Still Water

by Amy Stuart

  “What do you want from me?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want me to say thank you? Or sorry?”

  “No,” Malcolm says. “No. I want to say sorry to you.”

  “Then say it.”

  Malcolm edges closer, erasing the space between them.

  “Say it,” Clare says.

  “I’m sorry.” Malcolm looks right at her.

  “For what?” Clare’s voice is hoarse.

  “I should have let you go. That first day. It feels so long ago. I thought I was giving you an option. A choice. There might have been another way.”

  Instinctively Clare presses her palm to his chest. His pulse is fast under her fingertips.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” she says. “Somers will be here any minute. Please tell me something. Anything. Am I in danger?”

  “That officer,” Malcolm says. “Rourke. He’s not working this case. That’s not why he’s here.”

  “Do you know him? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  Malcolm looks to the ground.

  “He has a partner,” Clare says. “Somers. She’s legit. I’ve been to the precinct. I saw his desk, his colleagues. And he’s a real cop. He can’t possibly be faking that part. He just transferred in from another precinct. So what is it? Malcolm. Please tell me. Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  There is no way to discern it, the confused swirl of thoughts, where her loyalties should lie, where Malcolm’s should lie, whether it makes sense to feel betrayed, angry. Scared. Clare sees Malcolm seated on the bed of the motel, concentrating. Close to her. She will try one more time.

  “You asked me something,” Clare says. “At the motel. You were changing my bandage. Do you remember that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Malcolm says.

  “Yes, it does. You asked if I felt hope. If I remembered what it felt like to feel hopeful. If I could imagine ever feeling that way again.”

  The words come back to Clare. She thinks of him reaching out to take hold of her arm, the way he’d loosened his grip on the bandage so that it fell to his lap. The way he lowered his head as he asked her about hope, unwilling to make eye contact. She thinks of her thumb edging along Malcolm’s scar. Her palm on his chest. Touching him without shyness. She sees it fully now, how he’d leaned into her touch instead of pulling away. The hug between them. Malcolm’s face as he pulled away, squeezing her hand. She sees the sorrow in the look he gave her then matching the one he gives her now.

  “I said no,” Clare continues. “I said I couldn’t remember feeling hopeful. My answer was no. And you didn’t say anything after that. Because I disappointed you. You thought I was going to say yes.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Malcolm says. “You need to stay away from him.”

  Clare feels her jaw clench. She reaches out and bunches the chest of Malcolm’s shirt in her hand.

  “If he’s a threat to me,” Clare says, “you need to tell me. You can’t only protect yourself, Malcolm. You need to protect me too.”

  Malcolm snaps to attention, posture straight. He backs up to the far side of the alley and pulls his phone from his pocket. He reads a message, then looks up to Clare, his face flushed.

  “I’m trying to protect you,” he says. “I need you to trust me.”

  I don’t, Clare is about to say, but a honking car drowns her out. Clare sees Somers’s car parked at the opening of the alley, her window rolled down, her sunglasses perched on her nose. She is looking at Malcolm.

  “Everything okay here?” she asks.

  “Fine,” Clare says.

  “Do you know this guy?”

  “No,” Clare says. “I needed some shade. He was asking for directions.”

  “Directions,” Somers says, deadpan. “You got what you need?”

  Malcolm nods, eyes on Clare. She backs down the alley so Somers cannot see her face. Don’t you dare leave, she mouths to Malcolm before jogging to Somers’s car. Malcolm stands frozen in place. His lips part as if he is about to speak, but Clare ducks into the coolness of the car before he can.

  Somers drives the first few blocks in silence. At a red light, she adjusts the rearview mirror as if looking for Malcolm behind them.

  “Directions, eh?” she says. “Because I’ll be honest, it looked to me like you knew that guy.”

  “I do know him,” Clare says. “It’s a long story. Not related to Sally.”

  “Everything is related to Sally right now.”

  Clare cranes to look out the window as a means to end the conversation.

  “Warrant’s turned up nothing so far,” Somers says. “Not much, anyway. We’ll be doing another run tomorrow, I hope.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Even the bunker. We found it. Nothing down there but some food, powdered milk. Baby formula, like you said. Oddball stuff.”

