by Lisa Unger
“The husband is still there,” said Dean. He sounded stressed “There’s his car.”
Paul’s new Charger was parked in the front. Park in the back, Carol always complained. Those spots are for customers, she chided. But baby, then no one will see the new ride my sugar mama bought me. She would always answer him with a smile, Silly man.
“They’re not rich,” Emily said. She knew that was what he thought. And she wanted to clarify for him that it wasn’t true. He seemed to have a hostility about wealthy people, as though they had something he deserved instead. Maybe if she could convince him that they were just a normal couple who worked hard at their business, he would leave them alone.
Dean turned to glare at her over the seat. “Bullshit. We’ve been to their house.”
In December, Carol and Paul had thrown a huge Christmas party at their home for family and friends and employees. Emily thought about their house sometimes. Not that it was so opulent; it wasn’t. It was smallish compared to what the new homes on the market looked like. It didn’t have that straight-from-the box-feeling, as if everything were picked brand-new from a catalog. Emily could tell that Carol and Paul had chosen each piece of furniture, art, even the hand towels in the bathroom with great care. Paul was an amateur photographer, so the walls were covered with framed shots of their travels around the world, their children and grandchildren. Every pillow, throw, and fixture was perfectly placed in its environment. Their two French bulldogs, Max and Ruby, happily tottered about seeking affection and scraps from the abundant spread. Each dog had a huge plush cushion beside the bed in the master suite with his or her name embroidered into the fabric.
“Look at this place,” Dean kept saying. There was something odd in his tone, something darker than envy.
Their home glittered, with two huge Christmas trees, a lifetime of collected decorations and ornaments. The party was packed with friends and family, old employees who had remained in touch, vendors, and neighbors. Carol greeted everyone with equal enthusiasm. It was their home; they’d raised both their children within its walls. They’d devoted their time, their energy, and their love to making it a beautiful place where everyone who knew them felt welcome. It was the kind of home Emily had only dreamed of, the kind she hoped to make for herself someday. As she sat in the dark backseat of her car, that day seemed a long, long way off.
“He’s leaving,” said Dean. He exhaled his relief.
Emily watched Paul leave the restaurant, then close and lock the door behind him. She wanted to start screaming, try to force her way out of the backseat. She could envision the scene, hear her own voice slicing through the quiet, see herself running toward Paul. But she didn’t do anything. She was paralyzed, strangled by her own fear.
“What if he recognizes my car?” she asked.
“He can’t see it from where he is,” said Dean.
He sounded very sure of himself. He always seemed so, even though his judgment proved fallible again and again. He never lost confidence. But Emily didn’t think they were that far away, or that the few trees between the car and the restaurant were enough to block them from view. She said a silent prayer that Paul would look over in their direction. She willed it. But no. Emily felt her nausea increase as Paul gunned the engine and sped off in the opposite direction.
“They were going to stop doing it, you know,” said Emily. “Paul was going to start taking the money to the bank every day, not just on Friday nights.”
Dean spun around again to look at her. Brad was staring at Dean now. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house. Since they’d parked, he’d sat there like a gargoyle, staring at the restaurant.
“You never told me that,” said Dean.
“Why would I?”
He gave her a dark, threatening look, and she found herself bracing—for what, she didn’t know. He’d never hit her, not really. He’d grabbed her hard one time. Once he’d pushed her. But he’d been so sorry afterward that he cried. He’d been so nice after that; for a full week, he was so sweet and considerate. It was almost worth it. Even her mother had never laid a hand on her. But you didn’t need fists to hurt and scar, did you? Words could hurt worse. And those wounds never did seem to heal. Sticks and stones can break my bones. But words can break my heart.
“I hope you’re wrong,” said Dean. He got out of the car and pulled the seat forward for her. “Climb out.”
She hesitated, wondering what he would do if she stayed rooted, started yelling and making a huge scene. She felt Brad’s eyes on her and turned to look at him. She held his gaze and once more found it so disturbingly blank that she averted her eyes, lest she be sucked into the black hole of whatever he was.
Dean reached in and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the car. She struggled a second, then let him yank her out. Her arm ached from his grip. She rubbed it as she stood before him, fighting back tears of pain and anger.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s wrong.”
For a second, she saw something flicker across his face—sadness, fear, sorrow. Then it was gone. He was high, she realized. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. She had no idea what he was on; it could be any combination of their yield today. The man she loved, the one she trusted to take care of her, was nowhere to be seen. If only she could tell him how much she had loved him at the end of their workdays, when he came home tired and they cooked dinner together. She’d never loved anyone as much as she’d loved him on those nights.
“What you’re going to do is knock on the door, okay?” he said. “When she opens it, go inside and give her some sad story, tell her you have no one else to talk to, that you need a friend. You know she won’t turn you away.”
No. Of course she wouldn’t. Because that’s the kind of person Carol was—a good person, a kind person. Dean and Brad would use the powerful instinct that Carol had to mother and help; they would use it to hurt her and steal from her. Because that’s the kind of people they were.
