Racing the Devil (22 page)

“Yuck,” Caitlin said, grimacing. “He spit all over it. I don’t want a piece from that side.”

“Hush,” her mother scolded, as Paulie’s smile dissolved. “Paulie, you did just fine.”

“I don’t want any cake, period,” Josh said. “You guys are just like Marie Antoinette. Let them eat cake, she said. And all the time, the people are starving.”

“Josh, don’t.” Wendy laid a hand on her son’s arm. He jerked away. She pretended not to be upset. “Your father is the foreman of a construction company. I’m a kindergarten teacher. That hardly makes us members of an oppressive upper class.”

“My life sucks,” said Josh, and laid his head down on his arms. His black hair splayed over the shoulders of his black turtleneck.

Maria said, “You’d feel better if you weren’t dressed for Siberia. If you’d go put on a T-shirt, you might not feel so cranky.”

His head jerked up, eyes blazing. “I am
not
cranky!” He swung his legs over the picnic bench and stalked down to the boat dock.

“Kids,” Wendy said. “I hope he gets out of this phase soon.”

“If he talks to you like that again,” Randall said, “he may not live to.”

I wondered if Josh was under the influence of some mind-altering drug. People talk about the sixties, but what they had back then was like candy compared to what’s out there today. But no, his eyes were clear, his pupils normal. He wasn’t impaired, just pissed.

“Me make wish,” Paulie said, proudly.

“I made a wish,” Maria corrected. “What did you wish for, honey?”

Paulie’s grin was almost as wide as his head. “Cake!”

After the presents, I played a few songs on my guitar, and everybody sang, sans Josh, whose life was apparently majorly sucking.

Maria slipped among the guests, camera whirring, saving moments for posterity.

“I think it’s gone well, don’t you?” she asked, as I was putting my guitar back into its case. It’s a 1956 Martin, not too pretty to look at, but with a sound like a million bucks. “I’m glad you and Randall came. I know it was a little awkward.”

I laughed. A little awkward was an understatement. But Maria wants everyone to live in peace and harmony—her married to D.W., and me a part of things like one of the family. A brother, perhaps, or a very close cousin. It didn’t seem quite fair to D.W. or to me, but both of us were willing to give it a shot if it would make her happy. I was surprised to find that I resented it, especially since it was probably the best thing we could do for Paul.

“Was it too terrible?” she asked. “You seemed to be having a nice time.”

“It was all right,” I said. “It will be easier next time.”

She smiled her relief. “I think so too.”

I snapped the clasps shut on my guitar case. “So, what’s this really important thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

She leaned against the table, arms crossed in front of her like a shield. She shifted from one foot to the other, uncrossed her arms, pulled her ponytail to the front and twisted a section of hair between her fingers. I knew it would find its way into her mouth before long.

“You’re moving to Australia,” I guessed. “You’ve been asked to go on the next space shuttle mission to take pictures of space aliens. You’ve signed up for a sex change operation.”

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

And I said, “Oh.”

“It changes things, doesn’t it?” she asked, her voice small. “I’ve been thinking and thinking of how to tell you.” “ ‘I’m pregnant’ was okay.”

“Too blunt? I know. I’ve rehearsed this a thousand times, and then when the time actually comes, I mess it up.”

“It’s all right. What do you mean, it changes things?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes welled. “It’s like . . . I’ve really lost you.”

My head felt suddenly light. “You didn’t lose me. You—” “I know. Threw you away.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped at her nose. “But you were still there. You know, for Paul, and for me too, in a way. I know it’s selfish, but . . . I always felt like you were still mine. I was so jealous of that Ashleigh woman.”

“You never had to be jealous of her.”

“I know I have no right to feel this way.”

“I’m still here,” I said. “For Paul, and for you. You know that. Nothing’s changed.”

“But this baby.” She drew a deep, quivering breath. “It means it’s really over. Our marriage. Us.”

