The erratic TV in Teresa’s head suddenly blinked on again. In a split second, somewhere in her damaged brain, the memory of that moment caromed from synapse to synapse, ending finally with another memory entirely. An argument with David, bitter and accusing. Hurtful words, angry defiance.
Teresa tried to retrace the memory’s path. What was the connection? She closed her eyes. Carrie? She focused on her roiling emotions, trying to snatch details from the murk. The fight. What was it about? She needed a handle, something that might help her pull the full memory from the swirling emotional fog. Christmas dance. Argument. Hostility. Carrie. David. Accusations. A slamming door.
It was coming now, taking shape in her mind. Teresa pressed her eyelids tighter together, as if light might blur the scene unspooling in her head. The argument. A slamming door. Their door. The front door. Suddenly, she saw the place. Their living room. An argument in their living room. She felt the anger all over again. Carrie. David. Accusations. She saw herself reaching, reaching. For something to throw. Now she saw it in her hand as she cocked her arm back. Small and white, the size of a baseball. But painted and irregular. Ceramic.
Then it was airborne, sailing across their living room. David ducking, an instinctive flinch. A spray of ceramic shrapnel as the thing hit their door. Then silence. She’d thrown something at David during an argument in their living room. She’d missed. Silence. Hostile stares. A slamming door.
He’d walked out.
It wasn’t the only time. That was the pattern. She’d call him on some infidelity, he’d deny until proven guilty, then walk out defiantly until he crawled back a day or two later full of apologies and good intentions.
Teresa opened her eyes, her heart still racing, breathing hard with fresh anger more than eight years later. She looked around the spare bedroom and found it comforting. That was a long time ago. Things were different now. Very different. But some wounds never heal. She looked down, and something in the worry box caught her eye. A lumpy white envelope. It had slid off the worry pile and was wedged in the corner of the box, down beside the spiral-bound appointment book she’d kept that year. She lifted the envelope out and tore off one end.
A shattered piece of ceramic tumbled out, a tiny head. Hand-painted eyes and eyebrows, a bright red and beatific smile. Black plastic hair combed into a pompadour. Suddenly, she saw it whole. Round-tummied and kitschy, a pink-nippled dime-store Buddha, but one that had been customized with a jet-black pompadour for the gag-gift crowd. The Elvis Buddha. The size of a baseball.
Teresa closed her eyes again and reassembled that long-ago moment. During an argument in their living room, probably about Carrie or one of David’s other casual affairs, she’d grabbed the Elvis Buddha and hurled it at her husband. It shattered against their front door, and he’d walked out. Why else would she have saved the snapshot from the Christmas dance? Why else would the Elvis Buddha’s head be in her worry box? Had to be. Had to be.
She knit together what she knew. The chronology of her worry box suggested the argument must have happened between the Christmas dance and New Year’s Day, when she’d clipped the news story about her classmates’ deaths, made her grim amendment to the class photograph, sealed the box, and put it all away. Obviously, 1991 ended on some very low notes—friends dying in the streets, David gone, their marriage shattered like the Buddha whose head she now rolled in her hand.
How alone she must have felt at that year’s end.
Another memory emerged from the fog. New Year’s Eve. Serious funk. She’d locked her service piece in their fireproof safe and given the key to a neighbor for the night. She took the phone off the hook and tried to dull her aching loneliness with a fifth of Southern Comfort. She’d welcomed the dawn of 1992 alone and crusted with vomit.
But David came back, at least for a while. He must have, because she remembered their “final” break coming months later, about three weeks before she was attacked. And she remembered that vividly—how Buster hopped up into David’s car; the puppy’s bright brown eyes as he watched her from the car’s rear window. She’d watched from their driveway until they were out of sight, then vowed to move on. No more pain. No more lies. No more … shaving. She let her pubic hair start growing that day. As she thought of it now, she caught herself scratching a phantom itch.
Just then, the bedroom door creaked. Teresa tensed as the door swung slowly open. There, in the dark frame, stood … no one. The door creaked again, opening wider. Then a sound: Whap-whap-whap.
Buster.
The black dog moved into the room, his roto-tail thumping the door and dresser as he passed, and found her perched on the edge of the bed. He sat at her feet, on her feet actually, and sighed, smelling like an old dog now. She scratched a muzzle that long ago had turned from black to silver, thinking of her husband sleeping down the hall, about how much had changed from those sad days to this.
Buster’s ears were soft and warm, and Teresa rubbed them until her hammering heart slowed to normal.
Chapter 28
Annie crossed her arms. She was pissed, and Christensen knew it. “You promised we’d go bowling yesterday and we didn’t,” she said. “Then you promised we’d get to the zoo early so we could be first in.”
Christensen lifted his left hiking boot onto one of the stairs and pulled the laces tight. Brenna was locked in her office. Again. He was trying to keep things at home as normal as possible, but his patience was wearing just as thin as his daughter’s. “It’s only nine-thirty, Annie. The zoo doesn’t even open until ten on Sundays.”
