by Kathy Reichs
I DON’T NORMALLY TENSE AT the sound of Pete’s voice.
Janis “Pete” Petersons. My ex. Sort of. Long story.
I fell for Pete in college. He was wrapping up law school, a post-fratboy charmer. Good mind, good body, good prospects. Good talker.
Our marriage was dandy for almost twenty years. Might have lasted if Pete hadn’t started sharing his charms with other women.
That aside—big aside, there—once we separated and time soothed the anger and hurt, I grew to like Pete’s company again. In the parlor, not the bedroom. Though, truth be told, the old embers can still smolder now and again.
Like many former spouses, Pete and I remain permanently linked. There’s our daughter, Katy, of course. And pets. When Pete travels, his dog, Boyd, is a guest at my town house. My cat, Birdie, bunks with Pete when I’m out of town. Sharing custody helps on both sides.
Over the years, Pete’s ring tone has come to signal a discussion of Katy, or the exchange of details concerning animal transfer. Occasionally a request that our daughter wants filtered through her old man the softy.
Tonight was not the ordinary call.
Pete never dialed my office line.
Oh, God!
I saw the girl zipped in the bag across the hall. The girl who’d been left to die on the roadside.
I saw Katy.
“What is it? Has something happened?” Fingers death-gripping the receiver.
“Relax. Katy’s fine. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been phoning you all afternoon.”
“It’s a long story. You’re sure Katy’s okay?”
“I Skyped with her this morning. Night there. Her unit was just back from a training exercise.”
“How’d she look?”
“Wired. Tired. Bunch of GIs shouting nearby. How much can you tell?”
One year ago, Katy was a researcher at the public defender’s office, bored, bitching, but safe in Charlotte, her single joy in life her boyfriend and absentee landlord, Aaron Cooperton. Out of college and completing a stint in the Peace Corps, Coop had joined the International Rescue Committee and volunteered for aid work in Afghanistan. He was on his way to Kabul to fly home to Katy when an IED blew up his convoy.
Katy was devastated by Coop’s death. Unaware of her close connection to him, the Cooperton family had excluded her, even barred her from the private funeral they held in Charleston. Katy was left with no closure and no way to grieve.
I watched my daughter start her mornings red-eyed and ragged, drag through her days. I listened and did what I could to comfort. Took her with me on a working trip to Hawaii. Nothing helped. It gutted me to see her in such pain.
Maybe I should have guessed what was coming.
Suddenly Katy was sparkling again, enthused about life. The dark shadows under her eyes slowly faded. Her chin reclaimed its cocky tilt. When she visited, it was no longer for hours, but for minutes squeezed in between pressing commitments.
It was Pete who told me she’d enlisted. In a call like this. Katy had kept her plans secret until the papers were signed.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said when finally we’d talked. “I won’t be in combat.”
Right.
On May 14, 2012, the United States Army opened HIMARS, High Mobility Artillery Rocket System, and MLR, Multiple Launch Rocket System, units to female soldiers for the first time. Early the next year, the military lifted its long-standing ban on women in combat.
Upon completion of her BCT, basic combat training, Katy requested MLR as her military occupational specialty, or MOS. Following AIT, advanced individual training, she was off to Afghanistan.
WTF?
I’ve consulted to JPAC, the military’s central remains-identification lab in Hawaii. I can play the acronym game, too.
I brought my mind back to the current conversation. “But how did she seem?”
“Psyched. Talked about doing the same training as the men. Artillery. Cannon platoons—”
“Oh, God.”
“She’s a tough kid. She’ll be okay.”
“You’re right. It’s just—”
“I know, sugarbritches. You see violent death every day.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“She’ll probably end up a general.”
“You think she’ll make a career of the army?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Why do you suppose she chose not to enlist in an officer candidate program? She’s a college graduate.”
“I think it was the time commitment.”
But Pete hadn’t called about Katy. He’d have done that this morning after he talked to her. I waited for him to get to his point.
“So what’s the long story?” he asked.
Really?
I summarized my adventures at the courthouse and was shifting to the hit-and-run case when Pete cut me off.
“Sounds like your day sucked. How about dinner?”
“What’s the occasion?” Wary.
“Can’t I ask a soon-to-be ex-wife to dinner?”
I had a hunch what he wanted. Wasn’t about to get roped in.
“No way I’m playing marriage planner for Summer, so don’t ask.”
In midlife, most men lust after sports cars. Pete had set his sights on a trophy wife. Summer was my fiftysomething ex-husband’s thirtysomething bimbo fiancée. Best in show for tits. DQ for lack of IQ.
“You know how she is,” Pete said lamely.
I knew only too well. I’d agreed to mediate for Bridezilla once already. Ended up catching flak from both sides.
“She needs guidance.”
She needs a muzzle and a tranquilizer dart. I didn’t say that.
The wedding from hell, postponed twice, now loomed near. At least five million people had been invited. School friends, work friends, friends of friends. Facebook boasted fewer chums than Summer.
“The wedding’s in less than two weeks.”
“Wait a day. That will change.”
“She’s panicking.”
“Give her a Valium.”
“She likes you a lot.”
