The Third Child (33 page)

That got his attention. He swung around to look at his VCR clock. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind. My lawyer tells me he thinks my case is
going to a grand jury soon. They’ve probably managed to extract enough data from my computer to get me into real trouble.”

“Oh, baby, you didn’t tell me. That’s terrifying.” She clutched his hand hard.

He put his arms around her and drew her down on the bed with him. “It sure is…. So your father got away with everything we uncovered?”

“He doesn’t seem to feel threatened any longer.”

“So he ought to be in a pretty good mood?”

“I think they’re both enjoying the holidays. More than we are, so far.”

His mouth moved over hers and he began to kiss her, passionately, fervently, as if drinking life itself from her. They kissed and kissed until she felt molten, all her bones turning to flaming jelly. She felt if anyone had been looking at them, they would have shone with a blinding light, would have left spots on any observer’s eyes. They were burning together. They fumbled out of their clothes and, for once, he let his drop on the floor. His hands fastened on her breasts, danced on her spine, slid between her legs teasing her, withdrawing, slipping back into the grove of her swollen labia. Finally when she was clawing at his back, they came together. She forgot everything in the rush of pleasure. Afterward she dozed for perhaps fifteen minutes. Then he was ready to start again. They were lost in each other, making love until they were sated and then showering in his own bathroom. Most males’ bathrooms she had been in—her old boyfriend Jonah’s, her brothers’—had been untidy, the basins littered with stubble from shaving, a smell of piss around the toilets. Not Blake’s. His bathroom smelled of verbena aftershave, of spicy soap. He took a clean towel from the closet for her. After they showered, rubbing soap into each other, lathering, joining again under the spray, she dried herself and reluctantly dressed. “I have to go.”

“We haven’t figured out what we’re going to do. Okay, sit down and draw me a picture of the layout of your house, floor by floor.” He pulled a tee shirt over his wet head and groped for his jeans on the floor.

“Why?”

“So I have a notion what I’m walking into.”

She thought it was silly, but she understood he was nervous about
finally meeting her parents as her lover, her husband. She drew diagrams as he asked.

He studied them, scratching his head with his nails. “Okay. Can you get me in the back door?”

“It opens onto a little parking area and then a street that’s really a big alley.”

“What’s the best time to catch your parents together, with a minimum of other people around?”

“Usually early evening. But it varies. What I can do is call you each day when I know my parents’ schedule. Say I call you at ten in the morning and give you the latest information. But I don’t understand what you’re planning.”

“Look, I’ve got to do something. They’re closing in on me. By now, they’ve probably reconstituted what I was doing on my computer—or they will have all they need very soon.” He was pacing the length of his room, from his long dresser with the posters and flyers of his father papering the wall above it to the windows with their blinds closed. Outside, it was growing dark. “You let me in. I throw myself on their mercy. Only after that, you tell them we’re married. Leave most of the talking to me.”

“Why should they help us?”

“To avoid scandal. Maybe they’ll try to buy me off. I have no idea—and you don’t either. So we’ll just wing it. It’s the only chance we have.”

“I wish we had a better plan. Maybe I should talk to them first.”

“No! Don’t give them time to put up their defenses. We’ll spring it on them and see if we can persuade them that the scandal is worse than what we did.” He stopped pacing and put his hands hard on her shoulders. “Don’t say anything. I can be eloquent. Just get me in there without announcing me, without warning them I’m coming, and let me talk to them. You stand by and keep quiet until I signal you to join in. Okay? Agreed?”

“Why do you think you can get through to them if I can’t?”

“You’re their daughter. They have you pigeonholed. They don’t know me. I have a chance of getting through. If it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we are now, right?”

“I guess so,” she said, although she really wasn’t sure that was so. Now her parents had no idea of their relationship.

He stared into her face. “Are you sure that what we did, what we revealed has had no consequences? Are you sure of that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He’s flying high. Why does it matter now?”

He sat on the bed’s edge to pull on his socks and his boots. “Because if there are consequences, if his career is in jeopardy, if there is any chance of prosecution or even just political fallout, he’ll be less apt to hear us out, right?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s roll.” He grabbed his jacket. “I’ve got to take you home. I think we can risk dropping you at your corner this time. And stay in touch. We’ll talk every morning. Every afternoon. Every evening.”

