Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

“Aaah!” said Harry. “I love the smell of sibling rivalry in the evening.”

  Oscar grimaced. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait this time. “She’s a good aunt to the kids.”

  “She has a big heart,” added Harry, with a glint in his eye.

  “Yeah, big being the operative word.”

  “See you Thursday, then. And don’t forget to run the weekend by Hazel. You can let me know Thursday.”

  “Will do. Oh, by the way—this guy you’re defending, the one accused of rogue trading. You never said. You think he did it?”

  Oscar knew that Harry trusted him. They’d kept many secrets over the years.

  “Hell, yeah, buddy! I’ve never defended an innocent man yet. Why else would he have hired me?”

  • • •

  According to Oscar’s Rolex, it was ten to eight when he entered the lobby of their apartment building. It had taken him longer than he thought to collect his BMW from its service at the garage. He got it serviced at this time every year, in preparation for the winter. But most of the time it stayed in the underground parking lot. The subway system was efficient and, contrary to the story Hazel told the kids, largely safe.

  “Evening, Mr. Harvey.”

  Du Bois was behind his desk catching a game on his portable TV. Maybe it was Oscar’s imagination but he thought the doorman had been a little cool with him lately.

  “And a very good evening to you too, Du Bois.”

  “Me and Mrs. Du Bois really enjoyed the show.”

  “The show . . . ?”

  What was the man talking about?

  “The tickets you and Mrs. Harvey gave me for my birthday. Much appreciated, sir.”

  “Eh, no. No, not at all, Du Bois. You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Hazel was such a soft touch! How long had she been giving Du Bois gifts to celebrate his birthday?

  There was no doubt about it. The man had a soft spot for Hazel, for sure. A middle-aged crush. He didn’t know why this should annoy him. Du Bois was only a doorman, after all. But annoy him it did. And he could have sworn the man had been wearing one of his Lacoste shirts the other day. The pink one that Oscar used to like. He’d searched high and low for it but couldn’t find it.

  Exiting the elevator, he made his way down the corridor and turned the key in the heavy oak door. He entered the large black-and-white-tiled hallway and put his training bag on the floor. It was silent. The apartment was in darkness. No sounds of happy domesticity. No whirring appliances, no entertainment consoles, no TVs. No kids arguing. Just silence.

  “Hazel?” he called.

  Where was everyone? He’d tried to call her earlier but the call was routed straight through to voice mail.

  “Elliot?”

  Elliot’s room was empty.

  “Jess?”

  She could be draped over her bed ingesting One Direction on her iPod.

  But no. And there was no one in the kitchen or the living room. Where had Hazel gone? And then it occurred to him, Tuesday night was her dance class. But that still didn’t explain where the kids were.

  An unwelcome thought entered his head. A horrible thought. A thought he tried to squeeze and squash. Too late. The thought had stung him. The sting now burrowing away inside him. She hadn’t, had she? The very suggestion of it froze him to the spot. The last few weeks had been quite fraught, more challenging than he was used to. He’d underestimated her. He used to be able to talk her around.

  Paralyzed now, his mind raced, chasing ideas and possibilities. He thought back to this morning, to breakfast, the passing conversation, and his usual hasty departure from the house. No, there was nothing different. It had been their regular morning routine.

  Stricken by his horrible thought, he stood in the darkening living room staring at the sun dissolving over the Hudson. He needed to calm down. Not overreact. He would approach this methodically and think it through. As he talked himself down, he became aware of a sound other than the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The steady drone of the air-conditioning. She’d left it on. That could mean only one thing—that she’d stepped out only for a while.

  Hazel would never needlessly leave the air-conditioning running. Never needlessly waste electricity. No, his wife was a regular little do-gooder. Always looking out for the environment, the disenfranchised, the needy. Only Hazel wasn’t always best qualified at discerning the needy. Not at all. Oscar all too often felt overlooked himself, while his wife ended up looking after the scumbags.

