by Ania Ahlborn
He waited for her to tell him that he hadn’t squandered anything, that he wasn’t psychic and couldn’t have possibly known what was going to sell and what was going to bomb. He hoped that, perhaps, she’d admit that with all the cuts and layoffs at her own firm, she wasn’t making as much as she used to either. He wanted to hear that it wasn’t completely his fault, but all he got was: “You should have fired John when I told you to.”
Lucas bit his tongue. Slow sales or not, John’s belief in his work had been steadfast. At his worst, most desperate moments, Lucas could pick up the phone and John would be there, telling him to take it easy, telling him to put his head down and keep working, Keep working. Fuck the reviews, screw the numbers, just keep working. Except year after year, things got steadily worse. Lucas knew this was his last shot, but Caroline was fed up with empty optimism. She’d crossed her fingers for so long they had fused together like the branches of a tree.
Caroline closed her eyes and exhaled. She held her mug aloft, the steam coiling around her features like tendrils of smoke. Lucas decided to wait it out, praying that she’d give him this one last try at turning things around. She never liked their house in Briarwood, never took to the neighborhood after living on Long Island for so long. The house in Port Washington had been her dream, the kind you’d see on holiday cards and Good Housekeeping spreads, every window dressed up in garlands and sparkling lights during the holidays, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Watching her pack up their things because they couldn’t afford to stay had taken something out of him. It had been his fault. His slump. His failure. His work.
Caroline searched his face for some sort of answer. Lucas tried to stare back at her with a semblance of confidence, because this was the Big Idea, the book that would get him back in the game, the very thing he needed to redeem himself, to feel like a man who hadn’t let his family down, who hadn’t lost his wife to some Ivy League townie turned corporate sheep.
“I can’t leave my job,” she said. “I’ve got that conference. They’ve already booked my flight.”
Rome. They had visited a few years before Jeanie was born and had left unimpressed. It was crowded and dirty. The monuments looked as though they were part of some weird Roman theme park. The cafés wouldn’t let them sit without an exorbitant table service charge—the price of an espresso tripled if you wanted to pull up a chair. They had expected one of the most romantic cities in all the world, but what they got was a bad taste in their mouths. Back then, it had been nothing short of disappointing. Now, Lucas could see the irony of the metaphor. The life they had expected wasn’t the one they got.
And yet, the moment Caroline learned her company was flying her to Rome to broker a deal, she was giddy with excitement, as though she’d forgotten all about that unfulfilling vacation. Then again, Kurt Murphy was also going; the other man, who resembled a young, Interview with the Vampire Brad Pitt. The moment Caroline had announced her trip, Lucas pictured Kurt screwing her against a pillar of the Pantheon. He imagined them riding around the Colosseum on a fucking Vespa. He saw sundae dishes holding melted gelato, empty wine bottles, and half-eaten plates of pasta littering the kind of Roman hotel room he’d never be able to afford. Kurt was the brokerage’s key player. Over the years, dozens of people had lost their jobs so that Kurt Murphy could continue to buy overpriced champagne.
Fuck Kurt Murphy, he thought, only to have his follow-up thought assure him that, Oh, don’t worry, pal, she intends to.
“Why can’t you just write it here?”
Because that wasn’t the deal.
“Because I have to do interviews.”
“So fly out there and do them.”
“It isn’t that easy. We’re talking about a supermax. I can only get in there once a week, maybe for two hours a pop, and that’s if I’m lucky. Flying back and forth will cost us money we don’t have.”
Caroline was unimpressed.
“That, and I just need to be there,” he reminded her. “You know that.”
Before Jeanie was born, Lucas had spent nearly six months in and around Los Angeles while Caroline stayed home in New York, but back then they had the cash. He flew to the East Coast every two or three weeks between researching the Night Stalker and the Black Dahlia cases. He could have done the research from anywhere, but there was something about being where the crimes had been committed, something about standing in the very spot a person had died. Wandering through the rooms of a house haunted by death. Seeing the details. Touching the wallpaper. Smelling the air. It ignited Lucas’s work like nothing else. Bloodthirsty Times: The Story of a Stalked L.A. had put him on the map. Lucas lent its success to having walked Richard Ramirez’s steps, to having seen the people, the places, the things Ramirez had experienced.
“Right,” Caroline said. “Research.” Ire peppered her tone.
“We can’t afford to pay the mortgage on this place and rent another. It’ll drain our savings.”
She rolled her eyes at the reminder. “I know that.”
“There’s always New Jersey,” he said quietly, deathly afraid of the response to suggesting she move back in with her parents.
Caroline openly scoffed. “Sell the house and shack up with Mom and Dad? Good idea.”
“There’s Trisha,” who yes, was a bitch, but that didn’t change the fact that she was Caroline’s sister and had a loft in Greenwich Village.
“Oh, sure, I’m supposed to impose on Trish. Me and a twelve-year-old in her tiny apartment? Not only do you want to uproot our lives, but other people’s lives, too?”
“Uproot her life how?” Lucas asked. “She owns a dog, for Christ’s sake.”