“I’m scared of telling them, you know. But in a way, it will be a relief.”

“It’ll be something, anyhow.” He smiled thinly. “It will be some kind of a change.”

M
elissa was having trouble sleeping. She would fall asleep all right, but then at two or three a.m. she would come bolt awake and her mind would begin to churn. She simply could not make herself stop thinking about what was going to happen with Blake and her parents. It felt hopeless. His plan was weak and unlikely to prove effective, but she could not come up with anything better.

Several times she resolved to break her agreement with Blake and talk to them, but each time she faced them, she could not imagine the words that would make them understand. What she had done was foreign to them. How to make them comprehend that marrying Blake had not been an act aimed at them but something she passionately wanted; that she had married him not out of defiance but with love. They might not care about her motives. Would her love for Blake weigh more than a feather with them? Ultimately, she lacked the courage to take them on by herself. She submitted to Blake’s wish that she remain silent, because doing nothing was easier than approaching her parents. If only Blake and she had not gotten involved in that stupid attempt to discredit her father, then their marriage would not seem, perhaps, such an attack.

Still every night she woke and played out endless scenarios in her head; none came out the way she wanted. Even in her imagination, she could not force her parents to acquiesce. They remained adamant and punitive. No matter how she pleaded and how she imagined Blake pleading with them, she could not believe in a happy ending. It was only a question of whether Blake went to jail alone or whether their anger would prove stronger than their fear of scandal. Perhaps if she agreed to have the marriage annulled, they would not prosecute Blake. That was the only bar-
gaining chip she could imagine producing. However, she would not share that idea with him. She would keep it in reserve for the time right after his best efforts deflated.

In the livingroom stood a bushy Douglas fir Alison had bought and erected. They had trimmed it on the obligatory home evening, with Alison taking photos for publicity and next year’s Christmas cards; she had finished sending off the six thousand and fifty-second card the previous weekend. The chairman of the state party dropped by. “I still think you should have a dog. You could borrow one for the shoot.”

“No dogs,” Rosemary said with a sweet smile. “The children are all allergic.”

The vacation crept along like a slug leaving a slime trail of fear, of deceit, of constant anxiety.

“You’re not eating,” Alison said.

They were at supper on Christmas Eve. A supporter had sent Dick a pheasant, and the caterers had agreed to prepare it. Melissa wouldn’t have been excited about eating a pheasant any time, but she simply did not want anything tonight. Why did Alison notice everything? Rosemary hadn’t observed her lack of appetite. “I’m on a diet.”

Rosemary turned to her. “That’s an excellent idea, but it is the holidays. You could eat less than usual, but have a bite of everything. I find that works beautifully. You just taste a forkful or two and then put the fork down. That way you don’t feel deprived, but you definitely see results.”

Rosemary always thought there was too much of Melissa. Melissa used to worry about her size, but Blake liked her body just the way it was. Still, her appetite shrank as her anxiety grew. She chewed each bite over and over until, when she tried to swallow, it stuck in her throat like a stone. No matter how little she ate, the food turned to a brick in her stomach. All she wanted was water. Her thirst was endless. She kept refilling her water glass from the silver carafe frosted with condensation. How cool it felt in her hand. She longed to roll it against her forehead.

Her parents were euphoric. They had been invited to a party at the house of a CEO in pharmaceuticals, a possible backer. Rosemary and Ali
son were researching his family, his wife’s habits, everything they could learn. Rosemary was feeding Dick information about the needs of the pharmaceutical industry, the kind of legislation that benefited them, the kind they feared, the kind they desired but had not yet managed to buy. Dick would be well prepared. He could learn his lines quickly. He would have been an excellent actor, she thought, except that he played only himself—but himself with a difference depending on the company. He would shape his approach, his manner, his ideas, his likes and dislikes to fit the contours of the backer he was wooing. All her life since she had been old enough to overhear, to eavesdrop, she had wondered at her father’s ability to remain Dick and yet alter his coloration, his tone, his demeanor, his opinions to suit the occasion.

