Guilt (9 page)

“Joe gave it to her,” Jackie said.

Annie knew from Jackie's guilty look that it had been a recent gift. It was easy to tell Jackie to turn her back on Joe, drive him out of her life—obviously it was a whole lot harder for Jackie to do it.

“Oh, he's not bothering us or anything. He left it at school for Sophie. He misses her.”

Men like Joe were so much more appealing at a distance, and they knew just which strings to pull. If he couldn't get Jackie to talk to him, he'd seduce Sophie; if he couldn't do it in person, he'd do it with gifts.

“She misses him. Sleeps in one of his old T-shirts. She won't even let me wash it. Says it'll wash out his smell.” Jackie brushed away a tear. “She thinks it's her fault. I keep telling her it's nothing she did.”

Just then Peter pulled up. Annie wasn't used to seeing him driving the silver Miata. He had that guy-thing about cars. Used to drive a really cool antique Beamer, which unfortunately was no longer among the living. Since then, he'd been through a couple of rentals and a boring Subaru. The Miata suited him, though it was hilarious when all six-foot-plus of him climbed out of that itsy-bitsy car, like a humongous clown getting out of a miniature fire truck. Annie hadn't told him that, though she had to agree, the car was a blast to drive. It hugged the road on the nastiest curves, and stopped on a dime.

Sophie ran over as he came up the walk. “Petey! Petey! Petey!” she cried. To Annie's shock and amazement, he grinned. Even Annie couldn't get away with calling him that. Sophie took a flying leap into his arms. He lifted her over his head, twirled around once, and gently put her back down.

Sophie tugged at his trouser leg until he bent over. She whispered something. He thought for a moment, rummaged in one back pocket, then the other one, then his jacket pocket. Made a big show of finding nothing. Finally, he reached into a hip pocket and, in mock amazement, drew out a roll of Lifesavers and gave it to Sophie.

Poor Peter. He was completely smitten. Annie could just see it, he'd be feeding their kid candy, Pearl would be plying her with potato latkes, and Annie'd be wondering how in the hell she'd gotten herself knocked up.

Solemn-faced, Sophie opened the package. She took out a red Lifesaver, held it up to the light, and then slid it into her mouth.

Jackie put the barrette back in Sophie's hair. She took Sophie's hand. “We'd better be going,” she called over to Pearl. “Thanks for everything.”

“Daddy,” Sophie squeaked, watching a dark pickup truck with a winch on the back pull up at the curb. The window rolled down.

Annie exchanged a look with Peter. How the hell did Joe Klevinski know Jackie and Sophie were there? Peter went over and said something to Pearl and Mr. Kuppel.

The door of the truck complained with a metal-on-metal noise when Klevinski opened it and lumbered out. He looked bedraggled, with his shirttails hanging out, his dark hair lank and greasy, and his face covered with stubble. Annie wondered if he was drunk.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said to Jackie. He turned back to the car and pulled out a bouquet of roses.

Slick routine. He'd be all sweetness and light until Jackie dropped the restraining order and let him move back in.

Jackie was standing there, rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and mouth open, as if she didn't know which way to go. She gave a strangled cry as Sophie broke free and ran to her father.

Klevinski crouched and held his arms open. “Who's my little girl?”

“I am! I am!”

He scooped her up and pressed his face into her hair. He drew back and took a good look at her.

“What's that in your mouth?”

Sophie swallowed. “Nothing.”

Klevinski examined one side of her face, then the other. He took one of her hands and turned it over, examining the fingernails. He frowned. With men like him, it was about control, right down to what you could eat and when you could go to the bathroom. Annie was relieved when he let Sophie slither out of his grasp and she ran back to Jackie.

Jackie crouched and put her arms firmly around Sophie's waist. She gave Annie a quick glance, as if for a shot of courage. Then she fixed her husband with a hard look. “You're not supposed to be here.”

He held out the flowers. You had to give him credit, the pale yellow, oversized roses, the petals' tips tinged with raspberry, looked like the kind you paid a bundle for at one of those fancy florists in Harvard Square.

He moved in what seemed like slow motion toward Jackie. “I got these for you. At least you could let me drive you home.”

