Shatter My Rock (13 page)

The
detective doesn’t seem to notice my difficulty. “Was it an accident?”

I
draw a couple of deep breaths on the chance I am headed for hyperventilation.
Then I meet his gaze. “Yes, it was.” His eyes spark briefly before I add, “He
drowned.”

This
time when he bolts from his chair, he upends it. And that’s how it remains
while he paces the space between the table and the wall, turns his back on me for
an inordinate amount of time.  When he swivels my way again, it’s as if a
kindly grandma has taken possession of his soul. “Come on, Claire,” he coos. “Tell
me what happened.” He rights the chair and sits. “You’ll feel better once you
get it out.”

It
seems likely he has studied the psychology of human behavior, because I do
yearn to rid myself of this secret, its dark weight a burden I have barely the
strength to carry. “I want a lawyer.”

Obviously,
this is the last thing he expects to hear. He stiffens. “Guilty people need
lawyers; innocent people tell the truth.”

“I
want a lawyer.”

“I
see.”

Again,
I say, “A lawyer.”

“There’s
a video camera,” he tells me, “at the marina. We’re waiting on the
enhancement.”

My
blood runs cold; I think of nothing but the possibility of Tim being forced to
watch me take Owen in open court.

In
case I am not spooked enough already, he adds, “And the deck pillows are at the
crime lab.”

“I
want a lawyer,” I say one last time. “And my son.”

I
next see Tim in the parking lot of the state police barracks, where he leans
against the tailgate of the van sucking down a cigarette, the urgency of his
smoking a thin cover for the tremble it masks. I stifle the urge to chastise
him, remind him it’s been twenty years since he’s indulged such a filthy habit.
But now seems as good a time as any to revert to a past crutch.

I
sink into his arms, the cigarette burning on behind my shoulder. “Shh,” he
breathes, because without realizing it, I have begun sobbing. “It’s okay. It’ll
be all right.”

I
want nothing more than to believe him, but he speaks from ignorance. “Owen...”
I manage to sputter. “We have to…”

“I
took care of it.”

“You
did?”

He
nods gently before pressing his lips to my head. “He’ll be home tomorrow.”

I
flatten my face to his chest, inhale the goodness that seeps from his pores.
Then I close my eyes. “Thank you,” I say. At least now it’s conceivable that we
could bury the baby before I am under arrest.

As
always, Tim is true to his word; Owen’s body arrives at the funeral home before
we even have a chance to retrieve Ally from Tim’s parents’. I wait in the van
while he ventures inside, the heartbreak on his mother’s face more of a
challenge than I’m up to conquering.

It’s
not as long as I expect before Ally comes shuffling down the driveway looking
relaxed and renewed, the time away from my toxic energy a clear boon to her
spirits. “Hey, sweetie,” I say through my rolled-down window.

She
slips into the back and buckles up. “Hi.”

I
turn and ask, “Where’s your dad?”

“Gran
wanted his help with the obituary,” she tells me, her innocence as dead as her
baby brother.

I
think of Ricky, how his disease more than his death slaughtered my naiveté. “Do
you think they’ll be long?” A visceral need for sleep has crept into my bones.

She
shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You
okay?”

“Yeah.”

The
funny thing about Ally is that she could be engulfed in flames and she wouldn’t
cop to needing help. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,
Mom,” she maintains with a sigh.

“All
right,” I relent. “Just checking.”

“Gran’s
pretty sad, though.”

“I
know. We all are.”

“Can
she stay with us for a while?”

This
request makes me grim for the fact that Tim and I are not enough to comfort our
daughter. “If she wants to, but I’m not sure how Gramp would feel about that.”

“It’s
up to her,” Ally says.

And
I say, “That’s right.”

What
haunts me about Owen’s funeral is the tiny, powder-blue casket, how it glimmered
so stunningly in the midday sun, how it more resembled a movie prop than the
vessel that would cradle my baby into the grave.

Tim
waits until the hundred-plus mourners have departed the reception hall before
dropping the big question on me. “Did you do it?” he asks, in a pained tone
that tells me he can’t stomach the answer.

We
are alone on the dusty floor of the VFW, Tim’s mother having reluctantly
slipped away to nurse her broken heart and mend Ally. How we got to this place,
in the literal sense, can be traced to our need to connect with Owen, absorb what
is left of him before he goes. “I love you,” I say.

“I
know.”

If
I tell him, I will lose him. And all of this will be for naught. “I’m tired.”

He
settles his palm against the small of my back in an encouraging way. “I need to
know.”

I
have no idea what he has heard or from whom he has heard it. “Did the police
say something?”

Softly,
he admits, “Yeah.”

“Like
what?”

“You’ve
seen the news.”

“The
news is vague,” I say, even though the coverage makes plain that Owen’s death
has been classified as “suspicious,” and I have not been ruled out as a
suspect. Tim, on the other hand, is in the clear; the polygraph said so, and
the police believe him.

“He
was suffocated, Claire,” he says, barely able to get the words out. “
Suffocated.
”

“There’s
no way…”

“Just
tell me.”

