Clean break. It took many forms, but over the years, experience had taught her that long goodbyes were always a mistake. Being insecure and needy, getting back together for a time, maybe more than once—it was always a bad idea. A weakness. Straight-no-chaser goodbyes were best.
She followed the dark road. Duplexes like Mrs. Krause’s—they were called villas in Florida—were arranged on the right, single-family houses on her left. McDougall, Cleghorn. At Carnarvon Court she turned. According to the map, Sweeney’s place would be at the far end. She crept forward, seeing moonlight reflected on tile roofs. At the turnaround, Brenda stopped. Sweeney’s windows were dark, but a streetlamp shone down on his driveway.
Heaped next to a trash barrel were inflatable beach toys. They had been partially compressed and now looked like half-formed animals. She swung the car in an arc, looked again at the mound of children’s toys, and headed back up the block. It troubled her for some reason, seeing them in the rearview. Children’s cast-off playthings under harsh light, waiting for trash pickup.
◆◆◆◆◆
Still busy when she arrived, the Donegal dining room looked suited to northerners. Instead of palm-frond ceiling fans, it was fitted out with Colonial brass light fixtures and Queen Anne tables. Happy Hour was still in progress two steps up, behind frosted glass panels.
A hostess seated her and gave her a menu. When the waitress came, Brenda ordered a glass of chardonnay, then looked over the entrees. Here, too, conventional tastes figured: steaks and chops, pasta with meat sauce, fish and chicken, prices reasonable. The waitress returned with the glass of wine and looked apologetic. “I’m afraid we ran out of the snapper,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I’ll leave it up to you.” Brenda handed back the menu. “I’m a rookie.”
“How are you with red meat?”
“Committed to it.”
“I’ve been serving a lot of prime rib,” the waitress said.
“You can’t go wrong, it’s outstanding—”
The voice came from her left. Two couples sat at the neighboring table, all four in their sixties or early seventies. They looked fit and tan, well-dressed. “We all ordered it,” one of the women said. “I think we’d recommend it, wouldn’t we?” Nods and thumbs-up.
“Prime rib it is,” Brenda said. “Medium rare.” She ordered a baked potato and salad with ranch dressing.
“I hope you won’t be disappointed,” the woman said, and smiled. “By rookie, did you mean you’re a new owner?”
“No, just a guest. I’m staying at Mrs. Krause’s.”
“She’s on the eighth fairway, isn’t she?” The woman didn’t wait for an answer. “That means you didn’t see all the ruckus. We were just talking about it. The two of us were playing when it happened.”
Cutting his prime rib, the man next to her shook his head. “Police, EMS,” he said. “We talked to the attendant. He went in to get the lunch, and bingo.”
The woman nodded. “We saw him maybe twenty minutes before it happened.”
The second woman put down her fork and looked at the others. “He always waved, didn’t he?” Everyone nodded. “It was sweet. Every day he had his routine. He’d be out there about eleven, he had this little radio-controlled car. Then the attendant helped him into the pool. He always waved.”
“All by himself in that huge house,” the first woman said. “But it’s a lot better than a nursing home.”
“A nursing home is certainly what the daughter-in-law wanted,” the second woman said. She took up her wine glass and rolled her eyes. “She and her ‘gentleman caller.’ But George Ivy stuck to his guns. Nurses and All Hands on Deck, no ‘facility.’”
The server brought Brenda’s salad and rolls. “Just a few more minutes,” she said. She left, and Brenda looked again to the foursome. “You said All Hands on Deck?”
“That’s the attendant service,” the first woman said. “Supervision, small repairs. One of their people was on duty when it happened.”
“If you say so.” The man next to her glanced at Brenda. “She thinks I’m full of it,” he said of his wife. “I say the guy messed up. He should’ve been there.”
His wife gave Brenda a bored look. “He’s young, with tattoos,” she said. “The attendant. That’s why Herb doesn’t like him. With or without tattoos, you can’t be there every minute.”
