David Klein

by Stash (v5)

  Marlene leaned forward in her chair, interested. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Gwen paused. “I feel awful for giving his name.”

  The Shot

  After another painful day on the track, Dana sat on the training table with an ice pack on her knee. Her coach and the trainer stood next to her.

  “The next course of treatment would be a cortisone shot, if we want to go that route,” Sarah said. “The only other thing to do is stay off it, for at least a month.”

  “The season will be practically over,” Dana said. “And I’ll be completely out of shape by then.”

  “Injuries are part of any sport, and the hardest part to deal with.”

  “I want to race this weekend.”

  “It’s the cortisone then,” Sarah said. “What do you think, Coach?”

  “We could use her in Plattsburgh.” He turned to Dana. “And I think you’ve got great potential for Rookie of the Year.”

  “Frank’s in the building today. We could get it done this afternoon. If it works, there’s a chance you can run this weekend. If you don’t get it, there’s no chance.”

  Dr. Frank Collard was the consulting orthopedist for the Saints athletic teams. He administered the shots, set the bones, performed the surgeries—the kind of doctor that her former boyfriend Sean Connelly had wanted to become, if he didn’t make it as a football player. Dana had seen Dr. Collard around the athletic facilities but had never spoken to him.

  “Is there any reason not to get it?” Dana asked.

  “It doesn’t always work,” Sarah said. “And it is a steroid, so you have to take it seriously. The most common side effect is called steroid flare. The cortisone crystallizes and it hurts for a few days, but that doesn’t happen often.”

  “Am I allowed to have it?”

  “You mean is it within the rules? Sure. But the effect of a cortisone shot is inconclusive. It definitely masks the pain, whether it helps or hinders the healing process is not as clear.”

  She didn’t hesitate: “I have to run this weekend. I really want to.”

  She waited around the training room for an hour to see Dr. Collard. When he arrived, he explained that the iliotibial band was a strip of tendon that wrapped around the outside of the knee and connected to the tibia. When it gets inflamed, it rubs against the bone and causes pain. The cortisone would help reduce inflammation and hopefully she could be back on the track in a few days.

  He injected the cortisone directly into Dana’s joint, and she snapped her jaw shut from the burn.

  “That’s it,” he told her. “Take tomorrow and Thursday off, then test it on Friday.”

  She returned to the locker room and showered, staying under the spray for a long time and muting all sounds except the water falling over her face.

  When she was dressed and heading to the library for an evening of study, her phone rang.

  “Hi, Daddy, what’s up?”

  “Just checking. How are you?”

  “I might not be able to race this weekend because of my knee. I’ve got ITBS in my tendon.”

  “I thought that was irritable bowel syndrome.”

  “That’s not funny. I said ITBS. It stands for ‘iliotibial band syndrome.’”

  “I’m sorry; that hurts just hearing the name. It’s the same thing that bothered you over the summer?”

  “I got a cortisone shot today, so I might be okay in a couple of days.”

  “Does that help with the pain?”

  “It’s supposed to.”

  “Let me know how you feel, because I want to come to your meet.”

  There was a pause, then Dana said what she’d been rehearsing to say the next time she spoke to her father. “I’m sorry I said what I did about you being able to bring your women home now. I was just mad because you keep asking me the same stuff about drugs and sex.”

  “I know, I can’t help it, I’m your father.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Although she couldn’t take care of one small tendon on her knee; if she had no control over that, could she really take care of the rest of herself?

  “I miss you, Dana. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “Call and let me know about the track meet. I hope the cortisone shot works.”

  First-Grade Breakfast

  It was one of those mornings if you breathed near Nora a firestorm ignited. She couldn’t find the pants she wanted to wear and threw a full body fit. The zipper stuck on her backpack. She could see much better today than yesterday and didn’t need glasses. Really. I promise. I don’t need to go to the optometrist appointment.

  “Wear your yellow pants,” Gwen suggested.

  “They have a stain.”

  “Did you put them in the laundry?”

  “I want to wear a skort.”

  “Then wear it. Just get dressed. We have to leave soon or we’ll be late for the breakfast. And stop flapping around like the world is ending.”

  “I don’t want to go. It’s a bunch of first graders.”

  “You have to go because no one is here to get you on the bus.”

  “Daddy can.”

  “Daddy’s coming with us—just like he came to your school breakfast when you were in first grade.”

  Nate worried about being late. Mom—it’s 7:47. It’s 7:48.

  Everyone bagged their own breakfast. The school provided coffee for parents, juice for kids, and doughnut holes to share, which Gwen had to pick up at Dunkin’ Donuts now that she had been named room parent in Mrs. Viander’s first-grade class.

  Gwen sliced bagels and spread cream cheese, packed bananas and grapes.

  “Mom, it’s 7:52!”

  “Nora, are you ready?”

  “Mommy, Nora’s crying!”

  “Let me finish up here and bring the kids,” Brian said, taking the knife from her. “You go ahead and set up at school.”

