Mother's day

by MacDonald, Patricia J

  “I believe you.”

  “You’ve been through so much these last few days. I really admire the way you are handling it.”

  Jenny fiddled with the chain around her neck. For the first time, Karen noticed she was still wearing the locket under her shirt. “You know, she said something funny to me when we talked.”

  Karen was immediately alert. “What was that?”

  “Well, I thought she was talking about her own parents, but now when I think about it, she might have been trying to warn me about Dad.”

  “What did she say, exactly?”

  “She just said that sometimes mothers and fathers I kept secrets from their children, and they do it because they think it will prevent them from being hurt, but in the end it can hurt them worse.”

  “How true,” Karen murmured. She pictured again Greg’s face as he confessed his involvement with Linda, his paternity of Jenny. The pain seared through her again, brand new and stunning.

  “But you know,” Jenny went on, “she was wrong about that. At least for me. I mean, at first I didn’t know what to think. I was mad and hurt about it. But now, when I think about it—that Dad is my real father—I feel really happy about it. It means he really wanted to keep me. He really loved me.”

  Even through her own devastation, Karen felt grateful for Jenny’s reaction. One thing had not gone utterly wrong. One good thing had emerged from the wreckage of their lives. But she could not just let it be. He was not a hero.

  “He lied about everything,” she reminded Jenny.

  “I know he did,” said Jenny stubbornly. “But it was just because he didn’t know how else to keep me.”

  What about me? Karen wanted to cry out. He betrayed me. In every way. But she couldn’t say it to Jenny. Because if it weren’t for his betrayal, she would not be sitting here with her daughter, her Jenny, the light of her life, made possible by his deception.

  “It’s not that simple for me,” said Karen.

  “I know it,” Jenny said gravely.

  “You have to be able to trust someone…” Karen’s voice trailed off, and she pictured again his face in the moonlight in that empty classroom. She could still hear his voice, pleading with her.

  “I trust him,” said Jenny.

  Karen squeezed Jenny’s hand and forced herself to think of immediate things. The question was, did she believe that he had killed Linda Emery, no matter what else he had done?

  “What are you looking at, Mom?”

  Karen stood up and walked over to the bureau. The photograph of Linda with her cat was stuck in the mirror. That face, so like Jenny’s, smiled sadly at her.

  “I’m just looking at your picture,” she said.

  Jenny shifted uneasily and then said with a trace of defiance in her voice, “I think it’s a nice picture.”

  Karen’s mouth felt dry and her throat threatened to close up on her. “It is a nice picture,” she agreed. “Why don’t you let me take it to the Photo Gallery and have it framed for you?”

  Jenny’s face lit up with a combination of relief and pleasure. “That would be great.”

  Carefully Karen removed the photo from the mirror frame. More lies, she thought. But she couldn’t tell Jenny about her meeting with Greg, about his request. It was too much to ask of a child that she keep such information to herself. This is how it goes, she thought. One lie just naturally leads to another. She held the photo carefully in her hand. Amazing, she thought, how something so weightless could be such a burden on your heart.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Why do you have to go?” Valerie wailed.

  “Look,” Eddie said, throwing socks and underwear into a duffel bag, “I’m leaving you the car.”

  “I don’t care about the car,” Valerie protested. “Besides, it hardly runs.”

  “Get it fixed.”

  “With what?”

  Eddie moved silently around the darkened bedroom. He had insisted on keeping the Venetian blinds closed all day in the dreary row house they rented.

  “You can’t just skip out on your bail,” Valerie cried. “My mother will lose her money.”

  Eddie peered into the dresser drawer. “Where’s that olive-colored shirt?” he said.

  “You mean that brown one? I don’t know. It’s in the hamper, I guess.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m not your maid,” Valerie flared up. “How often do you expect me to get to the Laundromat with those two kids underfoot?”

  “Never mind,” said Eddie, tossing a few other shirts into his bag.

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” she promised.

