The Price of Silence

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “I cleaned the can of his possible fingerprints. I was too focused on Josh to realize what a wiped-clean death weapon would mean to the police.”When I left I walked to the East River and dropped Josh’s medal, chain and An-ling’s laptop in the water. From a nearby phone booth I made an anonymous call to the police.

  “Emma, you are under oath.” Fishkin says. “You have sworn to tell the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill the woman you knew as An-ling Huang?”

  It is time to face them. I turn and look at the twelve men and women who will decide if I am innocent.Their faces are impassive except for one droopy-eyed black woman. She leans forward on her seat and studies me with a look full of concern. “No, I did not kill An-ling,”

  I tell her.

  I form a picture in my mind of Amy and An-ling together, two sisters perched on the sun, gleefully throwing needles down to earth.The image eases my guard, allows me to speak from the heart.

  “I am guilty only of letting my own feelings, my self-absorption, make me forget how unhappy,how fragile An-ling was.An-ling killed herself—I have no doubt about that—and I take some of the blame. For being too harsh with her, for giving her the illusion that I would always be there for her, no matter what she did. I abandoned her.

  “I will always carry the thought that if I had gone to the studio earlier, she would be alive today. Every day I picture myself consoling her, making peace with her, reassuring her that she isn’t a throwaway girl. I hear myself tell her that I will always help, always be her friend.

  “Never, not even when I was very angry with her, did I want anything bad to happen to An-ling. Please believe me, I did not push the nozzle of that can.”

  Josh

  Dad said Fishkin nixed my idea about him confessing to killing An-ling as being too obvious.The judge wasn’t going to buy it and it would destroy Fishkin’s defense: that An-ling killed herself. Four days ago, Guzman spent the whole day cross-examining Mom. He was mean, but she didn’t crack. No tears this time.When he asked her,“Why did you leave your family to live with An-ling Huang?” she answered, “My family is privileged.An-ling was not. I thought I could help her. I never meant to stay as long as I did.” She didn’t bring up Dad, their fights.

  “You didn’t think your son needed your help?”

  She looked at me, her face getting real soft, blurry. I knew she was trying to tell me how sorry she was. I knew then she really loved me. All I could think of was giving her a thumbs-up sign.

  “I’d seen the scars on An-ling’s wrists,” Mom said.“An-ling, from what I knew at the time, had no one.”

  The next day we got the lawyers’ closing statements. Fishkin went first and said the evidence showed that Mom was a generous and kind person who tried to help a desperately unhappy artist.The evidence showed she loved me very much because she destroyed any evidence that might connect me with An-ling’s death.

  Then Guzman got up and said the evidence showed without a reasonable doubt that Mom cared only about An-ling and when she found out about me making love to her, she got so jealous and angry she killed her.

  Which evidence was the jury going to believe? And what was I going to do with the evidence playing in my head?

  It’s been two and a half days. Fishkin says the longer it takes, the better it is for Mom.Worms are eating up my stomach; that’s what it feels like.

  The judge walks in and we all stand up.The court officer hands him a note. That could mean the jury has reached a verdict. Mom turns to look at me and Dad and smiles, like she knows it’s going to be okay.

  An-ling’s last e-mail, the one Mom never saw, the one I burned—she wrote it her last day, at 2:37 p.m, after she called Mom, before she tried to get me:

  Tom’s coming over. I didn’t tell you on the phone because you wouldn’t believe me. It’s true. I’m going to tell him I know he’s kept Amy’s photos hidden from you. I’m going to tell him he’s the one who killed Amy.

  You, Lady Teacher, are only guilty of thinking a dog’s life is important.

  Maybe Tom will want to hit me and maybe he’ll want to do other things too. Like Bill used to.

  I left the door open downstairs. I know you’re already on your way.

  Hurry. I’ll hide you behind a screen. With you here, Tom won’t scare me. You’ll stop him from hurting me.

  A-l

  Why do I believe her? She lied so much.And even if—Shit, the jury’s coming through the door.

  An-ling, please help Mom.Amy. God. Please!

  Tom

  What I could have told my son:

  Tuesday, April 19, the temperature in the mid-forties— still coat and glove weather.Thankfully no rain. I had initiated the call to An-ling after another letter of hers had arrived at my office. She had expected a visit, she said. I rose to her bait willingly. I even looked forward to our meeting. There is nothing that gives more satisfaction than the conviction that you have found the solution to a stomach-churning problem.

  She had left the door of the building open. I walked up, saw no one. She was waiting for me at the door of the apartment.“ You want to get rid of that?” she asked, pointing to my Burberry. I shook my head. I didn’t want anything of mine to touch anything of hers. I was wearing gloves for that purpose.

  “I’m happy you came.” She closed the door behind me and with her free hand tried to lead me inside. I lifted my arm out of her reach. I had no intention of going any further than just inside that closed door. Against one wall was a large canvas, blank except for a long bloated squiggle of what I now understand was insulation foam.The can stood on the floor, straw attached.

