Burying Ben (22 page)

Authors: Ellen Kirschman

Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller

BOOK: Burying Ben

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“
W
hat do I do in the
m
eanti
m
e?
I’ve
been off work for three weeks.”

“I’m
sure I don’t know. My job is to protect the public from
unethical and inco
m
petent psychologists. Not to protect psychologists
from
the
i
r clients.”

She opens the door and walks out. Her heels
m
ake tiny triumphant drumbeats down the hall.

Chapter Twenty Four

The summer heat is unrelenting. So is
m
y
a
nxiety. I can’t sta
n
d waiting f
o
r so
m
ething to happen. There’s no word from
Baxter or t
h
e Board of Psychology. My wo
m
en friends try to cheer
m
e up and it works, but only when
we’re together, which usually involves food and several bottles of good wine. I make exc
u
ses to avoid
m
y mother and her abrasive opti
m
i
s
m
. There are plenty of things I shou
l
d be doing. I should call Frank and take him to dinner as pro
m
ised. I should check in with
Mr. and Mrs.
G
o
m
ez. I should use this ti
m
e to unpack the boxes sitting in
m
y garage or pla
n
t flowers in
m
y
yard. But the only thing I’m
capable of is worry and
scaring myself to death.

I drive to where the Patchers live.
T
his
is crazy, but it’s b
e
tter than being penned up at ho
m
e while other people decide
m
y fat
e
. I look at
m
y watch. Vinnie Patcher will still be at work. I think Belle knows so
m
ething that’s she’s afraid to tell
m
e. Ms. Hudson
m
ade it clear that I’m
not to contact the co
m
plainant, but she said nothing about talking to the co
m
plainant’s
m
other. So what if
Vinnie Patcher throws
a
nother tantru
m
?
There isn’t
m
uch else he can do to
m
e, short of physical violence. My father’s
voice
rises
in
m
y ear, “Never back down from
a bully, baby g
i
rl. Stand up for yourself. Because if you don’t, nobody else will.”

The guardhouse is e
m
pty and the gate to
the co
m
plex hangs open. I drive into the Patchers’ cul-de-sac and park diagonally acr
o
ss the street from their house with the nose of
m
y car facing toward the freeway.
The Pat
c
hers’ garage door is up a
n
d there is a
s
m
all white car in the drive
w
ay. All its doors are o
p
en and the trunk is a ju
m
ble of boxes and black plastic bags. April is rushing in and out of the garage, throwing bundles of clothes into t
h
e car. Her face is flushed and sweaty. She moves awkwardly, as though tryi
n
g to walk around her protruding sto
m
ach. Long da
m
p strands of hair
k
eep falling over her face. She is wearing ru
b
ber flip-flo
p
s, shorts and
a slee
v
ele
s
s
m
aternity t
o
p. Her bare ar
m
s and legs are pink from
the sun.

A car screeches past
m
e and turns into
the d
r
iveway, co
m
ing to a halt with
its nose on the rear fender of April’s car. The s
m
ell of burning rubber singes the air. Patcher ju
m
ps out, grabs the keys from
the ignition of
April’s car and stuffs them
i
n his pocket. His face is cri
m
son. He pounds on the car roof.
April screa
m
s at h
i
m
. He screa
m
s back. She pulls open the passenger door, grabs her
purse, and strides down the driveway, her face fixed with sa
v
age
d
eter
m
inatio
n
. Patcher
s
t
arts after her as Belle b
u
rsts out of t
h
e front door with her wobbly run, grabs his ar
m
, and holds him
back. He looks from
m
o
t
her to daughter in a fury of indecision.

I start
m
y car. In a
m
o
m
e
nt I am
next to April shouting at her to get in. Tears and sweat
m
i
x on her face. Her sandals are slapp
i
ng again
s
t the
s
corching
pa
ve
m
ent. I slow the car. She tu
m
bles through t
h
e passenger door and collapses on the seat. Patcher is on us in a flash, charging up the street, yell
i
ng at the top of his l
u
ngs, his wife lu
m
bering behind. I lock the doors. He races past
us toward the open gate. I slow down.

“Keep going,” April shouts, “Run the fuc
k
er over.”

She leans
toward the steering wheel and mashes her foot on top of
m
i
ne pushing the accelerator pedal to the floor. There is a thud. Patcher spins off the hood of
m
y car into the bushes and bounces to his feet like a trained gy
m
nast, screa
m
ing in rage. I can see him
in
m
y rear view
m
irror, bent double, sweat running off h
i
m
in rivulets.

“Are you crazy?
You just tried to kill your father.”

“So what. He had it coming.” She is gasping for breath. Her hands pressed against her belly.

I pull out into the
street.

“Where are
w
e goin
g
?” she asks.

“To jail.”

“No way. He won’t do anything against
m
e.”

“Then to the nearest wo
m
en’s shelter.”

“No. He knows where all the shelters are. Your house. Take me to your house.”

“My house?” A siren keens behind
m
e. “I could lose
m
y license. You filed a co
m
plaint against
m
e. I’m not even supposed to
talk to you.”

There is a self-serve car wash on the opposite side of the road. I turn
abruptly in front of
the ongoing traffic and aim
for an empty stall, my tires sq
u
ealing. As I pull in, a police car speeds
b
y, heading for the free
w
ay entrance. We sit in
s
i
lence, liste
n
ing to each other’s labored breathing.

“He
m
ade me
f
ile the c
o
mplaint. I
di
dn’t want to
.
”

“Just now, where were you planning to go
?
”

“To get
m
y own apartment.”

“You and Ben didn’t have your own apart
m
ent?”

“
W
e couldn’t afford first and last month’s rent.”

“How are you going to a
f
ford it now?”

“I don’t know.” She starts to cry. “I can’t stay there any
m
ore.”

“Don’t you have any friends or fa
m
i
ly you could stay with?”

“No.” She shakes her head spraying
droplets of sweat and tears across the dashboard.

“
W
ell you can’t stay with
m
e.”

She pushes open the door. “Then I’ll kill
m
yself. Like Ben did.“

She grabs her purse and starts running toward the busy stree
t
. I’m pretty sure a suicidal wo
m
an doesn’t need her purse when she throws herself in front of a car, but I’m not so sure I understand any
m
ore who is or isn’t going to kill the
m
s
e
lves. I don’t want to be wrong again. I lean on the horn and gesture for her to g
e
t back in the
car.

My phone is
unlisted and
m
y only published address is
m
y office. Still, I
k
now it won’t take Patcher long to find
m
y house. April is sullen on the way to my house, her fist to her
m
outh like a child.

“One night,” I say, “you can stay
h
ere one night because it’s late. To
m
orrow you’re going to a shelter.”

I heat so
m
e cann
e
d soup in the
m
i
crowave and we sit side by side at the kitchen count
e
r, eating in silence.

“Any dessert
?
” she asks.

We
m
ove into the living room
with sep
a
rate bowls of popcorn. It is her favorite food in the whole world, although lately
it has been giving her indigestion.

“
W
hat happened back there with your father?”

“He wants to control
m
y
whole life. Thinks because I’m
pregnant, I should stay ho
m
e all the ti
m
e and not go out with
m
y friends.”

“I thought you said you don
’
t have any friends.”

“How can I
m
ake friends sitting ho
m
e?
I’m
lonely.” Her eyes gloss with tears. “Either
m
y
parents are
n
’t talking to each other
o
r they’re fi
g
hting. My
m
other ne
v
er goes anywhere or does anything. Just looks at
m
e and cries.”