  “I won’t need it tomorrow.”

  “Eddie, come on. You’ve got to testify. You have to tell what you saw—you saw that Newhall man beating up on that woman.”

  Silently, Eddie strapped his watch on his wrist.

  “You saw him, right?”

  “Maybe I just said what they wanted to hear,” said Eddie.

  “Come on, Eddie. You didn’t lie about that, did you? It’s in all the papers that you saw the murderer.”

  “Don’t I know it?” said Eddie. “That Hodges dame really hung me out to dry.”

  “I don’t get it,” Valerie whined. “So what?”

  “Mama,” pleaded the two-year-old, toddling in and clinging to her bare legs. Valerie picked him up and patted his backside absently.

  “At least tell me where you’re going,” she said. “Or take us with you.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Yes, you can. We can be ready in no time. We’ll take the car. We’ll all go.”

  “No,” Eddie barked. “I have to go by myself.”

  Valerie pretended not to hear him. “I’m sick of this place anyway. We’ll just drive until we find someplace we like.”

  Eddie started to argue with her, and then he stopped. “Okay,” he said. “You get the kids’ stuff ready. I’ll go out and check on the car.”

  “Really?” Valerie cried. “Can I just call my mom?”

  “You better not,” said Eddie.

  “Okay. Okay. This will work out good. You’ll see.”

  “Sure,” said Eddie. “We’ll go together.”

  He was somewhat amazed by her happiness. Not every woman would be so happy to pack up and leave town, he thought. Well, Valerie had always had that reckless side. That’s what he’d liked about her in the first place. She was a little bit wild. Of course it was a rented house, and the truth was she’d be able to stuff most of the things they actually owned into a couple of paper bags.

  “You’re a good girl, Val,” he said as he passed by the door of the kids’ tiny, narrow room. She was emptying the dresser drawers into a beat-up suitcase, and she gave him a dazzling smile that made him look away. The two-year-old was making airplane noises and had picked that moment to rummage through the toys she was trying to collect.

  Eddie carried his bag down the steep stairs. The baby was lying on a dingy blanket on the floor, flailing his arms and legs in the air. “See you, slugger,” Eddie whispered. He opened the front door and stepped out into the twilight.

  He checked up and down the street, then hurried down the sidewalk to an alleyway that let out behind the house. It was best this way, he thought. She’d never realize he was gone until she came down looking for him. He couldn’t afford to travel with the whole bunch of them. It was too dangerous. All day he had been thinking about it. He knew what he had to do. He had to get far away, as fast as he could. He had not really formed much of a plan. He had no money to speak of, but the trains that rumbled behind the house had given him an idea. He would hop a freight. That was what hoboes did. At least that’s what they used to be called, before there were so many of them and people started calling them the homeless. Somehow “hobo” sounded better. But however you sliced it, that was him now. And all because he’d had to go back and have another look at that Emery girl.

  Eddie tossed his bag over the wooden fence behind the house, then
climbed up and dropped down to the scrubby, trash-strewn embankment that led to the tracks. Obviously the best place to try to hop aboard a train was near the station, when it was slowing down. Never mind how guys jumped on top of speeding boxcars in the movies. Eddie had no desire to get himself killed that way. No, the idea was to follow the tracks down near the station, which was about a mile away, and try to slip aboard as the train was easing through the Bayland station. After that it was just a matter of keeping a sharp eye out for the train men until he got as far away from here as he could.

  In the distance, Eddie heard a whistle and began to make his way through the brambles. He’d never catch this one, he thought. It would be long gone before he got near enough to the station. Still, the sound of the whistle was like a prod. Hurry, he thought. There was no telling how far away it was. He peered down the tracks. The light from the engine was a tiny glimmer in the distance. Besides, he thought, this might be a passenger train, not a freight. A passenger train would be more comfortable, but it would be hard to stay ahead of those conductors, constantly asking you for a ticket.

