Mad Honey: A Novel (39 page)

“Objection!” Jordan roars.

The prosecutor looks at him. “Withdrawn,” she says. And she smiles.

SOMETIME BEFORE ASHER
was born, when Braden and I had moved to Boston, we decided to spend his day off at the Museum of Fine Arts. We wandered through the mummies and the John Singer Sargents, but I was drawn to the collection of Monets. There was something about the way impressionist paintings make sense from a distance, but not up close, that I felt in my bones.

It was a lovely, perfect day. Braden was funny and charming and wandered from gallery to gallery with me, holding my hand. When we studied Rodin’s
Psyche,
he whispered how much he liked my body better than hers. We sat in front of modern art and tried to decode it.

When we stepped outside, however, it was pouring. We had to run to the T station, and by the time we reached it everything was dampened—our clothing, our outing, our moods.
How did you not look up the weather before we left?
Braden yelled at me.
You should have brought an umbrella.
Can’t you ever do anything without it turning into a clusterfuck?

I bent like a willow in the strength of his storm. I knew better than to argue. Instead, I nodded when I thought it was appropriate. I apologized.

I caught the eye of a woman farther down the platform, who immediately turned away.

Braden picked at the soggy mess of his suede bomber jacket.
This is ruined, thanks to you.

When the train finally came, we climbed on. I sat down next to the woman who’d been watching me, and Braden took the seat across from us. He plucked at his drenched coat.
I hope you’re happy,
he huffed.

Beneath the folds of my own jacket, the woman beside me grasped my hand, and squeezed.

DURING A FIFTEEN-MINUTE
courtroom break, Jordan sequesters us in the private conference room that has become our refuge. I have to argue with him to let me go to the bathroom. Since my last trip there involved meeting Ava, he doesn’t want to take any chances, but I tell him I’m a big girl and can handle the odds. As it turns out, the ladies’ room is empty, but there is a line for the water fountain outside it. I wait for the man who is drinking to finish, and when he straightens I realize it’s Mike Newcomb.

“Olivia,” he says.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I reply, forcing a gust of false cheer through my words.

He wipes his mouth, still wet from the fountain, with the back of his hand, and then blushes at his own lack of manners. “Sorry,” he says, and I murmur something dismissive, and we do a little stilted do-si-do as he cedes his spot in front of the fountain to me.

Mike slides his hands into his pockets. “How are you doing?”

“I mean…,” I say, which is not an answer.

He angles his body so that he shelters me from the eyes of others passing by in the hallway. He smells like fresh laundry. “Has anyone else bothered you at home?” he asks. “Any more vandalism?”

“No,” I say.

“I, well, don’t have any leads yet,” Mike says. “About the barn.”

“Right. You probably have a lot on your plate.” He’s dressed down today—a collared shirt, jeans. He doesn’t look nearly as unapproachable as he did on the day he testified against Asher. “Are you here for the prosecution?”

He looks confused for a moment, and then a smile unspools across his face. It changes his features, and all of a sudden I can see the boy who fed me fried dough on prom night, so that I wouldn’t stain my dress. “Olivia,” he says. “I came here for
you
.”

He says goodbye, and I watch him walk down the hall. When I return to the private conference room, I realize I’ve completely forgotten to take a drink of water.

COACH LACROIX’S CONCESSION
to dressing the part of a witness is wearing his Adams High Hockey fleece vest. He gives Asher a sober nod as he settles into his seat, waiting for Jordan to begin his questioning.

“How do you know Asher Fields, Coach?” Jordan asks.

“Asher’s been playing hockey for me since he was nine. First on Peewee leagues, and now at the high school varsity level.”

“Do you know Asher as a student as well?”

“Well, yeah. In order to play on a varsity team, kids have to maintain a 3.0 GPA. Asher’s always well above that,” the coach says.

“Has he been on the varsity team for four years?”

“No, he was JV his freshman year, but he started on varsity as a sophomore, which is pretty incredible. Great talent.”

“What kind of teammate is Asher?” Jordan asks.