“Shrimpo’s not even ready.” She shot a look at Taylor, who was pulling an oversized sweatshirt over his head. “Kelly said they were the first ones in line last Sunday, but they got there at nine.”
“We’ll be there when they open the gate,” he said.
“But you promised—”
“Sweetheart, just stop,” he said. “Please. This has been a rough week on everybody, and I’m doing the best I can.”
“Why isn’t Brenna going?”
“She’s busy.”
“As usual,” Taylor said from somewhere deep in the sweatshirt. “How come she can’t go?”
Christensen straightened the hood. “Your mom has a hearing tomorrow that’s really, really important to her. She needs this weekend to make sure she’s ready. So I told her we’d make ourselves scarce so she could concentrate.”
“She doesn’t want us around?” Taylor asked.
“It’s not that, buddy. It’s just, some days she needs time by herself to do her work. I think we should try to help her, don’t you?”
Taylor shrugged. “She’s always busy.”
Christensen wanted to agree. It wasn’t the first time he wanted to tell Brenna how badly her son needed her. Once, a few weeks back, the boy had found an old photo of himself as an infant. He was sitting in his high chair as Brenna fed him, and Brenna had been playing peek-a-boo with him from behind a Cheerios box. By his wide, toothless grin, you could tell he clearly delighted in his mother’s attention. “We used to do things like that,” he’d said, tracing a finger across the faces in the picture. “Now she’s just all, you know, working and stuff.”
Christensen hoped Taylor didn’t notice him wince. Seven years ago, the boy had watched his parents’ marriage collapse beneath the weight of Brenna’s obsessive work habits. For the past week, he’d watched her turtling again into an intense, reclusive state in which her only words were commands and her focus entirely elsewhere. Christensen long ago had given up on changing her; the best he could do was soften the impact of her inattention on the kids. That was his role in the delicate balancing act of their relationship.
“And you sometimes feel like she’s too busy for you?” Christensen asked.
Taylor looked at Annie. The boy look
ed as if he wanted to answer, but he hesitated. Finally, he shrugged.
“It doesn’t mean she loves you any less,” Annie said, spreading her arms like a pint-sized preacher, mimicking Christensen’s voice, parroting the words he often used to put uncertain young minds at ease.
Christensen reproached his daughter with a look, then refocused on Taylor. “Annie’s right. Your mom’s a busy person, and this is just one of those times.”
“I know.”
“And I’m sure she’s just as upset as you that she’s so busy right now. You know there’s nothing more important in her life than you.”
The two kids exchanged a look that told Christensen they’d talked about all this before. Annie cleared her throat, apparently the designated spokesperson for the pair. She looked down the hall at Brenna’s closed office door.
“We sort of think that’s a load of crap,” Annie said, crossing her arms again.
Christensen started to scold her for her language, but stopped himself. He looked at Taylor, who defiantly crossed his arms even as he looked away. This was serious. Annie and Taylor were united on something for the first time Christensen could remember.
“OK,” he said, reeling. “I guess we all need to talk about this.”
“Stop telling him that’s just the way she is, and that that’s OK. It’s not,” Annie said. “Sometimes it seems like she doesn’t care, about Taylor or any of us. It’s not fair.”
Taylor’s lower lip wavered. Christensen felt his do the same. Annie was nine years old, and in an instant she’d defined a problem that, even with his Ph.D. and years of studying human behavior, he’d managed to articulate only in his most private moments: Loving Brenna was, more often than not, a one-way street. It didn’t matter how many platitudes, interpretations or rationalizations he offered. Sometimes nothing he could do or say could bridge the emotional distance Brenna put between herself and the people who loved her. He’d had to tolerate that distance in his father, who for years retreated into a quiet haze of passive alcoholism. But living with Brenna was a choice. In his darkest moments, Christensen had actually refined the problem to a nagging question: Had that choice been a good one?
He knelt down and motioned the kids forward. “I know how you feel, and I know how hard it can be,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. He put a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “There are reasons she’s that way, I guess, but I know that doesn’t help.”
“Like what reasons?” Taylor asked, bolder now.
Christensen shook his head. “Maybe you should ask her.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
Just then, the office door opened. Brenna emerged into the hallway in full stride, a piece of paper in one hand and her coffee cup in the other. If she wondered why Christensen was kneeling in the front hall in quiet conversation with the two kids, she didn’t ask. She just marched up to them, thrust the paper at Christensen and said, “Try to keep the fax line clear. I’ve got stuff coming in all day.”
Christensen looked at the unfamiliar page of type, then at Brenna. “Sure you don’t want to take a break?”
She sipped her coffee, vaguely noticing their outdoor wear. “Going somewhere?”
“Jim’s taking us to the zoo,” Taylor said. “I told you this morning.”
Brenna pretended to slap her forehead. “That’s great, Tay. Just be careful.”
“Yeah, Tay, be careful,” Annie said. “I heard they just let the tigers run loose now.”
