Tell No Lies (41 page)

Mark eyed the bag slung over Jack's right shoulder. "Yeah, what's going on? Where's Claire?" He nodded to Michael and picked up Jamie and cuddled him.

Jack shook his head to indicate that it could wait. "You've got someone here, don't you?"

"Yeah. It's okay. She's in the kitchen."

"Why don't you two go downstairs and see what's new?" Jack suggested to the kids. He would never have allowed such a thing in the past. The endlessly growing and changing stash of toy samples in Mark's basement office was usually off-limits to the kids until they'd spent some time with Mark himself. But today was different.

"What's going on?" Mark repeated as he set Jamie on the ground to follow Michael.

"You're gonna have some house guests tonight, if you don't mind."

Mark cocked his head. Jack could see that he was already making guesses in his head. He motioned in the direction of the kitchen. "Can you get rid of her first?"

"I intend to. But give me a clue, will ya?"

Jack dropped his bag onto the floor. "There's been a major leak to the press in Jenny's case, and I'm trying to avoid the reporters."

"Why are
you
trying to avoid the reporters if the leak is about Jenny's case?"
 

Mark had more than an inkling. Jack waved again toward the kitchen. "Mark, please."

Mark's eyes drilled into him for a few moments more before he turned and walked to the back of the house.

The woman, dressed in a pumpkin turtleneck and black slacks, her wheat-and-honey hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck, smiled warmly at Jack from under the glow of a halogen lamp. She seemed out of place in Mark's cold, stainless kitchen.

"Of course I recognize him, Mark," she said, laughing, when they were introduced. "I voted for him." Her smile faded when they shook hands and she felt Jack's nervous trembling. Evidently sensing that he wasn't there for a simple social visit with his brother, she gathered the papers scattered on the table and shoved them quickly into a black briefcase.
 

Jack remained in the kitchen while Mark walked her to the front door. He sat down in her vacated chair and listened to their murmurs from the front hall. He couldn't hear their words but he knew the tone: intimate and easy.

All at once he became overwhelmed with the enormity of the mess he'd created. He rested his elbows on the table and let his head fall into the palms of his hands. What had he done?

"So you've moved on from accused murderers, huh?" Jack said when Mark returned to the kitchen and sat in the chair across from him.

Mark balanced the chair on its rear legs, rocking it back and forth gently. "For your information, she dumped me." He folded his arms across his chest. "So? You gonna let me in on why you're here?"

Jack picked up a crumb from the table and played with it between his thumb and forefinger.

"I think you probably already know."

"Tell me."

"I was with her, the night of the murder."

Mark leaned back and looked at the ceiling. He shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm her alibi."

"Aw, shit! What the fuck were you thinking?"

He flicked the crumb onto the floor and stared at the table in front of him.

"Jack!"

"I don't know!"

Mark glared at him and then abruptly stood and came around to Jack's side of the table. He slapped the back of Jack's head hard and hollered: "You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?" He yanked the refrigerator open violently, grabbed two bottles of beer in one hand, and slammed it shut. On his way back to his chair, he hit Jack's head again with the base of his palm. Jack winced—it was even harder this time—but he was grateful Mark hadn't used one of the bottles. "You don't mess around with someone who's not your wife and then say you don't know, goddammit!" Mark spoke low this time, hissing, Jack guessed, so the kids wouldn't hear.

Jack twisted the top off the beer Mark set in front of him. "It's not like you're thinking. I—"

"Oh my God, listen to yourself, will you? Isn't that what they all say?"

Jack felt himself getting defensive. "Who's 'they,' Mark?"

"'They'? 'They' are all the assholes like you who get married too soon and then discover they're not done wanting to screw other women."

"You don't know what you're talking about. I've been married over thirteen years and I've never wanted to 'screw other women,' as you say. Just because you want to do every female that passes you on the street doesn't mean I do."

"No, Jack, you just had one particular one in mind, didn't you? And then you try and tell yourself that somehow that should make it different. Did you try that excuse on Claire? No wonder she threw you out of the house. You're pathetic!"

"She threw me out of the house because there was a reporter waiting for me out front, just as Michael was coming home from school. We're trying to protect the kids."

