“That would be heroine,” she corrected jokingly, but blushed. It wasn’t funny. Heroine.
Heroin. It occurred to her to wonder what his family had told him about her arrest. Did he know? If not, she couldn’t bear to bring it up right now. And the less she thought about it herself, the better.
At last, after sharing a hospital dinner together, she gave in to the fact that she had pressing homework waiting for her at home, so she said goodbye and promised to visit again soon.
Recharged with hope, her heart and steps felt lighter as she made her way out of the room, confident God’s goodness would see them through this trial. She just had to trust.
In the waiting area, she saw Ben’s family chatting with a young woman in a dark blue fire department uniform, and as she turned, long ponytail swishing, Charlene recognized Kate. Sheesh, did the girl live at the hospital?
She smiled brightly at Charlene. “So he’s still up for visitors?” Kate didn’t wait for an answer as she sailed past.
Feeling confused, Charlene heard Ben’s mom say, “Kate’s been so kind to us. Work brings her here a lot, so she drops in on Ben sometimes.”
“They talk firefighter stuff,” Lucy said, almost in a challenging tone.
“They talk?” Meaning he talked to her before he even talked to me?
But it wasn’t his fault that I didn’t get here earlier.
But why is she visiting again?
The thoughts warred inside Charlene, but all she said was, “Okay.” She wondered why Ben hadn’t mentioned Kate, but it wasn’t important. She wasn’t important.
Still, Charlene felt unsettled.
She exited the bright hospital into the cool dimness of the parking garage, found her car, and drove home.
Inside, she found Max pacing her living room, talking on his phone. He ended the call, slapped on a baseball cap, and threw her discarded jacket back at her. “Come on, let’s go out.”
I can’t. I’ve got homework, she almost said, but she sensed his need to go. She shoved her arms in her jacket. “Okay.”
He drove them to a bar on Seventh Avenue. As they walked inside, he tugged the bill of his cap lower in an attempt to avoid recognition. “When was the last time you played a good game of pool?”
“Would have been with you. So not a good game.”
He cracked a grin. “Your jokes need work, but at least you’re trying.” He claimed a vacant table and fed in the quarters, then chalked up a cue stick while she racked the balls.
“Go ahead and break.” He handed her a stick.
Leaning into a splash of light from the overhanging Budweiser lamp, she positioned the stick and glided the smooth wood over the thumb of her left hand, aiming at the white cue ball. The familiarity of the motion came back to her and she filled her lungs with a satisfied breath. She and Max had grown up playing pool with their dad, who’d loved the game. She cracked the triangle of colorful balls and watched them scatter over the green felt table. A solid red ball, then an orange, clunked into the pockets. A good start.
After Charlene finished her turn, Max lined up his shot while she noticed several women eyeing him from their bar stools.
“Nine ball, corner pocket.” Max’s cue ball struck the nine, sending it right into the pocket. He followed with two more strategic shots.
Charlene leaned on her stick. “Remember that time we played pool on Grandfather’s table, and you tore the felt with that terrible shot?”
Max nodded. “The last terrible shot I ever made.”
She rolled her eyes. “You thought Grandfather was going to kill you.”
“He would have. But Dad found out first and took the blame.”
She smiled at the memory and sunk a blue ball.
While she considered a combo shot, Max circled the table. “I’ve gotta head back to California tomorrow.”
Her aim wavered. She stared at the tiny reflection of her splayed fingers in the cue ball. “Already?” She’d been hoping for at least a few more days. So much for Lake Michigan.
“Yeah.” Max switched his hold on his stick. “There’s stuff I gotta take care of.”
“Oh?”
“A show to get ready for.” He tapped a finger. “And a girl I gotta break up with.”
“Really?” What else could she say? She hadn’t even known he was in a relationship. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s for the best. You gonna shoot?”
She drilled her ball and it skipped, collided with one of his, and sunk it.
The game continued, but her focus had changed. She realized they hadn’t had many real conversations about what was going on in his life lately. She was surprised to learn that his friend Wayne had left their magic act to pursue a comedy routine. But she was more astounded to hear about the sheer number of women Max had dated over the last few years. With the money and fame, it shouldn’t have surprised her, but still . . . she shook her head. “Ever thought of going for quality over quantity?”
“That’s always been the plan. Problem is, there’s an awful lot of gold-diggers out there.”
“I believe it.”
“I’ll probably never get married.” He said it like he didn’t care.
She tilted her head. “But if you found the right girl, you would.”
Max shrugged.
“Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
He skirted the table and assessed his next shot, then glanced up at her, brows raised. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She twirled her stick. “List the qualities. Let’s see if any real girl has a chance.”
“All right.” He called his shot and sunk it. “Faith’s important, obviously, but she’s gotta know how to have fun.” He rechalked his stick. The dry squeak put her teeth on edge.
“She can’t take herself too seriously. She has to be confident, but not overbearing. Know how to enjoy silence, not have to fill it with lots of meaningless talk.” He set the chalk down and hoisted his stick. “While I’m fantasizing here, if she could know me without realizing I’m famous, that’d be awesome.” He rested his forearm on the table. “And of course, she’s gotta be hot.”
