Mrs. Kimble (31 page)

“Two,” said Dinah. “He had two.”

Cohen sighed. “I think Joan wanted kids of her own. She just ran out of time.” He replaced the photo in his wallet. “Do you have children?”

“We have a son.” She thought of Brendan, glad he was away at Sean Guthrie’s. Lately he’d refused to talk about his father; he got angry when she mentioned Ken’s name.

“Pardon me for asking,” said Cohen, “but what’s going to happen to your husband?”

“That depends,” said Dinah. “HUD is still investigating his business dealings. As for the fire at the Watkins house—” She paused. “They could charge him with negligence, involuntary manslaughter. He could go to jail. Of course, they’ll have to find him first.”

Cohen’s eyebrows shot up. “The owner of that house must have an attorney by now. She could sue you for everything you’ve got.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Dinah.

He looked around the room: the paintings on the walls, the grand piano Ken had bought but never played. “Quite a crib you’ve got here,” he observed. “It’s no Tara, but it’s not bad.”

Dinah laughed.

“They’ll find him.” Cohen rose to go. “With this kind of money at stake, someone will find him. He’ll have nowhere left to hide.”

B
rendan sat in the Jeep’s cramped backseat, though he was bigger than the other boys and barely had room for his legs. Sean Guthrie drove. Next to him sat a friend from his old school, a boy he’d introduced only as Fog.

Brendan had heard all about this Fog, how he and Sean used to get high every morning before school, how they hid inside the school one night and discharged all the fire extinguishers into the faculty lounge. How, after they were expelled, they hid strips of raw bacon in the library’s heating ducts, causing a mysterious stench to waft through the corridors as the bacon slowly rotted. Hearing these stories gave Brendan a strange feeling, as though Sean had become boring and he, Brendan, was to blame. He and Sean had never done anything more adventurous than smoke cigarettes in the woods or steal beers from the Guthries’ refrigerator. For Brendan this was excitement enough. No way was he brave enough to do the things Sean and Fog had done. His mom would have a fit.

“Hey,” said Fog as they backed out of Brendan’s driveway. “Your mom is hot.”

“Wicked hot,” said Sean.

Brendan said nothing. He reminded himself that Fog would be gone in two days. Fog’s parents had sent him to military school in South Carolina; he was home on Christmas break.

On the way to Sean’s house, they stopped at a grocery store. “Be right back,” said Fog. He returned with a case of beer and a carton of Marlboros.

“How’d you do that?” said Brendan. They were all underage.

Fog reached into his pocket and showed Brendan a Florida driver’s license. Right away Brendan’s stomach felt queasy, like every time he thought of his father.

“ ‘Richard Berens,’ ” Brendan read. “Is that your real name? Richard?”

“No, idiot,” said Fog. Sean stifled a laugh. “You don’t put your real name on a fake ID.”

“I know that,” Brendan lied.

When they arrived at Sean’s house, the windows were dark.

“Where are your parents?” said Brendan. His mom had asked if the Guthries would be home; he’d promised they would. He hadn’t lied on purpose; then again, he hadn’t made any effort to find out one way or the other.

“Some party downtown.” Sean parked in the driveway. “They’re staying in a hotel tonight. My dad can’t afford another DUI.” Mr. Guthrie was a big cheese at the State Department; his drunk-driving arrest had made the papers. At the time Brendan couldn’t imagine how it would feel, knowing your father had spent a night in jail. Now nothing surprised him.

They went inside and put the beers in the refrigerator. “Here,” said Sean, handing them each one. In Sean’s room they fired up cigarettes. The Guthries didn’t care if Sean smoked, as long as he didn’t stink up the rest of the house.

“Check this out,” said Fog, reaching into his pocket. He tossed a plastic bag onto the floor. “I brought it up special from redneck country.”

Sean picked up the bag to examine it. “Holy shit. This is, like, half an ounce.”

Brendan felt sick. Sean had told him there would be no weed. Fog was drug-tested at military school; if he failed again, they’d kick him out.

“What about your drug test?” said Brendan.

Fog smiled, showing all his teeth. “After Thanksgiving I came up clean as a whistle. They never test the same guy twice in a row.”

Sean reached into a desk drawer for his rolling papers; Brendan cranked up Sean’s new CD player—a Christmas gift from his parents, his reward for getting through another semester at Godfrey.