"Oh, yes, and I'm sure that once the story breaks, she'll welcome you home with open arms."

Jack sighed.

Mark took a swig of his beer and regarded his brother coolly. The kids' shrieks rose from the stairwell. Jack thought of Michael again, and wondered what he was going to tell him.

"How long has it been going on?"

Jack walked to the window above the sink and looked out onto the barren patio in Mark's backyard. The wrought-iron table and chairs were still there, but the cushions and the umbrella that shaded the table in the summer were gone. Two large planters sat in each far corner, the remains of last season's annuals lying brown and frozen in the hard potting soil.

"You've probably ruined those planters. They'll crack when it thaws."

He turned and leaned against the sink. He looked into the neck of his beer bottle and took a long drink. Maybe if he got drunk, he could get through the rest of this day more easily. Maybe Mark had some bourbon in the house. He liked it better, and it would do the job more quickly.

"Jack."

Jack looked up at the sound of Mark's voice.

"What happened?"

Staring at the refrigerator on the other side of the kitchen, Jack suddenly realized why Mark's kitchen, and his entire house, for that matter, always seemed so cold. It was the lack of kid things. Despite Mark's business and the number of toys in the basement, the upstairs had no evidence of children. No pictures or poems graced the front of the refrigerator. No backpacks, sneakers or stuffed animals cluttered the floors.

"I was trying to tell you. It was just once. I realized it was wrong . . . and that would have been the end of it if Maxine Shepard hadn't been murdered."

Mark shook his head, not believing what Jack had said. "Something was going on last spring, Jack," he insisted, "at your house."

"No. Not like that."

Mark tilted his head, still skeptical.

"Look," Jack continued, "a few weeks before Claire invited you over to meet Jenny, we had been at an awards dinner—it was the night my boss said he was leaving. We all got a little drunk. Well, actually, Jenny got a lot drunk, and I ended up walking her to her car and eventually taking her home."

"Oh man, not drunk."

"No, no. That's not what happened." He paused, wondering how much to tell Mark. "She'd wanted me to dance at the bar, and I wouldn't. So when we got to her car, she asked again, and I just felt bad saying no again. So we danced, and, well, you know how it is when you're buzzed. We ended up kissing. But that was it. That was it, Mark. We stopped and I drove her home. That was it. I swear."

"You told Claire?"

"No."

"She knew something."

"Yeah, I guess. Maybe she just sensed we were getting too close."

"Hell, you'd have to be blind not to sense something was up between you two."

Jack shook his head. "It wasn't like that. We've always been friends. And we both agreed it'd been a mistake and we'd never mention it again. Nothing was 'up' between us."

"You're in denial, bro. Maybe nothing happened between that night last spring and the night of that lady's murder, but somehow you still ended up in bed with her."

Jack took another drink of his beer. Yeah, somehow he had, hadn't he?

"How'd Claire find out?" Mark asked.

This was the part he couldn't talk about. He could still see Claire's face through the glass door, her eyes hollow, drained of love.

"Did Jenny tell her?" Mark suggested.

"No!" Why did everyone think that? Jack could understand Earl's suspicions; Earl knew Jenny only as a woman who could get Jack in trouble. But Mark knew better. He knew her.

"Did
you
tell her?" Mark asked then, his voice incredulous.
 

Jack raised his hand to stop Mark's inquiries. He just didn't want to talk about it now.

"The leak?" Mark persisted, finally understanding the connection to what Jack had told him when he'd first arrived. Jack nodded.

"God, you've really fucked up this time." He stood, and Jack thought Mark was going to hit him again.

"Dad?" They both turned to see Michael standing in the wide doorway of the kitchen. His voice sounded younger than usual. Jack wondered how much of their discussion he'd heard. "There's nothing for me to do. It's all kid stuff downstairs."

Mark put his arm around Michael's shoulders. "Why don't we go outside and play some hoops?"
 

"No." He wriggled away. "I wanna go home, Dad. I don't want to stay here tonight."

If it had been Jamie, he could have gone over and hugged him, lifted him into his arms. But he couldn't do that with Michael. Michael was too old, too big. There was a distance between them now that Jack hadn't figured out how to bridge.

