Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “My sister,” he said. “That’s Joan.”

  She stared at him, confused.

  “Your husband’s former wife.”

  Dinah studied the photo—square, with a white border. The woman was dark, with the bouffant hairdo of twenty years ago. She sat next to a swimming pool in a colorful caftan, her shapely legs crossed at the knees.

  “My name is Ben Cohen,” he said. “I live across the river, in Bethesda. I haven’t seen your husband in years, but I’ve always wondered what happened to him. When I saw all this business in the newspaper, I had to get in touch with you.”

  Dinah handed him his glasses. “You knew Ken?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s a hard guy to know.”

  You’re telling me, she thought.

  “He and Joan were only married for a few years. I met him two, three times.” Cohen put on the glasses. “The first time was at my father’s house in Florida. My father died that year, and my sister was staying in his house.

  “I flew down from New York to see her at Christmas, and there she was, living in my father’s house with this guy she’d just met. I was shocked. It was 1969. You didn’t see many unmarried couples living together in those days, and Joan—she wasn’t that kind of person. You’re probably not old enough to remember how it was, but that’s how it was.”

  Dinah nodded, calculating. In 1969 she was fourteen years old, living in Richmond, still baby-sitting for Ken’s children. He had run away with Moira Snell that spring. Yet by Christmas he’d already moved in with Joan.

  “It was bizarre.” Cohen leaned forward in his chair. “I could see she was crazy about this guy, but he wasn’t her usual type. She was very sophisticated; she had traveled all over the world—London, Paris, you name it. I was used to her dating lawyers, Wall Street guys. But this one had long hair and a beard. A hippie.” He sat back in his chair. “That was the first time I met your husband.”

  Dinah blinked. For no reason she thought of Ken shaving, the meticulous way he went over his long face, how he never missed a hair. Ken with a beard seemed impossible.

  “Mrs. Kimble?” said Cohen. “Are you with me?”

  Dinah hugged her sweater around her; she was suddenly freezing. “Yes. Please go on.”

  “Well. I went back to New York, and a few months later I got a wedding invitation in the mail. In the mail! Her own brother, and she couldn’t even call and tell me herself.”

  “How strange,” said Dinah.

  “It was,” Cohen agreed. “But what could I do? She was my sister. So I got on a plane and flew down there for the wedding.”

  The wedding: Ken’s second. It was a strange thought. Dinah had never told anyone she was Ken’s third wife; even her own parents didn’t know. There was no reason they should, she’d rationalized; but the truth was more complicated. She and Ken had promised each other their lives; that he’d already made this vow to two other women cast doubt on its seriousness. Her parents, had they known, would have questioned the worth of her marriage. On some level she’d felt the same way.

  “Well.” Cohen rubbed his hands together. “I show up at the wedding, I take one look at the groom and I can’t believe it. He’s a changed man. He’s shaved off the beard, he’s working for my uncle Floyd selling real estate, and guess what? He’s a Jew!”

  “What?” said Dinah.

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said. “He used to be a minister, for God’s sake. A college chaplain. He worked with my father.”

  Cohen burst into laughter.

  “A minister! I knew the guy was a fraud, but I had no idea.” He shook his head. “That’s some chutzpah.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Dinah. “Why would he pretend to be Jewish?”

  Cohen chuckled. “You’d have to know my uncle Floyd. He was a tough customer. Never finished the eighth grade, and he died a millionaire. He had two rules in life: pinch a penny until it screams, and never do business outside the tribe.” He adjusted his glasses. “Your husband’s a smart guy. I’m sure he picked up on that right away. It worked, too. Uncle Floyd loved him like a son.”

  “That’s incredible,” said Dinah.

  “No kidding! He looked about as Jewish as you do. I don’t know how he pulled it off. Anyway,” he continued. “The wedding. The guy fakes his way through the ceremony, and afterward I find out Uncle Floyd has handed him the keys to the kingdom. The guy’s selling real estate, which makes sense—he’s a born salesman. And he and Joan are living in my dad’s house, this ridiculous Gone With the Wind mansion. Unbelievable.” He broke off.