  She couldn’t grab the keys fast enough and bolt. She had gone to bed tense, woke up the same way—and the feeling had spread like a virus to her kids. Instead of making love last night as Gwen had hoped, she and Brian had argued. He’d been coming home late every night from work, a noncommittal expression on his face, as if walking into a hotel of strangers and not his home of waiting loved ones. When she asked what was wrong, he explained in a slow, patient voice that a lot was going on at work.

  Did he want to talk about it?

  Not really, he’d been talking about it all day.

  This wasn’t like Brian. Although he didn’t get into work details with her, she was his most trusted counsel when a problem came up. Two years ago they’d spent weeks discussing whether he should accept the transfer offer to business development. Now he didn’t want her opinion.

  “I know there’s a lot of pressure on you,” Gwen said. “And I appreciate what you do for our family. But you seem so stressed. You’re working all hours and coming home late and—”

  He interrupted her. “That’s why it’s called work, Gwen.”

  “Don’t talk down to me.”

  “I’m just telling you it’s part of the package. If you want to live in Morrissey and own a house on a lake in the Adirondacks, and have the luxury of staying home with your friend Mary Jane—”

  “I was waiting for that one. You should leave your job if it’s making you this mean,” Gwen said.

  “I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

  Still, she fumed. There would be no love again tonight, and at this point she didn’t care.

  “Mary Jane,” she repeated. “No one calls it that.”

  She picked up two box carafes of coffee—regular and decaf—and three boxes of Munchkins, then hurried to school.

  In the cafeteria, Mrs. Viander helped her set up the coffee and put out the cream, sugar, and napkins. Gwen opened the doughnut boxes, resisted the sparkling glazed ones. First graders from two classes and their parents trickled in. Gwen saw Amy Hellman sitting with her daughter. Amy had s
old Gwen and Brian their house in Morrissey six years ago. When she saw Gwen approach, she got up from her chair and smiled. She wore a fitted gray suit with a red blouse and stood poised and confident like an executive on the rise.

  Gwen asked how real estate was going.

  “In a few select cities it’s booming, in most of the country it’s flat or down, and here in Morrissey it continues a steady but slow growth trend,” Amy said. “We’re a desirable community. Are you planning on selling, or buying?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of getting my real estate license. Going back to work.”

  “That’s a great idea, Gwen! You’d be perfect. I remember when we were looking at houses together—you noticed all the things that are important to buyers. And of course with your personality. Everyone trusts you.”

  “I don’t know if I’m much of a salesperson.”

  Amy brushed off the comment with a bah sound. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Houses sell themselves. All you have to do is speak for them.”

  “The buyers?”

  “No, the houses. You speak for the houses because they can’t speak for themselves.”

  Gwen tried to decode this. “Don’t I have to take a course to get my license?”

  “A forty-five-hour course. You could do it five consecutive Saturdays or get it all done in one week. You can even take some of it online. You need a broker to sponsor you, though. I could do that.”

  “Wow, that would be great.” Gwen could see herself showing prospective buyers houses around Morrissey. She wouldn’t be aggressive; she’d try to match buyers to the right house. She’d speak for the house, like Amy mentioned. Let its personality channel through her. She’d get to see the inside of a lot of houses, maybe pick up decorating ideas.

  “There’s going to be a lot of opportunity with the Vista Tech Park opening next year—more people moving up from downstate, people moving from adjacent towns. You should call me at the office.”

  “I will. Thanks,” said Gwen.

  She’d never felt compelled to pursue a career once the children were born, had not let the lack of professional achievement interfere with personal fulfillment. She was satisfied being a mom, helping in the school, spending the time with her children. Unsusceptible to the “having it all” syndrome that preyed on many women she knew. Yet maybe it was time to get a part-time job to take the pressure off her husband. She had graduated from college and finished most of a year of law school, although that was a long time ago. What skills did she have? What contribution to family finances could she make compared with the income Brian wheelbarreled home? A little. A gesture. Selling real estate in her spare time could help. She should do it.

  The lift in her spirits from this idea lasted the time it took to turn and see Detective Keller with his wife and their son. Gwen knew that running into him was a possibility, had hoped it wouldn’t happen, yet also had prepared for it. But rather than lurk and stare and avoid from the other side of the cafeteria, Gwen walked up to them.

  She had never met Mrs. Keller, a thin woman with bags under her eyes and heavy lids on top. Attractive, but tired, like she’d been working too hard. The boy a miniature of his father: square head and a stocky frame, needed a better haircut.

  Keller introduced his wife, Patty, and son, Andy.

  “This is Gwen Raine. She has a son in first grade.”

  Patty threw Gwen a smile as fake as play money, revealing a small chip in one of her front top teeth. She knew all about Gwen. Of course the detective shared the gossip with his wife—investigations, arrests, and whatever else—unlike some husbands who had gotten tight lipped about their work. It made Gwen realize there was no preventing the news about her arrest spreading around Morrissey; there was only controlling the ferocity of the burn, possibly.

  “I don’t think our boys are in the same class, are they?” Patty asked.

  “My son, Nate, has Mrs. Viander.”

  “Where’s your family?” Keller asked.

  “They should be here any minute,” Gwen said. They were late, typical of Brian, who never hurried the kids along; herding was Gwen’s job. She turned to the boy, Andy. “Who do you have as your teacher?”