“Of course.” Charlene snorted. “I’ll keep my eyes open for you.”
“You do that. If she passes your scrutiny, I’ll know she’s a winner.” There was a little too much sarcasm in his words. He sunk the eight ball, won the game, and gave a fist pump. “Let’s get a drink.”
She replaced their sticks in the rack and followed him to the bar, glad her favorite drink was water. Her bond papers had been very clear on avoiding alcohol.
Minutes slid by as they relaxed and chatted. She realized, in the drama of the last couple days, she hadn’t told Max about her engagement. So she did now.
He set his beer down. “Really?”
“You’re supposed to say congratulations.”
He eyed her and shook his head. “You’re too young.”
“Oh, please. Maybe you’re too young, little brother, but not me.” Her favorite retort, since she had him beat by two minutes of life.
He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Look, nothing against Ben, and I’m sorry he’s hurt, but you’re moving too fast.”
“We’ve been dating over two years, and I’ve known him almost four.”
“He’s your first real boyfriend.”
“So? It only takes one. If he’s the right one.”
Max’s eyes drilled hers. “Is he? The right one?”
She stiffened. “Of course.”
He turned back to his drink. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Good, ’cause I don’t.” He downed his beer.
She bristled. “Not everyone has to live wild and reckless like you. I want the stability and safety of marriage.”
“Stability? Safety?” he scoffed. “Go live in a convent.”
“You’re impossible.” She blotted a drip of water with a napkin. “If you can’t be ha
ppy for me, forget I told you.”
“Fine.” He shoved his empty glass. “I’m not gonna pretend, that’s all. You know I know you better than anyone. Talk about your ‘twin intuition’ crap. Here’s what it’s telling me: you’re still searching for something.”
Her mouth opened.
“Or someone.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Maybe it will if you think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about.”
Max stood. “You’re not ready to get married.”
She glared. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hey,” he backed up and jammed his fingertips to his chest, “I’m not telling you anything I’m not telling myself. Neither one of us is ready for commitment.”
“I’m not you, Max.” She tossed her hair. “Don’t project your insecurities on me.”
“Says the queen of insecurities?” He slammed his money on the bar and strode off into the noisy crowd.
“Lover’s spat?”
Charlene turned and met the heavily mascara-lashed eyes of a thin blond perched two stools down.
“What?” Then it registered, and Charlene cringed. “Eww, no. He’s my brother.”
Apparently pleased with that answer, the woman’s shiny coral lips quirked. “Wish I had a brother like that.” Her brows rose suggestively.
Eww again. Not wanting to encourage conversation, Charlene pretended to search for something in her purse. She pulled out lip balm and glided it on. Repeatedly. Nice and thick. Obsessive, Max would say.
Perhaps taking the hint, blondie slid from her seat. Her lofty height enhanced by stiletto heels, she clipped past Charlene, creating a breeze of cloyingly cheap fragrance.
Charlene slid a hand past her nose and imagined Max stranding her in this crowded, noisy, stinky environment, knowing how much she would hate it. Would he be that spiteful?
She pivoted on her stool and searched the room. There he was, suavely playing pool with a couple of women who’d been eyeing him earlier. One of them laughed, dropped a hand on his shoulder, and let it linger.
Charlene turned back to stare at her glass. Oh well, at least they’d had one good game. She swirled her water and listened to the clinking ice. The corner of her mouth pulled up. It wouldn’t be like old times if we didn’t have a fight or two.
* * *
The brother was gone, and she was alone again. Defenseless. Vulnerable.
Perfect.
It would be time now, any day, when the nosy cow of a neighbor wasn’t home, watching and listening.
Nails fingered the shiny new key, rubbed the jagged edge against his skin and contemplated exactly what he would do and say, imagined how she would react. The fear. The trembling. She might even cry.
He’d like to hear that.
Because he didn’t want to hear her regular voice again. He shook his head as if he could remove the sound still wedged in his brain. How she spoke. Soft, gentle.
Like her.
He hadn’t expected that. His gut tightened.
Hadn’t expected her to wake dead memories.
Chapter Seven
As Charlene knelt in church on Sunday morning after Mass, wishing she and Max had parted on better terms, her gaze strayed from the golden tabernacle, up to the crucifix, then to the cherubic angels painted on the ceiling.
Instead of her soul soaring, she felt weighted by something pressing and ominous.
I don’t want to go to jail. Please, Lord.
But it was more than that, something she couldn’t pinpoint . . .
With a small sigh, she rose to her feet and lifted her purse, but something about the gentle clink of coins made her pause. She counted numerous quarters and decided to light some blessed vigil candles before leaving. The wicks would burn all day, sending her prayerful intentions heavenward on vaporous wisps.
Standing beside the candles, she calculated. At fifty cents each, she could light four. The intentions flowed out easily.
The first candle, she lit with a prayer for Ben. For a miraculous recovery.
The next candle, she lit for the Jorgensens. Comfort them, Lord. Strengthen them. Please.
One candle for Margaret Morrow’s soul. May she rest in peace.