"Mark, I want to talk to Michael, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Mark's movements as he rinsed his bottle in the sink exuded forced cheer. "We have to eat, right? And I know I have nothing here to feed you guys. Why don't I take Jamie and go pick up some pizza for dinner?"

They both knew that pizza could be delivered. "That'd be great. Thanks." He tossed Mark his keys. "Take my car. You won't have to move the car seat, then."

Michael had come into the kitchen during their brief conversation. He sat on a barstool near the wall. They remained silent as Mark gathered up Jamie. They remained silent even after the front door slammed shut and a lonely quietness settled on the house. Jack took nervous swigs of the beer and then realized that Michael was probably thirsty, too.

"Do you want something to drink? We can see if he has some soda or something."

"Why can't we go home?"

Jack had the feeling that somehow Michael already knew everything and was just waiting to see if Jack would be honest. "The short answer is that—"

"I don't want the short answer. I want the real answer."

"Let me finish."

Michael nodded.

"The short answer is that a reporter was parked outside our house just before the bus came. He wanted to talk to me about Jenny's case, and we were afraid he'd try to talk to you." Michael shrugged his shoulders; he didn't care about this part of the explanation. "The long answer is that Mom is a little mad at me right now, and she wanted to be alone. I'm involved in the case in a way I shouldn't be, a way that upsets her. Okay? So we're here tonight. We'll go home tomorrow, and I'll talk to her. We'll work it out."

"What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"That you're involved in the case in a way you shouldn't be?"

"I'm probably going to be a witness."

"What do you mean, Dad?" His voice was shrill, desperate. It suddenly occurred to Jack that Michael might think his father had something to do with the murder. He clarified his explanation.

"A witness for Jenny. A witness who can explain to the judge that she didn't kill that lady."

"Why would that make Mom mad?" Had he told Michael that Claire was mad—or just upset? His ability to think straight weakened as Michael kept pressuring him for more explanation.

 "Michael" —Jack sighed— "I know that Jenny didn't kill that lady, couldn't have killed that lady, because I was with Jenny at her house at the same time the lady was killed. But Mom thought I was somewhere else. I was supposed to be somewhere else." Michael was staring hard at Jack, the way one stares at someone he thinks he knows, but isn't sure. "You know" —Jack thought of a comparison— "like when you tell Mom you're gonna be at Danny's house but instead you go to Kevin's." He waited, but when Michael didn't say anything, just looked at the floor, he added, "She gets upset, right?"
 

Michael mumbled something without looking up.

"What?" Jack asked.

"I said" —his head jerked up at Jack quickly— "yeah, but she still lets me come home!"

"Michael—"

"Stop talking to me like I'm five years old, like I'm stupid!" He began to cry.

Before Jack could respond, Michael stood and leaned over the center island. "You think I'm so stupid! She's your girlfriend. I know she's like your girlfriend."

"No, that's—"

"You're a liar!" He wiped his tears with the back of his hand; it reminded Jack of when he was a little boy. "Why can't you tell the truth? Why do you talk to me like I'm a little kid?"

"I have told you the truth," Jack said. He started around the island, unsure of what he'd do once he got to him.

"Get away from me!" Michael yelled when Jack approached. "You're a liar. I know you like her instead of Mom now." He edged farther away.

"Michael." Jack stretched and grabbed Michael by the arm, pulling him back. "That's wrong. I love Mom. I've always loved Mom and I always will." Michael wouldn't look at him, so Jack shook his arm. "Are you listening to me?" Michael kept crying, but Jack shook his arm again as if he could shake an answer out of him. "Answer me. Are you listening to me? Jenny's not my girlfriend. I love Mom." Michael tried to twist his arm away, but Jack grasped harder and shook it one more time. "Do you hear me? I love Mom."

"You're a jerk," Michael said, his eyes narrowed. "And I hate you."

Jack's hand went limp on Michael's arm and he let it fall from his grip. Michael ran out of the kitchen and left Jack standing there, stunned. At one time or another Jack had been told by his older son that he hated him. This was the first time he'd ever felt that Michael really meant it.