by Luanne Rice
By the room's single armchair were a wide table and an oyster knife. A bucket of discarded shells sat half-filled by the chair's side. A second bucket, bound for the market, was filled with glossy, shimmering oysters, ready to go into his refrigeration unit out back. On the table, a small dish of pearls caught the light.
“Still looking?” Kate asked, smiling in spite of herself.
“Yeah,” Matt said, scowling, picking up his cigarette and taking a long drag. His fingers and the beard around his mouth were stained yellow with nicotine. He wanted to look away, anywhere but at Kate, but she pulled his gaze to her, and his eyes began, reluctantly, to smile.
“Still searching for Queen Pearl,” he said, the smile moving to his lips. Passing the bowl to his sister, he watched as Kate let the white, cream, pale pink, silver, and near-black pearls trickle through her fingers. Some were perfectly round, others were misshapen. All came from the sea, from Matt's beloved waters, soft layers of nacre made by the oysters he brought home in his boat.
“They're beautiful,” she said.
“Hard to believe, isn't it? That such beauty can come from terrible pain? You know that's how it works, right Katy? Sand gets into the oyster, irritating it so badly . . . the oyster tries to expel it, and makes a pearl instead.”
“Beauty from pain,” Kate whispered, closing her eyes, hearing the pine boughs brush the tin roof, hearing the ponies whinny as they galloped down the beach.
“Gotta find Queen Pearl for Willa,” Matt said. “So I can hand it to her when she gets home. . . .”
“Matt,” Kate said. Her eyes flew open, and she took her brother's hand. She tried to lead him to his chair, but he wouldn't budge.
“Tell me here,” he said, his eyes burning, his teeth gritted. “I don't have to sit down.”
“Willa's gone, Matt.”
“Gone? Gone how?”
“That killer I told you about? The one who killed those girls in Connecticut? I talked to his lawyer. They were at the same place—at the same time. The exact spot—they were both there.”
“And what?”
“The killer took her, Matt.”
Matt stood still for thirty seconds, breathing neither in nor out. He was a statue, frozen in place. But Kate could see his mind working—his eyes on fire, flicking back and forth. He shook his head. “I don't believe it.”
“What other explanation could there be? Why wouldn't she come home? Why would she put us through this?”
“She had an affair with your asshole husband,” Matt said. “She's ashamed of herself.”
“We were getting past it, Matt, Willa and I. She knew I'd forgive her,” Kate said, although the words hurt, reminding her of the breach that had existed between her and her sister.
“Maybe she didn't forgive herself—you ever think of that?”
“She wrote me a letter, a postcard. I know she was coming home! We were in touch . . . she wanted us to talk. She wanted us to meet, and so did I. We were on our way to working it out!”
“Self-loathing,” Matt said, “is a powerful thing.” He spoke quietly, as if all the worry and intensity had drained out of him, and lit a fresh cigarette, taking a long hard drag.
Kate's mouth dropped open. She was speechless and furious. She'd always known her brother was weird, antisocial, probably mentally ill in his own right—but couldn't he, just once, take an explanation offered him and not turn it into some warped version of his own view of the world?
“You're crazy,” Kate said.
“Yup,” he said. “Probably so.”
“You had to be there,” she said. “In this godforsaken parking lot in the middle of Nowhere, Massachusetts—in fact, the town was so full of rusty fishing gear and rustbucket boats I thought of you, thought you'd probably love it there—after dinner, me investigating Willa's gas purchase, and out of the dark comes Greg Merrill's lawyer—tracking down, I swear Matt, the same thing!”
“So what?”
“It's too much of a coincidence . . . and he told me, Matt. Told me that Merrill had confessed to being there.”
“Confessed to who?”
“To him—his lawyer! He'd have no reason to lie.”
“Did he confess to taking Willa?”
“No, but—”
“Did he confess to hurting her?”
“No! But listen, Matt—”
“YOU LISTEN!” he roared, stepping back with such force he knocked over his pail of oyster shells and the dish of pearls. They scattered, rolling, all over the floor, like pellets in a pinball game—caroming off the chair leg, the table leg, a pile of books, the refrigerator, down the crooked floorboards to the east wall.
