One week ago she’d taken one of the framed photographs of Gary and hurled it to the floor, shattering the glass front and fracturing the chrome frame. It had been a photo of Gary and Tom Schuyler with their arms around each other’s shoulders. When Bonnie had flown into the living room that night, smarting from Paul’s rejection, she’d discerned something annoying about the two men in the photograph, something taunting and cocky. There they’d stood on the steps in front of the Radcliffe Library, sneering down at the photographer.
That night, they’d been sneering down at Bonnie from the mantel, and she hadn’t been able to stand it. So she’d smashed the photograph.
The impact had sobered her. She’d swept up the splinters of glass, and then carried the broken frame and the creased photograph upstairs to her bedroom. She’d lain in bed, staring at Gary’s image until she was convinced that he hadn’t truly been sneering.
"I’m sorry," she’d whispered to the man in the wrinkled photograph, not at all sure of what she was apologizing for.
Shane broke into her thoughts. "You really aren’t mad at me?"
"What are you getting at?" she asked, relieved to bring her attention back into the present. "Have you done something I should be mad about?"
"Not recently," he drawled, shoving his wind-tangled hair out of his face. "Next car you get ought to have air-conditioning, Mom."
Not recently. "You’re referring to the incident with Melinda Garrison?" Bonnie had finally wrangled the girl’s name from Shane and had a reassuring telephone conversation with Melinda’s mother.
Shane fidgeted with his leather necklace. "It’s like...I mean, she has nothing to do with my getting a B-minus in history."
"A C-plus, but let’s not quibble," Bonnie interjected. "I never thought your interest in girls was causing your grades to drop."
"I’m not interested in girls," Shane insisted. "It was just her. Most girls are weird."
"Shane..." She sighed. Whether or not he thought girls were weird, he had hormones, as Paul had pointed out. "I just want you to remember, honey, that girls have feelings, too. No matter what you do with them, you’ve always got to remember that. You should never pressure them or try to get them to do something they don’t want to do."
"Yeah, sure," Shane mumbled, sounding both embarrassed and impatient.
If she weren’t his mother, if she could get Paul to tell him these things... She could only hope he was taking her words to heart. "And you’ve got to be honest with girls. They like honesty in a guy, more than anything else."
"Okay," he said defensively. "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to her house. I won’t lie again."
That hadn’t been the message Bonnie had been trying to convey, but she’d take what she could get. "Good. I want you to be straight with me, Shane. We’ve both learned something from this episode. I’m not upset about it anymore."
Shane eyed her with a gratitude he would never give voice to. "I guess it’ll be fun seeing Richie," he said.
Ten minutes later, Bonnie pulled up to the house on Chilton Street where Shane’s childhood friend, Richie Wyler, lived. Richie’s mother invited her to stay for coffee, but Bonnie begged off with the excuse that Kevin McCoy was expecting her. After issuing the obligatory parental warnings about behaving nicely, she kissed her son good-bye and left, driving directly to Harvard Square.
The change in the neighborhood disconcerted her, even though she’d witnessed much of its evolution during the years she’d lived in Cambridge. She’d seen the city’s population transform from rag-tag street people and petition-bearing activists to impeccably dressed young executives armed with leather briefcases. Where posters had once hung advertising peace rallies, there were now flyers advertising cleaning services. Psychedelic shop window displays had been replaced by high-tech arrangements of expensive imported sweaters. Everything looked clean and chic and cold.
Shane was wrong. Bonnie might have come back to where she’d once been, but it wasn’t the same place anymore. She probably would have been better off having a cup of coffee with Richie’s mother.
Instead, she pointed her car toward Kevin McCoy’s office in Boston.
***
"THANKS," SAID PAUL, accepting the telephone from the clerk. He’d just been summoned to the back office adjacent to the retail greenhouse to take the call. Through the doorway he could see a couple of shoppers browsing among the potted plants; through an open window he could see a row of birch trees lined up against a frame next to the parking lot. The trees reminded him of Bonnie and he turned away. "Paul Tremaine here," he said into the phone.
