Goodnight Nobody

by Jennifer Weiner

  "What about her politics?"

  He gulped his pills and gave me a blank stare. I tried again.

  "Laura Lynn had very strong opinions about working mothers." This earned me blank stare, the sequel. "She felt that mothers shouldn't work outside the house."

  "That's not a very nuanced reading of her work," he demurred. I plowed ahead, thinking that there'd be time for nuance later, after I'd figured out who'd killed Kitty and was now leaving notes suggesting that I was next in line.

  "I guess that what I'm wondering is whether Kitty felt the same way about working mothers."

  Joel Asch unfolded his paper bag and smoothed it on the table. "You knew her, didn't you? Weren't you close?"

  I tried for another chuckle. "Well, you know how it is. Mostly we wound up talking about what kind of peanut butter our kids liked."

  Ha ha ha, laughed Joel.

  "How about in college? Hanfield had lots of conservatives, right?" I knew it did, from my time online, and from my own college years, when it had been notorious as a breeding ground for budding Phyllis Schlaflys and Pat Buchanans. "Did Kitty participate in any of that?"

  "I can't say that I remember specifically."

  "So why would she want to go to work ghostwriting--"

  "Assisting," Joel Asch said with a grimace.

  "Fine. Assisting a woman who was writing things she didn't necessarily believe?"

  Joel Asch took a furious bite of his bagel. I watched as his teeth sank into the mush. "Entree," he muttered.

  "Excuse me?"

  "It gave her entree," he said, biting off each word. "Writing for Content gave her a certain cachet, a certain eclat, a certain--"

  "Please let your next word be in English," I said.

  He frowned at me. Then his face relaxed. He tilted his chin back and gazed at the ceiling. "Fine," he said. "English. Fine." His expression grew wistful. "She was funny, too, you know. Kitty was. Do you know what she called this place?"

  "What, Brookfield Bagels?"

  "No," he said. "Upchurch. She called it Land of the Lost."

  I felt my heart contract in sympathy as I realized that behind the perfect-mother mask Kitty had been disconcerted by her hometown, just like I was. And funny. Who knew? "So why did she move here?"

  I expected another shrug or blank look or some variation on my own story: she's here because it's where her husband wanted to be. But Joel Asch surprised me.

  "I think she ended up here for the same reason she was willing to work for Content and shape prose she might not have necessarily agreed with," he said.

  "Cachet," I quoted, "eclat."

  His thin lips lifted in a faint smile. "Status. That and the ability to move in the right circles," he said. "I'm not sure there's a French word for it. Access, maybe. She could have access to people in high places, attend the right charity benefits, the right fund-raisers. If she picked up the phone and said, 'I write for Content, I'm doing research for Laura Lynn Baird,' she could get senators on the line. Even presidents."

  "And she didn't care that she didn't have a byline?"

  He suffered through another bite of bagel and shook his head. I was starting to feel desperate, and he was starting to look antsy. "Look," I said. "I'm not trying to pry, or snoop, but I'm scared. We all are. The police haven't arrested anyone. All of the mothers are jumping at shadows. Anything you could tell me...anything at all..."

  "I'm sorry," Joel said. Then he looked at his watch. "I wish I had some answers for you, but I should really get going." He pushed himself away from the table. I followed him out the door.

  "Do you think one of Laura Lynn's readers could have had something to do with it?" I asked, as we made our way to the parking lot. Joel walked fast, and I struggled to keep up. My ankle was killing me, and my feet must have swollen while I was sitting. It felt like I was walking on knives. "I know she got hate mail."

  "Laura Lynn got hate mail," he corrected. "I would forward it to her. She wanted to see it, no matter how crude, or threatening, or laden with misspellings."

  I hurried after him as fast as I could, thinking that as far as Joel Asch was concerned, threatening and laden with misspellings were probably equally frightening. "Did Kitty see the hate mail?" I asked. "Did she know about it?"

  He rubbed at his pate, then jammed his hands in his pockets and pulled out his keys. "I really wouldn't know," he said. Which, I realized, wasn't exactly an answer. I reached for his shoulder, and he spun around, exhaling impatiently. The sun stretched out our shadows in the Brookfield Bagels parking lot. It was high noon, which was appropriate--and upsetting. I was going to be late to get my kids again.