  “At least that’s how I felt at the time. I was living in New York then, working at a homeless shelter, what they used to call a soup kitchen; handing out overcoats to homeless people, which they used to call bums.” He smiled. “I was disgusted by my father’s money, like any good hippie would be.”

  He clapped his hands, as if a genie would appear.

  “But not this one! Here’s this old beatnik my sister dug up God knows where, wearing a suit, spending my father’s money. My father who worked himself to death so he’d have something to leave his kids.” He stopped for a breath. “As you can see, it bothered me. I didn’t want the money myself. But I didn’t want this guy to have it either.”

  Dinah nodded. Suddenly it was something she could picture, Ken in Florida selling real estate, wearing a suit, living with Joan in a Gone With the Wind house. A picture of her husband emerged like a fresh Polaroid, an image appearing from swirls of gray.

  “Then what happened?” she asked.

  Cohen shrugged. “Who knows? For three, four years I barely heard from her. Birthday cards, holidays. Finally she does call me and tells me she’s dying.”

  He removed his glasses. Without them his dark eyes were delicate as a bird’s.

  “She had cancer,” Dinah said softly.

  “Breast cancer. For the second time.” Cohen’s eyes brushed hers. “She never told anybody about the first time. Apparently it was why she left New York in the first place. She had the mastectomy all by herself and just left. None of us had any idea. Except your husband, I suppose. He was the only one who knew.”

  He replaced his glasses.

  “I can’t blame him for what happened to Joan. My mother had breast cancer too; I guess it’s in the genes. But the guy took advantage of her. They spent, what, four years together? Five? And he walked away with millions.”

  “That much?” said Dinah, reddening. “I knew she’d left him some money, but I had no idea.”

  “It wasn’t just hers. Apparently he talked my uncle into making him a partner in the business. When Floyd died, your husband got everything.” Cohen chuckled. “Floyd’s kids weren’t too happy about it, I can tell you that. My cousin Ruth even hired a lawyer. I guess nothing ever came of it, though. Your husband knew he was in hot water. After Joan died he skipped town pretty fast.”

  Dinah looked down at the engagement ring on her left hand, the four-carat diamond Ken had given her.

  “He was an opportunist,” said Cohen. “Joan never saw it. She was in love with him.”

  Dinah examined the photograph in her hand. “When was this taken?”

  “Right after they were married. The spring of 1970. Joan was thirty-nine.”

  “My age,” she said softly, studying the woman’s broad face, her lively dark eyes. “Who took this?”

  “I imagine it was your husband.”

  She handed back the photo. “Ken never talked about the past. I knew his wife had died, but that’s all. I never even knew her last name.”

  Cohen nodded. “That’s why I came. I thought all this might interest you. I don’t think Joan knew much about him either. She said that he’d been married before. I believe there was a child.”

  “Two,” said Dinah. “He had two.”

  Cohen sighed. “I think Joan wanted kids of her own. She just ran out of time.” He replaced the photo in his wallet. “Do you have child
ren?”

  “We have a son.” She thought of Brendan, glad he was away at Sean Guthrie’s. Lately he’d refused to talk about his father; he got angry when she mentioned Ken’s name.

  “Pardon me for asking,” said Cohen, “but what’s going to happen to your husband?”

  “That depends,” said Dinah. “HUD is still investigating his business dealings. As for the fire at the Watkins house—” She paused. “They could charge him with negligence, involuntary manslaughter. He could go to jail. Of course, they’ll have to find him first.”

  Cohen’s eyebrows shot up. “The owner of that house must have an attorney by now. She could sue you for everything you’ve got.”

  “I don’t blame her,” said Dinah.

  He looked around the room: the paintings on the walls, the grand piano Ken had bought but never played. “Quite a crib you’ve got here,” he observed. “It’s no Tara, but it’s not bad.”

  Dinah laughed.

  “They’ll find him.” Cohen rose to go. “With this kind of money at stake, someone will find him. He’ll have nowhere left to hide.”

  Brendan sat in the Jeep’s cramped backseat, though he was bigger than the other boys and barely had room for his legs. Sean Guthrie drove. Next to him sat a friend from his old school, a boy he’d introduced only as Fog.