“Look, Pete. Summer is your problem, not mine.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that I have depositions all week and a trial on the docket the instant we get back from Tahiti. I’ve been running around auditioning photographers, picking up thank-you cards, crap you wouldn’t believe. Every day there’s a new crisis.”
Typical Pete. For two decades I’d shouldered most of the child-rearing responsibility because his professional calendar always came first. Car pools; dentist, doctor, and orthodontist appointments; gymnastics, ballet, and swim-team runs.
Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy fussing over your baby bride’s Barnum and Bailey three-ring you’d have noticed your daughter these past months, caught the signs she was about to make a dangerous decision.
I didn’t say that, either. I waited, annoyed and anxious to hang up and phone for a taxi.
“Tempe. Are you listening to me? I need the papers.”
The divorce agreement. I’d signed but not delivered it to Pete. Could have with little effort. So why the procrastination?
“Right. They’re on my desk at home. I should have given them to you ages ago. Sorry. Of course, come and get them anytime. There’s no need to take me to dinner.”
“I want to take you to dinner.”
I started to protest. Pete cut me off.
“I’ll pick you up out front. And I promise. Not a word about the wedding.”
“I don’t think—”
“How was it you planned to get home?”
Side-out, Pete.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, A SHINY new BMW convertible swerved to the curb. Red with black leather interior.
Trophy wife. Trophy car. I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.
Less commendable was Pete’s fashion sense. Sure, he could muster a suit and tie for court, but a golf shirt and khakis was his normal attire. My ex’s guiding
principle: comfy and cool.
As I dropped into the passenger seat, my brows rose at the sports jacket, blue shirt, and navy slacks.
“Don’t we look snazzy.” Excluding the sockless loafers.
“I’m having dinner with a lovely lady.”
Orbital roll beyond my control.
“Nice wheels.” Keeping it light.
“Got a good deal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Took ’er up to Asheville over the weekend. Purred like a kitten. Summer squealed at every switchback. Almost squealed myself once or twice.”
Squeals all around.
“Goes from zero to sixty in faster than you can say zero to sixty.”
Pete understood I cared little about cars. I knew he was tiptoeing to avoid mention of the upcoming nuptials.
I grabbed the armrest as he gunned out of the lot, cut left, right, then left again.
“Zero to sixty,” I said, smiling.
“Check out the sound system.” Pete tapped something and Maroon 5’s “Payphone” surrounded us in a moving cloud of noise that rendered further communication impossible.
Just past the Queens University campus, Pete winged onto the main drive at Sharon Hall, shot the tunnel of ancient magnolias past the white-columned manor house, and braked to a gravel-spitting stop in the parking area between the carriage house and its annex. Turning his head sideways, he gave me a two-brow waggle.
“Nice.” I unbuckled my seat belt.
“I’ll wait here.”
“I’ve got to shower.”
“No rush.”
I held out a palm.
Pete pulled his keys from the ignition, removed one, and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I flipped the door handle.
“Tempe?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t lock it in the house.”
Pete’s phone was out before I was.
The annex has a bedroom and bath upstairs, living and dining rooms, kitchen, a study/guest room, and bath down. Garden in back, grassy patch in front, patio to one side. Though cramped, the place suits me perfectly.
I let myself into the kitchen and flipped on the light.
“Bird?”
No cat.
“Here, boy.”
Nothing but a soft ticking coming from the parlor.
I found Birdie under the sideboard holding Gran’s clock. Though cats are said to lack facial musculature capable of expression, his message was clear.
“You mad?”
Pausing a moment for effect, Birdie rose, stretched, then padded toward me, cool but prepared to consider explanation. And dinner.
I bent and scratched one furry white ear.
“Sorry, champ. But tonight’s menu is a bit subpar.”
Returning to the kitchen, I plucked two eggs from the fridge, mixed in a tin of sardines, and heated the combo. When the mess congealed I scraped it into his bowl.
One thing about Bird, he does not hold grudges. All sins forgiven, the feline dived in.
Since I often spend my days with decomp and biohazard, I’ve mastered the art of the quick cleanup. And amassed a spa-worthy array of soaps, gels, and lotions. Tonight I grabbed the nearest. Out and dry in five minutes, smelling of grapefruit.
Birdie walked in as I was pondering acceptable couture for delivering divorce papers. My eyes met his.
“Screw it.”
I grabbed jeans and a black tee, added pale green seashell earrings and a black cotton jacket.
“What do you think?”
Birdie cocked his head but rendered no opinion.
I hurried down to the study, cat at my heels. As I snatched up the documents, Birdie did a figure eight through my ankles.
I glanced at my watch. Pete had been waiting a full twenty minutes.
The cat arched his back and lifted his tail. I scratched his ears and added a series of down-the-back strokes.
When I popped the Beemer door, Pete was still on the phone.
“Don’t inhale while you’re spraying.” Pause. “Okay. But really, I’ve got to go.” Shorter pause. “Yes, I’ll call when I’m on the way. I love you, too.” Sotto voce.
“Sorry. Bird—”
“No problemo. Ale House good with you?”