"Hey, man, it’s me," John Slinger greeted him over the wire. "How’ve you been?"
"Fine," Paul lied. "And yourself?"
"Worried about you. Where’ve you been hiding yourself, guy? Nobody’s seen you for weeks."
"I’m not hiding. You know exactly where I am right now," Paul remarked, refusing to let John put him on the defensive. "If you want to see me, come to the nursery and buy a bush."
"I want to see you at Max’s later," John suggested. "What do you say we meet for a beer and shoot a few rounds of pool this evening after work? My old lady’s been dumping on me lately. I want to spend a couple of hours with someone I like."
"I’ll have to pass. I’m really not—"
"You really are," John cut him off. He sounded solemn; the laughter was gone from his voice. "Listen, Paul, if you’re going through a rough one, you’ve got to let it out. If you don’t want to shoot pool at Max’s, we’ll go somewhere else. But you’ve got to let it out or it’s going to eat you alive. I know, man. You know I do. I’ve been there a few times myself."
Paul didn’t bother to argue. He and John had both endured bad spells over the years—John more than Paul—and they’d helped to pull each other out of them. Paul had yet to meet a vet who hadn’t been through hell at least a few times since returning to the world.
"This isn’t what you’re thinking," he began, then hesitated. He’d been about to say that his current situation had nothing to do with Vietnam or flashbacks or any of the rest of it. It had to do with Bonnie, how much he still wanted her and how wrong it was to want her. It had to do with love and responsibility and putting her best interests ahead of his own.
It had to do with the way he’d felt when he’d glimpsed her last Saturday when she’d come to pick Shane up after his morning stint at the nursery. Paul had seen her outside the same window he was gazing through right now, and his heart had seemed to swell inside his chest until its fierce beating bruised his ribs. He’d observed her long, billowing hair and her soft lips and her dazzling eyes, and he’d remembered every bit of anguish he’d ever caused her—wanting her, leaving her, inflicting his madness upon her.
"Everything," John said firmly, "goes back to the same thing, Paul. Whatever’s bugging you now, it was born in the ’Nam."
"Yeah," Paul agreed quietly. "I guess it was."
"Meet me at Max’s tonight," John urged him. "We’ll talk it out."
"All right," said Paul. "I’ll be there."
***
BONNIE FOUND TOM SCHUYLER in his office at Boston University. A clerk in one of the administration offices had steered her to the building, and a secretary there had directed her to the upper floor office assigned to Tom. His door was open, and Bonnie stepped across the threshold before she realized he wasn’t alone.
He was conferring with a student—or, more accurately, flirting with her, Bonnie concluded after a brief assessment of the scene. Tom was perched on the edge of his desk, leaning eagerly over the young lady seated on a chair in front of him, his gaze flickering from her upturned face to the open notebook in her lap, to her breasts and then back up to her face. He was dressed, as he’d been when he’d visited Bonnie in Northford, with more sartorial flair than she generally associated with professors—a crisp white shirt, tailored slacks, hand-stitched loafers. His student gazed up at him with awe as he explained, in well-modulated tones,
the arcana of advanced differential calculus.
Bonnie wanted to scream. She wanted to interrupt the charming little tableau, to kick the young lady out of the room, grab Tom by the throat and throttle him until he spat out the truth. The hour she’d just spent in Kevin McCoy’s office had left her reeling; her only hope of regaining a semblance of emotional balance lay in finding out from Tom exactly what had been going on the night Gary died.
Kevin had tried to soften the impact of his words. "I’ve tracked down Marcie Bradley," he’d announced as Bonnie handed him the manuscript. "She and I had a long talk, Bonnie. I questioned her about the discrepancies between what she’d told you about Gary’s death and what the police report said."
"And?"
"And after some hemming and hawing, well..." He’d given her a smile that struck her as brimming with pity. "She admitted that the police report was accurate."
Bonnie had absorbed his words, mulling over their ramifications. "Gary was killed by a drunk driver?"