Kate, shocked by her brother's outburst, froze.
“She's not dead, okay? She can't be dead,” Matt said, the cigarette dangling from his cracked lip as he talked, as he rubbed his chapped and callused hands together over and over, as if trying to wash them of the truth.
“Matt . . .”
“She wouldn't die,” he said, his eyes flashing. “She's my baby sister. I go first, then you, then Willa. We raised her, Katy. We were like her parents . . .”
“I know,” Kate said, tears pooling in her eyes.
“She was our baby girl; she made me so happy. It's because of her I look for pearls, lookin' every day for the big one, the prettiest pearl of all. . . . It's for her, Katy. You—you've got everything you need. The fancy degrees, the ritzy job, that town house you got on Capitol Hill . . .”
Kate listened, crying softly, thinking of how much she had and how little Matt did.
“That's why she went for Mr. Hotshit,” Matt continued. “She wanted a little of the big time, a little of what her big sister had . . . she went with your husband so she could be you for a little while . . .”
“Stop, Matt!”
“Don't say he loved her—I won't believe that. He already had you, the stupid idiot. He had one pearl—why go diving for another? He's the one, Katy—you want to go BLAMING SOMEONE . . .” Matt's voice rose in rage and anguish, “BLAME YOUR HUSBAND!”
“Matt!”
“Your big, stupid, power-hungry selfish husband. He drove Willa away, Kate. Wherever the fuck she lies today, that's on him. On Andrew. Don't give me any of that Greg Merrill garbage—Andrew did it.”
“Oh, Matt,” Kate said. I know, she wanted to say. I think that, too. But she wouldn't speak the words, tried not to even think them. What did the reasons for Willa's going away matter? For months, all that counted was that Willa come back. And now, all that mattered was that she wasn't going to.
“He did it, Katy.”
“Andrew didn't kill her,” Kate said woodenly.
“He might as well have. He corrupted her, and she put herself in exile—from you, from us. Her family.”
“You're right,” Kate whispered. “She did.”
“I'd like to kill him myself,” Matt snarled. “My brother-in-law . . .”
“Don't,” Kate begged. “Then I'd lose you, too.”
At her words, or perhaps at the heartbroken tone of her voice, Matt stopped raging. He fell to his knees, gathering up all the pearls he could find. He held them, cupped in one hand, as ashes sprinkled down from the cigarette in his mouth.
“Could you go now, Katy?” he asked, his voice cracking. With his head facing down, she couldn't see his eyes, but she knew—from his gasping breath, from the storms she had seen before, that he was crying.
“I don't want to leave you,” she said, touching his back.
He leaned into her fingertips for a few seconds, then shook them off, crawling to the next pearl.
“Life hurts sometimes, Matt. But we can face the truth together. We've done it for so long . . .”
“She's fine, you're fine, I'm fine. Hear me? I'm facing all the truth I need!”
“By shutting yourself off like this? Living like a hermit? Not listening to what I know to be true, because I flew north to check it out?”
“You don't like my way? Lea
ve!”
“Matt, please . . .”
“Go,” he said. And then, the volume building, “Go, GO!”
Kate took a deep breath. Dizzy and sick from the smoke, she backed to the door and walked out. The air was fresh, salty, and cold. It seared her lungs, dried her lips and nose. Seagulls circled overhead, crying loudly. The thud of hooves sounded down the beach, the ponies moving from one dell to the next.
Kate longed for the yellow plane.
She knew she could wait for the Bumblebee to come back, but instead she began to walk; she trudged down the sandy roads of her youth, the magical roads of oysters, gulls, ponies, Matt, and Willa.
Faster she walked, Bonnie keeping up beside her, and then she started to run. She couldn't wait to start the engine, get the propeller turning, take off into the sky. She thought of her white silk scarf, a piece of herself, of Willa, left behind in the north, with Maggie.