It
occurs to me that Tim may be setting me up for the police. My hands wander over
his chest, scanning for a clandestine wire. But I find nothing. “I told you,” I
say. “I slipped. I’m sorry.”

This
apology triggers a collapse in both Tim and me: A string of silent sobs wracks his
bent frame, and down my cheeks tumble the tears he lacks. “
I’m
sorry,”
he tells me. “It’s just…”

I
stop his words with a tender kiss to the lips, the kind of vulnerable intimacy
that binds us in our grief. And at first he kisses back with the same raw
sensitivity, sadness I recognize on an atomic level. But somewhere along the
way, his passion turns lustful, angry, imbued with a violent bent.

He
reaches for my pants, slips his fingers inside and unbuttons them. And nothing
tells me to stop him.

I
have just exited the shower when the call from my lawyer, Rudy Goldstein, comes
in. I cinch my bathrobe shut and whip a towel around my hair, depositing a dripping
trail in my wake as I dash for the phone. “Hello?”

“Claire?”

“Yes.”

A
dreadful silence stretches out between us. “They’re charging you with murder,”
Rudy informs me. “They want you to turn yourself in.”

Even
though I knew this call was coming, it drops me to my knees. “When?”

“Today,”
he says. “Otherwise, they’re going to take you into custody and start
extradition proceedings.”

I
rock back and forth, grind my knees into the carpet. “How long do I have?”

“An
hour. I’ll pick you up.”

Tim
has wandered into our bedroom and is now studying me intently, a look of horror
overspreading his face. I lock eyes with him and say into the phone, “Tim will
drive me.”

Rudy
sighs. “That’s not the deal. Either I deliver you, or they send a sheriff.”

An
involuntary twitch takes control of Tim’s eye. I twist the receiver sideways
and tell him, “Go dismiss Ally from school.” I glance at the alarm clock, jump
ahead an hour and round up. Then I tell Rudy, “Come at two o’clock.”

“Be
on the doorstep,” he says, and I agree.

I
have packed as if I’m jetting off for a weekend getaway instead of a possible
life sentence. With a swift jerk, I force the zipper of my suitcase past a
catch in its lining and then head for the front door, where I deposit the bag
just inside. Our van is already back in the driveway, but I have yet to catch
sight of Tim or Ally. I squint, force my eyes to see my husband and daughter huddled
in the front seats, locked in a desperate embrace, crying out their pain before
they draw brave faces over their sadness for my sake.

I
retreat to the kitchen, pour a glass of cool water and gulp it down. And for
the first time, I recognize all that is at stake: my marriage, my reputation,
my job, this house, my child, my freedom. For all the energy I’ve spent trying
to shield Tim and Ally from the truth about Owen and the fallout of his
disease, I’ve failed to consider the obvious: Without me, they will be set adrift,
blown like tumbleweeds in the wind.

Ally
meanders inside first, trepidation in her approach. She smiles briefly, but her
eyes will not meet mine. Cannot. Instead, her gaze lingers on the refrigerator,
where the hospital photo of Owen still looms, both a painful reminder and a
signpost marking the road ahead.

“Hey,”
I whisper.

Ally
shuffles to my side, slings her arms around my waist and flattens her cheek to
my bosom, suppresses tears with such effort she trembles.

I
yearn to speak the prefect words of comfort, but this is not to be. I run my
hand over her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Tim
joins us but observes from a distance, doesn’t notice the flecks of hot ash
that spill from his cigarette to the floor. He takes a long drag and blows the
smoke over his shoulder, as if he retains the power to save us from something,
at least. “It’s quarter of two,” he says, a tone of resignation in his voice
that disturbs me.

I
bend down and kiss Ally on the head, then pry her away. Gently, I tip her face
upward, even if it hurts her to see me when I say, “I love you.”

She
nods, and Tim moves in, lays a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Let’s have a
treat,” he says, falsely upbeat, “before Mommy has to go.” He stubs the
cigarette out in the sink and rummages through the fridge as I watch the clock;
finally, he withdraws a decadent chocolate cake that some sympathetic soul has
gifted us to buoy our spirits.

For
a moment, Tim disappears, only to return with the fine bone china we have used
no more than twice since our wedding. He chunks three generous slices from the
cake, plates them, and impales each with a sterling fork from a service that
once belonged to his great-grandmother; these we have
never
put to our
lips. “Yum,” he says as the confection hits his tongue.

Ally
waits, allows me the next bite. And for her sake, I take it. “It’s good,” I
say, forcing a grainy gob of frosting down despite my lack of appetite. “Try
it.”

She
picks at the edge of her slice but never really works up the nerve for a
mouthful.

Selfishly,
I do not wish this to be my last free memory of her, her distress evident all
the way to her bones. But before I am ready, the soft hum of Rudy Goldstein’s
car in our driveway ends my choice in the matter. “Be good for Daddy,” I squeak
in Ally’s direction, careful to keep my eyes downcast. And then to Tim, “I’ll
be in touch.”

I
awaken in the front seat of Rudy Goldstein’s Audi in the parking lot of the Genesis
County Jail, also the home of the sheriff’s office. Thanks to the Valium I
gobbled hours ago, the whole ugly scene is a fuzzy dream.