  "Look," I said. "Forgive me if I'm confused. Maybe being home with kids has fogged my brain a little, but this doesn't make sense. You helped Kitty Cavanaugh get two jobs, one of which was a pretty big deal, and now she's been murdered. This beautiful, brilliant, hardworking, funny woman. Dead. Don't you want to find out who did it?"

  "Of course I do," he said quietly.

  "Were you sleeping with her? Is that why you gave her the job?"

  His shoulders stiffened as he glared at me. I heard the thrum of traffic on Main Street, the faint babbling of the brook that ran behind the bagel shop. The cool breeze stirred my hair. I braced myself, thinking he'd laugh or storm off or get in his car and drive.

  "No," he said. "I wasn't sleeping with her. For heaven's sake, she was young enough to be my daughter." He took a deep breath, tossing his keys from his left hand to his right. "I appreciate that you're interested in the details of her death. I wish I could be more help." He paused, then went on awkwardly. "I'm sorry you lost a friend."

  He extended his hand and, after a minute, I shook it and told him, "I'm sorry too."

  Twenty-Four

  It was twelve-ten when I made it to the Red Wheel Barrow. Sam and Jack were sitting side by side in the center of the red wooden bench outside the principal's office. Sophie was standing in front of them, little hands balled on her hips, her somber face drawn into a frown. "You're late again, Mommy," she said.

  "I know," I said, digging into my bag for my wallet and bracing myself for yet another go-round with Mrs. Dietl.

  I found her seated behind a gray metal desk. There was a painted ceramic apple in one corner, a monogrammed silver letter opener in the other, and a coffee can with a slit cut in its lid between them. "You do realize that this is the fifth time you've been late this semester," she said, when I'd smiled weakly and told her how sorry I was. "If this continues, we're going to have to have a serious talk about your arrangements."

  "I'm sorry," I murmured again as I jammed my thirty-dollar fine into the coffee can and went to collect my kids.

  "Please try not to let it happen again!" she called.

  "Don't mess with my toot-toot," I muttered under my breath. Sophie giggled, but Mrs. Dietl, who'd overheard, was not amused. She hurried down the hall after us, beaded eyeglass chain swinging against the shelf of her bosom, gabardine skirt swishing, and sensible shoes squeaking over the linoleum.

  "If you find that you are unhappy here, or that we at the Red Wheel Barrow are, as an institution, unable to meet your family's needs, there are other nursery schools, and most certainly other children who'd be happy to take your places," she said.

  "I know," I said, turning back to look her in the eyes. "I'm sorry." The hell of it was, she was right. There were other parents, lots of them, who'd be tripping over each other for the privilege of paying nine thousand bucks a semester so some overbred, overeducated teacher could watch their kids fingerpaint. I slapped on a smile, swore on my life that it would never ever ever happen again, and finally got the kids out of the red clapboard building with the bright white trim and into the van.

  "We're hungry," Sophie whined as I started driving home, down a street lined with maple trees whose branches arched over the road to create a shimmering canopy of crimson and gold. The whole scene was straight out of an inspirational greeting card, the kind I'd never
buy and never send. It felt as foreign as the moon. Back in New York, I'd known every inch of my neighborhood: the newsstands and salad bars, the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, the guys at the dry cleaners, and the girls at the little grocery store who'd saved my ass more than once by going into the overstock room for more Pampers after Sam decided he'd only wear the ones with Elmo on them, even the homeless guy who'd called me "pretty mama" when I wheeled the babies by.

  "Sit tight," I told them. Sophie groaned and clutched her belly.

  "Hungry," said Sam, or possibly Jack.

  "Just another minute," I said. And then, in absolute defiance of everything Upchurch in general and the Red Wheel Barrow school in particular represented, I drove to McDonald's and ordered three Happy Meals, distributed the goodies in the parking lot, and started the trip home. "Playdate," Sophie mumbled through a mouthful of chewed potato, already sounding groggy from the combination of nitrates and sodium and whatever McDonald's puts in its milkshakes.