  “Do you want tea? That’s all I’ve got.”

  I shook my head again. She didn’t deserve the civility of words.The studio was overheated, the air stale with smoke.

  She was wearing thick make-up: red lipstick, a line of deep green on each eyelid.Two slashes of pink on her cheeks. She looked ludicrous. I was sure that underneath her short silky bathrobe she was naked. She had seduced my wife, then my son and now I was to be her third conquest.

  “Nothing I can get you?”As she spoke, she let herself fall against my chest. I watched, as you might watch an exotic creature behind a cage, as her face slowly tilted up toward mine. Her tongue reached my chin, licked it. Her body was light, soft; she smelled of candy. In the heat of that room I turned hard and lost myself. I grasped her buttocks, lifted her up to my waist. She pressed against me, her thigh heavy on my hips and moaned,“Tom.”A wet animal sound. Barely recognizable. And yet, my name.Tom.

  She dropped down, pushed me away. Her eyes gleamed and I got the feeling that what was occurring between us was all according to her plan.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I said.

  She thrust her shoulders back, exposing the white of her chest. I thought it was part of her pitiful seduction routine, but what she was showing me was the medal hanging from her neck.

  She turned the medal and held it up with one hand. I leaned closer and pretended to read the name I already knew was there: Celestina Fenoli, Emma’s grandmother. I snapped the chain from her neck.

  “You’re the one who killed Amy,” she said. “You were supposed to watch her,Tom. It wasn’t Emma’s fault.” I struck her.As I raised my arm again, she jumped back, tripped on the can and fell to the floor, hitting the back of her head with a sharp smack. She lay there, eyes closed, the can rolling to my feet.

  I left her on the floor.

  My gloves ended up in a trash can in Brooklyn, my Burberry in a construction dumpster on my way to Hunter.

  I thought that Josh’s medal and chain were in one of the pockets. I was ridding myself and my family of her. She was a cheap little whore who was trying to destroy my family.

  Now, after what I’ve learned at the trial, I realize she was a sick girl like so many who are free to walk the streets.Their twisted minds aren’t recognizable until it’s too late and they crash a brick on some innocent bystander
’s head or shove someone into an oncoming subway train.

  The jury is filing back into the courtroom. I have never doubted what the verdict would be, which is why I have kept silent about my visit to An-ling. No jury would believe I left the girl alive. I had to stay out of it for Josh’s sake. He still needs me.They both need me.

  The jury files into the room.After the seven women and five men take their places, Judge Sanders says,“You have sent me a note saying you have reached a verdict. Is that correct?”

  The foreman stands.“Yes,Your Honor.”

  “Please answer the court clerk.”

  The court clerk, a thin balding man who has been sitting behind a desk to one side of the courtroom, reading his newspaper for most of the trail, now stands up and reads from a sheet of paper.

  “To the charge of murder in the second degree, how—”

  The juror sitting next to the foreman, a black woman with big drooping eyes, cannot wait. She turns to look at the defendant’s son, Joshua Howells, and lifts her cheeks in a wide, victorious smile.

  TWENTY

  Emma

  JOSH WANTED TO celebrate the Not Guilty verdict with prayer. He tried to convince Tom to come too, but Tom, the unbeliever, said it was a good time for Josh and me to share each other’s company without his presence. I chose Saint Patrick’s, the place of a promise made, a promise that needed to be unmade.

  “We don’t have a picture of her, Mom.”We’re sitting in the front pew.“In that message she left,” Josh tugs at his ear, Tom’s gesture when he’s weighing his words, “she said, ‘Don’t erase me, Drummer Boy. Let me stay with you.’

  “She had that funny mouth, remember?” Another tug. I skate my hand down his back. “No dip in the middle. And that thick hair and . . . oh, God!” He throws himself back against the pew, his face scrunched with disbelief. “I’m already forgetting what she looked like.”

  “Do you remember how she made you feel?”

  He nods as a blush blooms over his cheeks.

  “That’s what she’d want you to hold on to.”

  There are only a few people praying.Tourists walk the aisles, pointing, whispering. Feet scuffle. Camera flashes burst from darkened corners. In front of the side chapels, hundreds of candles flicker orange light.

  “You think God’s here?” Josh asks after a long stare at the crucifix above the high altar.

  “Here, there, wherever you want God to be if you believe.”

  “I’d like to believe. I think I do now, after—” he shrugs.

  “I mean, it’s easier. It’s not all up to me.”

  “Yes, it’s easier.”

  “During the trial I tried praying, coming to church.You used to do that, right? Before Amy died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think An-ling believed in God?”

  I wrap my arm in his.“I don’t know. She believed in the old traditions of her country.That’s a religion of sorts.”

  “Why did she lie so much, Mom?”

  “She was trying to be someone else and she wanted love from everyone.”

  “She lied a lot.”