  He tried her cell again, but ended up at voice mail like before. Not to worry. They’d be back soon. He decided to wait one more hour before escalating matters. Happy with his decision, Oscar went to the fridge to see if Celine had left him anything. On the top shelf he spied what looked like a chicken salad, tightly covered in plastic wrap.

  Sitting at the breakfast counter, chomping on the mango and chicken, he wondered again if he’d missed something. Was there some event he was supposed to be at? He really had no idea. He looked at his watch again. Another twenty minutes had passed.

  What the heck! He’d make the most of it. He didn’t often have the apartment to himself. Taking the plate, Oscar went back to the living room and opened the balcony doors. Placing his plate on the wicker table, he covered it with a magazine and retreated indoors once more. Crouching down on his haunches, Oscar thumbed through the covers. They were in alphabetical order so it should be about here . . . There it was. Sliding it gently from its faded sleeve, he blew on the shiny shellac, sending dust motes sailing into the air. Then Oscar placed the record carefully on the turntable and lifted the stylus to track three.

  At the first strains of “Visions of Johanna,” he felt a wave of tenderness wash over him. Hazel could be such a thoughtful woman. And she certainly knew the buttons to press. He’d been lusting after this one for a while. Blonde on Blonde. And she’d even managed the original release—on Columbia. It was just a pity how the gift had come about. But what was done was done. Turning the dial, he cranked it up and went out to the balcony to finish off his evening meal.

  • • •

  “Oh my God, it sounds like an old folks’ home in here!”

  They were back!

  Jess was holding a can of Dr Pepper. Diet Dr Pepper, he was glad to see.

  “Hey, young lady, this is a damn sight better than One Direction or Justin Bieber.”

  “Oh, Dad. Pleeease . . . Justin Bieber? I’m way too old.”

  Even though she was only just twelve, Jess thought she was way too old for plenty of stuff.

  “Hey, where were you guys? I’ve been here all on my lonesome . . .”

  He walked in from the balcony carrying his empty plate and a half-full glass of wine when Hazel appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. She wore a loose-fitting long white linen coat. Her face was made up—you could hardly see the marks. She looked nice. She also looked serious.

  “Where were we?” she repeated. “Where were you?”

  That uneasy feeling again. He had a feeling he was going to come out of this badly.

  “I was here. Well, before that I went to collect the car, remember? I tried to phone you. Your cell was off.”

  Elliot wandered into the room, clutching what looked like a family-sized bag of potato chips.

  “We were over at the school. The parent-teacher meetings, remember?”

  Oh, shit.

  “Why didn’t you remind me?”

  Three pairs of eyes were staring at him now. One in annoyance and the other two indignant.

  “I did remind you, Oscar. Twice last night, I asked you to sit with the kids and I would do the meetings. I also called your cell today.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Okay,” Hazel said softly.

  “Guys, I’m really, really sorr
y.” He looked from Jess to Elliot.

  “Like it’s not bad enough that we’re in there all day. Elliot and I had to hang around in the recreation room for two and a half hours.”

  He wasn’t going to get off that easy.

  “Yeah,” said Elliot, mouth bulging with potato chips, “felt like we were never going to get out—like an episode of Orange Is the New Black.”

  “Orange Is the New Black? When the hell have you seen Orange Is the New Black?”

  What was going on with his kids? The last he knew, Elliot was into Harry Potter. Where had the kid seen something as gritty as Orange Is the New Black?

  Elliot already realized his mistake. His cheeks were crimson. Elliot was now the one in the dock.

  “Luke’s dad has the DVDs. We were only looking at the covers.”

  Luke was one of his buddies from school, that much Oscar knew.

  “You should be very proud of your children, Oscar. Glowing reports for both of them!” Hazel was trying to deflect. To steer attention away from Elliot.

  Oscar was prepared to be deflected.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” he said, and wrapped an arm around each child.

  “Dad . . .” Jess wriggled to get away.