Every day, Blake and she spoke or e-mailed several times. Blake was asking for an optimum time for his surprise appearance, and always she had to explain that there were too many people around. Finally on Christmas, she saw an opening. Her parents were going to a cocktail party, a formal dinner and then they would drop in to the local Republican soiree. But nothing was scheduled before five. Merilee was meeting a colleague from the Law Review. Billy was going to watch a game at the house of a friend who had a giant wall TV—something Billy had been lobbying for all vacation with no perceptible results. Her parents scarcely watched network television; they were not about to give over a wall to it. All they ever had on was omnipresent CNN or an occasional football game.

“Can you get away?” She sat in the bathroom running water to cover her voice.

“Sure. No problem.”

“Si and Nadine won’t mind if you disappear for a couple of hours?”

“Remember, it’s no holiday here. Nadine’s working on a brief. Si’s on the phone with a client who just got busted. He’ll probably have to go down to the station. Business as usual. They won’t miss me.”

“Then come to the back door at two. I think that’s the best time. Everybody but Rosemary and Dick should be out of the house.”

“Let’s synchronize our watches.” He was playing spy again. He did sound lighter, less banked in with anxiety.

“I have eleven twenty…seven?” She looked at her new watch, that Rich and Laura had given her. It was fancy, all silver, but it had no numerals, making it hard to read.

“You’re fast, but I’ll change my watch to match yours, so we both know the time you have to slip down and let me in.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to talk with them first? Prepare them?”

“Absolutely not. You’re just as surprised as they are to see me…. Things are still upbeat there? Everybody wearing a happy face and letting the money drop in their laps?”

“They’re in a good mood. Dick gave my mother diamond earrings for Christmas. He even gave Alison a gold necklace. They must feel flush and up.”

“Does Alison actually live there?”

“She sleeps in her office. She has a daybed.”

“Is she going to be around?”

“She’s out now. I think she went to church. Blake, it doesn’t really matter if she’s in the house. She’ll be up in her office diddling around with her computer. She would never interfere. Never!”

“I’d rather they be alone.”

“She’s Mother’s shadow, but I don’t see why she matters.”

“Don’t be superelitist. She may be your mother’s lackey, but she is a person.”

“If you say so. I’ve never been convinced.”

“Is there any time you can think of when she wouldn’t be there, when your parents would be all alone? Except for you, I mean.”

“Maybe if she got hit by a truck or developed appendicitis. Not otherwise.”

She heard him sigh. He was silent then for what felt like forever before he said, “Okay, we’ll proceed. I’ll be there at two sharp.”

“See you…. And bring your best luck. We’re going to need it.”

“I think we ran out of that a while back, babes.”

She wished she could throw herself on her bed and sleep until just before two. With so few people in the house, they did not eat a formal lunch, just grazed. There were plenty of leftovers, and Rosemary would
scarcely eat, with so many dinners to attend during the holidays. Rosemary would always say in public when complimented on her slender figure that it must just be genetic, that she never went on a diet. That was true. Her normal eating was confined to such small quantities, it wouldn’t put fat on a Chihuahua.

They gathered briefly in the kitchen, standing around nibbling a cucumber (Rosemary), a roast beef sandwich (Dick) and yogurt (Melissa), then wandering off. Her parents had spent the morning in their bathrobes, but just before what passed for lunch, they dressed. She guessed it was in case someone should unexpectedly drop in—as was going to happen, if all went well. Dick was in cashmere sweats. Not that Rosemary was wearing jeans or sweats; her casual was a wool jumper over a silk shirt, with only stud earrings, a designer scarf at her throat. The girls she had gone to Miss Porter’s with would have identified the designer in thirty seconds, but she had never cared. If Alison did not take her shopping and buy her straight preppy gear, then she went with Emily, who always knew what was cool. Oddly enough, Rosemary, who cared passionately about the impression she presented, never did her own shopping—unless she was hanging around a boutique to meet some senator’s wife she wanted to befriend.