Life and truth. That's what the O'Rourkes represented to Kate. She had just left a den of death and lies: Matt was killing himself slowly, smoking himself to death, lying his way through life about anything that hurt.
Pearls and oysters and ponies, she thought. Those were Matt's family now. Running along, Kate cried to think of her life, of what was real and what was lost, and the fact that she missed—more than she could understand or dream possible—a family that she had met for just a brief time.
A white scarf, a single kiss: The salty Chincoteague wind took them both, swirled them together, took them spinning over the pines and dunes, the white sands and silver waves . . . curling, Kate imagined, all the way north to Connecticut, to Silver Bay, to the O'Rourkes.
chapter 14
Maggie hated writing thank-you notes.
They usually took up too much time, kept her from playing and reading, and sounded stupid when she was done. Stilted, kind of phony, no matter how sincere she was when she wrote them.
But this note was different.
Sitting in her bedroom upstairs at Gramps's house—still no sitter had come to fill the position, making Maggie think that she and Teddy must be baby-sitter poison; other kids, all her friends who didn't have moms at home, had baby-sitters that stayed and stayed—Maggie leaned over her desk and wrote like mad.
Dear Kate,
I love the scarf. I know it was supposed to just be for my Halloween costume, which was great because I went as Amelia Earhart and even though people couldn't guess at first because it wasn't as obvious as people who went as Britney Spears or vampires or samurai warriors, once I told them who I was, everyone thought it was cool.
But even though it was supposed to be just for my costume, actually I wear the scarf all the time. I have it on now, wrapped around my neck, even though I'm in my PJ's. Getting ready for bed—finished my homework, yeah. All of it! Give the girl an A for effort, right? (Ha, ha.)
I wish. School isn't my best subject. (Ha, ha again.) I'm not like Teddy who everything he touches turns to an A. Not just for effort, either. Teddy's a genius, like our dad. And like Gramps. He'll probably be a “brilliant legal scholar” too. Ho, hum. Get tired of hearing that phrase around here, because there are so many of them running around!
Me, I'm more like my mother. Except she liked to shop and I don't, except for stuffed animals and books, and that I'm a tomboy and she was a beautiful model-type. She was, really. I'm not just saying that. Open any magazine, and the models you'll see aren't as pretty as my mom. Even the gorgeous-est ones.
I have new curtains.
Red-and-blue plaid ones. To make the room private so people can't spy in from outside, to “protect my privacy”—like anyone would want to check out MY dumb bod! But Dad's overprotective, and we love him for it, so no use fighting city hall! And this is only at Gramps's—by the time we move back home, after some fairy godmother baby-sitter flits down from her pink cloud to grace us with before-and-after-school care, I'll have new curtains there, too.
Dad seems very hepped up on this—probably 'cuz of the “slime”* he defends. And the ugly tricks those bad guys play to get into all our living rooms. Ever have a dad who's a well-known defense attorney? Try it sometime!
Well, got to go brush my teeth. Teddy says hi. Dad does, too. I have to get your address from him, so when I mentioned it, he told me to tell you about the curtains, and to tell you to make sure you have some of your own down there in Washington. Do you know the president? Senators? Etc.? Must be cool; the ninth grade got to go down for spring vacation last year.
Maybe when I'm in ninth grade, I'll get to visit you! Only a few years to wait . . . (boo-hoo.) Miss you, Kate. Wish you lived here—wish you were our fairy godmother baby-sitter instead of what Dad says you are, a marine conservation scientist. Although that sounds neat, too.
Thanks again for my scarf!
Love, Maggie O'Rourke
*footnote: I don't call his clients “slime,” but half the world does! My friend Carlie's mother says it every time I go to her house. Which is why I stopped going . . . Are you surprised I'm only twelve and use footnotes? Another thing about growing up with lawyers everywhere!
When Maggie asked Teddy if he'd drop the letter to Kate off at their father's office to be addressed and mailed, he asked if he could add a P.S. Maggie said sure, as long as he didn't read her part of the letter. Ever since Dad had hung those new curtains in her room, she'd become very into privacy—a fact that Teddy found endearing and hilarious. But writing to Kate, he made a point of covering up Maggie's words.