  "Huh?"

  "We're supposed to go to Tristan and Isi's house for a playdate," she said.

  Oops. I called Sukie Sutherland. "We're running late, but I fed them lunch!"

  "No problem," she said, in her chipper, good-mommy lilt. "We're going to make Thanksgiving centerpieces and bake flaxseed muffins."

  "Sounds great!" I said.

  In the Sutherlands' driveway, I wiped the telltale ketchup stains off the kids' hands and faces, told them to be good, and deposited them in Sukie's pristine entryway. I drove back home, past the Chamberlains' house, then the Langdons'. As the minivan rounded the curve, I saw a man standing in front of my driveway, with his hands in his pockets and an amused look on his face. Faded blue jeans. Broad shoulders. Black hair curling past his earlobes. Evan McKenna, standing not fifty yards from my front door.

  My first impulse was to hit the gas and keep going. My second impulse was to stomp on the gas and hit him. I imagined his body flying in the air like one of Sophie's dolls, and how I'd disengage the child safety locks, roll down the windows, shriek That's what you get for breaking my heart! and drive off into the sunset, just like Thelma and Louise, only with a minivan instead of a Thunderbird, and minus the dying.

  Instead, I screeched to a halt by the curb, took a millionth of a second to be grateful that I'd combed my hair that morning and waxed my upper lip the day before, flung open the passenger's side door, and said, "Get in the van!"

  Evan gave me a lazy smile. "Is this a dramatic reenactment of Silence of the Lambs?"

  "Just get in!"

  He shrugged, pulled off his cap and tucked it into his back pocket, then swung himself into the seat beside me. As soon as he'd slammed the door, I screeched away from the curb, fast enough to lay twin tracks of rubber that my husband was certain to notice when he came home. My heart was thudding in my ears and hands shook as I stomped on the brakes for the stop sign at the end of the road.

  "Hi," said Evan.

  I hazarded a look to the right, where I found him looking at me with the same easy sweetness I'd remembered from all those years ago. His cheeks were red from the cold, his thick eyebrows were unruly as ever, and his clever mouth curved as he smiled.

  "What are you doing at my house?"

  He shrugged. "I told you, I had to talk to the cops, and I figured, since I was in the neighborhood..."

  I gripped the wheel as hard as I could to make my hands stop shaking. "You can't just show up at my house and hang around in the middle of the street! What about the neighbors!"

  "Katie." He pulled off his sunglasses and had the nerve to smirk. "This is an innocent visit from an old friend. It's not like we were doing it in the road."

  I felt my face flush and suddenly became aware of my thighs pressing against each other. They were naked underneath my skirt because I hadn't been able to find a pair of tights or pantyhose. I thought I could hear the silk lining of the skirt whisper over my skin as I moved. Worse, judging from his smile, I thought Evan could hear it too.

  "And I have some information about our mutual friend."

  "Tell me," I said, and started driving. Okay. This could work. He'd spill the beans and I'd dump him at the train station. The entire transaction would take fifteen minutes--twenty, tops. It wouldn't be enough time for me to fall in love with him again.

  "Boy," he said, "you must think I'm easy."

  "Evan..." I don't think about you at all, I wanted to say. Lie. Whatever.

  "Have you had lunch yet?" he inquired. "Because I could use some lunch." He sniffed. "Smells like french fries in here."

  "That's just my perfume." I spoke without looking at him. Bad things would happen if I looked at him. It would be like looking at the sun.

  "Come on, Kate. I haven't seen you in years." He touched my shoulder. "I missed you, you know," he said quietly.

  I turned left onto Main Street faster than I had to and said nothing. I didn't trust my voice.

  Evan shrugged and turned to look out the window, taking in my new town: the white clapboard church with its spire piercing the cloudless blue sky; the old Victorians dripping with gingerbread trim that had been converted into banks or law offices; the brick-and-glass town hall; and the Olde Main Street Apothecary, where the half-deaf pharmacist would make you shout your name and your prescription across the counter until everyone in town knew that you were in there for Xanax or Rogaine or Viagra.