Rosemary and Dick had retired, presumably to make love, right after lunch. Melissa became increasingly worried that Blake would come and they would still be closeted. Fortunately, Dick wanted to watch the Eagles. By one thirty, he was lying on the sofa facing the TV and Rosemary curled up in a facing chair. She was reading an apologia on Kissinger, a thick tome she had been carting around the house. Rosemary had the ability to read through anything. Her grandma had told her, not in admiring tones, that Rosemary could be reading and her baby crying right at her elbow, and she would not hear. Whenever she turned a page, she glanced at the TV so that she could partake of enough of the game to be able to answer Dick’s comments on the loutishness of the opposing quarterback, the stupidity of the coach, the ineptness of the wide receiver. Melissa had never been able to figure out if her mother liked sports or simply endured televised games as she would a society function with people who bored her.

Melissa had put on a blouse she felt sure her mother would approve of, a plaid skirt, nylons, flats. She was creating the image of the proper schoolgirl, although once the revelations commenced, that wasn’t going to help. She had brushed her hair until it glinted. She put on lipstick and light makeup. She examined her teeth and gave them a brush. Then she went downstairs and took a seat as if to watch the game. She observed the score and thirty seconds later could not remember it. Her brain felt scrambled. Her hands were clammy. Her stomach ached with apprehension. She stared into her own lap. How many colors were actually in the plaid? Navy, dark green, a skinny thread of yellow…

Alison appeared in the hall shedding her coat, looking in on her parents. Damn it! Why did she have to come back so soon? Didn’t she have any friends? Alison did not bother to pretend interest in the game but asked Rosemary how she was finding the biography. Rosemary said it was fascinating and she would lend it to Alison as soon as she finished it, for there was much to learn from the career of a great man. She compared him to Richelieu. Alison nodded. Melissa wondered if Alison knew who Richelieu was; she certainly didn’t. Finally Alison climbed the steps to her office-bedroom. Melissa heard the door shut. Good. Now if Alison would only stay out of the way.

At five to two, Melissa got to her feet and slipped out of the room. Dick’s gaze was fixed on the TV. Rosemary was deep in her book. Neither of them glanced at her as she went into the kitchen. As silently as she could, she crept down the narrow back staircase. Below was the small dank basement she liked to imagine held a corpse buried under the floor. A skeleton from 1812, say. She unlocked the door and carefully, an inch at a time so they would not overhear, opened it and then the storm door. Blake was not in the yard. Her precautions were silly, since the roar of the crowd and the excited monologue of the announcer would have drowned out almost anything she did, short of clog dancing. She was almost relieved the yard was empty. She hoped Blake had abandoned his feeble scheme. Still, she slipped the bolt of the lock so it would not shut her out and walked into the small yard, paved over for parking, and glanced up and down the alley. She clutched her elbows against the cold.
The row houses were similar, almost matching on the street out front, but in back they were eccentric and individual. One had a tiny backyard where a dog was chained. Another had a makeshift garage. Some yards, like this one, were paved over. One house had a funny sort of caboose sticking out to the alley. A couple of yards, had been turned into miniature gardens or play areas.

She stood in the cold, almost enjoying it. It was above freezing today, barely. The ice against the house had not melted, but on the two cars it evaporated in the faint sun that trickled over the high slanted rooftops of the town houses in the block behind them. The sun was pale and watery, reminding her of food service custard. She wished Blake would call her. Her cell phone was turned on in her pocket. She was pecking out his number when she heard a motorcycle in the alley. She took a few uncertain steps forward. She did not see anyone until Blake climbed the alley fence and dropped into the yard.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

“Why? I’m on time.”

She looked at her stupid watch again. He wasn’t late enough to make an issue of; she was just nervous. “I’m scared. What should I say?”

“Just let me do the talking.”

Slowly she walked up the steps to the kitchen. In her mind was an image from some movie, maybe a Western, of some guy mounting a platform to be hanged by the neck until dead. Why couldn’t she just turn and run? Why couldn’t she get on the back of his motorcycle and they would take off for parts unknown? Who would finally care? She would disappear. In a few years, she’d get in touch. They could make a living, somehow. Probably Si and Nadine would forgive them and send money. She turned back toward him at the head of the steps, but he was already looking past her. His face was set, a grim mask of hardened intent. Maybe if it didn’t work, and it wouldn’t, they could take off at once while her parents were still stunned. But was Rosemary ever stunned into inaction?