No Safe Place (26 page)

Kerry admired both husband and wife. A junior college
teacher, Carlie was smart in her own right, and she shared
Clayton’s unvarnished way of thinking and speaking. Clayton was a superior trial lawyer—systematic, thorough, and far-sighted, particularly good at complex cases. Kerry never saw him make an obvious error in judgment; it seemed that Clayton could understand any situation, no matter how complicated or novel. His sense of office politics was as sure as his reading of personality and motive; guided more by intuition and impulse, Kerry came to know the times he needed Clayton’s advice. When a large Newark law firm hired Clayton at twice his salary, Kerry was not surprised.

Though they enjoyed each other’s company and shared a common sense of irony, Kerry was far less certain of what Clayton admired in him. But it was not the kind of thing they talked much about. “At first,” Clayton once conceded, “I thought you were just another Irish primitive—you know, the kind of scrappy, narrow kid who likes a fight and can’t imagine anything outside his neighborhood and the Church. Then I saw how dumb that was.” But Kerry never asked
why
Clayton thought so much better of him, and Clayton never said.

They seldom discussed race. But the subject was all around them: the Irish were fleeing Vailsburg, and there was no question that the neighborhood was deteriorating, the sense of community fading too. Boarded-up homes of families Kerry had known for years became crack houses; there were tensions between blacks and whites; Mary Kilcannon, who kept their old house spotless, now complained of roaches in the kitchen.

“She wants to move,” Kerry told Clayton. “Doesn’t feel safe, she tells me.”

They were sitting in Vailsburg Park after a touch football game among some local lawyers; vainly diving to deflect the winning touchdown pass, Kerry had skinned his arm and now was using his Seton Hall sweatshirt to wipe dirt from the wound.

“
Is
she unsafe?” Clayton asked.

Touching his raw skin, Kerry winced. “Nothing’s ever happened to her. But she can’t understand what’s happened to Vailsburg.”

Clayton fell quiet. Then he drew a breath, saying with weary patience, “And if the Irish could get off the boat and turn their kids into lawyers and senators, why not ‘the blacks.’”

“Something like that.” Kerry paused and then added with reluctant candor, “I used to wonder too.”

Clayton gazed across the park. “When your parents showed up from Ireland,” he finally said, “they came to a community a lot like home—same culture, same church, same family structure, with friends or relatives waiting to give them jobs. Though I guess you could say African Americans had jobs waiting for them, too.”

The tone of quiet irony lingered. “I understand that,” Kerry said defensively. “Even if the first wave of Irish were pretty near the bottom of the barrel. But what about now?”

“Oh, no excuses. There’s work to do, and in these days there’s not going to be a lot of help. And the glowing example of the family Kilcannon is not a lot of help, either.” He turned to Kerry. “Prejudice against folks who look different is hardwired in the human brain. In ten years, maybe white kids will be imitating James Kilcannon like they used to imitate JFK. But I’m damned sure they won’t be imitating Jesse Jackson, or even Denzel Washington. You know it too.”

Kerry looked at him steadily, then at the neighborhood surrounding them. “Still, it’s a shame.”

“But not the only one,” Clayton said bluntly. “And for sure not the worst one. After all, your old friends are in the suburbs now, where no one can reach them.”

It was Kerry’s turn to be quiet. “I’ve never wanted to talk about this,” he said at last.

Clayton shrugged. “I don’t care if we talk about it—that’s part of the deal. I just want you to think about it.”

“I guess that’s part of the deal too,” Kerry answered, and stood. “Think Carlie’s got something I can rub on this arm? Your kids are always banging into walls.”

When Kerry and Meg were married, three days before Kerry’s twenty-ninth birthday, Clayton was best man.

After the wedding, Kerry put the top down on his VW Rabbit and, filled with elation, the anticipation of a new life, drove a smiling Meg to Manhattan for a four-day honeymoon.

The trip was a change of plans. For once, Kerry had taken his more worldly brother’s advice. “Florida’s where people go to die,” Jamie had told him. “Book a room at the Pierre, see some
plays, eat at a couple of nice restaurants with the money you’ll save on airfare. God knows that’s what
I’d
do with a certain woman if it wouldn’t cost me a hundred thousand votes.”