“After a few minutes, excuse yourself to the bathroom,” Dean said. He’d obviously given this a great deal of thought. That was why he’d kept coming to pick her up from work, gotten friendly with the kitchen guys. Even Paul had invited him back to see the office. All the while, he must have been planning. She’d had no idea. He went on, “When you go back there, unlock the rear door.”
Who is this man? she wondered. He was cold and hard, a criminal, an addict. Had he always been this? Had her mother seen it all along? How could she have known when Emily had been so blind?
“Then go back to her and keep her busy.”
She still didn’t say anything. She was out of words.
“If you keep her out of her office, no one gets hurt,” he went on. “There’s no trouble at all. Right? So, that’s your job: Keep Carol from getting hurt.” He leaned in close and whispered into her ear. “Because you don’t know this guy. You have no idea what he’ll do if push comes to shove. Trust me.” Emily wasn’t sure if he was talking about Brad or about himself.
Dean’s breath was rank; he was holding on to her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about the money; they’re insured,” he said. “Just keep that bitch from getting her head blown off.”
Emily’s whole body throbbed with anxiety. If she stayed, if she did what Dean wanted her to do, she could keep Carol from getting hurt. If she ran to get help, what would they do to her? Would they chase her? The nearest establishment was a gas station about a mile up the road. How long would it take her to make it there? Ten minutes, at the very least. It would take the police another five or ten after she made the call. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes—if they let her get away at all.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
He smiled, relieved. “Okay? Really?”
She nodded, and he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “Good girl.”
She leaned over and vomited on the ground next to his boots.
“Christ, Em,” h
e said, disgusted. “Pull yourself together.”
When Emily got to the door of the Blue Hen and started knocking, tears streaming down her cheeks, her near hysteria wasn’t an act at all. Through the glass, she saw some type of battle on Carol’s face. There was concern first, then a flash of suspicion that faded quickly. She knew Emily. She trusted her. But she didn’t want to deal with a drama at ten P.M.; she was tired. Finally, fatigue gave way to worry.
“Emily, honey? What’s wrong?”
She opened the door, looking behind Emily. Would she see them? Would she know they were lying in wait to rob her? Emily stepped inside, and Carol closed and locked the door. They’d been robbed before, Emily knew. Not here in New Jersey, but in a place they used to own in New York City. They were cautious. There were security cameras outside. She wasn’t sure whether Dean knew that. Had she ever mentioned it? Probably not; she would have had no reason to do so.
“I’m sorry,” said Emily. Her voice caught and broke. “I didn’t have anyplace else to go.”
Carol led her over to the booth by the window. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
This was the moment, right here, before anything bad had happened. She’d dwelled in this moment before. Here she could make a choice. She could say, “Carol, you need to call the police. My boyfriend and some other addict ex-con are waiting outside to rob this place. I had no choice except to follow them this far. But they want me to open the back door and let them in so they can take your money. I’m not going to do that. You need to call the police.”
That was the right thing to do. It was perfectly clear. But she didn’t do it. Dean would get arrested and go to jail. Or they’d hear the sirens and get away. What would they do to her then? Dean would know that she’d betrayed him, and he’d hate her forever. Would he hurt her? Maybe not, but Dean couldn’t stop Brad from hurting her. If she helped them, they’d get their money. Brad would disappear. Emily could convince Dean to clean up, get a job. Things would work out okay. After all, Paul and Carol were insured; a couple thousand dollars didn’t mean that much to them.
She found herself sliding onto the vinyl booth. She made up a story for Carol, a fight with Dean that had gotten violent. In tears, Emily told Carol that she and her mother weren’t talking. And she was so sorry to impose, but she really needed to talk to someone. Did Carol and Paul ever fight like that?
“I’ve never fought with Paul like that, no,” said Carol gently. “But I’ve been in a violent relationship—when I was about your age. I will tell you that it rarely gets better. Once someone hurts you, chances are he’ll do it again and again. And it will only get worse.”
Emily knew Carol was right. She found herself nodding, the tears still falling. “He wasn’t like this at first,” she said. “At first he seemed like such a great guy.”
“Honey, they all seem great at first,” said Carol. “That’s how they get you hooked.”
“I don’t want to give up on him. I love him,” said Emily. “But I feel like I have to betray myself to be with him.”
She hadn’t meant to say that. She was sorry when the words were out in the air—they were too honest. She hadn’t even realized she felt that way. But she did; she had for a while. Being with Dean made her do bad things. She was someone—even in this moment—who she didn’t want to be.
“That’s not a good feeling,” said Carol. Emily could tell that Carol knew all about it. “And it’s not love, either.”
Emily felt a little rush of anger. She did love Dean. No one could tell her differently. Otherwise, why would she do all of these things for him? She wouldn’t, not if she didn’t know that deep inside, he was a better man. If they could just get back to that good place and forget all this other stuff, they’d be okay. She felt a renewed sense of purpose, of hope. In a few minutes, this would all be over. She’d get them back on track after that.
“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Carol. “I’ll get you some cocoa.”