  “Guns,” Clare says.

  “Both licensed. Safely stored. Nothing illegal about that.”

  The trip out of the city to High River feels familiar to Clare now. Somers drives with one hand loose on the wheel. At the last light before the highway on-ramp, a young mother struggles to lift her stroller over the curb. The small child’s face is red with the heat, the sunhat secured to his face with straps that bisect his fat cheeks. Clare watches them silently, noting from the corner of her eye that Somers is watching them too. They accelerate up the ramp and merge onto the highway in silence.

  “Is he related to you?” Somers asks. “The guy, I mean. Just circling back for a second. You say he’s not related to Sally.”

  “He’s just someone I know.”

  The way Somers nods, her lips pursed, tells Clare her lie is not convincing.

  “It looked pretty intense to me,” Somers says. “You two huddled up against the wall like that.” Somers pats the cruiser dashboard with feigned affection. “We know how to be stealthy, this car and me. We were watching you for a good minute before I honked. Like I said, it didn’t look like two strangers talking directions.”

  It occurs to Clare to confess it all to Somers. To tell her about Jason, about Malcolm, about Blackmore. To peel back the layers to this story for this police officer, gauge her reaction, hope for some humanity in her response.

  “Stealth or not,” Clare says, “I’m surprised we didn’t notice you.”

  “I’m not,” Somers says. “Like I said, looked intense.”

  Clare opens her mouth to speak, then bites her lip to stop herself. Malcolm’s words come back to her. He’s dangerous. What if Malcolm is telling the truth? Clare thinks. What if Somers is dangerous too?

  “Rourke thinks you’re the key,” Somers says as if reading Clare’s thoughts.

  “The key to what?”

  “To this case. He thinks you know some things you’re not telling us. He keeps bringing you up. Asking me what I think about you. He’s been digging up info on you.”

  “He won’t find anything,” Clare says, her heart bouncing in her chest.

  “Sometimes not finding anything perks us up even more than finding a whole lot, you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Clare says.

  “I mean that a person with no verifiable past to speak of is probably hiding more than someone with a past a mile long.”

  “What about Rourke?” Clare asks. “You don’t seem to know much about him.”

  “I know he’s a cop,” Somers says. “I talked to his previous captain. He doesn’t exactly have a long list of commendations, but he’s kept out of trouble. He’s been on the job a while.”

  “Not all bad cops get caught.”

  “Believe me,” Somers says. “I know that. But I think I’d spot it if my partner were corrupt.”

  The cruiser slows to turn off the highway onto a side road Clare doesn’t recognize.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “Just a shortcut,” Somers says. “A back way. Not on the map.”

  The air-condi
tioning blasts. Clare feels disoriented. She rests her face in her hand.

  “Listen,” Somers says, reading the cues. “I’m not here to mess with anyone. You can trust me. If you know something, you can trust me with it.”

  Trust, Clare thinks, as if such a thing really exists.

  “My guess is that you don’t have many options,” Somers continues. “Since you’re here too. Since Sally e-mailed you to tell you this was a good place for you to be right before she disappeared. Maybe that guy in the alley, maybe he’s part of it too, right? Maybe it’s all about a lack of options. So if that guy has anything to do with Sally, I need to know.”

  How many ways might Clare respond? It makes sense for Somers to question why Clare ends up where she does, who that man might be. Clare should question it more too. High River. Blackmore. A dorm room on an unfamiliar campus. Malcolm. Her marriage. This police cruiser. Sometimes Clare imagines the ways her mother might press her if she were still alive, the harsh verdicts she would impose on so many of the choices Clare has made. Sometimes, she wonders how different her life would have unfolded if her mother were still alive to question her. Somers glances her way, awaiting a response. Clare wants to rage, to yell, to pound her fist into the bulletproof glass of her passenger window. Instead, she sighs.

  “You run out of choices,” Clare says. “When you run away, everything narrows. The options are few. I guess that’s what High River is about. It becomes about survival.”