  Brendan had heard all about this Fog, how he and Sean used to get high every morning before school, how they hid inside the school one night and discharged all the fire extinguishers into the faculty lounge. How, after they were expelled, they hid strips of raw bacon in the library’s heating ducts, causing a mysterious stench to waft through the corridors as the bacon slowly rotted. Hearing these stories gave Brendan a strange feeling, as though Sean had become boring and he, Brendan, was to blame. He and Sean had never done anything more adventurous than smoke cigarettes in the woods or steal beers from the Guthries’ refrigerator. For Brendan this was excitement enough. No way was he brave enough to do the things Sean and Fog had done. His mom would have a fit.

  “Hey,” said Fog as they backed out of Brendan’s driveway. “Your mom is hot.”

  “Wicked hot,” said Sean.

  Brendan said nothing. He reminded himself that Fog would be gone in two days. Fog’s parents had sent him to military school in South Carolina; he was home on Christmas break.

  On the way to Sean’s house, they stopped at a grocery store. “Be right back,” said Fog. He returned with a case of beer and a carton of Marlboros.

  “How’d you do that?” said Brendan. They were all underage.

  Fog reached into his pocket and showed Brendan a Florida driver’s license. Right away Brendan’s stomach felt queasy, like every time he thought of his father.

  “ ‘Richard Berens,’ ” Brendan read. “Is that your real name? Richard?”

  “No, idiot,” said Fog. Sean stifled a laugh. “You don’t put your real name on a fake ID.”

  “I know that,” Brendan lied.

  When they arrived at Sean’s house, the windows were dark.

  “Where are your parents?” said Brendan. His mom had asked if the Guthries would be home; he’d promised they would. He hadn’t lied on purpose; then again, he hadn’t made any effort to find out one way or the other.

  “Some party downtown.” Sean parked in the driveway. “They’re staying in a hotel tonight. My dad can’t afford another DUI.” Mr. Guthrie was a big cheese at the State Department; his drunk-driving arrest had made the papers. At the time Brendan couldn’t imagine how it would feel, knowing your father had spent a night in jail. Now nothing surprised him.

  They went inside and put the beers in the refrigerator. “Here,” said Sean, handing them each one. In Sean’s room they fired up cigarettes. The Guthries didn’t care if Sean smoked, as long as he didn’t stink up the rest of the house.

  “Check this out,” said Fog, reaching into his pocket. He tossed a plastic bag onto the floor. “I brought it up special from redneck country.”

  Sean picked up the bag to examine it. “Holy shit. This is, like, half an ounce.”

  Brendan felt sick. Sean had told him there would be no weed. Fog was drug-tested at military school; if he failed again, they’d kick him out.

  “What about your drug test?” said Brendan.

  Fog smiled, showing all his teeth. “After Thanksgiving I came up clean as a whistle. They never test the same guy twice in a row.”

  Sean reached into a desk drawer for his rolling papers; Brendan cranked up Sean’s new CD player—a Christmas gift from his parents, his reward for getting through another semester at Godfrey.

  Fog took the joint from Sean’s hand. “Me first. Finder’s fee.”

  He lit the joint and took a long drag, closing his eyes. Brendan studied his face: round and pale, his flabby lips glistening with saliva. He decided Fog wasn’t doing himself any favor with that crew cut. A face that ugly needed some hair.

  “They make you cut your hair that way?” Brendan asked.

  Fog exhaled. “What do you think? I do it because I like it?” He passed the joint to Sean.

  “Chill out, man,” said Sean. “Hang on to that spliff. Have another hit.”

  Brendan watched them pass the joint. By the time it got around to him, they’d have smoked it down to nothing, which was fine with him. He’d smoked marijuana twice before with Sean. Both times he’d gotten a wicked headache.

  Sean went downstairs for more beers. Fog sucked deeply on the joint, then handed it to Brendan. He ran a hand across his head.

  “Bullshit Nazi haircut,” he said. “I fucking hate it.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Brendan lied. He took the joint. It was very moist, slobbery from Fog’s lips. Disgusting, but he took a hit anyway.