Fog took the joint from Sean’s hand. “Me first. Finder’s fee.”

He lit the joint and took a long drag, closing his eyes. Brendan studied his face: round and pale, his flabby lips glistening with saliva. He decided Fog wasn’t doing himself any favor with that crew cut. A face that ugly needed some hair.

“They make you cut your hair that way?” Brendan asked.

Fog exhaled. “What do you think? I do it because I like it?” He passed the joint to Sean.

“Chill out, man,” said Sean. “Hang on to that spliff. Have another hit.”

Brendan watched them pass the joint. By the time it got around to him, they’d have smoked it down to nothing, which was fine with him. He’d smoked marijuana twice before with Sean. Both times he’d gotten a wicked headache.

Sean went downstairs for more beers. Fog sucked deeply on the joint, then handed it to Brendan. He ran a hand across his head.

“Bullshit Nazi haircut,” he said. “I fucking hate it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Brendan lied. He took the joint. It was very moist, slobbery from Fog’s lips. Disgusting, but he took a hit anyway.

“What’s it like down there?” he asked. “Military school. They make you march and shit?”

“Hell yes they make you march.” Fog accepted a beer from Sean, who’d returned with an armload. “They make you call them sir. They practically tell you when you can piss.”

“Sounds like jail,” said Sean.

Brendan nodded, thinking of his father.

“Hey,” said Sean, reading his mind. “Tell Fog about your dad.”

Brendan flushed.

“Come on,” said Sean.

“What?” said Fog.

“It’s no big deal.” Brendan felt a strange gnawing in his stomach. The pot, he supposed.

“If you’re not going to tell him, I will.” Sean cracked open a beer. “Brendan’s dad is a fugitive. He’s wanted by the FBI.”

“What did he do?” said Fog.

“Real estate scam,” said Sean. “Screwed the government out of, like, millions.”

“No shit.” Fog stared at Brendan. “That’s fucking cool.”

Brendan stared into his beer, wishing he could be anywhere else.

B
Y TEN O’CLOCK
the beers were dwindling. Brendan had stopped at two; the pot was doing strange things to his stomach. Sean and Fog had plowed through a whole case; they’d gotten progressively louder and stupider. Sober, Brendan could barely stand them.

“Hey,” said Fog, reaching into his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He took out a tiny package wrapped in tinfoil, no bigger than a quarter.

“No way,” said Sean.

“Way.” Fog got up and disappeared into Sean’s bathroom. After much clunking and scraping, he came back with a round mirror, the kind for shaving in the shower.

“What are you doing?” said Brendan.

“Watch and learn.” Fog unfolded the foil package and emptied it onto the mirror, a small pile of white powder.

“Cocaine?” said Brendan.

“Bogota’s finest.” Fog reached for his wallet and took out the Florida driver’s license. He used the plastic card to cut the powder into three lines. Brendan remembered what his mother had told him about cocaine: you could have a heart attack and die. She’d known somebody who had, a guy she’d worked with at a restaurant a long time ago. He thought of his father lying in the hospital bed, the monitors attached to his heart. That’s all I need, he thought. To end up like him.

He got to his feet.

“What’s the matter?” said Sean.

“I have to go,” said Brendan.

T
HE NIGHT SKY
was clear; a few stray snowflakes glimmered under the street lamps. Brendan breathed deeply. He’d burned through an entire pack of cigarettes, more than he’d ever smoked in one night. His throat was raw, his nose felt stuffed with a wool sock; but the air was sharp and clean against his face. He felt better than he had in weeks.

“Where are you going?” Sean had demanded when he got up to leave.

“Home,” said Brendan.

“What?” said Fog, rubbing his nose. His eyes were very bright; he seemed to have sobered up immediately. “You have a curfew?”

“Yeah,” said Brendan, though it wasn’t true; he had permission to stay at Sean’s overnight.

“Your mom won’t care.” Fog leered. “I’ll bet she’s out ringing in the new year.”

“Shut your mouth,” said Brendan.

Now he shoved his hands into his pockets, glad, for once, that his mom had made him wear gloves. He’d chipped in for the beer and cigarettes; now he had just a dollar in his wallet—not enough for a taxi, even if he’d thought to call one. His house was miles away, but he didn’t care. If he had to, he’d walk all night.