  Eddie quickened his pace. He didn’t know anything about trains, didn’t know how long it took to stop one of those babies when it was really steaming along. He crunched a potato-chip bag underfoot and released his pant leg from a rusty piece of wire it was caught on as he scrambled along the slope.

  The whistle blew again and Eddie stopped and looked back. The light was pretty well visible now. What the hell, he reassured himself. If you miss this one, there will be another. From the way the house was always shuddering, and the number of times a day you had to shout to be heard, there was always another train on the way. He hoisted his duffel up and walked a little farther.

  Suddenly, from behind him, he heard the crunch of that potato-chip bag. It was weird. It was as if he had turned into Superman and he had X-ray hearing. That thunderous, clanging metal dragon shimmying down the tracks seemed silent as a whooshing monorail. All Eddie could hear was the crushing chips, the crackling cellophane. There was someone behind him. He didn’t need to turn around. He knew who it would be.

  “I’m going out for a little while,” Karen called up the stairs to Jenny.

  “Okay,” Jenny called back.

  Karen’s heart pounded as she put the snapshot of Linda in an envelope and stuck the envelope in the waistband of her shorts, under a sweatshirt. She walked out to the car and got in.

  As she pulled out of the driveway, her ever-present police escort turned on his engine. Karen drove slowly through the peaceful twilight, her hands sweaty on the wheel. Finally she turned in at the entrance to the town beach, drove down near the picnic grounds, and parked her car.

  A man and his dog were returning to the parking lot as she got out, the dog frisky and panting after his romp. Karen gave the man a brief, automatic smile as she passed him by. Look normal, she thought. You’re a woman out for a sunset stroll on the beach. There’s nothing odd about someone needing to take a walk, to collect their thoughts.

  The soft sand sank under her sneakers as she picked her way down to the water’s edge, and then she began to walk briskly along the wet sand. There were several other people out for just the same purpose, to enjoy the waning day. A little group of teenagers sat smoking cigarettes on a rock wall behind the dunes. An old man and his equally elderly wife walked hand in hand in Karen’s direction. Karen stuck her hands in her pockets and kept her head down. The corners of the envelope in her waistband bit tiny gouges into the bare skin of her stomach.

  She could remember being a teenager, coming here to meet Greg, as if it had been last week, not twenty years ago. She could recall poring over the clothes in her closet, wanting to wear just the right combination of soft lace and faded denim to make his heart stop when he saw her. They would each make excuses to their parents, arrangements with their friends, all aimed toward that moment of encounter. Karen felt hot, tingling, even after all these years, remembering how the sight of him was like a blow to the chest, how they were shy when they met, how every brushing touch was torture, and bliss. Everybody said it was lust, and it wouldn’t last. And it was lust, but it was tenderness, too. And giddy laughter. And deep peace, and desperate promises, and more, that she had never even dreamed of.

  “Good evening,” said the old man, and his wife nodded as they passed by.

  “Evening,” Karen mumbled without looking up.

  She had always assumed she would get old with him, walk the beach like those two, hand in hand. It had always seemed the best way to prove to all those doubters, most of whom were long gone by now, that young love could be the real thing. Well, maybe the cynics would have the last laugh on her after all.

  She reached the last jetty and turned around. As she looked up the beach, the weather vane atop the gazebo was visible in the distance. The irony of her mission struck her again. Here she was, doing as he asked. Trying to help him. After all that had happened. For a minute she thought about just turning around, getting back in the car, and going home.

  No, give him the picture, she thought. Let him take it around to people. He’s bound to get caught. And it will serve him right. She pictured again his gaunt, weary face in the moonlight. And she felt afraid. But how dare he come to her for help? After all the lies, the betrayals. Still, in the seething pit of her stomach, she knew that he would never trust anyone else but her. The unfairness of it all made her weak.