"Apparently."
"Not by a right-wing maniac?"
"Apparently not."
She’d stared at the bearded young reporter, trying not to hate him for what he’d just told her. "Did she tell you why she and Tom Schuyler made up this story?"
"No. She didn’t want to discuss it. Just a conjecture, Bonnie, but maybe they concocted this story to glorify Gary in death. You can’t really blame them, can you?"
"If that was their reason, why wouldn’t she have wanted to discuss it?"
Kevin had offered a sheepish smile. "That thought crossed my mind, too, Bonnie. I’d like to keep digging—but I want you to be prepared for the possibility that something negative might turn up. Marcie Bradley definitely seemed to have something to hide."
What? What could Marcie and Tom be hiding? During the drive across town to Boston University, Bonnie had torn herself apart trying to guess. She had been Gary’s wife! How could they have lied to her?
Tom must have heard her footsteps as she stormed into the office, because he glanced up before she could speak. His face broke into a broad grin of surprise. "Well, hello, Bonnie!" he said, standing. "What brings you to Boston?"
The girl twisted in her seat to view Bonnie. She smiled timidly. Bonnie didn’t bother smiling back; she didn’t have it in her to be polite. "It’s been ten years, Tom," she said without preamble. "I think you’d better tell me what happened."
Tom’s smile faltered. "Ummm—" he peered down at his student "—I guess we’re finished for now, Andrea. Why don’t you go through the rest of the problems on your own, and we can discuss them tomorrow?"
"Okay, Dr. Schuyler," the girl said meekly. She gathered up her books, stood, and offered Bonnie another edgy smile as she left the office.
Bonnie entered and gave the room a critical inspection. It was small but tidy, decorated with a framed print of a seascape and a few colorful posters announcing mathematics symposiums on regional campuses. Steel bookcases were filled with textbooks. Two file cabinets stood next to a large green chalkboard attached to the wall, and a personal computer took up much of Tom’s desk. Nowhere could Bonnie find the merest hint of evidence that he had once been an outspoken radical.
"Have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the chair the student had just vacated.
His courtesy aroused Bonnie’s suspicions. But then, everything about Tom aroused her suspicions. He’d lied to her, he and Marcie. They’d lied about the single most important event in Bonnie’s life, and even as she took her seat, resolved not to leave until she had learned the truth, she wondered whether she would be able to believe anything Tom told her now.
She watched him warily as he circled his desk and lowered himself into the upholstered swivel chair facing her. "You know why I’m here, don’t you," she said.
He attempted a casual smile. "Judging by your opening salvo, I don’t suppose it’s because you want to take me out for dinner."
"I’ve just come from Kevin McCoy’s office," she told him. "He’s been doing some digging into the facts surrounding Gary’s death."
Tom didn’t appear terribly surprised. He leaned back in his chair, gazing enigmatically at Bonnie and tapping his fingertips together. "Facts, huh," he echoed.
"Yes, facts. Do you know what facts are, Tom? They have to do with the truth, with honesty. Just this afternoon I was explaining to Shane about how important honesty is."
"I always knew you’d make a good mother," Tom remarked.
She wasn’t sure whether she was only imagining the snide twist to his smile. Not that it mattered. "How come you were dishonest, Tom? Did your mother forget to teach you that lesson?"
"Now, Bonnie," he said in an unctuous voice. "Sarcasm doesn’t become you."
"Lying doesn’t become you," she retorted. "So tell the damned truth already. Tell me how my husband died."
"You know how he died," Tom responded evenly. "He was hit by a car."
"And you saw it with your very own eyes?"
"Come on, Bonnie—"
"Tell me!" she demanded, pounding his desk with her fist. The violence of the gesture surprised her, and she subsided in her chair. "Did you see the accident?" she asked, her tone hushed but no less intense. "Did you see the driver? Did you see his face as he ran down my husband? Were you there?"
Tom glanced away, at last showing signs of discomfort. "Bonnie. Be reasonable. It was ten years ago."
