She had just about reached the casino floor when she heard someone call her name. She stopped walking, already feeling sick to her stomach, already searching for the words to explain her actions, for an excuse. But when she turned around she was met not by the Tiffany’s salesperson but instead by a family friend. They chatted for a few minutes about the unusually warm weather, Sandi’s upcoming birthday, summer plans—all the while Joan glancing over Betty Goldstein’s left shoulder to see if the sales associate who had given her the gold bead earrings was emerging from Tiffany with a panicked look on her face. When Betty checked her watch and announced that she had to meet a friend shortly, Joan gave her a bright smile and told her how nice it was to run into her.
“And I must say,” Betty said, “that your earrings are exquisite. Tiffany?”
Joan put her fingers to her earlobes. “Yes,” she said. “Stephen gave them to me.”
“Beautiful. He is good to you.” Betty’s grin revealed a lipstick stained front tooth.
“He is indeed,” said Joan, turning away from Betty, smile instantly dropped. She scooted into the closest women’s room and sat down in an upholstered chair, putting her legs and feet up on the ottoman in front of it. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She had not done anything like this, taken something that didn’t belong to her, since high school. Back then, it had not felt like this. It had been fun, a kind of game that she and her friends, also living in low to middle income households, played when their mothers refused to buy them the article of clothing that was being worn by the girls living in middle to high income households—the sweater, usually, which was often the article of their most fervent desire, other than boys. They would fan out in the mall, the five or six of them who were allowed to meet there after their Saturday morning chores had been done, wearing discount department store blue jeans and shapeless sweatshirts that would easily fit over a sweater or shirt. They would try on whatever they wanted and then cover it, conceal it with their own clothing. And they would walk out of the dressing room, hand the salesperson the other items they had brought in with them as decoys, and casually meander out of the store, sometimes stopping to look at one last item, daring the store employees to catch them. Afterward, they would meet in the parking lot, drive to one of the girls’ houses, lock themselves in her bedroom, and compare their bounty. They could not wear their ill-gotten gains at home, so on school days they stuffed them into their backpacks and changed into them in the girls’ locker room before the first period bell rang. Those of similar sizes often traded clothing for the day—and then met back in the locker room to change back into whatever they had worn to school before heading home.
Joan looked at herself in the mirror—her eyes going immediately to the gilded lobes of her ears. Instead of the thrill she had felt in high school, sneaking a T-shirt or pair of shorts out of a department store, Joan felt empty. And she knew what she had done was wrong, just as she had known but justified in high school. Only now, she could not keep what she had taken. She slowly stood, reached for her purse, and walked out of the bathroom. Within minutes, she was inside Tiffany, looking for the woman who had trusted her with a pair of six-hundred-dollar earrings, due to the way Joan looked and dressed. When Joan found her, chatting with a couple interested in an engagement ring, she waited for five minutes without being acknowledged. She took the earrings out of her ears and set them down on the glass case in front of her. Only then did the woman look in her direction.
“What do you think?” she asked. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
This was the confirmation that the salesperson had not noticed Joan’s absence. She had not seen Joan walk out of the store, had not sprinted after her, had not threatened Joan with shoplifting charges. She therefore had not seen Joan walk back into the store, had not realized Joan had been having a conversation in her head about whether or not she could keep the earrings. The salesperson—Suzannah, her name tag indicated—would not thank Joan for her honesty. And she would not, for all of these reasons, make the sale.
“They are,” said Joan, giving Suzannah a slight smile before turning away. She walked quickly along the corridor of shops and through the casino to her car, telling herself that she was done with all of it—gambling, midday drinking, shoplifting, floundering. In spite of what her husband and the rest of the Howard family would think, she was going to get a job.
JULY
CHAPTER 40
As Joan talked, Ellie got out of her seat and hugged Joan from behind. “I knew you could do this,” Ellie said. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”
“And I am,” said Joan, reaching back with her hands to rest them, momentarily, on Ellie’s arms, “still in shock! I know nothing about teaching. I know nothing about working. I have no idea why they hired me.”
“Because they desperately need instructors?” asked Alice.
“They are definitely desperate,” said Joan.
“No, no,” said Ellie. “Nutmeg Community College enjoys a fine reputation and is not—in any way—desperate. My neighbor’s son and daughter went there, and they both had very good experiences. And, I will add, they are both successfully employed and living independently.”
“When do you start?” asked Alice. “And what is your schedule?”
Joan laughed. “I start now—right after lunch! I’ve ordered the textbook, so I can read it front to back as soon as it comes in. I’ve got to design the course and come up with a syllabus by the end of August.”
Being hired as an adjunct instructor at Nutmeg had happened very quickly. Joan had called the math department and been told that two adjunct positions were available. When Joan told them she didn’t have a teaching degree and that she had no experience, the woman on the other end of the phone, to whom Joan had e-mailed her updated resume, had stated, You’ve got a master’s degree. And that’s all any of us had when we started here. The very next day, Joan had an interview with the head of the department, who told her she was impressed with Joan’s academic record—and with her ideas for structuring a macroeconomics class. If Joan wanted to work full-time, she could teach up to four sections in the fall semester. She could teach two sections if she wanted to work part time, which Joan decided was the better way to start. She would have to submit her syllabus for faculty review, and she would be observed several times over the course of the semester by a member of the department, who would pop in unannounced. When Joan had called Stephen to tell him about the job offer, he told her he was pleased.