The sarcasm was lost on Brenna, who just nodded to the paper in Christensen’s hand. “You expecting anything else?”
Christensen looked again at the type on the page. His eyes fell briefly on the name Teresa, but other than that nothing looked familiar. “I wasn’t expecting this. Sure it’s not yours?”
Brenna took it back and scanned it. She saw Teresa’s name, too, prompting her to read it more carefully. But in the end she just shrugged. “Nothing I need.”
“No cover page?”
Brenna shook her head. Christensen examined the page’s top edge, looking for the phone number of the fax from which it was sent. He found nothing, and that seemed odd. He looked up, intending to ask Brenna about it. She already was halfway down the hall.
“Thanks,” he said, waving the paper. He folded it once and slid it into one of his jacket pockets.
Brenna closed the door again, and Annie rolled her eyes. “See?”
He faced the two kids. “OK. So what do we do?”
“Your call. I’m no shrink,” Annie said. “Can we go?”
Christensen checked his watch. “Yep. We’ll be there when they open the gate. Ready?”
“Like, duh,” she said.
Christensen tied Taylor’s shoes and herded him and Annie out the front door. “Be out in a sec,” he called as he watched them vault down the front steps toward the Explorer at the curb.
He turned toward the office door, feeling as if he’d crossed some invisible line. For years now, he’d accepted whatever love Brenna could give him. He’d learned to live with the distance, and to play the buffer between Brenna and people—including her own son—who didn’t understand. But things seemed suddenly different. If they were going to exist as a family, with or without the benefit of a marriage certificate, Brenna was going to have to deal with her problem. Otherwise—
Hell. Otherwise what?
Christensen knocked firmly and pushed through the office door. Brenna was on the phone. She shot him an irritated look, then excused herself from the conversation. She hit the Hold button harder than necessary.
“What?” she said. “Terry’s helping me track something down.”
Terry Flaherty, her law partner. He apparently had given up his Sunday to help her prepare for the DellaVecchio hearing.
“When we get back, you and I need to talk,” Christensen said.
“About?”
“About everything, Bren. Just … everything.”
“Everything,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That’s great, Jim. I’ve got all the fucking time in the world today.”
“It’s important, Bren. It’s Taylor. He needs you. Save me some time, if not today, then after the hearing tomorrow. I’ll explain what’s going on, but right now I know you’re busy.”
“Busy?” Brenna gestured to the half-dozen cardboard file boxes on the floor, her portable DellaVecchio archive. She swept her arm over a desk littered with manila file folders, each containing some vital piece of the complex legal case she’d been assembling for eight years. Finally, with a dramatic flourish, she checked her wristwatch. “Hey, I’ve got twenty-three hours before I have to be in court. Maybe we could work in a vacation this afternoon, too.”
“It can’t wait long, Bren.”
“Well, Jim, it has to.” She turned her chair around so her back was facing him, and from that angle the gauzy bandage peeked through Brenna’s hair. Christensen was about to ask Brenna if she minded being alone when she poked the Hold button.
“Terry? Sorry,” she said. “Give me that citation again.”
On his way out, Christensen made sure the house was secure. He closed the blinds at the front, set the alarm, and locked the deadbolts on the doors. The precautions gave him only the illusion of control, but sometimes that was better than nothing.
Chapter 29
Christensen sat on a bench across from the lion enclosure, which unfolded behind thick viewing windows. He marveled at how the three captive African lions in the exhibit adapted to Pittsburgh’s cold, damp, blustery weather. They’d adjusted their routines, their expectations, their entire metabolism to cope with the realities of life in a difficult environment. Now he wondered if perhaps he’d done that, too, and if it was still
the right thing for himself and his daughters.
He’d wanted to start over after the prolonged agony of Molly’s coma and death, the sooner the better, because life as a single parent frightened him beyond words. Melissa was thirteen at the time, and bitter about everything; Annie was just three. They needed a mother. He needed … what? Stability. A sense of family, whole and complete.
Brenna needed someone, too, but their needs were never the same. Taylor still had a father, and their relationship was sound. What had Brenna needed? A lover? A partner? A nanny? Sometimes he wondered. He understood his own feelings, looking back. She’d helped save him from criminal charges after he disconnected Molly’s respirator; by the time that ordeal was over he was in love.
He pushed it; he was pushing it still. He wanted to be together. He wanted his daughters and her son to have at least a facsimile of a family, a sheltered place where love was unconditional and the relationships were reasonably healthy. But still, after six years together, Brenna, the emotional porcupine, had never really committed. A half-dozen times he’d suggested that they marry, and each time she curled inward and raised her spines. Each time she forced his retreat, he felt the distance between them grow.
Even the kids could see it now. Why hadn’t he?
The lioness lay, paws up, on the other side of the window. Annie and Taylor were transfixed, chatting with a zoo volunteer. Christensen huddled on his bench, grateful for the time alone. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and hit paper. The strange, anonymous fax. He’d forgotten about it during that tense standoff at home. Now he pulled it out and unfolded it.
Straw Men Page 18