“A natural leader,” Coach Lacroix promptly replies. “He was voted captain when he was still a junior. First time in thirty years of coaching I’ve ever seen that. He would lead by example, but he also looked after the kids stuck on the bench. He collected underdogs, you know?” He smiles at Asher. “If I had a son, I’d want him to be like that kid.”

“Have you known Asher as a community member as well?”

“Yeah. During the summers, he’s a counselor at a hockey camp I run for elementary school kids,” the coach says. “He’s a hard worker, reliable, good with kids. It’s my understanding that Asher doesn’t have siblings, but you’d never know it from the way he works with little ones.”

“Can you give us an example?” Jordan asks.

“Every summer we get a couple of campers coming from the city, through the Fresh Air Fund. Great kids, but they don’t even know how to lace up a pair of skates. Asher took them under his wing without being asked to. He taught them to skate, and he looked out for them during free time, and he invited them to sit with the counselors—which is like winning the lottery, for any camper. When the kids went back to the city at the end of August, he didn’t just forget about them. He stayed in touch, listening to them when they were struggling, encouraging them to dream big—and to get out on the ice now and then. As far as I know, he’s still writing to them.” Coach Lacroix turns to the jury. “I’ve seen a lot of teenagers over the years—and I’ve seen a lot of Asher in the past ten years—and I can tell you, he’s a lot more mature than other guys his age.”

“Thank you,” Jordan says. “Nothing further.”

The prosecutor sits at her table, tapping a pen against an open
folder. “Isn’t it true that Asher Fields was involved in a bunch of fights while playing hockey?”

Coach Lacroix shrugs. “When you’re the best on the team, you get targeted by the opposing team. So yeah, he was involved in some scuffles.”

“Isn’t fighting in hockey a penalty that hurts the team?”

“Yes but—”

“So he let the team down because he couldn’t control his temper?” Gina asks.

“Objection,” Jordan calls out. “Relevance?”

The judge narrows her eyes. “Overruled.”

The prosecutor stands and repeats her questions. “Like I said,” Coach Lacroix answers, “he was usually targeted. He wasn’t fighting…he was fighting
back
.”

The prosecutor turns on her heel, as if the wind has changed direction. “I assume you’re familiar with the cheating scandal at Adams High last year, where a group of athletes masterminded a ring that included breaking into the math department offices, stealing an exam, having some A students create a key, and then dispersing the answers to others?”

“Yes.”

“I assume you are aware that it was the defendant’s idea that set the entire cheating scandal in motion…and that he subsequently lied about this?”

“I heard something to that effect.”

Jordan rises, his knuckles balanced on the table. “Your Honor, I object to the coach testifying to what he heard—”

“I’ll rephrase,” Gina says. “Asher was suspended and prohibited from playing on your hockey team for a month. Wasn’t the reason because he was implicated in this scandal?”

“Yes,” Coach Lacroix replies, “but look, the Asher I know…he’s a good kid. That stuff didn’t line up with the boy I know.”

Gina raises a brow. “Looks like there’s a lot of stuff people didn’t know about him.” She flicks a glance at Jordan, poised to object. “Nothing further.”

Judge Byers calls for a lunch break, but I have lost my appetite. Dr. Powers did more to validate Lily’s life than to clear Asher from being involved with her death; Coach Lacroix—the only witness who’s said kind words about Asher since this trial started—had his testimony pretzeled back to him in a way that made Asher look like a liar. I will be the next witness after we reconvene, and I’m already so nervous that I am shaking. I can’t imagine this day getting any worse.

Until we slip out of the courtroom and I come face-to-face with Braden.

“DAD?” ASHER SAYS,
his eyes wide.

“What are you doing here?” I ask bluntly, as Jordan steps forward to form a human wall with me, separating Braden from my son. Sweat trickles down my spine; I am both furious and frightened and I can’t sift one emotion from the other. To my consternation, my hand flies up to the nape of my neck, where my ponytail trails.
You should always wear your hair like this. You look so damn beautiful.

“What am I doing here?” Braden repeats, as if it is ridiculous to even ask the question. “I’m here for Asher. I would have come at the start of the trial, but I had surgeries that couldn’t be postponed.” He turns to Jordan, his eyes narrowing just the slightest bit. “Apparently I arrived just in time. Clearly, you need a better character witness.”