  She was walking like a robot, approaching the gazebo, and as she reached it, she saw that there was a woman and child sitting inside. Panic filled her heart. It would not make any sense to go in and sit down when it was already occupied. That in itself would look suspicious. She knew that the watchdog cop was observing her from wherever he had stationed himself. No, she would be forced to walk by, to return to her car.

  Just as she was about to pass the gazebo by, she heard the woman say, “Sara, it’s time for your supper.” The woman lifted up the protesting child and walked down the steps on the other side. Karen did not hesitate. She pretended to stumble. She climbed the two steps, entered the gazebo, and sat down on the bench. She pulled her shoelace loose and then retied it. Then she sat back against the bench and looked out at the sea, rippling with gold, the horizon glowing blood orange and purple. You don’t deserve any help from me, she thought. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of the bench, and her eyes filled up with angry tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, and then, as she lowered her hand, she reached under her sweatshirt, pulled out the envelope, leaned forward slightly, and quickly slipped it beneath the bench. For a few moments more she sat, staring sightlessly at the sunset. Then she stood up and returned to her car.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Walter Ference stared at his wife, who sat slumped against the closet door in their bedroom. Her mouth hung open, and her head was tilted back, her eyes halfway shut. The neck of an empty bottle jutted out from beneath the ruffled organza skirt of her dressing table. Sylvia, dressed in a business suit and sensible shoes, was crouched down beside her, slapping Emily’s limp hand.

  “It’s about time you got here,” she said indignantly. “I stopped by on my way home from work and this is how I found her.”

  “I’m sorry. I came as soon as I got your message,” said Walter. “I am working on a murder investigation, you know.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” said Sylvia. “There’s nothing left to investigate. You’re all just waiting around for somebody to catch your escaped suspect.”

  Walter sighed and crouched down beside his wife. He tapped her cheek. “Emily,” he said. “Em, can you hear me?”

  Sylvia sat back on her heels. “Walter, this is a disgrace. The time has come to stop pretending and do something about this “

  “Help me put her on the bed, Syl,” said Walter, lifting his wife under the shoulders. “Get her feet.”

  Sylvia bent over with a grunt and took her sister-in-law’s turned-out ankles in her hands. Together Walter and
Sylvia hoisted Emily up onto the bed.

  “Walter, I mean it,” Sylvia continued as Walter arranged the pillows behind Emily’s head. “Now enough is enough. This woman needs help.”

  “She’s going to be upset that you found her like this,” said Walter.

  “Well, you certainly don’t seem surprised to come home and see her passed out on the floor. How often does this happen?”

  “Once in a while,” Walter admitted. “You insisted on going to that funeral. I knew it would be too much for her.”

  “Don’t blame me for this,” Sylvia cried.

  “Look, I’m sorry you had to walk in on this, but she’s never been right since the accident. This is how she copes.”

  “You call this coping?” Sylvia exclaimed. “That accident was fifteen years ago. You can’t let her go on and on like this. She needs to be in some kind of treatment for alcoholism.”

  “I’ve tried,” said Walter. “She won’t go. She’s too shy.”

  “Make her go. What kind of a man are you? You make her go.”

  The phone began to ring on the bedside table. Walter picked it up. He listened for a minute and then closed his eyes and shook his head. “Oh, my God,” he said. “When…Okay. Okay. I’m on my way.”

  Walter turned back to his sister. “I’ve got to go. My eyewitness just got himself run over by a train.”

  “You’re just going to leave her like this?”

  Walter looked ruefully at his wife, snoring slightly on the bed. “There’s not much I can do for her right now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Pack a bag for her. We have to take her to a hospital. She belongs in a detox center.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Sylvia,” Walter said evenly.

  Sylvia glared at her brother, who avoided looking at her. “What’s the matter with you, Walter? Are you just going to stand by and let her drink herself to death?”

  “I have to go. I’ll deal with this later.”

  “I doubt that,” Sylvia sniffed. “If you haven’t dealt with it in all these years…Very well, go ahead, abandon her. I’ll take charge of it. If you’re not going to do anything, I will.”