by Jody Gehrman
Here’s the truth, Kate: Nobody wants you to know how easy it is to get away with murder. Criminals with half a brain, decent impulse control, and a modicum of organization can accomplish a lot and never get caught. It’s just too hard to connect someone to a crime if he hasn’t left behind any clues.
Yet, you ran to the cops like some damsel in distress. Why, Kate? What I did was justifiable homicide. That guy fucked you, and he didn’t deserve you. Not for a second. He was trolling the clubs, and he was an all-round self-absorbed man-whore, just like your ex, Pablo. I had to save you from that. What I did was right. I did it out of love. Out of honor. Nothing that comes from love can ever be wrong.
I follow your Saab, keeping a car or two between us at all times. You’re tense. I can tell by the way you drive. You jerk the wheel around like you’re a marionette. It takes effort to track you without being seen, but I enjoy the challenge. At one point you run a yellow light, and I fume for a few minutes, glaring at the circle of red, commanding it to turn green. For almost three blocks, I think I’ve lost you. Just as I’m slapping my steering wheel in frustration, I catch a glimpse of sunlight bouncing off your silver car up ahead, a quick flash before you hang a right. I gun it until I’m in your wake, shielded by a black van.
You careen into the parking lot on the north end of Blackwell Park. It’s risky, following you into the smallish lot. I idle on the street for a couple of seconds, willing you not to turn your head in my direction. You get out of your car and slam the door. You’re still pissed. When you’re striding past the swing sets toward the interior of the park, its secret innards, I deem it safe to park.
As I get out of my car, the weather shifts. The sun goes dark behind a cloud. Wind whips bare branches about. They shake off clinging leaves and send them spiraling. Droplets from the recent rain shiver free of foliage. A gust picks up a pile of leaves and swirls them around your boots. You stuff your hands into the pockets of your green coat, lean into the wind, and walk faster.
I take care to keep myself concealed. I doubt you’re ready to see me, and I don’t trust myself around you in this mood, but I want to be near you just the same. Scratch that. I need to be near you. Being anywhere else is too desolate.
You laughed at me. You’re a fucking bitch. I want so much to forgive you.
The pace you set is a punishing one. You slice through the park like a woman on a mission. I can’t imagine where you think you’re going. Maybe you’re trying to walk off your anger. It’s one more sign we’re meant for each other. When you feel the darkness closing in, you crave motion. Same as me. My legs work hard to keep up with you. I like trailing behind you, unseen, working to match your pace. You’re strong. I can imagine your thighs tensing as you power forward, into the wind. Your hair’s whipping around, and your shoulders hunch against the cold.
We leave the playground, where a few harried mothers in down vests chase after wild-eyed toddlers. They’re like tiny savages whipped into a frenzy by the promise in that icy wind. The farther we go into the forest at the heart of the park, the harder it is to conceal my presence. I try to keep my distance. You’re focused ahead anyway, marching with grim determination. At one point, I snap a twig underfoot. You whip around, tense, watching. In the half-second it takes for you to turn, I duck behind a hedge and hold my breath, count to ten. When I peek through the leaves, you’re off again, propelled forward with fresh gusto.
You’re so beautiful, Kate. Even now, when you’ve betrayed me, I love you.
That’s my real crime. Loving you so much I’ll do right by you, defend you, even if it means killing people.
If you understood that, you wouldn’t go running to the cops. You’d believe in me like I believe in you.
I refuse to accept I’m wrong about you.
You veer toward the hillside cemetery. Once we pass through the wrought-iron gates, it’s harder than ever to hide. There are only a few trees and hedges dotted among the graves. I give you a healthy lead, then stay low, dashing from one bush to the next. There are a few majestic oaks that make for good cover. It’s tough, though, and a couple times I think I catch you looking sideways over your shoulder in my direction. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
When you stop near a statue of an angel, I find a decent-sized maple to hide behind. You stand there, staring at her white marble wings. Your head’s turned away from me, but I can almost see you in profile. There’s nobody else around. Rain clouds hover overhead, slate-gray and heavy. The wind is so fierce now the maple I’m clinging to sways, its branches creaking in protest, its leaves whipping off in red gusts.