  “Don’t hold it against her, Josh. She couldn’t help herself.

  Think of how unhappy she was.”

  “No, I’m glad she lied. It means—” Josh lowers his head.

  “It means what?”

  Josh doesn’t answer. His lips start to move and I keep his arm wrapped around my own as he prays.

  When he raises his head I say,“The last time I came here I was pregnant with you. I asked God to take care of you and keep you safe. In exchange I promised I would not allow myself the joy of loving you openly. It was a very stupid thing I did. It’s nothing God would have wanted. I always have loved you, Josh.”

  “I know.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “Forget it, Mom.That’s old stuff.”

  “Please forgive me for everything.”

  He nods.“Me too?”

  “You were only being young.”

  He blushes again.“You should get to know Max’s mom.

  All she thinks about is her committees. Max has to do his own laundry.”

  That thought makes me smile. “You’d go naked before that happened.”

  He leans over and kisses my cheek. “You got it.” I kiss him back and we sit there for a long time, arms linked, letting the grace of the cathedral lull us into a state of peace.

  The verdict has not wiped my conscience clean or taken away my sadness over An-ling’s death, but I can’t help also being happy. I’ve been given another chance to make amends. To become the woman I once set out to be. To watch my son grow into a man.

  The pew creaks when we finally stand up. I follow Josh down the center aisle. He stops abruptly next to the last pew where a man sits hunched, head buried in his arms.

  I recognize Tom’s windbreaker. “Tom?” His shoulders start to shake.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Josh says.

  I take hold of his hand. “Please stay.”

  He walks to the other end of the pew.We slide in, one on each side of Tom. I embrace him. Josh pats his back.

  Tom’s sobs grow loud.

  His depth of visible emotion is unusual, surprising; it frightens me. “What is it,Tom?” I whisper, kiss his neck.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” Tom cries into his arms. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Shh, it’s okay.” I think I understand now. “It’s all right, Tom. Amy’s in the past.We’re only going to think of Josh now.” I caress his head with my hand, over and over, in an effort to quiet him.“Our beautiful boy.”

  Tom hugs me.His chest trembles against mine.Maybe he is also crying for the marriage we almost destroyed. Our lives as a couple and as individuals are weighted with a great deal of unhappiness, missteps, selfishness, but we can try to fight for pockets of serenity. I am determined to fight, for myself, for Tom, especially for Josh. As a family we must stitch the holes in our lives back together with solid thread. As a family we have to make sure that Josh’s future, our future, has light in it.That is my hope,my goal. If it is not too late.

  I rock my husband turned into a child. “It’s over, Sweetie.”

  “Come on, Dad.” Josh stands up, tugs at his father’s sleeve. Tom stays hunkered down in my arms.“You said everything was going to be fine.You promised, remember?” Josh sits back down and hugs Tom from behind.“I love you, Dad.”

  Tom’s tears take a long time to stop and when they do we sit in silence, each lost in our own hopes and prayers until Josh says,“Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

  The sudden sun outside the cathedral is blinding.

  Blinking, we turn in the direction of home.

  Josh

  Grams liked to say that no tree throws a shadow as long as the past, but that’s only if you let it. Mom let Amy’s death get to her all those years and Dad did his crying when no one was looking and I guess An-ling never got over all the bad stuff that happened to her. I’m not going there.

  Maybe An-ling made up that last e-mail or maybe Dad did go over to the loft that afternoon. If he did, he probably yelled his head off at her and made her feel terrible, and she killed herself after he left.There are many ways of looking at this thing.

  Whatever he did, if anything, he did it for my sake and Mom’s.We’re all he’s ever worried about.

  I go to church sometimes now. Mom comes with me. I’m working on Dad.

  I’ve told the priest all about us,Amy and An-ling. He says that whatever really happened, what’s important is to feel remorse and to remember the need to forgive, to be forgiven.

  I’m trying to do that.

  He said that tragedies can divide or unite. In my family we’ve had ones that did both. It’s up to us which way it goes now.

  Mom and I light candles to Amy and An-ling whenever we’re in church. I told Dad you don’t have to believe in God to do that. It’s just a way of remembering them.That’s what they’d want. For us never to forget.
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  Acknowledgments

  Many helped me shape this novel: Marie Damon, Ann Darby, Barry Greenspon and the staff of The Drummer’s World, John Grossman, Jane Grossman, Jennifer Gundlach, Judith Keller, Robert Knightly, Dr. Barbara Lane, Maria Nella Masullo, Joan Meisel, Annette and Martin Meyers, Willa Morris, Judy Moskowitz, Geoffrey Picket, Sue Richman, Linda Sicher,Marilyn Wallace and Susan Wallach. I thank them for their expertise, their editorial skills, their patience, and most of all their friendship. I especially thank my editor, Katie Herman, for her keen eye and my publicist, Sarah Reidy, for her unrelenting enthusiasm. If there are mistakes, they are my own.

  To Stuart—my gratitude and love.