“You have your opinion, I have mine,” her husband said. “I say he dropped the ball.”
“What time did it happen?” Brenda asked.
“One?” The wife nodded. “Some time in there,” he said. “The fourteenth fairway is right in front of the Ivy house. We were looking for a ball and saw EMS people arrive.”
Seeking support, he leaned over his plate. “You have this elderly gentleman,” he said. “Frail, a little—” He spun a finger next to his ear. “You leave the guy alone in a swimming pool?” He went back to cutting his prime rib. “Give me a break.”
Milwaukee, 7:50 p.m.
Five minutes after Brenda’s call on Wednesday, Charlie Schmidt had phoned her back. Only then did he actually understand what she meant: that it was over between them. When his call went to voicemail, he broke the connection. Then he called Tina Bostwick. Would she have dinner with him on Friday? Tina had said yes.
He picked her up at seven-thirty, and now they were nearing downtown Milwaukee. They were on their way to Mader’s. Schmidt had wanted to talk about Brenda’s call, but driving with Tina, he had changed his mind. Why? What was the point? Tina would ask questions and just make him feel worse.
“How’s Sonny?” He slowed and stopped for a red light. Sonny was Tina’s golden retriever.
“He likes snow,” Tina said. “Generally, he’s well-behaved, but not about that. When we go out, I have one of these leashes with a retractable handgrip. As soon as he’s out the door, off he goes, down the ramp. I need to time it, otherwise I have to let go. If I don’t, down goes Humpty Dumpty and all.”
From the way Tina said it, Humpty Dumpty had happened more than once. Tina had multiple sclerosis and used an electric wheelchair.
“What happens then?” Schmidt asked.
“Well, assuming I’m not making snow angels, and the worthies responsible for plowing the sidewalk have done their job—and assuming my wheelchair’s battery doesn’t suddenly go the way of all batteries—Sonny and I trundle off to Biff’s for a nice donut and coffee.”
“Brenda told me he likes beer. How about donuts?”
“Sonny is passionate about donuts,” Tina said. “He should have been be a police dog. If given a choice, he prefers glazed sour cream.”
Schmidt laughed. The light changed, and he gently pressed the accelerator to keep from sliding. Wisconsin winters kept road salt from working well, but even so he was glad to be driving the Mercury. He almost never took his wife’s big sedan out of the garage, but for sentimental reasons he had not been able to sell it. Tonight, that was a good thing: Tina needed help getting into his SUV. She was independent and preferred getting in and out of cars on her own. For as long as I can, she said.
“I was surprised you called,” she told him.
“Why?”
“And then I wasn’t.”
Schmidt looked over and back to the road. “Okay, Tina, why weren’t you surprised?”
“It’s the idea.”
“What idea is that?”
“She’s taking a trip without you.”
“She’s doing a piece, she’s working. So am I.”
Tina nodded.
We’re linked, Schmidt thought. The three of us. Tina had gone through what happened last spring. They were all connected now, and so was Marion Ross. But Marion had distractions. Her family, her law practice. Life for Marion had more or less rediscovered its grooves and routines. The three of us are different, he thought.
“Just so you know up front,” Tina said, “Brenda called me after talking to you. And I don’t presume to know anything.”
&n
bsp; “She told you? What did she say?”
“Just that it was over between you.”
Schmidt didn’t look over, but he wondered what had passed between them. “That’s pretty much what she told me,” he said. “Not to my face, over the phone.”
“Of course not to your face. She’d never be able to.” Schmidt kept his eyes on the pickup truck in front of him.
“Charlie—” Now he looked at her, and back to the pickup. “You need to talk about this,” Tina said. “That’s why you called me. We’re out on a date, you and I. We’re friends. This is not charity bestowed on an MS patient. I know that. We all went through something very bad. You call me up, and we go out because we’re good company for each other.”
“True,” he said.
“Look, it’s starting to snow.”