“I know you’re back there,” you say, without turning around.
I peek around the trunk. You’re still.
“Sam? I know you’re following me.”
My face is hot in spite of the cold.
At last you turn around. “You’re not exactly a ninja.”
There’s nothing I can do except step out into the open and walk over to you.
“You’re good,” you say, peeking at me sideways, “but not that good.”
“What did you say to the cops?” I blurt, my voice too loud and wooden.
You hesitate.
“What did you tell them?” I enunciate carefully; I sound like a bad actor reciting stilted lines.
“About the bottle opener.” Your eyes are sad. You stare at the angel, not looking at me.
“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
You breathe out a cynical laugh. “Yeah? ‘Excuse me, young man, but I see you’ve got the same bottle opener as my murdered ex-boyfriend’—”
“He wasn’t your boyfriend.”
The fear in your eyes makes me want to hit you. Though, of course, that won’t help.
“What do you know about who is and isn’t my boyfriend?” Your voice is even, but I can see the ferocity in your face. You’re magnificent when you’re angry.
“That guy was a piece of shit.”
“Tell me you didn’t hurt him,” you say in a rush.
I shake my head. “It’s not what you think.”
“Tell me,” you repeat, your voice shaking.
A raven caws from the branches of a nearby tree.
“I didn’t hurt him.” He felt no pain.
You watch me for a long moment. The wind ruffles your hair. Your cheeks are pink with cold. “I’m trying to understand what’s happening here.”
None of this was real to you before now. I can see your writer’s mind struggling to strip the veneer of fiction from all this, the habitual instinct to frame everything as a story, not an actual thing happening now, complete with stakes and consequences. I can see the fear competing with confusion in your face. There’s something crucial here you’re missing, though. Just because I killed that piece of shit, that doesn’t make me a threat. I did it to protect you, to make sure you get everything in this world you deserve.
“You don’t have anything to be afraid of, Kate.”
You don’t look convinced. It’s okay, though. Eventually you’ll see. You don’t understand me, but I understand you. For now, that’s enough.
After a while, you turn and walk through the park, with the wind at your back.
KATE
“I don’t know how I got through that conversation,” I tell Zoe. We’re doing laundry at her place, folding an infinite supply of onesies and cloth diapers in the kitchen. I’m too freaked out to go home. Even though Zoe and Bo’s place is claustrophobic, a tiny dollhouse with a guest bed that barely clears the stereo, I welcome the overcrowded warmth of it.
“The kid’s a total psycho,” she breathes, clutching Drew a little tighter. He’s latched to her breast, nursing, and I’m trying to ignore how weird it is to see Zoe, the girl I danced with all night, every night, in Madrid for an entire summer, feeding an infant from her body like she’s been doing it all her life. The absent-minded intimacy of it stabs at my tender places. I wonder if I’ll ever have such a visceral bond with another human being. It�
�s both repulsive and hypnotic. Every now and then he opens his eyes and gazes up at her adoringly. Who will ever look at me with such pure love?
I fold a pair of Bo’s boxers, trying to ignore the weirdness of this as well. “Detective Schroeder didn’t take me seriously. I probably sound like a paranoid, overwrought teacher who’s been working with these monsters so long I figure they’re all out to get me.”
“That’s terrible!” She’s incredulous. “You’ve got to make them do something.”
“What, though?”
“I don’t know. Search his place? Detect? Aren’t they supposed to be professionals?” When Zoe gets worked up, twin spots of color appear on her cheeks, like one of the little girl’s in her illustrations.
“Even if they found something—”
“God!” she cries, surprising me with her vehemence. “It makes me so furious thinking of you at that college, so vulnerable, exposed, with this crazy kid stalking you, and they won’t do a goddamn thing until he comes after you.”