“Maria,” I said, as gently as I could, “it was over with us when you married D.W.”

“I know. But it didn’t feel over.”

I tried to gather a few coherent thoughts. “Are you saying you don’t want the baby? That it was an accident? Or that you want us to be back together?”

“No. Not . . . No.” Tears spilled down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. “I can’t live like that, never knowing when they might bring you home in a body bag.”

“They don’t bring you home,” I said. “They take you to the morgue.”

“You know what I mean.” She stretched out a hand, touched her fingertips to the place where the arrow wound had been.

“Maria, I have no idea what you mean.”

“The last time you got hurt, I thought you were going to die. And then I thought
I
was going to die. But now, you come home late, and I don’t have to worry because I don’t know about it. I can pretend you’re safe at home.”

“I would have quit,” I said. “I could have joined a construction crew, learned to make cabinets, tried to sell insurance. I didn’t have to be a cop.”

“It’s not about being a cop. It’s about who you are. How every time we pass a convenience store, you scope the place for robbers. How we walk down the street and you’re looking for muggings or drug deals, or God knows what. And what happens when you see one? I love you, Jared, but I’m not strong enough to live with that.”

“I can handle myself.”

“So could your father, and look what happened to him.” She touched my chest again. “You’re a hero waiting for a place to happen. That doesn’t change just because you turn in a badge.”

“So now you’ve got Safe. Everything should be hunky-dory, but it isn’t. What’s bothering you?”

“I’m afraid of what it will mean for us. You and Paul and me. Do you take just Paul on weekends? Are you going to be Uncle Jared to our baby? Or just that man who picks up Paulie? Will Paul be jealous of the baby? Will the baby feel left out because Paul gets to go with you?”

“What are you asking me? To take D.W.’s child on weekends too?”

“I don’t know. Not right away, of course. But maybe when it’s older, if you want to. If you like him. Or her.”

One big happy family. Right. “What does D.W. think of this idea?”

“He says it’s all right with him if it doesn’t bother you. He says he gets to have your child five days a week and every other weekend, so you might as well get to spend some time with his, if you want to.”

“D.W. said that?”

“Well, he agreed to it. Don’t make a decision now. I know it’s a lot to think about. But I want Paulie and the baby to be like real brothers—or brother and sister. So why should Paul get to have three parents and the new baby only two? It’s like penalizing him—or her—because of our mistake.”

“And what mistake was that?” I asked, my voice more brittle than I meant for it to be. “The marriage, or the divorce?”

“You’re making this so hard.”

I sighed and put my arm around her, glancing around to see where D.W. was.

He and Jay had gone inside with Wendy, Paul, and Caitlin. Randall and Josh stood chest to chest on the boat dock, faces flushed and fists clenched.

I said, “Does D.W. know you’re telling me this today?”

“That’s why he’s gone inside.”

I chose my words carefully. “I’m not trying to make anything hard for you. You know I’ll always be here if you need me. You know I’ll love your baby, just like D.W. loves Paul. But it won’t be easy, and it will take time. I’m still getting used to the idea of sharing my son with another man.”

Not to mention my wife.

“I’m so scared, Jared.” More tears leaked from her eyes. “I’m just so damn scared.”

“Scared? Maria . . .”

“What if it isn’t normal?” Her voice was a strained whisper. “I can’t talk to D.W. about this. He’s so happy about the baby and all. But what if there’s something wrong with this one too?”

“Maria.” I tilted her chin up and looked into her beautiful, tearstained face. She smelled of oranges and French vanilla. “Your baby will be beautiful. Your baby will be perfect. Your baby will be fine.”

I would have flayed myself alive for the look she gave me. Standing there in the deepening dusk with my ex-wife in my arms, I felt a crushing grief for everything I’d had and lost.

Maria had D.W. I wondered if I’d ever find another woman who would fill my spaces like a missing piece.

Down on the dock, my brother shouted, “And cut your hair! You look like a fucking faggot!”