Flakes dropping on the windshield clung a second before melting on the warm glass. Schmidt put on the windshield wipers before again glancing over. Tina’s gloved hands were folded in her lap. She was wearing a wool beret that matched her navy polo coat. Just now, her large hazel eyes seemed especially sharp. Schmidt looked back to the road.
“Well, come on,” he said finally. “What did she say? I thought we were fine.”
“Charlie, please. This attractive young woman I know you love plans a trip to Florida. You casually ask if you’re invited. She tells you no, it’s over between you. I don’t think it registered with you. She said you told her, fine, you had some painting to do. Like breaking up wouldn’t even get in the way of your chores.”
She was right. It had caught Schmidt off guard. Completely. But he now said, “I am painting.” There was no point in telling Tina about the junkie. “I was working before I picked you up.”
For no reason, the truth of this made Schmidt feel vindicated. “It registered with me,” he said. “I’m just not into spilling my guts, like I’m on Doctor Phil.”
He held out his right hand for her to see the paint in his cuticles.
“Yes, Charlie, you were painting.”
He put his hand back on the wheel. “The truth is, I didn’t expect it to last,” he said. “She’s half my age.”
“No, she isn’t. Not quite. Is that what drove you to paint?”
“Do you know—”
“That I’m a pain in the ass? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But you asked me out to talk about Brenda. That’s what we’re doing.”
“I think you’re treating something complex as though it’s simple,” he said. “There are things you don’t know.”
“It’s very complex,” Tina said. “You’re exaggerating when you say she’s half your age, but she’s much younger. And something else.” Tina turned in her seat. “You seem to forget you come with your own baggage. When she comes to visit, do you have any idea how intimidated Brenda is by your wife’s taste? She says your house is like a Martha Stewart time capsule.”
He ignored this. “She’s been with a lot of men.”
“I know that, too. Don’t change the subject.”
He frowned at this. But all the women Schmidt had ever known talked with other women about their personal lives. It was something about their bodies. Giving birth, breastfeeding and diapers, all the reminders of the body. That might explain why they confided information he would never share with another man.
“She’s an intellectual,” Schmidt said. “I’m a landlord. She writes books, I read the sports page.”
“I can’t believe this,” Tina said. “I’m a retired college English teacher. What the hell are you doing inviting me to dinner? Why are you making up all these excuses?”
“It’s different,” he said.
“Come on, Charlie. It’s been nine months, and you never introduced Brenda to your daughters.”
“She met Andy in July.”
“By chance. You were at a Milwaukee Brewers game. Andy showed up with his girl.”
Talking to Tina could be very frustrating. “You certainly know all the news there is to know,” he said.
Except she didn’t know all of it, by any means. Not the half of it. But she was right: he hadn’t introduced Brenda to his two girls. It had seemed too risky. They were so close to her age that he feared Ava and Beth would see the relationship as a betrayal of their mother. Or think the old boy was starting to lose it. He now wondered whether it was true. Not that he was going soft in the head, but that he had never believed he and Brenda could make it after Kettle Falls.
Schmidt felt…cornered. Ahead, the snowy night street was painted with neon. He saw the sign for Mader’s.
Tina again turned to him. “Before we go inside, there’s something I want to say about last spring.”
“Go ahead.”
“Brenda told me what actually happened.”
It shocked him. He felt his face redden. “She promised—”
“You two have never talked about it since. Not once. She needed to tell someone.”
Schmidt felt betrayed but couldn’t say why. Yes, he felt betrayed. Brenda had promised. It was their secret.
“Jerry Lomak threw Heather to her death,” Tina said. “Then Marion hit him in the back with a drag anchor. You and Brenda got there right after. You took Marion up to the hotel to call for help. Brenda stayed on the dock. Lomak was on his knees in your boat. With the anchor stuck in his back. But he was conscious. He told Brenda what he was going to do once he went to prison. He’d make a sensational story out of what happened. Get an agent interested, publish a nasty book. Do his best to ruin everyone’s life, especially Marion Ross’s. Because of what she did to him in court.”