  Hazel stood there smiling, eyes warm, looking at the three of them. The thoughts that had run through his head earlier now seemed ridiculous, stupid, even. He was seeing things that weren’t there. First of all, thinking he’d seen her in the dog run. And then, thinking that she had . . . Well, all kinds of dumb stuff.

  “So you missed your dance class tonight?” he shouted after her as she walked through to the kitchen.

  She was filling the kettle.

  “That’s tomorrow. Decaf?” She pushed down the button and powered on the kettle.

  “No, thanks.” He held up his glass, showing his unfinished wine. “Thought your class was Tuesdays.”

  Reaching high for a mug, she turned around to face him.

  “No, it’s Wednesdays on Broadway.” She cocked her head to one side. “The class I used to go to with Elizabeth was Tuesdays. Before I had to change.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forgot. The class with Elizabeth and . . .”

  “Susan.” She finished the sentence for him.

  “I met Harry after work today,” he said, moving the conversation on quickly.

  “Still skinning the fat cats?”

  “Yep. Nancy has been asking after you.”

  “That poor woman.”

  “We’re invited over there Saturday. Said I’d check with you first.”

  “Christ, Oscar!” Hazel stopped stirring her coffee.

  “What?” He tried to look innocent.

  “Oh, come on. You know my feelings for Nancy and Harry. I can’t sit there playing happy couples, knowing that the guy can’t keep it in his zipper.”

  He knew he never should have told her about their last guys’ weekend away. That had been a mistake.

  “Come out to the balcony with me?” The kids were in the den and he needed to figure out what was going on with Hazel. She’d been acting strange ever since it happened. He wanted to know if they were okay.

  “Just a minute.”

  Hazel kicked off her heels and started to undo the buttons of her coat. Oscar stared, surprised at first and then confused. Underneath she wore a blue shift dress.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” She took a step back.

  “I saw a woman in the park earlier. Sitting on a bench in the dog run. I could have sworn it was you.”

  Suddenly Hazel started to shake, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Hazel, what is it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Come on, tell me, honey . . .”

  She flinched as he reached out to her.

  “I . . . I haven’t been feeling very well.”

  He watched the tears roll down her face. In her bare feet, she appeared even smaller. This time, she let him take her in his arms.

  “I know, honey. I know. But we can work through this.”

  “I’m not sure, Oscar. I’m not sure this time. I’ve been on leave from school since yesterday.” She looked up at him, eyes red, mascara running.

  So it had been Hazel in the park after all. He hadn’t imagined it.

  “Is there anything that I can do? Anything at all?” His little sparrow was wounded.

  “Really?”

  She looked so vulnerable.

  “Really.” He took her in his arms again, enjoying the feel of her against his chest. He felt powerful, manly.

  “I’m serious about going home, Oscar,” she said in a small voice. “I want to go home to Ireland.”

  Kate

  OCTOBER

  “Only nine more days, seven hours, and thirty minutes to go!”

  Fergus had crossed off each day in alternate colors until the month of October now looked like a green and purple checkerboard. Brandishing a chubby crayon, he twirled round from the notice board next to the fridge. His pale face was animated and his blond curls were gelled up in spikes.

  “That’s right, Soldier—only nine more days to liftoff.”

  Mannix suctioned a strand of spaghetti, splattering tomato sauce onto his chin as it whiplashed into his mouth.

  Next to the notice board was the blackboard with Kate’s to-do list. She was steadily getting through the tasks. Keys cut. Clean oven. Clean fridge. Defrost freezer. Hoover under beds. Dust tops of picture frames. Polish brass door knocker. Clean windows. And then there were those jobs that could be done only at the last minute before leaving the house. Change bed linen. Clean bathrooms. Drop the guinea pig to Izzy’s friend to mind.

  “Are we selling up and moving out altogether?” asked Mannix drily.

  “I can’t have guests arriving from America to a slovenly house, now, can I?” she retorted.