“Sure.” It wasn’t. Big-screen TVs. Fans cheering, groaning, coaching. Noise level at eighty-five decibels. “Is Summer having bug issues?”
Pete looked at me blankly.
“She needs to fumigate?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “She’s spray-painting antique bottles to use in the centerpieces. Or some damn thing. It’s supposed to look artsy.”
Wedding talk. Nope.
A short, thrumming blast of Bob Marley, and we were at the Carolina Ale House, a multiscreened extravaganza on the ground floor of a steel-and-glass tower in the heart of uptown. Pete managed to secure a table away from the bar. Not quiet, but out of the no-talk zone.
A waitress greeted Pete with more teeth than a radial saw and favored me with a millisecond of eye contact while mumbling that her name was April.
“Fat Tire ale?” April beamed another dental stunner at my ex.
“Good memory.” Pete did the finger-pistol thing.
I asked for Perrier and lime.
Pete chose the baby back ribs. I went for flatiron steak.
Food and drinks ordered, I pulled the documents from my purse and laid them in front of Pete. He glanced at them but did not pick them up.
A void stretched across the table, a bubble of quiet amid the din around us. So little paper. So few words for a love that had produced hopes, dreams, and a beautiful daughter. A love destroyed by an act of betrayal.
There should have been some ceremony. An unwedding? A rite of dissolution? Something beyond a Settlement Agreement and Verification. At least a better font.
“Sorry it’s taken so long.” I broke the awkward silence. “No excuse. I should have—”
“It’s not a problem, sugarbritches. I’ll have these filed before noon.”
“Don’t call me that.” Reflex.
“Okay.” The old Pete smile. “Cupcake.”
Pete slid the papers into the snazzy jacket pocket, then patted my hand.
The touch. His skin on mine. So familiar.
I groped for neutral conversational ground.
“Your wrongful-death case, barrister? How’s it going?”
“I won’t know until my doctor gets deposed in the morning.”
I told him about the criminal misdemeanor trial from which I’d escaped. He told me about a tooth that was causing him grief.
Mercifully, April arrived with our drinks. Pete chugged. I sipped.
“And you?” After another awkward pause. “How’re things with Monsieur Le Dick?”
Monsieur Le Dick, Pete’s flip name for Andrew Ryan, Lieutenant-détective, Section des crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec. My colleague when I consult to the Laboratoire de sciences judiciares et de médecine légale in Montreal. My on-and-off lover. Off now. Off forever?
“He’s good.”
“Bon.” Pronounced “bone.”
“Never speak French, Pete.”
And don’t ask about Ryan. Don’t force me to voice my anxiety over his recent coolness. His distance.
If Ryan and I truly were finished, the split wouldn’t be as wretched as the one from Pete. There would be no bitterness, no angst. No stunned child to whom an explanation was due. No moving out. No division of property. No standing in line at the DMV to record change of address. With Ryan, there’d be nothing but a murky trench of sadness.
I couldn’t bear to talk about it. To think about it.
“I’m swamped with work here,” I said.
“Anything interesting?”
“Four mummified dogs from Peru.”
Pete cocked a questioning brow.
I told him about the confiscation by ICE at the Charlotte airport.
Our plates arrived and, for a full m
inute, we focused on salt and pepper, steak sauce, butter, sour cream, and ketchup. April asked if I needed more ice.
Inexplicably, my thoughts went to the child in the cooler.
“We’ve also got a teenage girl,” I said to Pete. “Run down last night near Old Pineville Road.”
“The parents must be devastated.”
“We don’t know who she is.”
“Jesus. Larabee’s case?”
I nodded. “There are a couple of leads. If Slidell would get off his fat ass. In his mind—”
“Which is small.”
I smiled. “In his small mind, she’s an illegal turning tricks.”
“Proof?”
“A pink purse, needle tracks, and bad teeth.”
“That’s it?”
“Bleached hair, a dark complexion, and a Spanish note in her purse.”
“Skinny thinks she’s from south of the border.”
I nodded.
Pete chuckled and shook his head. He’d met Slidell, knew how pigheaded the man could be.
The clamor of voices hushed. Then a multi-throated groan filled the room. Some sporting event was not going well for the home team.
Pete’s ribs were stripped and stacked when he laid down his utensils and wiped his mouth.
“Can I roll something by you?”
“Sure.”
“I have a friend, Hunter Gross. I don’t think you know him. His nephew, John, is a marine second lieutenant.”
“Semper fi.” I snapped a salute.
Pete had served in the Corps, still kept the Marine flag on a small stand in his office. Every November tenth, he celebrated its birthday with his old OCC buddies.
“Until a few months ago, John was serving as a platoon leader in Afghanistan. As I understand the story, he and his men were ordered to search a village.” Pete stopped, an odd expression on his face. “I’m not sure of the details, but the kid’s been accused of murdering unarmed civilians.”
“Jesus.”
“Hunter says no way he’s guilty.”
“Your friend. The uncle.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your take?”
Pete shrugged. “I’m not sure what to think. Hunter says the kid’s a good marine, had plans to make a career of it, but I don’t know him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Cooling his heels at Camp Lejeune pending completion of an inquiry.”