“Stop—”
“A dog,” he insisted. “A stupid little Chihuahua she dresses up in idiotic sweaters and treats like a baby because she has shit-all to do with herself. Having a houseguest would do her some good; it might even bring her back down to planet Earth.”
Caroline stared at him, as if stunned by his outburst.
“She’s crazy,” he said. “You know she’s crazy.”
“She’s my big sister,” Caroline snapped. “Just because you don’t like her . . .”
“Um, she’s the one who has it out for me.”
“Oh, please.” She waved a hand at him, dismissing the entire argument.
“She’d be thrilled to have you, Carrie. Just tell her you’ve finally decided to take her advice and leave me.”
The air left the room.
His own words made him go numb.
Caroline went silent again. The anger that had been nesting in the corners of her eyes was now replaced with sadness, with a pale shade of guilt.
Time to fess up.
“Look . . . I already found a house.” Or, Jeff Halcomb had. “I knew it would be stressful, so I just . . . I looked around and I found a place.” Liar. “It’s not expensive, and it’s right on the coast. Jeanie is going to love it.” As long as she didn’t find out what had happened there. He tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice, but he was nervous, terrified that Caroline would say no. “I know you’re going on your trip and it’s really bad timing, I know all that. But I have to do this. I have a really good feeling about this project.” He may as well have had a guarantee. “Please, if this doesn’t work out, you have my word . . . I’ll go get a job at a newspaper.”
Caroline laughed outright. “Because business is booming at the New York Times. Right this way, Mr. Graham; we’ve all been waiting for you.”
“Okay, then I’ll go back to freelancing,” he insisted. “Hell, I don’t care. I’ll do whatever. But I have to take this shot. I can’t let this one go.” He’d already called Lambert Correctional Facility.
“Because John has convinced you this is The One,” she said flatly.
Because he’d already said yes.
“I know this is The One.” Even if J
ohn wasn’t a hundred percent behind him, Lucas was sure, more sure than he’d been about any other project in the past ten years. Writers had been trying to get Jeffrey Halcomb to talk for a generation about what had really happened in March 1983. A handful of shoddy biographies had been published on Halcomb, a couple on Audra Snow. None of them had been taken seriously because none of them could get any information out of Jeff. If Lucas just held up his end of the deal, he couldn’t lose . . . right?
But that was up to Caroline, who was going to derail everything, call the whole thing off—the Big Idea. Lucas folded his hands over his mouth, watching her the way an observer witnesses a particularly dangerous acrobatic act. It was a big jump, and neither of them had a safety net.
Finally, she squared her shoulders and breathed out a quiet sigh. “I think you should go,” she said. “Take Jeanie for the summer. It’ll be good for her to see someplace new.”
He furrowed his brow at her response, not grasping what she was saying.
“I’ll send for her a few weeks before school starts.”
“Carrie . . .”
She lifted a hand to quiet him. Stop, it said. Don’t talk.
“I love you, Lucas.”
His stomach dropped to his feet.
“But this . . .” She motioned around, as if to point out the imperfections of the kitchen. “We’ve been trying for a long time. Sometimes . . . enough is enough.”
Sometimes, people change.
His mouth went dry and he swayed where he sat.
There’s no going back.
The earth shuddered beneath him with pent-up grief.
His mind reeled as he tried to think of something to say, some perfect sentence that would stop Caroline in her tracks, make her reconsider. He’d apologize a million times, promise her the moon. The lyrics to the song he used to sing to her unspooled inside his head. He would say he’s sorry if he thought that it would change her mind. The Cure. He and Caroline so much younger. The Rocky Horror Picture Show every Friday followed by terrible Mexican food. A closet full of all-black clothes dappled by a splash of Caroline’s blues and grays. Combat boots that reached for his knees; twenty eyelets Caroline would walk her fingers up laced tight across his calves. He’d made love to her with his boots on so many times, all because they had taken too damn long to pull off his feet. And then they had grown up, become adults. Those boots were now exiled to the back of the closet, and every time Caroline caught a glimpse of them, she wondered aloud why he didn’t put them up for sale on eBay. Forget the past. All of that was behind them. But he wouldn’t sell them. They reminded him of the way she’d dance in the passenger seat of his shitty hatchback every time “Enjoy the Silence” came on the radio; he’d never part with them because they encompassed the essence of his own sullen, subdued spirit. Regardless of what she’d become, his once-upon-a-time girl was tangled up in those endlessly long bootlaces.
But these days, he didn’t need those boots to remind him of his brooding, reckless youth. He saw it every time he looked at his kid. Jeanie was already teetering on the edge of teenage angst. If he and Caroline split up, what would become of his little girl? Lucas shook his head as if to reject his wife’s words. He’d pretend she’d never said them, forget she’d ever suggested going to Washington on his own. But all he could manage was a nearly inaudible “no,” so soundless that it failed to register with her at all.
“Use the savings, get the place. If you use more than half your share, pay me back after you get a deal.”
Her image went wavy, like the horizon shivering with heat.
“I’ll talk to Jeanie,” Caroline said. “Explain what’s going on.”