She and Stephen had talked about it ahead of time, and he had been very supportive, enthusiastic even, which surprised Joan. He told her he thought it would be beneficial for her to get out of the house and into the working world. A job would help her put the casino behind her, he said. And it would give her a purpose in life, now that both girls were no longer living at home. He told her he would pave the way with his parents, but he was hoping that Joan’s decision to work would create less of a stir than either of them thought. Sandi, his mother, had wanted Joan to stay home to raise the children, Stephen explained. But he thought she would accept Joan’s working outside the home now that the girls were gone.
“No kidding,” said Alice. “And to think that you’ve been saying since last fall that the Howard family would never let you work.”
“I had no idea,” said Joan.
“Maybe it’s just the right timing,” said Ellie. “If you had tried to land this job last summer, when Liz was still at home, there might have been more pushback.”
“Well, there’s that, and the fact that I wasn’t an inveterate gambler last summer,” said Joan. “I think my casino experience turned Stephen’s head in another direction. He told me he would be lost without his job and could certainly understand why I wanted one.”
“Talk about a one-eighty,” said Alice.
Joan gave Alice a tight smile. Criticizing the husband of a friend, Joan thought, was in poor taste. She had not ever openly criticized Alice’s husband, Dave, ev
en though Alice had given her and Ellie ample ammunition. Joan had asked Alice questions about him, perhaps leading questions, but she had never insinuated that he was out of line.
“Hey,” said Ellie. “I have an idea. It’s such a pretty day, let’s drive to the beach and soak up the sun for twenty minutes. I have chairs in the back of my car.”
“I am totally in,” said Alice, reaching for the check. After studying it for a moment she said, “It’s fifteen dollars each.”
* * *
Because they were Southwood residents, they all had beach stickers on their cars. They drove the short distance to the public beach and parked next to one another. The parking lot, full by ten in the morning on the weekends, was almost empty. It was midafternoon, and the high school and college kids had gone home to shower for their summer server and host jobs at the area restaurants, and the young mothers had taken their children home for naps. Ellie really did stay only twenty minutes because she had a three o’clock meeting with a new client. And Joan, anxious to run to Staples for teaching supplies, left the beach right after Ellie. Alice lingered. She had completed her errands that morning, and she had already decided that she would run just before dinner, when it had cooled down. She lay back in the sand chair that she had promised she would drop at Ellie’s house before the weekend and shut her eyes. She had the kind of skin that could take an hour or two of sun without burning, and she was the kind of woman who liked the look of tanned skin, who thought it looked healthy, no matter what the dermatologists said. She had changed her face cream to one that included sun protective agents, which she used as rationale to sit in the sun. She sat up in her chair and pulled her phone out of her pants pocket to text Linda. What r u up 2?
Hanging out with Stella
Want to come to the beach?
Is that where u r?
Yes. Beautiful afternoon
How long will u b there?
Another half hour maybe
No can do. On our way to DQ!
Alice ended the electronic conversation with a smiley emoticon and put her phone back in her pocket. She had just leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes when something cast a shadow on her face. She opened her eyes to find Greg Anderson standing over her. “You want to take those pants off now?”
A half teaspoon of the Italian dressing Alice had on her salad at lunch shot up from her stomach and sat, soured, in the back of her mouth, and her heart, seconds ago at rest, pushed, pushed, pushed against her bra and her T-shirt, a wild animal trying to escape from its cage. She pressed her hands against her belly, confirming what she already knew. Her gun, normally tucked into the wide belt underneath her shirt, was in the glove compartment of her car. She had put it there before lunch, in an effort to avoid one of Joan’s sarcastic comments about the chances of getting accosted at High Tide at one o’clock on a Wednesday. Alice looked to her left and to her right and saw no one for a couple hundred yards. No one who wouldn’t avert his eyes, thinking she and Greg were having indiscreet but consensual sex on the beach.
Hands still gripping the wood arms of the canvas chair, Alice rocketed upward. As soon as she was standing, she launched the chair backwards, away from her body, allowing her to turn and run. She lumbered through the sand, which filled her shoes. Greg Anderson pursued her. “Not this time!” he called to her from four feet away. “You’re going to take those pants all the way off!”