Still unmarried, James Kilcannon was embarked on a crosscountry tour, which would culminate, the media predicted, in an announcement that next year he would seek the presidency. Jamie’s rueful reference to the pitfalls of his romantic life—a rumored involvement with the beautiful rock singer Stacey Tarrant—made Kerry glad that his own life was private, his choices were his own. Gazing at the Manhattan skyline, Kerry took Meg’s hand and said, “There’s no one I’d trade places with.”

The room at the Pierre was small but tastefully appointed, with a view of Central Park. Drawing the drapes, Kerry turned to his wife, filled with wonder.

Gently, she kissed him. “Can we go out for a while?” she asked. “I’m still pretty wound up from the wedding.”

Kerry fought back disappointment; though they had slept together for a year, this would be special to them—their first love-making as husband and wife. But Meg, Kerry reflected, might have other memories, more painful. “We’ll go anywhere you want,” he told her. “There’s a whole night still ahead of us.”

They walked for over two hours—Kerry recalling the high points of their wedding, Meg admiring various unaffordable extravagances in Fifth Avenue store windows—and then found the restaurant Jamie had suggested, La Côte Basque. Amidst the colorful murals and muted elegance, Meg took his hand; savoring the ambience, the attentive service, she asked if they could linger for dessert, then for a glass of port to toast their wedding. By the time the check came, it was close to midnight, and the crowd had dwindled to the Kilcannons and a foursome finishing a long business dinner.

Wincing at the impact on his credit card, Kerry paid the bill, eager to be alone with Meg. But when they reached the Pierre, Meg glanced at the bar and asked if they might stop in for a brandy.
This
must be special to her, Kerry told himself, a memory unique to them, a fresh start for Meg herself—their first evening out as a married couple, the luxury and excitement of Manhattan. It was one o’clock before they
reached their room.

In the dim light of a bedside lamp, Meg began unpacking.

Kerry watched her find drawers or hangers for every garment. As Kerry undressed for bed, Meg disappeared into the bathroom.

For a half hour, Kerry waited, anxious and alone.

She emerged without speaking. When Kerry reached out for her, she slid into his arms, turning her back to him.

Tentative, Kerry kissed her neck and then was overcome by his own feelings. This was the start of their life together, the path to family and children, to a deeper understanding. Slowly, he slid the straps of Meg’s nightgown down her arms.

Her bare shoulders curled in. “I’m so tired,” she said.

Kerry’s arms tightened around her. “This is our wedding night, Meg. We can always sleep in.”

She did not answer. Gently, Kerry removed her nightgown. With what could have been a sigh or a shudder, Meg lay on her back.

For the next few moments, Kerry was possessed by his own emotions. He barely noticed that Meg opened her legs as if giving in to him, that her movements seemed less passionate than before. Caught up in the softness of his new wife’s skin, her breasts, her hair, he murmured, “I love you, Meg Kilcannon.”

Beneath him, Meg began to cry.

Kerry stiffened; the sudden knowledge of their separateness—her distress, his obtuseness—was like a slap in the face. “My God, Meg—what is it?”

She slid from beneath him, sitting on the side of the bed, her head bowed. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a muffled voice. “I should have known.”

Heart pounding, Kerry knelt beside her. “Sorry for what?”

She closed her eyes. “This room feels like a prison, Kerry. Please, let’s go home. Things will be better there.”

The next morning, confused and disbelieving, Kerry drove his wife to their new flat in Down Neck. Arriving, Meg picked up the phone and called a girlfriend from work, someone Kerry barely knew. Kerry stood in front of her until she hung up.

“We have to talk, Meg.”

Meg took a deep breath. “It’s not you, Kerry. Maybe it’s Pat. Maybe I’m afraid of being hurt again.”

Kerry felt a lump in his throat. “
I’m
your husband now,” he said. “Not Pat. Please, give us time.”

A week later, his spirits leaden, Kerry argued the Musso appeal before a three-judge panel. They listened to Kerry’s plea—that Judge Weinstein’s admonition was sufficient, that an eight-year-old boy should not be subjected to a second trial for a single blurted accusation—with an impassivity that gave no clue as to how they might rule. When Kerry arrived home, depressed and anxious to talk, there was a note on the dinner table. An old girlfriend was in town, Meg had written. She hoped the argument had gone well and couldn’t wait to hear about it.

