by Joshua Corin
In the ten minutes it took Rafe to go from naked to James Bond, Esme had put on an earring. It was a pearl earring, one of a set that he’d given her one anniversary. It felt heavy on her lobe, as if the clam were still attached. Everything felt heavy tonight, lugubrious. She knew it was mental. She was mental. She spent another ten minutes forcing the other pearl earring into her other earlobe.
She was wearing a red evening gown. It made her cheeks look rosy, her breasts look full and her waist look slim. It was a 3:00 a.m. infomercial made out of satin and silk. It was Rafe’s favorite outfit of hers. He had specifically requested she wear it.
It was backless.
She wasn’t wearing her bandage. She hadn’t worn it all day. She couldn’t turn around to look at herself in the mirror because the very act of swiveling her head roused the spike-fisted pain from its dormancy. She had to assume she looked okay. She had to assume there wasn’t a giant scar, like a tongue, where the wood had pierced her, where her kidney used to be, where the surgeon had sliced her open. She had to assume a lot, if she wanted to muster the courage to leave her bathroom and join her husband downstairs…
Where Sophie was drawing a picture of her dad, all dressed up, on half a sheet of construction paper. She was using colored pencils. Colored pencils were more grown-up, and this was to be a grown-up picture. This was one for the refrigerator. The other half of the paper was reserved for her mom. She was taking a long time.
Finally, she appeared! She looked nervous. She looked beautiful. Her lipstick matched her dress. Sophie tried to duplicate the color with her pencils, but it just wasn’t the same, it just wasn’t as lively. Oh, well.
Rafe held out his arm. It was time for them to go. Lester ambled out of his bedroom and wished them a good time. He already had a deck of cards in his hand. He and Sophie were destined for a marathon of gin rummy. Sophie walked up to the window and watched the car pull out of the driveway, angle onto the road, and drive off, Princess Cinderella and Prince Charming away to the ball.
Since a particularly trenchant winter had done a number on their lawn, the Liebs had an acre of fresh sod imported and implanted days prior to the event. The result was a success. By the time guests began to arrive, their backyard was a verdant wonderland, something out of The Great Gatsby. It stretched over six hundred feet from the house’s rear patio to a long jagged cliff that overlooked the north shore. A tan fence lined the cliff to deter wayward children from falling to the eroded rocks and the lapping sea. Each of the fence’s twenty posts had been carved by a local woodworker to resemble one of the Liebs’ dear departed ancestors. Amy was fond of telling her children that someday they’d be a post on the fence.
The media arrived at 6:30 and promptly trampled the backyard to the root. They weren’t allowed in the house, so they spent the party here, chowing down on the hot dogs and hamburgers the Liebs had been thoughtful enough to provide for them. But each and every one wished they were inside. That was where the action was. Someone in that house was the man—or woman—that Bob Kellerman was going to announce to be his running mate. Errant speculation bounced from conversation to conversation. Could it be the mayor of New York? They knew he was here in attendance. Every local Democratic politician was here in attendance and some of the Republicans, too. Their nominee, the vice president, was polling in the low thirties. The party had begged the old man not to run. The nation saw him as doddering and patrician. But primary season hadn’t awakened any sleeping giants to stomp him down, and so the vice president, unfortunately, was their man in November. And so the governor of New Jersey, a lifelong member of the Grand Old Party, was here, at a Democratic fundraiser, all to cozy up to the presumptive future president of the United States: Bob Kellerman.
“What do you suppose he’s like?” asked Rafe.
Esme shrugged her shoulders, stared out the window of their car. They had been sitting in their Prius for an hour now and were twenty-fifth in line for the valet parking up the Mississippi River of a driveway.
“George Washington had bad breath.”
Esme glanced at her husband. “What?”
“It was from his dentures. Legend has it that when he was giving the oath of office, the chief justice at the time, John Jay, held his breath for fear of smelling Washington’s odor and passing out right there in front of all the dignitaries. That would have been an inauspicious way to start a country, huh?”