When Alice’s feet hit the cement boardwalk, she was able to quicken her pace. She thrust her fist into the front pocket of her jeans, grabbing for her car keys as she ran. She did not call for help as she bolted past the snack bar; she would do it by herself; she would do it right this time. Alice sprinted into the parking lot that hosted only a half dozen other cars. If she could get to the car with five seconds to spare, she could get in and lock the doors behind her. Thirty yards away, she kicked up her pace to a speed she knew she could not sustain for long. Keys in hand, she used her fob to unlock the driver’s side door, and, gasping, shaking, she yanked it open, launched her body into the car, and pulled the door closed behind her. She clicked the lock, just as Greg Anderson’s body slammed into the door, violently rocking the car. She lunged at the glove compartment, grabbed her gun, and twisted her body to point it at him. Either he didn’t see it, or he didn’t care; he was pounding on the glass, yelling at her to open the door. Alice hit the unlock button on her fob; Greg pulled the door open. He reached for his belt buckle. Screaming, Alice fired.
CHAPTER 41
Ellie was driving home from her meeting with a woman who had recently opened a jewelry store on one of the side streets in town when she heard the text message signal on her phone ding twice. A supporter of the “It Can Wait” campaign against texting while driving, Ellie continued to focus on the road, not on her phone. She did wonder, however, if the text was from Diana. They had started talking again—and had even met at the dog park, twice, for face to face conversation. When Ellie had told her how much their conversation on the phone had hurt her, Diana had been genuinely apologetic. I want to be friends, she had said, during their first walk at the park. And if things progress from there, I will not fight it.
Ellie drove her car into her garage and walked into the kitchen. Before she filled the cappuccino maker with water, she set her accounting notebooks down on the table and rooted through her purse for her phone. The text, to Ellie and Joan, was from Alice.
Come when u can
This was the second message. The first message that read I shot Greg Anderson at the beach had been received twenty-eight minutes earlier, when Ellie was still in her meeting. Ellie had forgotten to check her phone afterward.
“Shit!” said Ellie, running back out to the garage and hurrying into her car. She backed out of the driveway and headed for the beach, hoping Joan had been able to respond immediately, that she might be there already.
The parking lot was still relatively empty, except for the three police cruisers, an ambulance, and a fire department vehicle. There were several people lined up on the edge of the pavement, twenty yards or so from the activity. A young man in shorts and a T-shirt and carrying a Frisbee was talking with an officer. Ellie steered toward the edge of the asphalt, jammed her transmission into park, and rushed out of the car. She ran toward the police cars, calling Alice’s name as she went.
“We’re over here, Ellie.” It was Joan’s voice. She and Alice were sitting in the back of a police cruiser, the engine running, the air conditioning blasting, the rear doors wide open.
Ellie got into the backseat beside Alice and wrapped her arms around her. “Are you okay?” she asked. She pushed back slightly, holding Alice by the shoulders and looking into her red-rimmed eyes. “Alice, tell me you are okay.”
The flow of tears that Joan had been trying to stem with soothing words for a quarter hour instantly regained momentum and purpose, racing down Alice’s cheeks, swollen rivers racing to the sea. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I don’t know if I’m okay.”
“Tell me what happened,” said Ellie.
Alice turned to Joan. “Will you tell her?” she asked quietly. “I’m too tired.”
Joan explained that Greg Anderson had shown up at the beach after she and Ellie had left. And that he had approached Alice and told her, essentially, that he wanted to pick up where they had left off on the running trails. Alice had managed to escape, even though he was blocking her, threatening her. She ran to her car for the gun and before she knew it, she had shot him.
“Is he dead?” asked Ellie, looking at Joan.
Joan shook her head. “No. He’s in that ambulance,” she said, using her right pointer finger to indicate what Ellie had already seen. As all three women looked in that direction, the ambulance started to move. The lights spun, the sound of the siren splitting through the hot silence. Greg Anderson and whoever was attending him were on their way to Southwood Hospital. Officer Marilyn Walsh watched the ambulance leave and then turned her attention to the back of her poli
ce cruiser and the three women inside. They all looked at her when she squatted beside the open door and asked how Alice was doing.
“I’m okay,” Alice said after a brief pause. Ellie, Joan, and Officer Walsh knew she was not; it was a question that needed to be asked. And while Alice’s answer was two seconds late for what would be called an automatic reply, it was what was expected. It was how polite Southwood residents answered when people they met in the community asked how they were doing.
“How is he?” asked Ellie, everyone knowing she was referring to Greg Anderson.
“We’ll know more later,” said Officer Walsh. “He’s lost a lot of blood. But the paramedics think you somehow managed to miss his stomach, liver, colon, and pancreas.”
Alice wiped her cheeks. “I know.”
Officer Walsh removed her cap. “What do you mean?”
“I shot him where I did to stop him, to hurt him,” she said. “I shot him where I did so he would survive.”
“How did you know that?” asked Ellie.
“Because I’ve done my homework,” said Alice. “And I’m a very good shot.” There was nothing boastful about this remark; her tone was neutral, matter of fact.
“Well, you must be,” the officer said. “To shoot that well in a panicked situation is extremely unusual. As you might imagine, we see very few gunshot wounds in Southwood. The two I’ve seen were accidental.” Joan looked at Alice, but didn’t say anything. This was not the time to talk about the topic she and Alice disagreed about the most. “I’m going to need to get a statement from you. Are you feeling up to it? If not, we can talk tomorrow morning.”
Every Other Wednesday Page 23