Headlights behind him, the hum of an engine. Brendan turned. It was Sean’s Jeep.

“Hey,” Sean yelled out the window. “You can’t walk home. It’s freezing out.”

“I’m fine,” said Brendan.

Sean opened the passenger door. “Get in. I’ll take you.”

“You’re drunk,” said Brendan. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

“Come back to the house then.”

Brendan turned and kept walking. The Jeep followed slowly behind him. At the stop sign Sean slammed on the brakes; the Jeep slid on the ice. This is nuts, Brendan thought. He’s plastered. He’s going to run me over.

He stopped and turned. “All right,” he called out. “But I’m driving.”

Sean slid over into the passenger seat; Brendan took the wheel. Fear gripped his stomach. He’d only driven twice, both times during the day, with his mom, on quiet country roads. Driving Sean’s Jeep was something else.

He looked over at Sean, slumped in the seat. “Where’s Fog?”

“Back at the house,” said Sean. “He’s pissed.”

The motor idled. Just sitting in the driver’s seat made Brendan’s heart race. Suddenly he was in no hurry.

“Why do you hang out with that guy?” he asked. “He’s an asshole.”

“He’s my friend,” said Sean. “He’s fun.”

Brendan fastened his seat belt. “You used to do all that? The cocaine and stuff?”

“I only did it once,” said Sean.

Brendan glanced in the rearview mirror. The street was deserted; there was no point in waiting. “Here goes,” he said.

He shifted smoothly into first gear. Nothing to it, he thought. He drove to the end of the block, signaled and turned. The motor raced; he shifted carefully into second. The engine stalled.

“Shit,” he muttered. He turned the key and hit the gas, taking it easy on the clutch. The Jeep lurched forward, then stalled a second time.

“What are you doing?” said Sean.

“Shut up,” said Brendan.

Again he started the engine. In the rearview mirror, headlights appeared, a car turning the corner. In a moment the red and blue lights came on.

“Oh God,” said Brendan. “The cops.”

“I think I’m going to puke,” said Sean.

He scrabbled at the door and got it open just in time. The cop got out of his car and approached the Jeep.

“Everything all right here?” he said, shining a flashlight into Brendan’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” said Brendan, like Fog in military school. Beside him Sean retched loudly onto the sidewalk.

“Have you boys been drinking?”

“I had a beer a few hours ago,” said Brendan. There was no point in lying with Sean puking out the passenger door. He glanced at Sean. “He’s pretty wasted, though.”

“I can see that.” The cop looked closely at Brendan. “You seem all right.”

Yes,
Brendan thought: he was going to let them go.

“Please step out of the car,” said the cop. “But first, I need to see your license and registration.”

T
HEY LEFT
the Jeep by the side of the road. Brendan had passed the sobriety test, but there was still the underage drinking, the driving without a license. The cop wanted to speak with his parents.

They rode in the squad car to Brendan’s house. Sean huddled in a corner of the backseat, pale under the street lamps. “I want to go home,” he moaned until Brendan kicked him in the shins. Fog was still back at Sean’s house, with a half ounce of pot and a mirror dusted with cocaine. As much as Brendan disliked the guy, he wasn’t about to send a cop to the Guthries’ doorstep.

Brendan’s house was dark. The cop rang the doorbell. When no one came he let Brendan open the door with his key.

“Mom?” Brendan called, turning on the light.

“Are you sure she’s home?” said the cop.

“She must be.” Then Brendan opened the door that led to the garage and saw that her car was gone.

“What about your father?” said the cop.

“Gone,” said Brendan.

In the kitchen the telephone rang.

“I’ll have to take you down to the station,” said the cop.

A quick beep; the answering machine picked up.

“Dinah?” said a male voice. Static in the background; a mobile phone. “It’s Charlie. I just got off the highway near your house and—”

“Let me get that,” said Brendan, running for the phone. “It’s my brother.”

S
pring came late that year. March was as cold as winter; along the Potomac, disappointed tourists searched in vain for cherry blossoms. Then, in the first week of May, the world warmed overnight. By Memorial Day the heat had set in, the hazy skies of full summer.

