Robert B. Parker's Damned if You Do
Page 15
“Defied him?”
“Walker had a rival. A sworn enemy. When Janet decided to throw in with that enemy, Walker killed her.”
Martha didn’t say anything.
“For what it’s worth, I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t believe she would have made it out alive, regardless of which one of them she chose.”
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” Martha said.
“Either way, you’re screwed.”
“And that’s what you came here to tell me?”
“I don’t feel good about any of this,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps if I’d been more forceful with her, things might have turned out differently.”
“You can’t be holding yourself responsible for what took place when she was a child?”
“No. Not totally. But maybe if I’d seen the writing on the wall more clearly, I might have been able to forestall what went down.”
“That’s a lovely thought, Jesse. Thank you for it. But you’re wrong.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Janet was her own worst enemy. She always knew right from wrong. She just chose to ignore it.”
“Because?”
“Any number of reasons. Mostly to do with me. She blamed me for the collapse of my marriage. She blamed me for setting a bad example. Hell, she blamed me for pretty much everything that ever went wrong with her. The one thing she could never latch on to was the responsibility for her own life. As I said to you, I always expected something like this. Her fate had nothing to do with anything you either did or didn’t do for her.”
Jesse sighed. He stood.
“Hopefully this will bring you some closure,” he said.
“Thank you, Jesse,” Martha said, also standing. “I’m very grateful for all that you’ve done.”
Jesse nodded.
She walked with him to his cruiser. Once there, she leaned into him and hugged him tightly. After several moments, he stepped back. Then he got into the cruiser and headed home.
They held Donnie Jacobs’s funeral on a Friday. It was Jewish custom not to bury the dead on Saturday, and even though Donnie died Thursday evening, the service took place early on Friday.
Emma flew into Boston that morning. Jesse met her at the airport. She was red-eyed and disheveled, which was unusual for her. She clung to him for a while. He could feel the sobs coursing through her.
The service was at the Hebrew Home for the Aged, where Donnie had been living. His health had begun to fail quite suddenly, and in no time, he was gone.
Jesse had been to see him on a number of occasions. He couldn’t help but notice the old man’s decline, but he had still hoped for the best.
A handful of people attended the memorial. At Emma’s request, the cremation had occurred prior to her arrival. She had no interest in viewing the body. She had seen her mother’s, and the sight of it had stayed with her. She didn’t want to risk the same with her father.
The rabbi spoke eloquently about life and about death. He appeared not to have known Donnie, and although his comments were fairly nonspecific, his thoughts were transcendent. Emma cried softly throughout the service.
Afterward, there was a small reception in the dining room. Sandwiches and salads. Coffee, tea, and desserts.
Then they were in Jesse’s Explorer, carrying Donnie’s ashes to the cottage on Peterman Drive. Emma was planning to strew them around the property that she and her family had so loved.
“Funny,” she said. “Just last week the house went into escrow. Maybe he sensed it. Maybe that’s why he let go.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Jesse said.
They parked in front of the house. The realtor’s sign read: SOLD. They walked slowly across the front lawn and around the side of the house. She wanted to scatter Donnie’s ashes in the back, among the plants and shrubbery, all of them in early bloom. Green buds had begun to appear on the trees. The spring air was fresh and clean.
“Dolly’s ashes are here,” Emma said. “Now they’ll be together again.”
Jesse stepped back while she opened the urn that contained the ashes. He stepped to the side of the house, allowing her the moment alone. He watched as she walked the yard, scattering the ashes here and there. Then it was done.
She restored the top to the urn and looked back at the house. In her own way, she was saying good-bye to it and to the life she had known there. She would never return to it again.
Together they got into the Explorer and Jesse drove her back to the airport.
He found parking in front of Clarice Edgerson’s house on Beacon Hill and rang the bell. It was opened by Augustus Kennerly. He stared at Jesse for several moments, then stepped back and motioned for him to enter. Neither of them spoke as Augustus ushered Jesse into the sitting room.
“Drink,” Augustus said.
“No, thanks,” Jesse said.
“Mind if I have one?”
“Please go ahead.”
Augustus fixed himself something and sat down across from Jesse.
“How you doing,” Jesse said.
“Not great,” Augustus said.
“What happens next?”
“I’m arranging to sell the house. She left everything to me. I’m thinking about moving away. Too many memories here. She and I bought a place in Anguilla. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go there. We were together for so many years. Since she was a girl, really. Nobody ever knew.”
“Your secret.”
“Our secret. Everyone assumed she was with Thomas. We let people think what they wanted to think. We didn’t much care.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me now. I don’t know if I can even get past this. Doesn’t seem to matter much whether I live or die.”
“Have you anyone you can talk to?”
Augustus shrugged.
“Do you have family,” Jesse said.
“She was my family.”
Augustus took a long pull on his drink and didn’t say anything.
“Maybe you should think about therapy. Perhaps even a grief counselor.”
“Therapy?”
“I’ve always found it best to have someone to talk with. A trained professional would be particularly good. Someone who could help guide you through this.”
“You’re probably right. But I wouldn’t even begin to know how to find such a person.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“You would do that? Help me find someone?”
“If you want me to.”
Augustus didn’t say anything for a while.
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d talk to that someone on my behalf?”
“Yes.”
“How would it work?”
“I’ll have a name for you before the end of the day. All you’ll need to do is phone for an appointment.”
“Would it be expensive?”
“Probably. But everything’s relative. Is cost really an issue for you?”
Augustus smiled.
“Not so much. I’m just an old cheapskate, is all. From a time when I didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Much obliged.”
Jesse stood.
“Don’t throw in the towel just yet, Gus,” he said. “Talk it out. Give it some time. You never know.”
Augustus didn’t say anything. He stood and together he and Jesse slowly walked to the door.
“Thank you again, Jesse,” Augustus said.
Jesse nodded.
“She liked you,” Augustus said.
Jesse looked at him. The two men shook hands.
Then Jesse got into his cruiser and drove home.
He was sitting in his darkened living room, having built a roaring fire that, as it flamed, cast moving shadows on the walls, lending them an air of m
ystery. He was mindlessly staring into it, but not really seeing anything.
He was sipping a scotch. Brahms was playing on the stereo. Mildred Memory had insinuated herself onto his lap. He was idly scratching and petting her. She was both purring and drooling at the same time.
The weight of the last few weeks was lifting, and as he sat alone in the darkened room, he began to sense that he had come out on the other side. He had eased up on himself. He felt better. He smiled.
After a while, he dislodged Mildred and stood. He continued to watch the diminishing fire. Then he gazed at the familiar room. He turned off the stereo, stepped over to the kitchen, and rinsed out his glass.
After one last glance at the glowing embers, he headed upstairs, with Mildred following hot on his heels.
• • •
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Melanie Mintz, Joanna Miles, David Chapman, Miles Brandman, and D. B. Muntz for their invaluable contributions to the manuscript.
My thanks also to Tom Selleck and the entire Jesse Stone movie family for their continued inspiration.
My gratitude to Tom Distler, whose wisdom, wit, and good common sense greatly enrich me.
Hats off to Christine C. Pepe, whose ceaseless quest for excellence consistently raises the bar.
And my most heartfelt appreciation to Helen Brann, for her compassion, support, and excellent good cheer.