  Somers frowns, considering this. They pass the gas station. When they reach the driveway Somers rolls down her window and at once they hear it. Screaming. They clear the trees and see Rebecca and Markus next to the river, the little girl red-faced in Rebecca’s arms. Helen stands nearby, and Clare can see Ginny and Jordan on the porch next to Raylene. They must have just arrived too. Markus takes hold of Rebecca’s arm.

  “Don’t you touch me!” Rebecca says, snatching herself free.

  “Jesus.” Somers throws the car into park and steps out. Clare emerges from the car and watches Somers advance on them, her hand hovering above her gun.

  “Rebecca,” Markus says. “Please.”

  “You disgust me. You’re disgusting!”

  Helen approaches, arms open to the child. Clare cannot hear what she says over the din of the river. Rebecca turns and runs to the house, palm cupped to her daughter’s head, a batch of papers clutched in her other hand. On the porch Jordan grips Ginny, holding her in place. The rest of them convene at the foot of the porch stairs, Somers and Helen, Raylene and Clare in a semicircle behind Rebecca and Markus.

  “Ask your brother how much he loves his daughter,” Rebecca says to Jordan, waving the papers. “How much his family means to him! Do you know what these are? I found a whole stash of them. Fucking little love notes. Dear Markus, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About the beautiful little child growing in me.” Rebecca slams the papers to the ground and stomps on them, the child jostling in her arms. “Jesus Christ, Markus! Pregnant?”

  Around her everyone is still, arms to their sides. Clare’s gaze lands on Raylene biting her fingernails, across the circle, eyes darting from Rebecca to Markus. Clare edges closer to Somers.

  “Well,” Rebecca says, spitting the words. “You don’t have anything to say for yourself? Nothing at all? To your family?”

  Markus looks to his feet. Ginny rips herself from Jordan’s grasp and descends the steps.

  “You know what, Becks?” she says to Rebecca. “That’s super shitty. What’s worse than finding love letters between your husband and some other woman? Nothing.”

  “Shut up, Ginny,” Rebecca says.

  “Listen.” Ginny shifts her weight, jutting her hip. “I know Markus is your knight in shining armor. I know you thought he was. But seriously? You’ve got to admit that your blinders are pretty thick. Because who else here didn’t see this coming a mile away?”

  “Stop it,” Helen says, taking Ginny by the arm. “You stop it. Right now.”

  “You!” Markus points to Ginny. “You little bitch.”

  “Me?” Ginny sets a fanned hand on her chest in feigned innocence. “Don’t pin this on me, Don Juan. You’re the horrible husband. You’re the pig.”

  “You think this place is yours?” Markus veers around Rebecca, his finger in Helen’s face before turning to Jordan. “We all know you both want that highway paved right over us. We see the dollar signs in your eyes.”

  “This place means nothing to you,” Jordan says, unflustered. “Your own family means nothing to you. To think you’d touch that poor woman. You’re a piece of shit.”

  Somers raises her hand in a gesture of calm, then steps to the center of the group.

  “Everyone here needs to take a step back and watch their mouths,” she says. “No one wants to say something they’ll regret.”

  “Pregnant,” Rebecca says, spitting with rage, face-to-face with Markus. “All your little playdates while I was at work?”

  The little girl on her hip wails now, her mouth round, head angled to the sky.

  “Please,” Helen says. “Please. All of you, let’s stop.”

  “Here we go.” Ginny rolls her eyes, then lands her gaze on Clare. “Just watch. Now she’s going to defend him. Her piece-of-shit brother. ‘He didn’t mean it.’ ‘He can’t help himself.’ ‘He had such a horrible childhood.’ ‘He’s not very smart.’ Blah blah blah. Right, Mom?”

  But Helen doesn’t speak. She looks almost vacant, staring ahead to the river, hugging herself as though warding off a chill. Even Rebecca watches her expectantly. Finally Somers sets her hand gently on Helen’s shoulder.

  “What I’m going to need is for everyone to go inside,” Somers says. “Except for you two, Rebecca, Markus. You’ll come across the river with me. We’ll take the child with us.”

  From her vantage point Clare notices the cross now askew on the tree. The river, swollen from the rain, pushes up to the height of its bank, the roar is louder than it was yesterday. Clare ducks into the house with Helen, Jordan, and Ginny. Raylene is already in the kitchen. Even with the door closed, even as she can see them receding along the path, Somers between them, the little girl’s wail still pierces the air.