Esme smiled at Rafe. He was trying to cheer her up. He knew how nervous she was. She slid her hand along his. Their wedding rings touched.
“Although I don’t think Bob Kellerman has wooden teeth,” Rafe added.
“Maybe he has a wooden leg.”
“Now why do you suppose it is we always associate wooden legs with pirates?”
They moved up in the line. They were now twenty-four cars away from the party.
“This reminds me of the junior prom,” said Rafe. “Did I ever tell you about that?”
“I don’t know.” He had. She wanted to hear the story again. “What happened?”
“It was at this old hotel in downtown. I went with this girl named Carly McGuiness. We went as friends, because the girl I wanted to ask, Hannah Draper, was already taken.”
“Poor baby.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Only twenty-three cars now. “Anyway, so I got all dressed up. It was the first time I ever wore a tuxedo. I was so nervous I had to get my mom to help me put in the cufflinks. My palms were like a dog’s tongue.”
“Ew.”
“Sorry, but they were! Man, I looked like such a dork.”
“I’ve seen the photo album.”
“Ugh. I forgot.”
“How convenient.”
“Anyway, I borrowed the truck and drove out to pick Carly up. When she came to the door…this was not a girl I had ever thought twice about—I mean, we were friends—but when she came to the door in that dress…”
“Let me guess. It was a red dress like the one I’m wearing.”
“You know what, Esme? I think you just saved me a year’s worth of therapy.”
She raspberried him. They were inching closer to the house.
“So after I picked my jaw up off the floor and Carly and I posed for our requisite photographs, we piled back into the truck and headed to the old hotel downtown for the prom. A lot of our friends were sharing a limo but Dad had refused to let me do that because he felt limousines to be juvenile.”
“Oh, yeah. Conspicuous consumption is so elementary school.”
Rafe snickered. “My dad is my dad.”
“Yes, he is.”
“It is nice of him to come here, Esme, and take care of Sophie and all that.”
Esme had other opinions, but she let it slide. There was no need to spoil this moment with something as jejune as the truth. And besides, they were ten cars away now from the end.
“We pulled up to the front of the hotel and it was a lot like this. A whole row of cars. So we had to wait. Me in the driver’s seat, my sweaty palms making a mess of the steering wheel, and Carly to my right, fiddling with the radio. It was May and it was hot and she insisted we keep the windows open. I thought I was going to perspire through my brand-new tux. I really did. But there was a breeze, at least, so I could smell Carly’s perfume, and that helped.”
“What did she smell like?”
“Apples.”
The three-story house was coming into view. Immaculate men and women emerged from their hybrids and their Hummers and strolled up the short brick path to the front portico. Thousands of tiny white lights snaked around the marble columns. It was Christmas in April. Esme rubbed her moist palms on the car seat. She thought of dog’s tongues.
“Go on,” she said to her husband.
“Okay, so, finally we pull up to the valet. Now I’m sixteen, and I don’t know a valet from a hole in the ground but I’m a bright guy, so I quickly figure out the situation. However, I’m also a gentleman, and this is the junior prom, and Carly McGuiness is smelling
like apples, so the valet comes over to my door and says hello and I hand him the keys and I open the door to get out and I walk in front of the truck to go open Carly’s door but the truck is still moving—”
“It’s still moving?”
“It’s rolling forward. Not fast, but enough to be noticeable when it bumps me in the ass.”
Esme knew the story, so she also knew her cue: “Oh God, Rafe, did you not shift the truck into Park?”
She laughed and he laughed and they pulled up another car length toward the Liebs. They were fourth in line now. Overhead the moon-sliver glowed like cat’s eye.
“Well, anyway, so, like a doofus I pretended I’d planned the whole thing and I walked over to Carly’s door and said, ‘The boat’s still moving. Would you like me to carry you across the threshold, madam?’”
“Oh, you didn’t.”
Rafe put up his hand in an oath. “I swear. Fortunately, we were friends, so, after grinding the gearshift into Park, she poked me in the ribs and let herself out of the truck. The valet stared at me like I was from Mars. And that was just the start of the evening.”