Annie moved to intercept him on one side, Peter on the other.

Klevinski hesitated and stared hard at Annie. “Who the hell are you, and why don't you mind your own business? This is between me and my wife.”

“Jackie, why don't you take Sophie inside to wash up,” Peter said.

Sophie struggled to see over her shoulder as Jackie and Pearl hustled her away, into the house.

Klevinski eyed Peter, then Annie. His eyes flickered recognition. “You … you're the bitch who—”

Annie wanted to kick him in the balls and see him double over, then chop him behind the head and drop him to the ground. Instead, she took out her cell phone and gave him what she hoped was a placid stare. “Violating a restraining order. You know what that means? Go directly to jail.”

Klevinski tossed a look toward the house and raised his voice. “She's my wife. Sophie is my daughter. They belong to me.”

“
Belong
to you?” Annie said, outrage coursing through her. “Your shoes belong to you. Some poor Doberman pinscher might have the misfortune of belonging to you. Your wife and daughter are human beings. You don't own them.”

She started to dial. With a swipe of his arm, Klevinski sent the cell phone flying. He pushed past her, heading for the house.

Now Peter was blocking his way with Mr. Kuppel for backup, the rake gripped across his body like a lance.

“It's my wife in there,” Klevinski brayed, getting in Peter's face and poking him in the chest.

Peter shoved him. “It's my home in there. This is private property, and you're trespassing.”

Klevinski came back sputtering. “Jackie!” he bellowed. He hurled the roses on the lawn, reared back, and swung wildly.

Peter caught his wrist and held it. “Your daughter is in the house.” His words had a quiet intensity. “She could be watching right now. Is this what you want her to see, you brawling and behaving like a thug?”

“Jackie…” Klevinski said, more of a plea this time. He seemed chastened for the moment.

Peter let go of the wrist and Klevinski stumbled back.

“You're leaving,” Peter said. “Now!” The word dropped like a stone in front of Klevinski.

Klevinski gave Peter a hostile glare. He rubbed his wrist and fisted and unfisted his hand. His gaze slid over to Mr. Kuppel and he gave a smirk of contempt. Then he shifted to Annie. She could smell his sour breath. His look was one of pure bottled rage. His gaze traveled down, lingering on her chest.

Peter came over and put his arm around Annie. His strong hand squeezing her shoulder was all that kept her from smashing her knee into the SOB's groin.

“I think you'd best be on your way,” Peter said.

Klevinski gave one final look toward the house before turning to go. Annie felt her heart pounding as he sauntered back to his truck. She could imagine him reaching inside for a tire iron or wrench, and coming back swinging. She hadn't brought her gun, and Mace was in her backpack on the floor of the car. She didn't relax until his truck disappeared down the street.

*   *   *

They never did get to the river. Instead, Annie and Peter sat in Pearl's kitchen with Jackie, drinking hot tea. Sophie napped on the living room sofa.

“He says it's dangerous for me to be working in a lawyer's office, what with courthouses and law schools getting blown up,” Jackie said.

“You told him where you work?” Annie asked.

“Well, not exactly where. But he knows it's an attorney's office.” Jackie picked at the cake on her plate. “I'm sorry, Annie. He was worried that I was still working at Harvard, that I could get hurt.” She blinked back tears. “I don't know how he found out about Sophie coming here after school.”

“He's not supposed to be calling you,” Annie said.

“He didn't. I called him.” Jackie crossed her arms over her chest. “I'm sorry. I had to ask him about—”

Annie felt more sad than angry. Something compelled Jackie to continue her dance with this man, enabled her to convince herself that something good could come of it. Annie shrank from the look Peter was giving her, though she knew she deserved it. She'd never forgive herself if something happened to Pearl. And it would be only a matter of time before Klevinski figured out where Jackie worked. Then he could visit anytime the spirit moved him. Jackie would be a sitting duck, and Chip and Annie would be sitting right there with her.

“He says he's going to take classes,” Jackie said. “Anger management. And he's joined AA. He's trying to change.”

Was she kidding?

“People
can
change, Annie. Really they can.”