"That’s right. Ten years is the life expectancy of any good lie. Now it’s time for the truth."
He tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. "What did McCoy tell you?"
"Guess."
Tom sighed. "Okay. The truth. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see the accident. You already know it; now you’ve heard it from me. The end."
"It’s not the end!" she railed. "I was his wife, damn it! Why are you keeping the truth from me?"
"Nobody’s keeping anything from you," Tom argued with infuriating logic. "You saw the police report yourself, Bonnie. You flew out to Fresno and read the report."
"Sure, I read the police report," she scoffed. "I was grieving, I was panic-stricken, I was jet-lagged, I hadn’t slept in days, I was broke, I was frantic about my son back east with my parents—and some desk sergeant shoved a stack of papers under my nose. Do you think I knew what I was reading?"
Tom shrugged. "It doesn’t actually make much difference whether I was there to witness the accident or not," he posed. "Either way, the outcome was the same."
"It does make a difference," she argued. The muscles in her legs clenched; her throat felt tight. She dreaded the possibility of what she might hear if she continued her search for the truth. But no matter what awful things she learned, knowing had to be better than not knowing. "Tell me why, Tom. That’s what I really need to know. Why did you lie?"
Tom appeared annoyed. "Why do you think? It made a good story: Noted Pacifist Slain For His Beliefs—"
"Not about that," Bonnie snapped. "Marcie could have handled that much of the lie herself. Why did you say you were with Gary? Why did you tell me you’d witnessed the accident?"
He swiveled in his chair until he was facing the window. He stared out, ruminating, offering Bonnie only his profile. She clung to the hope that his explanation for having misled her so many years ago revolved around himself and not Gary. As Paul had observed, on the night of the accident Tom might have been doing something he preferred to keep a secret. Maybe he’d gone off with someone to smoke dope. Maybe he’d been seducing the dean’s daughter.
His lengthening silence wore on her nerves. "A couple of weeks ago, when you dropped in on me in Northford, you told me Marcie didn’t want to talk to me," Bonnie reminded him, laboring to keep her voice even. "She and I lost touch shortly after Gary’s funeral. I tried to contact her a couple of times over the years, but I never was able to connect with her. She was embarrassed about this stupid lie, right? Is that why she didn’t want to have anything to do with me afterwards?"
"Bonnie." To
m sighed and addressed the window. "It was all so long ago—"
"Ten years, two months and seven days. That’s how long I’ve been in the dark about my husband’s death, Tom. It’s damned well long enough."
"You don’t want to dredge up the past." His tone held a warning.
"Too late," she asserted. "When I gave Kevin permission to write Gary’s biography, I knew he’d be dredging up the past. I’m not going to let him stop now. I need to know what happened that night—and I don’t want to have to find out the truth by reading about it in a book."
"Leave it alone," Tom advised. "It’s over and done with."
"This is my life, Tom. Gary was my husband. The father of my son. I want to know."
"Maybe you don’t. Maybe you’d be better off—"
She sprang out of her chair, no longer able to contain herself. Circling his desk, she confronted him, gripping the arms of his chair so he couldn’t swivel away from her. "I’m an adult, Tom. You have no right to make this decision for me."
"Believe me, Bonnie—"
"Believe you? That’s a laugh!"
"Gary died a hero. His death meant something." Tom sounded as if he were reciting a littany. "Just leave it alone," he implored.
"I can’t. I’ll never be able to leave it alone—and I won’t leave you alone until you tell me."
"I’m warning you—"
"Tell me."
"Marcie and Gary were sleeping together."
Bonnie didn’t move. She let each word sink into her like stones sinking into a pond, falling until they reached the very bottom of her soul. Slowly, she released the arms of the chair and straightened up, then spun around and stared out the window, seeing nothing, letting each cold, hard syllable descend through her.
"I’m sorry, Bonnie." Tom’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, from across a chasm of time and grief.
She closed her eyes, feeling as if the very foundation of her existence was crumbling beneath her feet.
Wounded Heroes Boxed Set Page 19