Dear Kate, (Teddy wrote)
How are you? How was your trip—or, as you said in your note to Maggie—your journey?
A journey sounds like something I would like to take. Planes, trains, boats . . . just to get on something and go away. Not that I don't like my home—I do. Or that I don't love my family—I do. But I think it's important to go other places, too.
With that said, do you think I could visit you in Washington sometime?
I know we don't know each other too well, but we had that talk about our sisters, and then you gave Brainer that bath. I knew you were special. Hope you don't mind me saying that. . . .
Anyway, I want to come to Washington someday, so I can visit the Supreme Court and my dad's law school. No rush, but sometime when you're not busy, maybe I could take the train down.
Kind of a start to a journey, right?
Anyway, hope you're doing well. Say hi to Bonnie for me; Brainer needs another bath, and Maggie and I are going to take him to the car wash, like you did! Soccer's done for the year. We finished second in our division, just ahead of Riverdale. Thanks for coming to that game.
Take care, Kate.
Your friend,
Teddy O'Rourke
Sitting in his office, John pulled Kate Harris's card from his wallet. Regarding it, he wrote her office address on Maggie's envelope. Then he placed the letter in his out box, for Damaris to stamp and send.
The sight of Kate's name did something to John's insides. He knew there was a large degree of guilt-induced paranoia involved: When would he get the call from the Connecticut State Police Major Crime Squad, that a woman had called with the news that John had implicated his client in her sister's long disappearance?
But the feeling contained other elements—not linked to guilt of any kind—as well. John couldn't get her kiss out of his mind. He was absorbed and obsessed with it, like a teenage boy who'd held a girl for the first time. The picture filled his mind twenty times a day: the dark parking lot, the light in Kate's eyes, the knowledge they had just helped a family protect their child, the lightning bolt of lust that had overtaken him . . .
It was mad, and he couldn't get rid of it.
Yesterday, sitting across from Merrill and Phil Beckwith, John had drifted off—to Kate and the kiss. Merrill said something, repeated it once, then again. With a smile in his voice, he'd then said,
“You've got it, haven't you, John?”
“What, Greg?”
“A touch of the curse . . . or the
gift . . .”
“What curse? What gift?”
“The obsession . . . you've met a girl! Go on, tell me, John. Share with me, as I've shared with you: You're in love! I see it in your eyes.”
“Just tired, Greg,” John had said, lowering his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, attempting to hide the jolt of alarm that coursed through him, knowing that Merrill could discern anything about him, that he would think he could relate to John's feelings about Kate. “Overworked.”
Merrill had shaken his head, undeterred, the smile widening. He had tapped the table, to get the psychiatrist's attention. “Obsession, Doctor: Am I right? Can you see it in his eyes?”
“You're my subject today, Mr. Merrill,” Dr. Beckwith had said dryly without even a glance at John. “Not your attorney.”
“God is good!” Merrill had said, head thrown back in absurd joy. “He shows us the way, whether we ask or not. . . . God is using me to show John, and using John to show me: We're all the same under the skin. Our hearts beat alike, Dr. Beckwith. Obsession, by any other name, is just love.”
“Let's get on with this,” John had interjected, his neck hot, his stomach upset, thinking that what Greg said was actually true—he couldn't chase Kate's kiss from his mind even here in Winterham Prison.
“Yes, Mr. Merrill,” Dr. Beckwith had said, unflappable and urbane as he leaned forward to smile. “Are you ready to do some good work here today?”
“Yes. I'm ready . . .”
“Let's begin, shall we, with . . .” the doctor checked his notes, “Anne- Marie Hicks. Tell me, if you would, how you came to meet . . . and what happened next . . .”
John had risen to leave, to allow his client time alone with the eminent expert and their best hope for a mental disorder defense. Beckwith had worked miracles on other cases for John—but Merrill was really custom-made for his area of expertise.