Annie didn't trust herself to say anything.

*   *   *

“So can someone like that change?” Annie asked Peter.

Jackie and Sophie had gone home, and Peter and Annie were at Toscanini's, Annie in a chair, Peter with his butt perched on the windowsill. Apparently no one was afraid of a bomb in an ice cream parlor, even one wedged midway between the Cambridge Courthouse and Harvard. There was a line out the door.

“Sure, some people can change,” Peter answered in that noncommittal tone of his that drove Annie bonkers. “With the right help.”

“You really believe that?”

Peter gave her an indulgent smile. “Sure. It's possible. Treatment is like peeling an onion. Anger management is the top layer. It helps control behavior. Then there's got to be substance-abuse treatment. Alcohol and drugs lower inhibitions.”

“He's a heroin addict,” Annie said. “
Was,
according to Jackie. But then, so was she, and she's clean now.”

“Going a level deeper, talk therapy helps. If the person can understand where the anger is coming from, he might take a moment and say: ‘Is what I feel really appropriate to this situation, and do I really want to engage in this behavior?'”

Annie took a lick of burnt caramel ice cream. With its toasted-marshmallow-skin taste, add some chocolate sauce and graham cracker crumbs and you'd have yourself a s'more. S'mores made her think of Girl Scouts. In Girl Scouts she'd gotten introduced to gourmet goodies like s'mores and Rice Krispy Treats. She'd also learned useful stuff like how to hook potholders and make a rice-and-bean mosaic of swans. Indirectly through Girl Scouts, Annie first found out about the unspeakable things wives and children kept quiet about, because that was where she met Charlotte Florence. Charlotte was as tall as Annie and quiet … in fact, she reminded Annie a whole lot of Jackie Klevinski, except that her long hair was black, not brown. Until then, family violence was something Annie had witnessed only on TV.

“You are such an optimist, and I am so not,” Annie said.

“Ah, and vhen did you first start having dese feelings?” Peter asked, affecting a bad Sigmund Freud accent.

Annie smiled, but she was remembering Mrs. Florence's battered face, the nose broken and the skin around the eye purple from new bruises, yellow from old ones.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Peter said.

Annie told him about Charlotte, and how her parents would fight whenever Annie slept over. Annie and Charlotte would hide under the bed and listen, Annie terrified that at any moment the door would crash open and Mr. Florence would come looking for them. Charlotte had been embarrassed and humiliated. She'd made Annie promise never to tell anyone.

Mrs. Florence died when they were in high school. No one ever said if she got sick, or committed suicide, or if Mr. Florence killed her. She just “passed away,” and Charlotte stopped coming to school.

Annie still had dreams about them, she told Peter, nightmares really. She dreamed she was under the bed with Charlotte, listening to the Florences fight. Then Mr. Florence would come stomping into the room, yelling for Charlotte. He'd raise the bed skirts … that's when Annie would try to wake herself up.

Peter reached out and touched Annie's hand. “Dreaming. That's one of the ways the mind helps us deal with unresolved issues.”

Annie took another bite of ice cream. Now it tasted bitter.

There was laughter from a group of college-age kids up at the counter. Then a woman's voice, “Now y'all quit makin' fun of me.” Annie looked up, expecting to see Mary Alice standing there in the group.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked Peter.

Peter's eyebrows shot up. “Have I ever mentioned that a person can get whiplash talking to you?”

“Like to keep you guessing.”

She told him about Jackie “seeing”—she drew quotation marks in the air around the word—Mary Alice at the foot of her bed. “Jackie says she was awake, but she couldn't move.”

Peter nodded understanding. “It's something called cataplexy, or sleep paralysis. She was in a hypnopompic state.” Only Peter could make fancy words sound reassuring. “That's the transition of semiconsciousness between sleeping and waking. For some people, it's a time of hallucination.”

“Like dreaming?”

“Sort of. Intense dreaming, a little more like hypnosis. There's often the same hyperintensity of imagery. It's this contradictory thing where your eyes are open and you're seeing visions at the same time.” Peter leaned forward, gesturing as he explained. “When you think about it, Mother Nature is pretty careful with us.”