  “What’s it like down there?” he asked. “Military school. They make you march and shit?”

  “Hell yes they make you march.” Fog accepted a beer from Sean, who’d returned with an armload. “They make you call them sir. They practically tell you when you can piss.”

  “Sounds like jail,” said Sean.

  Brendan nodded, thinking of his father.

  “Hey,” said Sean, reading his mind. “Tell Fog about your dad.”

  Brendan flushed.

  “Come on,” said Sean.

  “What?” said Fog.

  “It’s no big deal.” Brendan felt a strange gnawing in his stomach. The pot, he supposed.

  “If you’re not going to tell him, I will.” Sean cracked open a beer. “Brendan’s dad is a fugitive. He’s wanted by the FBI.”

  “What did he do?” said Fog.

  “Real estate scam,” said Sean. “Screwed the government out of, like, millions.”

  “No shit.” Fog stared at Brendan. “That’s fucking cool.”

  Brendan stared into his beer, wishing he could be anywhere else.

  BY TEN O’CLOCK the beers were dwindling. Brendan had stopped at two; the pot was doing strange things to his stomach. Sean and Fog had plowed through a whole case; they’d gotten progressively louder and stupider. Sober, Brendan could barely stand them.

  “Hey,” said Fog, reaching into his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He took out a tiny package wrapped in tinfoil, no bigger than a quarter.

  “No way,” said Sean.

  “Way.” Fog got up and disappeared into Sean’s bathroom. After much clunking and scraping, he came back with a round mirror, the kind for shaving in the shower.

  “What are you doing?” said Brendan.

  “Watch and learn.” Fog unfolded the foil package and emptied it onto the mirror, a small pile of white powder.

  “Cocaine?” said Brendan.

  “Bogota’s finest.” Fog reached for his wallet and took out the Florida driver’s license. He used the plastic card to cut the powder into three lines. Brendan remembered what his mother had told him about cocaine: you could have a heart attack and die. She’d known somebody who had, a guy she’d worked with at a restaurant a long time ago. He thought of his father
lying in the hospital bed, the monitors attached to his heart. That’s all I need, he thought. To end up like him.

  He got to his feet.

  “What’s the matter?” said Sean.

  “I have to go,” said Brendan.

  THE NIGHT SKY was clear; a few stray snowflakes glimmered under the street lamps. Brendan breathed deeply. He’d burned through an entire pack of cigarettes, more than he’d ever smoked in one night. His throat was raw, his nose felt stuffed with a wool sock; but the air was sharp and clean against his face. He felt better than he had in weeks.

  “Where are you going?” Sean had demanded when he got up to leave.

  “Home,” said Brendan.

  “What?” said Fog, rubbing his nose. His eyes were very bright; he seemed to have sobered up immediately. “You have a curfew?”

  “Yeah,” said Brendan, though it wasn’t true; he had permission to stay at Sean’s overnight.

  “Your mom won’t care.” Fog leered. “I’ll bet she’s out ringing in the new year.”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Brendan.

  Now he shoved his hands into his pockets, glad, for once, that his mom had made him wear gloves. He’d chipped in for the beer and cigarettes; now he had just a dollar in his wallet—not enough for a taxi, even if he’d thought to call one. His house was miles away, but he didn’t care. If he had to, he’d walk all night.

  Headlights behind him, the hum of an engine. Brendan turned. It was Sean’s Jeep.

  “Hey,” Sean yelled out the window. “You can’t walk home. It’s freezing out.”

  “I’m fine,” said Brendan.

  Sean opened the passenger door. “Get in. I’ll take you.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Brendan. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

  “Come back to the house then.”

  Brendan turned and kept walking. The Jeep followed slowly behind him. At the stop sign Sean slammed on the brakes; the Jeep slid on the ice. This is nuts, Brendan thought. He’s plastered. He’s going to run me over.

  He stopped and turned. “All right,” he called out. “But I’m driving.”

  Sean slid over into the passenger seat; Brendan took the wheel. Fear gripped his stomach. He’d only driven twice, both times during the day, with his mom, on quiet country roads. Driving Sean’s Jeep was something else.