He exudes power and privilege, a superhero coming to save the day in his tailored suit. But you don’t get to be the hero of the story when you’re the villain.

“Are you volunteering for the job? Because there is no chance in hell that you will testify,” Jordan says flatly. I can feel fury rolling off his skin, and I realize this is the first time my brother has seen Braden since I told him the truth about my marriage. He looks like he wants to punch Braden.

I grab Braden’s arm and drag him into the conference room, with Jordan and Asher following. As soon as the door has closed, I turn on Braden. “Just because you paid Asher’s bail doesn’t mean you get to act like you have a relationship with him,” I hiss.

“This isn’t about the bail,” Braden argues. “And I
do
have a relationship with Asher. I was seeing him once a month, before he went to jail. But of course I didn’t
know
that. When he stopped answering my texts—”

The buzzing in my ears is so loud that for a second, I think I am going to pass out. “Oh,” Braden says quietly, glancing to Asher and then back to me. “You didn’t know.”

The prosecutor’s voice echoes through me.
You are aware that it was the defendant’s idea…and that he subsequently lied…?

“You do not belong in here,” Jordan says to Braden. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

A familiar expression settles over Braden’s face—one I remember from when he was angry and about to lash out, but then realized we were in public. His features smoothen, and he turns to Asher, folding him into an embrace. “I’ll be in the courtroom,” he says.

When Braden leaves, I sink down at the table and bury my face in my hands. “Uncle Jordan,” I hear Asher say. “Can I have a minute alone with my mom?”

I hear the door click shut behind my brother and when I look up, Asher is sitting beside me. “I didn’t know how to tell you that I was seeing him,” he says. “Remember when Uncle Jordan found texts on my phone to Ben Flanders? That wasn’t a guy on the hockey team. That’s Dad. I gave him a fake name, so you wouldn’t find out.”

Ben Flanders. Braden Fields
. “Why, Asher?” I ask.

He lifts a shoulder. “I wanted to know why I wasn’t part of his life.”

My gaze flies to his. “I was trying to
keep
you from being part of his life.”

“Yeah,” Asher says. “How come?”

I open my mouth to say the obvious: because he is the seed for every terrible thing, every potential abusive trait, that is being said about Asher in this courtroom. But instead, I press my lips together and shake my head.

“I know things were bad between you and him. But that was your relationship—not mine,” Asher says. “I wanted to find out for myself what he was like.”

You have no idea what he’s like,
I think. Braden would have made sure of that.

I force myself to speak evenly. “And did you?”

“We met at a restaurant, once a month, just over the Massachusetts border. He wanted to know everything about me. What I do for fun, what I study in school, where I was thinking of going to college. You wouldn’t have thought from the conversations that he was an awful father.”

I remember a time when Braden and I were dating, when I woke to find the entire bedroom filled with helium balloons. Braden had peeked around the corner of the door, grinning.
It’s not my birthday,
I told him.
That doesn’t mean,
he said,
that you don’t deserve it.

As fiercely as Braden loved me, he hurt me. If I had known that his love came at such a high price, would I have married him?

The answer is, sadly, yes. Even if someone is violent, or a liar; even if he breaks your heart every time you hand it to him—that doesn’t necessarily stop you from loving him. The two are not mutually exclusive.

Listening to the prosecution’s testimony has been a refresher course.

I look at Asher now. I wonder if Braden smiled at him across the table in that restaurant and recognized a kindred soul. I wonder if Asher’s curiosity in rekindling a relationship with Braden was to discover the source of parts of himself that he could not find in me.

Parts ignited by his relationship with Lily.

When I saw Asher with her, they seemed to be a happy couple.

But that’s what people saw when they looked at Braden and me, too.

“He has another family now,” Asher says, pulling me back.

“I know.”

“I was good enough for the blue plate special once a month, but he didn’t exactly invite me over to watch football with my half brothers on Sundays.” Asher lifts his face to mine. “I was going to stop meeting him,” he says.

I look at him, hard.
Are you telling me the truth?
I think.
Or are you telling me what you think I want to hear?