  She was feeling fractious at all the tasks that were falling to her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a job as well.

  “Well, delegate, then,” Mannix suggested, continuing to slurp his meal.

  “Oh, I intend to, don’t worry. Which reminds me—Fergus, can you tidy away all the models that are on the floor of your bedroom? And Izzy, you clear your floor as well, please. It’s not as if you don’t have a wardrobe. All your stuff—get it off the floor and into the wardrobe. Izzy?”

  But Izzy wasn’t listening. She was busy texting under the table.

  “Izzy!”

  “Jeez, Mum. Stop shouting.”

  “What have I told you about texting at the dinner table?”

  “Don’t text at the dinner table?” She shrugged as if she were guessing.

  Mannix burst out laughing. Kate shook her head. Sometimes she felt as if she were mother to three children and not two.

  “Are you putting on my Manchester United duvet cover for the boy that’s coming?” asked Fergus.

  Kate paused a moment before answering. This could be a flashpoint. Fergus exerted strong ownership rights over his possessions and she knew he’d been ruminating about another child among his things.

  “I might.” No definite commitment.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think the boy would like that,” said Fergus. “I think you should put my favorite duvet cover on. Because even though we won’t be here to see him, he’s still kind of a guest, isn’t he?”

  Mannix looked up from his plate, looked at Kate, and raised an eyebrow. Kate’s heart went out to her child. Fergus was trying really hard and he’d obviously been giving the exchange a lot of thought. The whole idea of the house swap was working wonderfully well on so many levels. Suddenly, all Kate’s gripes about domestic tasks melted into insignificance. This was all about Fergus. And already it was working.

  “It’s kind of weird, though, isn’t it?” Izzy slipped her mobi
le back in her hoodie pocket.

  “What’s weird, sweetheart?” Mannix wiped his chin vigorously with a paper napkin.

  “You know. The idea of someone you’ve never met sleeping in your bed, eating in your kitchen, sitting on your toilet.”

  “Not particularly.” Mannix was shaking his head at his daughter and flashed a look at Fergus. “We’ll be doing exactly the same in the Harveys’ apartment,” he said.

  Kate was surprised at Izzy’s lack of tact. Normally Izzy was in tune with her brother’s emotions. Although, if Kate were honest, she too found the idea of strangers in her bed and in her bathroom a bit uncomfortable. The idea of them being in the kitchen, or the sitting room, or upstairs in the study didn’t bother her. But in the inner sanctum of the house—that was different.

  Any niggling discomfort was a small price to pay for Fergus’s improved standing in school. Word soon filtered through that Izzy and Fergus O’Brien were going to New York for the October school holidays. During the extravagance of the boom years, this wouldn’t have caused a stir, but now there were reports of jealous looks and sighs. The injured Frankie Flynn had been forced to do some posturing.

  “Frankie Flynn said more than likely, in fact, almost nearly definitely one hundred percent, that he’s going to Spain for the midterm break,” Fergus had told them.

  “Spain, my arse.” Mannix scoffed. “I doubt that, Ferg. But let me tell you, even if that loser does—there’s no Empire State in Spain.”

  Mannix later remarked in private that in the unlikely event that Frankie Flynn were indeed telling the truth, the only reason he’d be heading for Spain would be to one of his uncles, who was hiding out till the dust settled on some dodgy situation back home.

  Kate tried not to think of Frankie Flynn. Ever since the decision was made to go to New York, there’d been a focus to their lives. Before this, Kate felt like they were all on a life raft taking in water. Bobbing along in the wake of the Celtic tiger, stunned, but still alive. Now the children were busy saving their meager pocket money. The holiday had given them all purpose.

  “I could babysit to earn some more money. I’m old enough,” Izzy had pleaded. Kate had no doubt, despite her youth, that Izzy was a responsible child. But a child, nonetheless. It was one thing leaving her watch over Fergus, but another person’s child—she didn’t think so.