“Innocent until proven guilty.” My tone’s resigned, but secretly, I love her indignation. After Detective Schroeder’s nonchalance, it’s just what the doctor ordered.
“Stay here tonight.” She tucks a blue baby blanket around Drew that looks soft as a cloud. “I refuse to let you out of my sight.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It is, though.” She shudders. “I hate that he knows where you live.”
For a long moment, I fold laundry in silence. The kettle whistles, and she gestures with Drew. “You mind holding him a sec?”
As I take him from her, she cradles his head, protecting his spindly neck. I don’t know who’s more worried I’ll drop him, her or me. By the time he’s settled in my arms, the kettle’s wailing, and his eyes fly open. She crosses the kitchen to make us a pot of tea.
I run one fingertip along his forehead, his cheek. His skin’s impossibly soft. Chubby legs poke out from his striped onesie, rolls of fat bent at frog-like angles. He blinks up at me with grumpy curiosity. I’m sure he’ll open his mouth and wail when he sees I’m not his mom. To my surprise, he snuggles closer and lets out a milky sigh.
My heart floods with a muddy sludge of hunger, relief, regret.
When she returns with steaming cups, I hand Drew back. The warmth and weight of him gone, I wrap my hands around my mug, greedy for its warmth. I still feel cold, even though she’s got the heat cranked. The chill of that walk through the park, the conversation with Sam, won’t leave me. A rime of frost has settled over my bones.
She takes a tentative sip of tea. After a moment, she speaks. “You’re attracted to him, though, right?”
“Attracted, yes.” I think about it. “But also repulsed.”
“Explain,” she says in that simple, cut-the-shit way that makes her the best friend I’ve ever had.
I blow on my tea, watching the steam skitter away. “He sees me. It’s hard to explain. Do you ever feel invisible?”
“Of course.”
“It’s like, after thirty, every day I blend in a little more, become a little more khaki, less golden,” I say.
She barks out a bitter laugh. “Try being pregnant. I mean, people see you, you’re a whale, they have to notice you, but sexually? Might as well be wallpaper. It’s so weird.”
“Right. Because you’re no longer a realistic sexual conquest.”
“Yes.” She lets her head drop back in despair. “It’s so demoralizing.”
“So imagine, all of a sudden, waking up and finding yourself in somebody’s spotlight.”
She watches me, intrigued. Her hands rearrange Drew with expert nonchalance. “Go on.”
“Everything you do is fascinating. Everything you say is profound. Every move you make gets recorded and considered.” I take a sip of tea. “It’s intoxicating. I’m drunk on it.”
She looks wistful. “That sounds intense.”
“So intense!” I almost knock over a tower of onesies. “I haven’t felt anything like it for years.”
Her brows pull together in worry. “Tell me you’re not in love with him, though.”
“No.” It comes out defensive, though, and we both notice. Before her expression can get more doubtful, I hurry to explain. “I’d have sex with him in a heartbeat if I thought it might not ruin my life. Even running away with him holds a thread of appeal. Living in a renovated barn and writing all day. It’s like love, in some ways, but—”
“Oh, no,” she groans. “No, no, no!”
“Of course I don’t love him. Are you crazy? He killed Raul.”
She tilts her head. “You really believe that?”
“Yes.” I drink more tea, trying to find the right words. “When I asked him about it at the cemetery today, I saw something in his face. Usually he’s so guarded and careful, but for two seconds I saw something dangerous.”
Her eyes are hard to read.
“What?” I tackle a pile of cloth diapers, suddenly eager for something to do with my hands. “What’s that look?”
She glances down at Drew. “I wasn’t totally honest with you about Raul.”
“No?” I watch her carefully, my hands still folding. “How do you mean?”
“I mean I—” She breaks off, opens her mouth to start again, but nothing comes out.
Something in me recoils, but I know I have to get it out of her. “Zoe? What is it? You can tell me.”
“I had a crush on him!” she blurts.