“Did you get laid, stud?” asked Esme. That part of the story Rafe had never shared, nor had she ever asked. But she was curious. And right now her husband was so adorable she could have eaten him up with a fork and spoon.
“No.” Rafe’s smile faltered a bit. “Just as I had set my sights on Hannah Draper, Carly had her sights set on Dale Dougherty. The only part of Carly that went to bed with me that night was whatever apple perfume had rubbed off on my cheek.”
Esme caressed the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.” And she was. She made a mental note to buy some apple-scented perfume next time she was at the mall. Someone had a fantasy that needed to be exorcised.
“Good evening,” said the valet, “and welcome.”
There were three valets working tonight. They were professional valets. Esme hadn’t realized such a profession still existed, but they did, and she had helped Amy book them for the fundraiser. They wore matching black-and-gold uniforms that were so starch-stiff they might as well have been made of plastic.
Esme tapped Rafe’s hand and pointed at the gearshift.
“Don’t forget,” she teased.
“Har-har-har.” He clicked off the Prius’s ignition, grandly (for her benefit) shifted into Park, and handed the keys to the valet. Then he climbed out of the vehicle and before Esme could reach for the handle, he was at her door.
“Would you like me to carry you across the threshold, madam?”
She replied with a wink. “Later.”
“Ooh.”
She stepped out of the car and joined her husband on the brick walkway. Rafe unsheathed the invitation from his pocket. Without it, they wouldn’t be getting in. In fact, some gate-crasher appeared to be creating some commotion ahead of them at the front door. A small crowd of rubberneckers had formed, blocking Esme’s view of the action. Suddenly, a cell phone went flying through the crowd and crash-landed right at her feet. The crowd parted for the gate-crasher, as he went to retrieve his broken phone. He stopped, though, mid-reach, and matched stares with her.
“Hello, Esmeralda,” Tom said.
23
Tom fucking Piper.
The very sight of the man, here, in his hometown, made Rafe want to spit fire. His groin still recalled (with soreness) their last encounter, back in Amarillo, and now he was here, not five feet away, still wearing that dingy black leather jacket—which he probably slept in. As a sociologist, Rafe understood “motorcycle culture.” He didn’t appreciate it, but he understood it. Folks still wanted to be cowboys, but the prairies had all been paved so instead of palominos they had Harleys. It was the fantasy of a child made real by the bank account of an adult. How could Esme ever have admired this fool?
And what the hell was he doing in Long Island?
“What the hell are you doing in Long Island?” he asked.
“Hello, Rafe.”
Tom pocketed his ruined phone and held out his hand.
Rafe stared at it.
Tom turned to Esme. “I called you.”
Rafe turned to Esme. He called her?
“And when I didn’t call you back any of the sixteen thousand times,” replied Esme, “did you think maybe I was trying to say something?”
“How could I know what you were trying to say if you didn’t call me back?”
“We had this conversation. I told you how I felt. I told you what my priorities were.”
“Believe it or not, the reason I’m here is the same reason everyone else is here. I need to speak with the governor.”
“If you need to speak with the governor, why don’t you try calling him sixteen thousand times? It’s your effective M.O.!”
Esme glared at Tom. Tom glared at Esme. Rafe looked around and saw that everyone else on the front lawn—colleagues, neighbors, executives—was ogling the three of them as if they were a zoo exhibit.
Tom must have noticed them too, because he leaned in to Esme’s ear. “Please, dear,” he whispered, “let’s not bicker in front of the snobs.”
He led her to the less populated east lawn. Rafe was torn between wanting to explain the situation to his friends and wanting to follow his wife and her ex-boss. He followed his wife and ex-boss, all the while squeezing the elegant invitation tighter and tighter in his right hand. By the time he reached them, standing in the shadow of the manse, they had already recommenced:
“—don’t care if I’m disappointing you, Tom—”
“I never said you were disappointing me. When something’s obvious, it doesn’t need to be said.”