And Joshs voice, not yelling, calm—too calm, in fact—cutting through the dusk like a thrown knife, “Dad. I am a fucking faggot.”

J
AY TOLD ME ONCE
that the most painful moment of his life—more painful than having his head shoved into a toilet, more painful than being told he had been given an incurable, terminal disease by a lover he’d thought had always been faithful, more painful than watching that lover walk out of his life without a backward glance—was the moment his father looked him in the eye and said, “You are not my son.”

I didn’t know what I would do in Randall’s place. Paulie’s sexuality would present a different set of complications, but I somehow doubted this would be one of them.

It never rains but it pours, Mom used to say. With my brother’s family crumbling and a prison sentence hanging over my head, now I had Maria’s pregnancy to think of too. What would it feel like to see her with D.W.’s child? To share my weekends with my son with D.W.’s flesh and blood? It wasn’t normal, and I didn’t know if we could make it work.

But assuming I didn’t spend the rest of my life in a prison cell, I was willing to try. I would be as good a man as D.W.

Jay was asleep by the time I finished with the horses. I wanted to talk to him about Josh, but it could wait.

Besides, I felt like I’d been wrung out myself.

There was another call from Lou Wilder on the answering machine, but it was late, and I didn’t feel like talking. I made a mental note to call him in the morning.

I was too tired to dream.

THE NEXT MORNING
, after I’d doctored Tex and turned out Crockett, I played another round of phone tag with Lou, left a “when-can-I-see-you-again” message on Valerie’s machine, and drove downtown to trade the Taurus for a silver Chevy van. I’d learned enough of Hartwell’s damning secrets, and it was time to give the honorable Reverend Samuel Avery his share of attention.

At ten o’clock, a woman in a flowered blouse and white Capri pants came out of Avery’s house carrying a basket. She was tall and bony, with a prominent nose. A wide-brimmed hat shielded her face from the sun and threw her homely features into shadow.

Margaret, I supposed.

She set the basket down beside a strip of earth that had been planted with marigolds and rose bushes, pulled on a pair of flowered gloves, and puttered in the garden until the heat drove her inside. There were no further signs of life until shortly after dusk, when Avery and his wife came out to sit on the front porch together, sipping what looked to be iced tea.

At one point, Margaret reached out and laid a hand across her husband’s forearm. He said something that made her shrink back inside herself like a snail sprinkled with salt.

Trouble in Paradise.

I watched until they went back inside and the light of the television flickered against the blinds. Then I drove back home to get ready for another night of Heather-hunting.

I WAS GETTING OUT
of the shower when the phone rang. I threw a towel around my waist and rushed to answer it, just in case it happened to be Frank.

“Jared McKean,” I said.

“Jared. It’s Wendy. Can you come over here now?” At the tremble in my sister-in-law’s voice, a tendril of fear coiled in my stomach. I imagined a car wreck, an accident at the construction site.

“What’s wrong? Is Randall all right?”

She gave a shrill, nervous laugh. “Just like you to cut straight to the chase. Randall’s fine. It’s Josh.”

My imagination shifted gears. Suicide. Drug overdose. “What’s wrong with Josh?”

“He’s gone. He and Randall got into an awful fight last night. This morning when we woke up . . . can you please just come?”

It took me five minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Another ten, driving too fast, and I squealed into my brother’s driveway.

The front door swung open before my boot touched the steps. Wendy, eyes swollen and bloodshot, stepped aside to let me in. If it were Maria, I’d take her into my arms and hold her while she cried. I’d known Wendy since I was nineteen, and I still felt like I’d be imposing on her privacy. Instead, she gave me a stiff hug and kissed the air beside my cheek.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” she said.

“Have you called the police?”

“They say they’ll look for him, but you, of all people, know how it is. A teenage runaway is low on their list of priorities. I thought maybe you . . .” She looked down at her clenched hands.