“Well, I figured,” I say, relieved it’s something so benign.
“And I slept with him,” she whispers, glancing furtively at the door.
“You slept with Raul?” I hiss, leaning closer.
She nods, chewing her lip.
I sit there, stunned. I’ve no idea how to feel about this. “Why didn’t you say?”
“We were trying to get past it.”
“By fobbing him off on me?” It sounds sharper than it did in my head.
She looks miserable. “You’ve got every right to be mad.”
“I don’t think I’m mad,” I say slowly, meaning it, “just irritated you didn’t tell me.”
Her shoulders droop. Drew squirms in her arms, cries out. She jumps at the chance to get out of the conversation. Her arms sway as she carries him over to the Cuddle Cove I bought for her shower. She deposits him gently, coos to him in a cutesy voice I don’t recall ever hearing from her before Drew.
I’m still reeling from her awkward announcement. If she was into Raul, why push him onto me? It doesn’t make sense. Except, of course, she’s married with a newborn, and not exactly free to pursue him. I can’t help feeling a little used. It’s like I’ve been thrown into the game as a last-ditch pinch hitter, and nobody bothered to tell me.
Based on the intel Detective Schroeder let slip about Raul’s love life, Zoe and I were two among many. Adding Zoe to that crowded roster makes it even dirtier, more sordid. I kind of want to end the conversation, make an excuse to leave, but I go on folding. There are still too many questions that need asking.
She comes back to the kitchen table, her eyes wary.
“I’m not mad.” I try to look reassuring. “I just want to understand.”
“I know I should have told you. It seemed selfish, though. I really thought you’d fall for each other. I didn’t want our stupid one-night stand to get in the way of that.”
I slide a stack of diapers into the basket and start another. “So you kept it from me to make sure it didn’t interfere with my opinion of him?”
“Exactly.” She won’t meet my eyes as she grabs a onesie. “I feel like a real shit though, now. Especially after…” She stops.
“His death?” I finish.
She tosses the onesie onto the table and clutches her head. The sobs that wrack her shoulders catch me off guard. I hurry over to her and wrap my arms around her.
“Hey,” I soothe, “it’ll be okay.”
“He’s dead,” she whimpers. “I still can’t believe it.
”
I make her meet my eye. “Were you in love with him?”
She won’t answer. It’s answer enough.
“But you pushed me at him,” I say. “That must have been horrible.”
“It was. But I had Drew to think of.” She glances at Drew, her eyes frightened. I notice she doesn’t mention Bo.
I try to understand. I really do. It’s just so foreign to me. I prefer to amputate my exes from my life, especially if I still have feelings for them. When Pablo and I broke up, I wanted to get as far away from him as I could. I would have moved across the country if it weren’t for my job and Zoe. The last thing I would have wanted was to draw him into my social circle by fixing him up with my best friend. Then again, whatever she felt for Raul was probably nothing like what I felt for Pablo. We were married almost ten years. Zoe and Raul shared one night, from the sounds of it. He wasn’t her ex; he was her secret lover. I’ve never had one of those, unless you count Sam.
“I don’t really get it,” I admit. “To be honest, though, my life’s such a train wreck, I don’t have the energy to make it a big deal.”
“I’m still committed to Bo,” she whispers.
“Of course.” Again, it’s “committed,” not “in love with,” but this is the unspoken truth about her marriage. She hit her mid-thirties and caught baby fever. Bo was there, he wanted a family, she’s making it work. She made her choices. I don’t feel the need to judge her.
“Are you mad? You can say if you are,” she adds.
“No.” I shake my head. “Really.”
She looks out the window, remembering. “That thing you said. About feeling invisible? And then finding yourself in someone’s spotlight?”
I nod.
“That’s it. You think you’ve disappeared, and then someone comes along and says, ‘I see you. I want you.’”
“Yes,” I whisper, glad she understands.
“It’s crack,” she says, smiling. “Pure fucking crack.”