  "Wow," he said. "It's not exactly Atlantic City, is it?"

  I held myself perfectly still and said nothing. I would have run away with you, I thought. If you'd ever really asked.

  Evan continued to evaluate the scenery. "Two Talbots?"

  I lifted my chin. "One of them is Talbot Petites."

  "Ah. Well, there you go." He rubbed his head. And I could smell his clean scent of soap and laundry detergent and something else, faint and sugary, that had always reminded me of campfires and graham crackers, the memory of sweetness in my mouth underneath a black sky pricked with stars. "You like it here?"

  "It's fine."

  "How's Janie?"

  "Great. Perfect. Never better. She's a big-shot editor at New York Night now." I pulled up at the town's blinking yellow light. "How's Michelle?" I snuck another glance sideways. Evan had turned back toward the window. "Did she ever marry you?"

  He shrugged. "We got married. It didn't last."

  His hands were in his lap, palms up. His face was grave. "I'm sorry," I made myself say.

  "I tried calling you..."

  "Was your phone not working, or was it your fingers?" I asked lightly.

  "But first you were in London, and then--"

  "And then you moved away! By the time I unpacked and got over the jet lag, you were gone."

  "We didn't move," Evan said patiently. "We got kicked out. You didn't know?"

  "Didn't know what?"

  "Janie bought the building and evicted us."

  I stomped on the brake at the traffic signal in front of the Super Shop Mart and stared at him, torn between shock, disbelief, and awe at what Janie had been able to pull off. "She did what?"

  "Bought the building," Evan repeated. "Then she told us she was turning it into co-ops and gave us ten days to leave."

  "Jesus. Is that legal?"

  "She said if she ever saw me again or heard that I was trying to get in touch with you, she'd have both of my legs broken. And she tried to have me deported."

  The car behind me gave a polite toot-toot. I started driving. "I know you're kidding. You're a U.S. citizen!"

  "Yeah, well, you know that and I know that. Apparently the INS was a little confused on the matter. Janie found some other guy named Evan McKenna who was living illegally in Brooklyn...ah, never mind. Long story. It all worked out." His lips twitched upward. "Except for the other Evan McKenna. They packed his ass back to County Cork."

  "I hope you don't expect me to feel sorry for you." My voice was tart, but my eyelids were suddenly prickly with tears. "You didn't even call me after 9/11. Everyone called ev
eryone after 9/11. There was an article about it in the Times." I swiped at my eyes as the Range Rover behind me honked its horn.

  "I wanted to," he said. "I wanted to call." He pulled his seat belt away from his chest, then let it snap back, thumping gently against him. "But I saw you that summer. I saw you in Central Park, at the zoo. With another guy. You looked so happy, I thought, why make trouble?"

  I snorted and flicked on my turn indicator so hard that the shaft almost snapped off in my hand. I remembered the day he was talking about: a beautiful August afternoon. I'd met Ben on his lunch hour and we'd bought slices of pizza, then strolled over to eat them and watch the sea lions have their lunch. It had been a lovely day...but still, like every time Ben and I went out in New York City, there was always a part of me that couldn't help scanning the crowds, waiting for Evan to emerge, cock his eyebrow at me, hold out his arms, and say, "I made a mistake, Kate. We belong together."

  "What kind..." My voice was wobbling. "What kind of trouble did you want to make?"

  He didn't say anything as I swung onto the highway and merged into traffic heading north toward Hartford, and when he started talking again his voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him.

  "I thought about you a lot, after that night," he said. "I still do."

  I looked over to see if he was smirking. Maybe this was his idea of a good joke to play on a lonely, overwhelmed, out-of-place mother stuck in a suburb she despised. No smirk. He was looking at me, his green eyes narrowed. "Do you think about me?"

  Only every day. "Every once in a while. But what does it matter now?" I asked, hearing the despair in my voice.

  He sighed. " 'If I could turn back time,' " he sang.

  I stared at him in mingled amusement and horror. "You're quoting Cher?"

  " 'If I could find a way,' " he continued.