Tina had more to say, and Schmidt knew she was waiting for him to look at her. When he did, she said, “Have you read Blue Sky Six?”
“Yes.” That was the title of Brenda’s book. He looked back to the road.
“She won a Pulitzer. She has name recognition. She believed that could be enough to interest a publisher. That’s why Brenda untied your boat and killed Lomak. Did she tell you she had to sit on the dock and shove it with her feet? To get the boat into the current going over Kettle Falls?”
He came to a stop in front of the restaurant. A parking attendant came from the entrance. “No,” Schmidt said. “She didn’t tell me that.”
He popped the trunk, got out, and lifted out Tina’s wheelchair. Once she was seated, he wheeled her through snow flurries to the open door. He had made a reservation, and as he pushed Tina and followed the hostess, Schmidt tried to make sense of it. Once seated, neither of them spoke until the waiter came. They both ordered the house salad and crab cakes. Schmidt ordered a bottle of chardonnay. The waiter took the menus and left.
“We promised not to tell anyone,” he said. “To keep you and Marion out of it.”
“Charlie, I know,” Tina said. “No one else was supposed to learn what happened. You wanted to say it was you, but she wouldn’t let you.”
“We promised not to tell anyone,” he said again. “We made a pact.”
“Charlie, she needed to let go of it. She trusts me, that’s all. Because I was there. But Kettle Falls isn’t why she said it was over between you. I really don’t think so.”
Schmidt wished now he had ordered a double vodka.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Tina said. “I think she’s afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of how happy you make her.”
Schmidt looked over his shoulder. The table behind him was empty, and he turned back. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense,” he said. “Is she going to a shrink?”
“I think I’m her shrink,” Tina said.
Schmidt leaned toward her. “More complicated than killing someone?” he said. “Than the two of us covering it up?”
“In personal terms, yes,” Tina said. “More complicated. For you, it has a lot to do with the difference in your ages.”
“I asked more than once,” Schmidt said. “She promised me it’s not important. I believed her. But maybe that’s like promising not
to tell anyone what happened. On the phone, before she said it was over, she kept talking about DNA. She said what happened is in us now. Like a genetic defect. The only way is a clean break.”
Tina took a deep breath and let it out. She drank some water and nodded.
“I’ve heard the one about DNA.” She set down her glass. “And the one about clean breaks. I’m going to violate a confidence, too, Charlie. I’m going to risk my friendship with Brenda, because I think you need to know something. You remind Brenda of her father. Not because you’re older, but because you’re honest. Knowable. Funny. I think common parlance these days would be, you’re there for her at all times. And you like jazz, and Brenda thinks you’re graceful. Don’t you see? You’re the one, Charlie. I think that’s the problem. This attractive younger woman who’s been with lots of men and loved her father now loves you. That’s what the age difference means for her. Do you know how her father died?”
“Yes.”
The waiter returned with the chardonnay and began opening the bottle. Schmidt felt spied on. The waiter pulled out the cork and handed it to him. He wanted to throw it, but smelled it and nodded. The wine was poured, and he tasted, nodded again. The waiter poured into their glasses and left.
“Her father died of a heart attack when he was forty-three. On the beach in Cape Cod,” he said. “In South Truro. Brenda was thirteen.”
“Correct, she was thirteen.”
“And she was with him when it happened. That had to be tough, but lots of kids—”
“True, Charlie. Lots of kids are young when they lose parents. But most of them don’t witness it.”
Tina centered her wine glass in front of her dinner plate before looking at him. “And don’t ask me if it means anything, but the same night her father died, Brenda started her first period.”
Charlie drank. Tina did as well. She lowered her glass.
“Don’t ask me how or if it matters,” she said. “But Brenda told me that without meaning to. She said she’d never told it to anyone before. Not her mother, not the therapists she went to after her father died. She said I was the first, it just slipped out. She kept that secret for twenty years. Those two experiences must be joined in her mind. You officially enter puberty on the day you watch your father die. And can’t do a thing to save him. Welcome to adulthood.”
Godsend Page 6