  The group sits scattered around the living room. Raylene, Clare, Jordan, Ginny. Helen in a chair in the far corner, gripping at the armrests, eyes to her knees.

  “What do we do now?” Clare asks.

  “Wait for Somers,” Jordan says. “Nothing. Just wait.”

  “I knew she was pregnant,” Ginny says. “I found the test.”

  At this a sob rises in Raylene’s throat. “Oh my God.”

  “Did you know?” Ginny asks Jordan.

  “Sally is my client. I can’t talk about what I know. Knew.”

  “Right,” Ginny says. “I forgot. That’s your thing. Get these women to sign on the dotted line so you can keep all their dirty secrets. Maybe even use their secrets against them, or against the rest of us. Your master plan for dominance.”

  “Shut up, Ginny,” Jordan says.

  Tears spring to Ginny’s eyes. She sits upright on the couch, hands folded on her lap, shimmying until she is pointed at Helen.

  “Why do you let him talk to me that way?” Ginny asks.

  “You’re needling him,” Helen says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve it.”

  “I deserve it?” Ginny says. “You know what? I think you’d throw me in the river if one of your brothers asked you to.”

  “That’s not true,” Helen says.

  “Your beloved brother Markus? He’s disgusting. But you know what? I know why you defend him. Because you brought him back here. You let him move back. You didn’t give a shit about how the rest of us felt.”

  “This is his home too,” Helen says.

  “He basically spat on the ground in good riddance when he left!” Ginny yells, rigid in her chair. “And when it all blew up for him, you just let him waltz back here and build that stupid house across the river and
do whatever he pleases.”

  “That’s your uncle,” Jordan says. “Helen’s brother. You don’t have siblings, Ginny. You don’t understand. What else was she to do?”

  “He’s your brother too, Jordan,” Helen says, alert, shifting forward on her chair. “But when he showed up here destitute, all that family money burned up on oceanfront condos, he wasn’t your problem either, right? He was mine.”

  “I was in law school,” Jordan says. “You never even asked me what I thought.”

  “Law school,” Helen says. “See? How wonderful for you. I was trying to do something with my life too. With this place. I was the one trying to build something here. But I’ve always been too busy taking care of others—of you!—to make anything of myself. To turn this into anything real. And now look at you on the front page of the newspaper, savior of women. You and Philip. Not a mention of me. Or of Janice! And look at her. She gave her whole life to Philip. Everything. Did all his dirty work, kept every secret, propped him up. Let the light shine on him. And what does Janice Twining get? St. Jude’s. What do I get? Blamed.”

  Clare and Raylene exchange a wide-eyed glance, Clare working to process the details, the revelations, the undercurrents. What is St. Jude’s?

  “Come on, Helen,” Jordan says. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked you what you want to do? Offered you counsel?”

  “Counsel?” Helen says. “Ha. My baby brother and his wise counsel.”

  “We’ll sell,” Jordan says. “That’s what you want, right? We’ll sell for more money than you could dream of. You’ll be free to do whatever you want. It’s up to you. Sell. Or fight to keep this place. I swear. I just want you to tell me what you want.”

  “It’s up to her?” Ginny says. “What about all your little meetings with the developers?”

  “That’s part of the process,” Jordan says, exasperated. “You’d know nothing about it.”

  “You’re right, Uncle,” Ginny says, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “I know nothing about anything, right? But, hey. Did you know that Rourke asked me to spy on all of you? Snooping was the word he used, actually. He wanted me to snoop. And I remember thinking, why would he assume that I’d snoop on my own family and give him the goods like some third-rate snitch? But now I know why. It’s because he sees the filth. Jordan? I love you, but you’re stone cold. Offer Helen counsel? Get the fuck over yourself. And I swear, Helen, I swear you’d bury a dead body for Markus if he asked you to. I swear you’d put a gun to my head—to your own daughter’s head—if Markus told you that would make him feel better. It’s like the three of you are all tied together by your stupid little tragedy. But it’s so over. It was over decades ago.”