
“Same.” She got to her knees on the floor and settled Maddie next to Adele, marveling at how her daughter, still a baby herself, dwarfed the nearly three-month-old. She couldn’t resist running a finger across the tips of Adele’s tiny toes.
“Well, I think we’re in the minority,” Rhoda said. “We ran into Natalie on the way in, and she seemed to think it proved her point from last night. Stay for coffee?” She squeezed Clara’s shoulder and disappeared into the back room without waiting for an answer.
Randi took a basket of small felt toys from the shelf behind her and set them in front of a delighted Maddie, who immediately dumped them onto the floor and started lifting them by their price tags, one by one. Clara bicycled Adele’s pudgy little legs and was rewarded with a gummy smile.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter why she’s gone,” Randi said sadly. “Only that she is.”
Clara shook her head. “About that,” she said. “The police called and asked me to come in. I guess they have more questions.”
Everyone had more questions. Clara hadn’t known what to expect when dropping Thomas off at school, but what she’d found was sort of a reverent hush—nervous nods and meaningful silences conveying the uncertainty that would seem too real if given voice to. The concern was thicker there, where the twins’ cubbies sat with empty coat hooks and crinkly piles of artwork waiting to be taken home. Clara gathered from the teachers’ whispers that the detectives had been there and were still making their rounds talking to the enrolled families.
“Really? Have you remembered anything new since last night?”
“I don’t think so.”
Rhoda reappeared with a tray of cream, agave nectar, and three steaming mugs, and Clara accepted one gratefully. It was one of those sturdy kiln-fired creations that always beckoned her at art shows, until she saw the price tags. “But that’s why I’m here,” she admitted. “I know you have work to do, but is there any chance I could leave Maddie with you, just for a half hour or so, while I stop by the station? I’m not sure who else to ask…”
“Of course,” Rhoda said, sinking cross-legged to the floor next to Clara. “In spite of the circumstances, I have to say it’s nice seeing you so many days in a row. All day Sunday we were saying we should all get together more often, make it a regular thing, get to know Kristin and Izzy more.”
Clara nodded, watching the cream swirl into her coffee. She liked this cozy corner of the store, with piles of artfully arranged pillows on display and quilts strung up on the wall. Soft sunlight streamed through the side windows, creating what felt like a little pocket of warmth and light, though the storefront was still in deep shadow, as was the alcove of more unwieldy sale items in the back.
“Say,” Randi said, “would you like to come to our meditation group tonight, at the Intuitive Healing Studio? We got an email from our instructor this morning that we’ll be focusing this session on sending safe energy and strength to Kristin and the twins. She said we should bring anyone who might want to join and they could sit in for free.”
The idea did sound sort of interesting, though not normally her scene. “You know, I think the kids could use some normalcy tonight—both parents home—but I love that you’ll all be doing that. Maybe Izzy would like to go?” She had no idea if that was true, but Izzy seemed to be longing for something she hadn’t yet found here. Even if it was just friendship.
“Good thought,” Rhoda said. “We’ll invite her.”
“Will anyone be sending energy to Paul too?” Clara couldn’t help asking.
“Conspicuously not mentioned in the email.”
“Benny felt the same as Natalie, about Paul on TV. He buys his story … reluctantly.”
Rhoda pulled a face. “I could never put my finger on why I didn’t like the guy. I don’t know that I’ve spoken with him since … maybe last Christmas? He came in to get gifts for Kristin and the twins. I think things were already on the rocks by then, though.”
They were staring intently at Clara, as if she’d been cast in some reality TV show. “It’s weird looking back, isn’t it?” she said. “But the more I think about it, I guess I’m starting to feel like some things make more sense now.”
“I feel kind of mean talking about this,” Randi said. “I mean, being a parent has nothing to do with biology.” She looked meaningfully at her wife, and Rhoda nodded. Clara wondered how they’d decided which one of them would give birth to their daughter. It couldn’t have been easy. “But I know what you mean. I always thought he was kind of an absentee dad.”
Clara nodded. “It never seemed to bother Kristin, though—even before the divorce. She told me that sometimes he seemed jealous of the time she spent with the twins instead of with him. I guess I’ve heard of other men feeling that way, but Benny is just so not like that.”
Rhoda cleared her throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Clara, but I’m not sure you’re the best judge of what is and is not normal man behavior. When it comes to husbands, you hit the jackpot—and I say that as a devoted lesbian with no bisexual leanings.”
“Still,” Randi said. “Maybe he should have spent more time with Aaron and Abby. And maybe he wanted more one-on-one time with Kristin. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He’s the only father they’ve ever known. He has a right to know where they are.”
“Of course he does,” Clara said quickly. She plucked a felt bluebird from Maddie’s fist just as she was about to use it as a teething ring. Maddie let out a wail, and Rhoda handed her a little purple butterfly that she chomped down on gleefully and without hesitation. “It’s okay,” Rhoda told Clara, smiling. “It’ll dry.”
Clara resisted the urge to snatch it back. Her concern hadn’t been as much that the toy was for sale as that it had been handled by who knew how many shoppers’ dirty fingers and was now being licked by her toddler. But her leeriness of germs did not play well in Yellow Springs, where the other moms on the playground were unbothered by their children gumming the ladder to the sliding board and would give her dirty looks for wielding hand sanitizer.
Rhoda sighed. “It’s just that Kristin never struck me as overly concerned with money, even though she had enough. And we business owners know the spending habits in this town.”
Clara thought again of what Benny had said, about following the money. “What were Paul’s?” she asked.
“His spending habits? Aside from those gifts?” Rhoda furrowed her brow. “Huh. I guess he didn’t really have any. He must have left all that to Kristin.”
“The place he’s been living ever since he moved out is kind of a dump,” Randi said, sitting up straighter. “When the landlord mentioned he’d moved in, I was surprised. I guess I just figured he’d been in a hurry to find something and would move again later.”
Clara had never thought to ask where he’d gone. She’d only known it wasn’t far. “Unless he thought it was temporary for other r
easons,” she said.
“You mean like he thought there was a chance of them getting back together? Or hoped there was?” Rhoda stared into her coffee. “Okay, now I feel like kind of a bitch. Maybe I shouldn’t have discounted what he said on TV after all.”
“I never got the impression reconciliation was an option for Kristin,” Clara said carefully.
“Well,” Randi said, “if Dr. Paul couldn’t take the hint before, I’m pretty sure he’s gotten the idea now.”
* * *
The room Clara was led to looked more like it belonged in a real estate office than a police station. Cushioned chairs, potted plants, even framed line drawings of local landmarks—the old gristmill, the new brewery. Leave it to Yellow Springs to dispense with the cold, surgical feel of the interrogation rooms from televised crime dramas and—Clara happened to know from unfortunate experience—from the precincts in Cincinnati.
Still, that didn’t stop it from bringing back memories. Clara pushed them aside to focus on Detective Bryant. He was shaking her hand, thanking her for coming, introducing his partner, Detective Marks, an austere-looking middle-aged woman dressed in slacks and a button-down, her hair back in a tight knot. She brought to mind a school principal Clara had had, one who was always reminding the students of the spelling of her title by assuring them she was their pal. They’d quickly learned that she wasn’t, though, as she doled out detention generously and at random, like candy at a parade. Not even the good kids were safe.
“Detective Marks and I are part of a task force working various aspects of the case,” he was explaining now. “So I can assure you this situation with your neighbor is a priority.”
Clara wasn’t sure how to respond. Thanks? She nodded.
Not That I Could Tell: A Novel Page 5