Emily walked down the narrow hallway where she’d dropped all those glasses earlier. It seemed like weeks ago, so much had changed between then and now. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and looked in the mirror. She dabbed at the black smudges of makeup under her eyes. She always hated the sight of her own reflection. Her face looked pasty and thin in the harsh fluorescent light. Her eyes were an uninspiring brown. Her mousy roots betrayed the fact that her blond tresses were store-bought.
Leaving the water running so that Carol would think she was still in there, Emily slipped from the bathroom and moved quickly down the hall and into the kitchen. Only the lights over the sink and stove were lit; the overheads were all off. It was dim and orange, quiet in stark contrast to the usual bright bustle when the restaurant was open. There was something nice, something intimate, about being there after hours.
Emily went to the metal back door. Last chance, she thought, looking at the dead bolt. It was new, still shiny and gold. She thought, This is your last chance to do the right thing. She’d stolen for Dean before—pills, jewelry, and cash from the houses she used to clean. She’d given him alarm codes—a family she babysat for who were away at Disney; a dress shop where she’d worked for a month. None of that was like this. It was all distant and theoretical. It had never felt like a personal betrayal, even though it was. All of those people had entrusted her with something, and for Dean, she’d betrayed them all. Why? Why would she do that, if not for love? She turned the lock on the knob and threw open the dead bolt and moved away from the door quickly. She didn’t want to think about how awful this was.
When she pushed out into the hallway, Angelo was standing there. He had his headphones on and was mopping the floor slowly, almost lovingly. He raised his eyes to Emily, startled, and then smiled broadly when he recognized her. He reached up and pulled one of the headphones from his right ear. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
He wasn’t supposed to be here. But it made sense. Paul would never leave Carol alone in the restaurant, not unless there was someone here to help her close up. Emily couldn’t bring herself to answer or smile back. He looked confused for a second, his smile fading. Then his gaze drifted to the kitchen behind her. His eyes went wide. She didn’t have to turn around to know he was watching Brad and Dean come in through the back door.
chapter eleven
Brendan was asleep. The girls were watching a movie in Chelsea’s room, cuddled together on her bed like puppies. Kate remembered that physical closeness you had with your teenage girlfriends and experienced again with your small children. The unself-conscious melding of bodies, an acknowledgment that we were designed to wrap around each other for love and comfort more than anything else. She loved it when one of the kids got into bed with her and Sean, and they still did sometimes. Even Chelsea, who was too cool for school, sometimes slept with Kate when Sean was away.
Kate sensed that there was something going on in Chelsea’s universe; she’d heard some excited chirping, some conspiratorial whispering. Something to do with boys, she was certain. She tried not to stick her nose in. She didn’t try to act like one of the girls. She wasn’t that kind of mom.
Sean had taken a call and was in his office. She could hear the low tones of his professional voice, as opposed to the “buddy” voice reserved for his pals, loud and mischievous, or his “dad” voice, soothing but firm, or the voice, sweet and strong, that he reserved for her. Kate loved this time of night, when everyone was safe at home. In this place, she felt as though she could release a breath she’d been holding all day. She might read or watch television with Sean. Or, like tonight, she might sit outside by the pool with a glass of wine and be still for the first time all day.
She’d tried to call her mother to see if there was anything she could bring, to assure her that whatever menu Birdie had planned would be just fine. But there was no answer. This was not unusual. Sometimes her mother didn’t answer the phone, even turned the machine off
so that no one could leave a message. As a mother herself, Kate couldn’t understand. Why would you choose to be unavailable to your family, even if your children were grown?
It was a streak that ran through her mother’s side, a fierce desire to isolate, the preference for solitude. There was a cold meanness to it. This violent assertion of their separateness from the people who wanted to love them had caused terrible, bitter estrangements among her mother’s siblings, to the degree that Kate didn’t have relationships with her uncle or any of her cousins.
Most of those relationships had crashed upon the rocks of Heart Island. Her uncle Gene and Birdie had fought a bitter court battle over Grandpa Jack’s will, and they hadn’t spoken again since terms were settled. Toward the end of her life, Aunt Caroline abandoned the place she’d always loved. I’m sorry, Kate. But Birdie makes everything so ugly. It’s not the same place it was, not for me. Kate would learn that these estrangements were the least of it.
The August night was humid and thick. But after a day of darting between air-conditioned spaces, the real air felt good. I am breathing in. I am breathing out. She was aware suddenly of a leaden fatigue.
You’re tired? her mother would say. What did you do all day? Birdie, who had never really worked and yet hadn’t been a stay-at-home mother, either, seemed to have nothing but disdain for people who did “less” than she did. Being a mother is not a job, exactly, is it?
Birdie’s day was and always had been a busy flutter of vigorous workouts with her personal trainer, various meetings for the charitable committees to which she devoted most of her time, expensive “business” lunches, and appointments to maintain her impeccable grooming … manicure, pedicure, facial, waxing, God knew what else. Theo and Kate had been more or less raised by nannies, a long anonymous string of them, since Birdie had trouble keeping staff. There was hardly time to attach to one before she fled. This was a fact that Birdie vehemently denied. I had help, of course. Lord knows your father was never around. But I raised you children all by myself. Maybe her mother believed that, but it was not true. And yet Kate had no harsher judge of her lack of professional achievement than her own mother.