Charlie stood on Dinah’s back porch, looking out over the yards of Falls Road, the manicured lawns the color of limes. Dinah’s grass was two inches higher than the neighbors’; yet her vegetable garden was carefully tended. More than a garden: she had planted a small farm. He recognized chard and butter lettuce, broccoli and cucumbers, row after row of peppers and tomatoes. Dinah and Jody sat at the picnic table chatting and laughing, stripping the husks from ears of corn.

He lifted the cover from the grill and poked at the coals. “What do you think? Are they hot enough?”

Dinah came over to the grill and looked.

“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll get the burgers. Wayne will be here any minute.” She gathered the corn into a paper bag and carried it into the kitchen.

“Wayne’s the boyfriend?” Jody asked. She’d become the summer
Jody, a transformation Charlie witnessed every year: red hair hidden beneath a hat, nose smeared with zinc oxide. He detected the sweet coconut aroma of sunscreen, a smell he’d always associated with his sister.

“Yep.” He’d met Wayne a few times; the guy was usually at the house when Charlie came to pick up Brendan. That spring Wayne had thrown a party for Dinah’s fortieth birthday; he’d bought her a used Rototiller for the garden. Charlie had never seen a woman so delighted by a gift.

“He’s a good guy,” said Charlie. He poked at the coals, feeling his sister’s stare.

“Do you ever think about him?” she asked.

“Who?” said Charlie, though he knew. For most of his life he’d thought of Ken Kimble every day: every time he spoke to his mother on the phone, every time he saw a jogger in the park. Now, strangely, the man rarely crossed his mind.

“Not much,” he admitted. “Do you?”

Jody shrugged. “At first I did. It was hard not to, with his picture in the papers. But lately I never think about it.” She glanced at her watch. “Russell was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Don’t remind me.” She fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette and came up empty. “Got any smokes?”

“Nope,” said Charlie. He hadn’t smoked in months; he and Brendan had made a pact to quit. They’d made a number of bargains since the night Brendan was stopped by the police. Brendan had agreed to stop smoking, to stay out of trouble at school; in return, Charlie would teach Brendan to drive. They’d gone out twice already, practiced three-point turns in empty parking lots. All the while Charlie thought of Curt Mabry, who’d taught him
the spring he turned sixteen; who wouldn’t let him take the driver’s test until he could back up for a mile straight, the whole length of the dirt road in Curt’s pickup truck.

“Have you talked to Mama lately?” he asked.

“I tried calling last night, and again this morning,” said Jody. “No answer. I don’t know where she could have been.”

“Maybe she has a boyfriend.” Charlie laughed. “Maybe she’s off on a romantic weekend.”

Jody giggled. “Can you imagine?” She reached for her sunscreen on the table and applied another coat to her nose.

“What about you?” she said. “Have you heard from Anne-Sophie?”

“Nope.” His chest still ached at the thought of her. It’s getting better, he told himself. He hoped it was true.

“She’s seeing someone else. Some French guy.” He poked at the coals. “In a few years I’ll be sending Christmas presents to her kids.”

“Oh, Charlie.” They both smiled. There was nothing else to say.

D
INAH SOAKED
the corn in milk and added a teaspoon of sugar, an old trick to make it sweet and tender. She glanced out the kitchen window. Wayne and Jody stood chatting at the grill; in the yard, Wayne’s dog stole a Frisbee from Brendan’s fingertips. Brendan had grown that spring; he was almost as tall as Charlie. He’d slimmed down, too: his pants were finally too baggy even for him, and he’d agreed to let Dinah buy him new ones. Once she’d actually persuaded him to play tennis with her; he’d moved a bit sluggishly, but his serve was strong.

At times he still confounded her, but she was learning how to handle him: when to insist, when to back off. The tennis, for example.
She’d hoped to make it a regular thing; but when she’d proposed a rematch, Brendan had balked. “Let it go,” Wayne advised her. “He’ll play when he’s ready.” A month later Brendan had approached Wayne for lessons. Now the two played once a week.

He was an independent boy; she understood that now. It was a quality she admired, one she hoped to acquire herself. She was forty years old, a woman making choices. That spring she’d launched a catering business; she was tired of spending Ken’s money. In Great Falls alone the potential was enormous: most of her neighbors used caterers several times a year. Wayne had helped her apply for a business license, shown her how to track expenses and revenue on Brendan’s computer. He’d offered to keep the books for her, but she was a grown woman. It was time she learned how the world worked.