In Kerry’s months of waiting for the Musso decision, his life with Meg became better but never quite what he had pictured.

He was watchful, attentive; their marriage sometimes seemed a matter of his sensing Meg’s shifting moods. But when he tried to confront their problems more openly, Meg would withdraw, hurt. Kerry felt her offer a tacit understanding: as long as they made love on weekend mornings, perhaps Kerry would be assured that their marriage was untroubled. On the good days, when Meg laughed with him, he felt happy and filled with hope. And sometimes she left notes in his briefcase, wishing him luck on a case or simply saying “I love you.” Sitting at his desk, Kerry would read the notes and smile.

At times Kerry wished that he could talk to Clayton about it. But the two couples were friends, and whether with the Slades or at parties, Meg was different—smiling, vivacious, eager to meet new people—from the woman Kerry sometimes saw. He felt a bewildering mix of pride, relief that others did not discern his own confusion, a buried resentment that Meg could switch personae so persuasively. Only Kerry suffered her withdrawals, or the long, silent weekends that came without warning, when she would stay in bed well into the afternoon. Only Kerry knew what she had told him about children.

They were in the kitchen, making dinner. Kerry had returned from a visit with John and Bridget Musso; proudly, John had showed him a model aircraft carrier he was building and asked Kerry to help him finish it. “Being with a kid is so amazing,” he
remarked to Meg. “For John, the only thing that mattered in the
world was finishing that ship together. After a while, it was all that mattered to me.”

Meg gave him a thoughtful look. “It’s nice you can have fun with him, even with all his problems. Did you ever think about joining Big Brothers?”

On the surface, her comment was benign; that they would have children had always been a given. But by now Kerry was alert to Meg’s defenses, her need for indirectness. “Oh,” he said with feigned nonchalance, “I’ve thought more about our own kids. When would you like to fit one in?”

Meg’s gaze lowered to the stovetop. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Not now.”

Kerry felt himself tense. But the subject was too important to drop. “Not now? Or not ever?”

Cornered, Meg looked at him. “You’re very traditional,” she said. “I’m not sure
what
I am anymore.”

The next morning, the court of appeals granted Anthony Musso a new trial and ordered his release from prison.

The morning of the second Musso trial was drizzly, bleak.

Kerry brought John and Bridget to court. For their protection, Kerry had persuaded Judge Weinstein to enjoin Anthony Musso from visiting their apartment or Bridget’s new place of work, the office of a small moving company. The week before, leaving work, Bridget had noticed Anthony waiting across the street, though he did not approach her. Bridget had not seen her husband since; John had not seen him at all. But the incident hardened Kerry’s resolve.

As they climbed the marble steps to the second floor of the courthouse, the dim light seeping through the ornate dome
reflected
the gloom outside. John Musso was quiet and pale. Kerry still remembered the moment he had explained that Anthony was free—the primal look of fear in this boy’s eyes, as eloquent as Bridget’s tears. At the door of the courtroom, Kerry took John’s hand. “One more time,” he promised, “and this will be over.”

Watching John gaze up at him, his mother brushed back the boy’s hair. “We know that,” she told Kerry. “You’ve always taken care of us.”

Kerry looked at them, mother and son, the woman sober now, the boy more trusting of her, less trapped within himself.
You’re so close,
Kerry thought.
If I can keep you safe this time …

He never finished the thought.

Anthony Musso walked toward them down the hallway, right hand in the pocket of his heavy woolen jacket. Only Kerry saw him; only Kerry had time to register his slow, tight-muscled walk, his heavy-lidded stare at the back of Bridget’s head, and to sense that Anthony had not come for a retrial.

No one else was near. From the corner of his eye, Kerry saw a sheriff’s deputy, drinking coffee and chatting with someone in the doorway of an office. Musso stopped. With calm deliberation, he drew a black handgun from his pocket.

Kerry could not move or speak.

The next seconds were slow motion, a series of impressions: Musso raising the gun. The utter quiet as he aimed at Bridget. Her lips parting as she saw the look on Kerry’s face. As the hollow pop sounded, John’s fingers twitched in Kerry’s hand.

Bridget’s head snapped forward.

Her eyes widened. Through the third eye in her forehead, blood and brains spattered Kerry’s face.