She turned to leave the kitchen, her mug cupped in her hands. She paused just before stepping into the hall, and for a second Lucas was sure she had changed her mind. They had been together for too long. They had a daughter, a life. A history far too precious to throw away. But rather than retracting her words, Caroline shook her head and stepped out of sight.
Lucas white-knuckled the edge of the counter. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming.
2
* * *
Thursday, February 4, 1982
One Year, One Month, and Ten Days Before the Sacrament
THE KNOCK ON the door had Audra’s attention drifting from the TV to the front door of her father’s defunct summer property. She couldn’t remember the last time her parents had visited Pier Pointe, but that suited her just fine. It meant that visitors were few and far between. Knocks on the door were rare, which was what had her furrowing her brow at the sound. She abandoned her midafternoon rerun marathon, rose from the couch, and padded across the loose pile of the shag rug toward the front double door. Peeking through the peephole, she caught sight of Maggie’s cropped haircut.
“What are you doing out here?” Audra asked, opening one of the two leaves of the door. Maggie ducked inside without an invitation, her parka beaded with the cold drizzle of coastal rain.
“Came for a visit.” Maggie shook water off her sleeves and onto the redbrick floor of the entryway. “I haven’t seen you in a few days, so, you know, just figured I’d check in, make sure everything was okay.”
Audra offered her only friend a light smile of thanks. It was the little things—like an unexpected visit on a rainy afternoon—that made Audra count her blessings for living less than a mile from Marguerite James; though, she never went by Marguerite, but by Maggie. It was a name she claimed suited her better than the stuffy moniker on her birth certificate. Maggie had a sixth sense. She always seemed to know when to drop in or give Audra a ring, was always intuitive of when to invite her over for dinner or drag her out of the house to wander the shops of Pier Pointe. Most times, Audra resisted the invitations, but Maggie wasn’t one to be easily swayed.
“Everything’s fine.” Audra shut the door against the bluster of wind before following Maggie into the living room. Shadow, her German shepherd, lazily lifted his head from the arm of the couch to regard their visitor, smacked his chops, and went back to his nap. “Did you . . .” Audra paused, peering at Maggie’s damp Audrey Hepburn–style hair. “Did you walk here?”
“Had to get out of the house.” She shrugged, dismissing the weather.
“Where’s Eloise?”
“Day care.” Approaching the couch, Maggie laid a hand atop Shadow’s head.
“Since when?”
“Since this past Monday. Too much time in the house, not enough time with other kids. The same could be said of you, you know. Are you really watching I Dream of Jeannie?”
“What’s wrong with I Dream of Jeannie?” Audra coiled her arms across the sweater that hung limp and oversized from her petite frame. Maggie gave her a look, then shook her head in a motherly sort of way that, had Audra’s own mother possessed a matronly bone in her body, she may have resented. But her mom had filled out an absentee ballot after completing Audra’s birth certificate, resolving to be a Seattle socialite rather than a doting parent. Audra wouldn’t admit it, but she liked being looked after. It was nice to know that someone cared about how she was, what she was doing, whether she was eating, and whether she was taking her pills.
“When was the last time you went outside?” Maggie looked away from the TV and leveled her gaze on Audra’s face. “You look pale. I don’t like it.”
Audra lifted her shoulders to her ears, feigning amnesia. It could have been yesterday. It could have been two weeks ago.
Maggie frowned. “Okay,” she said, her tone resolute. “Get dressed.”
“For what?”
“For a walk.”
“A walk?” Audra nearly laughed. “You do realize it’s raining, right? Just because you’re a crackpot . . .”
Maggie’s expression went stern. Audra suggesting Maggie was nuts was like an alligator accusing a crocodile of having too many teeth.
Audra shut her eyes and exhaled a slow breath. She didn’t want to go outside, didn’t want to walk in the rain, but Maggie was right. She’d spent too much time cooped up. If she wasn’t going to give in for Maggie, she at least had to surrender for the sake of her dog.
“Audra . . .”
“Fine, fine.” Audra held up her hands, not wanting to be nagged. “Just let me get changed and we’ll go.”
Apparently satisfied, Maggie sat down next to Shadow on the couch to wait. All the while, Jeannie blinked and nodded her head while waiting for Major Tony Nelson to come home; a perfect life, nothing short of a magic trick.
· · ·
The beach was cold. Audra gritted her teeth against the wind, the hood of her parka cinched so tight around her face it was a wonder she could see the coast. “This is stupid,” she mumbled to herself, her sneakers sinking into the damp sand with each labored step. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Audra loved Maggie, but she hadn’t moved to Pier Pointe to take romantic midwinter walks along the shore.
Her father had nearly forbidden the move. Not in your condition, he had said. You’ve got a doctor here in the city. Pier Pointe is too small; you’ll never find a qualified physician there. Except that she actually had, and Congressman Terry Snow had given up the fight and ponied up the keys to the family’s abandoned coastal home. That had been two years ago—seven hundred and thirty days—and she was able to count the number of times her oh-so-worried father had called on a single hand. She’d spoken to her mother even less, but it was for the best. Congressmen weren’t supposed to father manic children. It was bad for his reelection campaign.