She watched Brendan fling the Frisbee across the lawn, a powerful throw; lately he spent an hour a day throwing Frisbees to Wayne’s dog. Wayne joined them for dinner every night; afterward he and Dinah washed dishes while Brendan played with Buster. All through his childhood he’d begged for a dog, but Ken had claimed to be allergic. Dinah suspected a different reason. He’d always been vain about the house. Often she imagined Ken’s horror at hearing Buster’s toenails on the hardwood floors. The thought pleased her.

The house was messier these days, but it was the sort of clutter she liked: a basket of clean laundry near the back door, fresh from the clothesline; herbs growing in clay pots on the windowsill. Framed photographs decorated the front hallway; Charlie had given Brendan one of his old cameras, and they spent nearly every Saturday at his house in Baltimore, developing film in his darkroom. For the first time in years, Dinah’s house looked lived in, though she spent less time there than ever before. Most weekends she had catering jobs; it bothered her at first, taking the time away
from Brendan, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had plans of his own: he’d transferred to public school that spring and had a whole new group of friends. Dinah had resisted the idea of his changing schools, but both Wayne and Charlie thought it a good one. She’d been surprised to learn that Brendan had been miserable at Godfrey from the beginning. “He’s a good kid,” Charlie had told her. “All he needs is a fresh start.”

Since New Year’s Eve, Charlie had been Brendan’s hero. He’d appeared at the house within minutes, spoken with the cop, and stayed with Brendan until Dinah came home. At first she felt guilty—she’d been gone when Brendan needed her, off at Wayne’s house instead of at home waiting for her son—but Wayne had persuaded her that it was for the best. She’d have gone ballistic seeing a police car in the driveway, he’d pointed out, and that wouldn’t have done Brendan any good. Charlie, apparently, hadn’t gone ballistic; he’d convinced the officer to leave Brendan with him; then the two of them drove Sean Guthrie home. According to Brendan he never lost his cool, even when Sean threw up in his car. Brendan had gotten off with probation; Charlie had even gone to his trial. The perfect older brother, Dinah thought. His resemblance to Ken no longer spooked her; only occasionally, in profile, did she catch a glimpse of his father’s face.

She watched them race across the lawn, Ken Kimble’s two sons. They’d inherited his height, his thoughtful frown; they had the same laugh. Their father’s laugh; it had to be. Yet Dinah couldn’t say for sure. Married to Ken Kimble for fifteen years, she couldn’t recall hearing him laugh.

He was a deliberate man. For weeks after he left, she’d wandered around the house in a daze; then, one dark afternoon, she’d ransacked his closets, his home office, looking for proof that he’d
loved her. She found no letters, no photographs, no mementos saved in a sentimental moment; only canceled checks, bank statements, receipts for things he’d bought. These were the only traces he’d left behind, a history of luxuries purchased and consumed.

She searched her memory. Fifteen years of ordinary days, meals eaten, Sunday mornings with the newspaper, holidays come and gone. Surely there had been a day, a moment, when he’d revealed himself to her: his deepest self, his capacity for love. She recalled an evening many years ago, in Richmond, sitting in his car in her parents’ driveway.
Where did it come from?
he’d asked, touching the birthmark on her cheek.
You can get it taken care of someday. You’re a beautiful girl.
He’d had nothing to gain from her; his concern, as far as she could see, was pure. He’d loved her better, then, than he did later, when she was just another thing that belonged to him.

“Come and get ’em!” Wayne called from the porch. Next to him Jody piled the hamburgers on a plate.

Dinah drained the corn and carried the pot outside. Just then the telephone rang.

“Somebody get that,” she called. “I’ve got my hands full.”

Wayne ran into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him. In the yard Brendan and Charlie washed their hands at the garden hose. The dog nosed around the grill, panting loudly. Inside the house the ringing stopped.

Dinah piled the steaming corncobs on a plate. The table was loaded down with food; but for once she had not cooked too much. She had a large family, and everyone was hungry. The dishes circulated, Dinah to Jody to Charlie to Brendan. Then Wayne appeared in the doorway.

“Dinah,” he said. “It’s the Florida state police. They want to talk to you.”