“You have no right to be judgmental. I nearly died for you!”
“See, and here I thought it was for your country. I like your dress, by the way. I think it costs more than my house.”
“How badly do you want to get into the party?” asked Rafe.
Esme and Tom both glanced at him.
So Rafe continued:
“You said you need to speak with Governor Kellerman. Well, he’s inside that house. Esme and I can get into that house. We’re on the list. We might even be able to get you in the house. How badly do you want us to help you?”
“Lives are in danger,” replied Tom.
“Lives are always in danger. When that bouncer threw your cell phone, it could’ve cracked someone in the skull, given them an aneurysm, and killed them. You’d think the Secret Service would be more hospitable to a distinguished member of the FBI, or was it personal?”
Tom shook his head in disgust. “They’re not Secret Service. Are you kidding? The Kellerman campaign turned down the Treasury Department’s offer of protection. They don’t trust anyone from Washington. They think we’re all in the pocket of the vice president. That’s why they’ve been impeding our investigation. And the higher-ups are too concerned about appearances of impropriety in an election year to do their jobs. So I’m here on my own time. No backup. No warrant. Knowing the one man who can stop Galileo is here. And I just need five minutes of his time.”
“Galileo and Kellerman,” echoed Esme.
“And that brings us back to my question, Tom. How badly do you want to get in?”
Rafe felt his wife’s curious gaze. She had no idea what was going on inside his mind. Sometimes she underestimated him. That was fine. That made moments like this all the richer.
“What do you have in mind?” asked Tom.
“It’s a simple concept. I talk about it in my freshman lectures. It’s called ‘relative value.’ What’s priceless to you may be worthless to me. We got invitations because we belong here. We didn’t have to beg anyone or wash dishes or do anything, really. This party is our reward for being ourselves. You get to travel the country and fight bad guys and feel righteous. That’s your reward. So I guess what I’m asking, Tom, is this—what do you hold dear that you’re willing to give up in order to get what you want?”
Esme opened her mouth, but didn’t say an
ything. Was she shocked? Confused? This was about her, in its own way, and Rafe was dying to hear her thoughts. But he kept himself in check. He couldn’t show any weakness now. He had to remain in control.
Tom slipped his wallet out of his pocket, but Rafe just knocked it to the ground.
“I’m not asking for money, Tom. Don’t be silly. I have money. What is something you hold dear that I don’t have? What are you willing to sacrifice?”
“I didn’t sacrifice your wife.”
“Didn’t you?” Esme suddenly inquired.
Tom blinked. “What?”
And all of the resentment that had been building inside of her these past weeks just poured out.
“I’m not criticizing you, Tom, but, I mean, let’s be realistic. When you flew me down to Texas, you knew there was an element of risk involved. Don’t get me wrong—I knew it, too. The choice was as much mine as yours. But you were in charge. I was your responsibility. Darcy Parr was your responsibility.”
“Don’t—”
“I’m not blaming you,” she added quickly. “Galileo pulled the trigger. Galileo is the villain. You’re just…the negligent parent who let it happen.”
In that moment, Rafe wanted to kiss his wife so badly, but he just slipped his hands into his pockets. Later. They would celebrate later. “What are you willing to sacrifice, Tom?”
Tom didn’t respond. Esme’s words had knocked the breath from his body. His mind whirred, but his eyes simply gazed into the dark night air.
Finally, he spoke: “Name your price.”
Rafe did. Tom nodded. They left Esme by the side of the house and strolled down the driveway to the street, where the valets were parallel-parking the high-end cars end-to-end. They were running out of room. Rafe and Tom found what they were looking for halfway down the hill.
“Do you have a pen?” asked Tom.
Rafe reached into his pocket. His father had trained him well to always be prepared. Tom unlocked the rear compartment on his motorcycle, fished out a blue piece of paper, and signed along a line on the back. He returned it to the compartment and almost habitually slid his keys back into the left pocket of his leather coat. But he stopped himself, and instead held the keys out to Rafe.