  The kid buried his face in his mother’s hip. Had they clued him in, too?

  Keller squatted and pulled Andy away from his mother’s hip. “Mrs. Raine asked you a question. Look at her and answer.”

  The boy reluctantly raised his eyes to Gwen. “What?”

  “I just wanted to ask who your teacher is,” Gwen repeated.

  The boy mumbled the name “Miss Amico.”

  Gwen wasn’t going to torture the kid by asking anything else. She looked at the detective and was about to ask for a moment alone when Nate appeared at her side. Nora followed, wearing capris and not the skort she had wanted.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Brian said, bringing up the rear and handing the bag containing their breakfast to Gwen.

  “Mom, can I get a doughnut?” Nora asked.

  “If you eat your bagel and fruit.”

  Nora took her bagel from Brian and joined a friend at a nearby table.

  Brian held out his hand to the detective. “Brian Raine. We met once before.”

  Keller shook his hand and introduced his family.

  Nate had gotten Andy’s attention by showing him his two wristwatches, one of them a SpongeBob and the other a spy watch that toggled through seven different time zones and had a motion sensor that set off a beeping alarm.

  “Cool,” Andy said. “Can I try it on?”

  Patty Keller was not pleased. Her eyes narrowed and the bags stiffened into angry creases. She looked ready to intervene when another mom called her name and she turned away.

  Parents and their first graders sat in groups at the cafeteria tables. Nate stood nearby, letting Andy try on his spy watch. Gwen and Brian found themselves alone with the detective. Gwen immediately asked why they hadn’t heard about the charges against her being dropped.

  Keller said, “That’s a question for the DA. I don’t know when or if the charges will stick or go away.”

  “What do you mean, if?” Brian said.

  “I’m just telling you it’s out of my hands. I don’t accuse, I investigate.”

  Gwen said, “I made a deal. Why isn’t the district attorney keeping his side of it?”

  “I don’t make deals, either. You’ll have to speak to your lawyer,” Keller said. “He’s the deal maker.”

  She had spoken to Roger, twice in the last week, and he told her the DA’s office hadn’t gotten back to him yet, although he’d put in three calls.

  “The outcome might depend on whether or not the name you provided is useful to our investigation.”

  “Has it been so far?” Brian asked.

  Keller shrugged. “I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t comment about an ongoing investigation. Although if you have anything else to add that might be of use …” He reached into his pocket for cards. “You can call me. I don’t know if I gave you a card before.” He took out a pen and wrote a number on the back of two cards, then handed one each to Brian and Gwen. “Cell phone, if you need a direct line to me.”

  “What else can I add?” Gwen said. “Your extortion techniques already extracted everything I know.”

  “Easy, Mrs. Raine,” the detective said. “Let’s not say anything you’ll wish you could take back.”

  “I’m beginning to think I already did that,” said Gwen.

  Brian gave her the shut up look.

  Patty returned to their circle, ending the conversation. Nate came up and asked if Andy could come over after school for a play date.

  No one answered him.

  “Pleeeease,” said Nate. “Please.”

  “We have to take Nora to the optometrist after school,” Gwen said, sharper than she wanted to, still fuming about the so-called deal she’d made.

  “Drat!” said Nate. “I don’t want to go to the optimist. Can I go to Andy’s instead?”
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  “Optometrist, not optimist,” Gwen said, although a trip to an optimist might serve them better.

  Patty Keller kept silent. She wasn’t having a drug addict’s kid in her house—wasn’t giving Nate’s suggestion the dignity of a response.

  “I have to go,” said Brian, kissing Gwen quickly on the cheek.

  She looked at him for help but he was bailing. He leaned so only Gwen could hear and said, “Let me talk to Roger. I’ll call him from work and get this straightened out.”

  Gwen went to her weights class and the grocery store, and back at home she looked up New York State real estate licensing on the Internet and weighed the idea of visiting Gull and telling Jude what had happened. How she’d been in an accident, coerced by the police to reveal her source in exchange for dropped charges, and then betrayed by them, just as she’d betrayed Jude. She owed him this much, didn’t she?

  She rejected the plan. Whether he was a real dealer or not, he’d be angry with her. And if the police were watching him closely, staking him out or something, they’d probably see her, which would escalate her legal problems.

  It would be better to call Amy and pursue the real estate licensing.

  In the end she did neither. She made sauce for that evening’s pasta dinner, dropped off the dry cleaning, went to the bank, and at three o’clock picked up Nora and Nate from school and drove to the optometrist appointment. Nora read the third line on the chart, missed several on the fourth, and burst into tears on the fifth, knowing her fate. Gwen soothed her by promising they’d pick out a cool pair of frames and the three of them tried on almost every pair in the store—forty-four of them, by Nate’s count.

  “You look so beautiful in those, Nora,” Gwen said.

  “I do?” She still had tears. Gwen wiped them with her hand.

  “My beautiful kids,” she said, “both of you.” She gathered them into the fold of her arms.

  Brian came home late again that night, long after the kids were asleep, although Gwen was up and anxious for Brian to tell her about the conversation he had with Roger today.