When she ignited the last candle, she realized she was lighting it for Clay, wherever he might be . . .
Purse and heart a little lighter, she left church. Her car was one of only a few remaining in the crumbly old parking lot. She was at her door when she noticed something on her windshield.
Tucked beneath her car’s wiper lay a single long-stemmed white rose, along with a laminated card of some kind. Curious, she glanced around, saw no one, then slipped the card free to discover it was a gold-edged holy card. Hands clasped in prayer, Jesus’ Mother gazed down at her Son’s crown of thorns with sorrow, and yet with love, while three wooden crosses protruded from the distant hill behind her.
Flipping the card, Charlene saw a prayer to the Mother of Sorrow, and her eyes skimmed verses. “. . . stand by me in my last agony. To thy maternal heart I commend the last three hours of my life . . . Ask Jesus to forgive me for having offended Him for I know not what I did . . .”
The card was beautiful, and yet, not knowing who placed it here, or why, it was also mysterious and, truthfully . . . a little creepy. After all, the prayer focused on death. She couldn’t help wondering if it was some kind of vague threat.
Nonetheless, a prayer couldn’t hurt her. She tucked the card in her purse. Careful of thorns, she laid the white rose on her passenger seat and drove home in deep thought.
* * *
When Charlene walked into the library the next day, Geraldine, her boss, stood waiting for her, instead of bustling about as usual. Moving closer, Charlene saw Geraldine’s favorite necklace hung about her neck, a little silver book on a chain that, in a nerdy sort of way, Charlene had always admired. Now she studied its polished shine instead of meeting Geraldine’s eyes. “You’re letting me go, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Charlene.” The woman smoothed her wrinkle-free suit. “You’re a good worker.”
But I was arrested. Charlene grimaced. How could she have thought she’d still have a job to come in to today? An arrest didn’t mean she was guilty, but she might as well have been for the way she was being treated lately.
She’d been aware of the whispers and pointed fingers whenever she went out. She’d even been getting weird prank calls on her phone.
School hadn’t been pleasant, either. She’d overheard some nasty comments.
Geraldine gave a crisp, tactful speech, finishing with, “I wish you well.”
Did she? Charlene bit her lip. The drugs had been planted by someone. Maybe someone here at the library. Why hadn’t Vivian gotten back to her yet? Hadn’t she gone through the surveillance tapes by now? Maybe she’d found nothing and wasn’t eager to report the bad news.
Charlene turned to go.
“I’ll send you your last paycheck.”
Why? So I don’t set foot in here again? Am I banned now, too? But Charlene didn’t ask for clarification; she didn’t want to know.
She stopped in the restroom to throw cold water on her hot, red face. When a woman entered, Charlene ducked into a stall to compose herself. As she faced the stall door, she came face to face with a picture of herself. Not a flattering one. Who in the world took this, and when? Then it hit her.
My mug shot.
Her chest tightened. With increasing anger, she read the few verses typed above the photo:
Come to storytime with Miss Charlene.
Oh, the stories I can tell!
About my recent stay in jail
While I’m out on bail.
Her name, phone number, and address followed.
So that explained the crank calls. And her address . . . she shuddered at the violation of her privacy.
Were there more hurtful flyers like this? She stalked out, and the lady washing her h
ands gave her a weird double-take before hurriedly leaving, and she knew the answer.
Sure enough, inside the woman’s abandoned stall hung another, more vindictive, variation:
Ladies, hide your men
Cuz I’m out on the loose
A spoiled rich girl druggie
A tramp who needs a noose.
Alarm and anger curdled Charlene’s stomach. Juvenile harassment, that’s all it is. She tore up the flyers and flushed them down the toilet.
On her way out of the library lobby, she glared at the replica Liberty Bell. There it hung, silent and cracked, yet taunting her with freedom.
She aimed her car out of town. The town that was turning against her. Most likely, the flyers were plastered all over Woodfield. Someone was out to ruin her life.
Switching on the radio, she shot the volume way up, something she rarely did. Marc Cohn’s “Walk Through the World” blared out. Midway through the song, the irony hit her, and she thought of Ben. Walk? Walk? Would he ever walk again . . . ? It was too cruel, yet she kept the song on, letting pain eat at her.
On the edge of town, the song over, she was forced to slow considerably. A long row of cars sat parked, cluttering both sides of the street, near Prairie Hill Cemetery. Must be a big funeral.
Sun slanted through her windshield, warming her excessively, so she opened a window. Unlike her mood, the May day was nowhere near dreary, but shiny and welcoming.
She recalled the last funeral she’d attended, Margaret’s, with the bitter cold, the snow, and the oppressive sadness. But that was across town, at Saint Paul’s Cemetery. She hadn’t visited Margaret’s grave in a very long time, and she felt bad about that. But somehow, visiting always ended up reminding her of Clay, and she didn’t want to think about him or how they never did plant those flowers.
* * *
Charlene awoke to silence, although she had an unsettled feeling that a noise had broken her sleep. The train? Exhausted, she almost dropped back into oblivion, but scratchy dryness in her mouth and throat begged for relief.
After the Thaw Page 7