“This
is it,” Rudy says with a tender squeeze of my knee.

Even
my lawyer is a bit blurry, his slick black hair threatening to meld with his
pale, doughy face. I grab the overhead safety handle and pull myself upright. “What
time is it?”

He
doesn’t bother checking the stainless-steel watch that dangles from his wrist, the
dashboard clock more convenient. “Five twenty-nine.”

One
minute. This is how much time I have until my lawyer has agreed to turn me over
to the police. Even though I beg it not to, my heart hammers with such force I
fear the imminence of a cardiac arrest. Then again, such a merciful occurrence
is unlikely given my penchant for bad luck. “So what happens now?” I ask, not
caring that Rudy can hear the distress in my voice.

“They’ll
arrest you, process you, assign you to a cell block.”

“Then
what?”

“The
status conference is tomorrow. We’ll request bail, of course.”

“Of
course.”

“I
won’t actually be able to represent you in court,” he reminds me. “Zoe will do
that part. But I’m never more than a phone call away.”

Rudy
isn’t admitted to the Maine State Bar, but his ex-wife, Zoe, is. Her office
sits just over the border in New Hampshire, and she practices in both states. “All
right,” I say. Rudy Goldstein is a solid guy, a man I trust despite Tim’s
misgivings. If their fathers hadn’t pitted them against each other since
childhood, I’m convinced Tim and Rudy would be the tightest of friends. “When
can Tim visit?” I ask, already missing him from the depths of my soul.

“A
day or two? He’ll have to fill out an application.”

What
a strange concept: One must apply to visit jail? It’s amazing I have lived so
long without need of such information.  

Rudy
taps his toes on the clutch and awaits my direction. “I guess it’s time,” I
reluctantly admit, the LCD display insisting we are already late. From this point
forward, I must put my wants aside and obey. And thus I begin.

The
status conference didn’t go my way. Instead of recommending bail, the State
requested a Harnish hearing, which means they wish to keep me locked up until
my case goes before a grand jury next month. Zoe still believes I could make bail,
but I’m not so sure.

The
worst thing about jail is the absence of Tim and Ally, followed closely by the
noxious stench of body odor and the utter tedium. Minutes stretch into hours,
hours into days, days into weeks. The only relief from the slow-motion clock
arrives on a greasy tray three times a day or in the mail, for those so lucky
as to be singled out for a delivery. I have not yet been here long enough to
benefit from the power of mail.

“Ain’t
ya hungry?” my new jail friend and cellmate, Brandy, asks as I push a pile of
baked beans around my plate.

I
shrug. “Nah.”

She
scans for unwelcome eyes and scoops some of my beans into her mouth. “It gets
better, ya know,” she tells me through a mess of chewed food.

“I’m
sure.”

I
am in no position to feel sorry for myself, my life outside these walls blessed
beyond reason—even in the face of Eric Blair and what happened to Owen. But
Brandy’s story is different: a drug-addicted mother, early sexual abuse, abject
poverty. Her road to this place was written in the womb. And now the next
generation—Brandy’s four small children—begins its journey.

I
take a risk, peel an untouched slice of bread from my plate and place it
soggy-side-up in front of her. If nothing else, at least her stomach may be
full.

When
she smiles, I begin to cry.

Zoe
gives a stellar performance at the Harnish hearing, but still we don’t prevail.
Even my lack of criminal history and pristine work record cannot overcome the
perception that I may cash my chips and flee the state—or even the country.

“We’ll
get ‘em next time,” Zoe tells me in an overly chipper tone as the hearing wraps
up. “There’s no way a grand jury can indict on that evidence; it’s too thin.”

“I
hope so.”

I
had my reservations about using Zoe as my defense attorney, if only for the
fact that she’s Rudy’s ex-wife. But the little I know of her so far calms my
nerves, reassures me of her competence and caring. Truth be told, the way she
handles my emotions outranks her courtroom prowess on my list of priorities right
now. If she needs help, I’ll hire her some. And there’s always Rudy, behind the
scenes.

“Just
in case, though,” she says, “we’re going to get right to work on your defense.
You’ll be pleading not guilty.”

“Right.”

She
smiles. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

“I
hope not.”

The
sheriff’s deputies are poised to collect me, but they wait for Zoe to finish.
“Any messages you’d like me to deliver to Tim?”

I
think about passing on my love, but instead I say, “Tell him not to worry. I’m
fine.” Because if there’s one thing I know about my husband, it’s that he’s out
of his mind with concern for my wellbeing. “And I’ll see him soon.”

I
smiled for my mug shot, a mistake that may come back to haunt me should my case
go to trial. Although the jurors will be instructed to ignore such things, I know
the depiction of a grinning baby killer will endure despite their best efforts
otherwise. And that disturbing image has led the evening news every night this
week.

What
has caught me by surprise about jail is the persistence of kindness. To be sure,
there are nefarious characters here, and certainly no one I would trust with
money. But there are decent folks too. People like Brandy with low IQs,
difficult upbringings, and inferior decision-making skills.  And they are the
rule, not the exception. This may be different in prison, my next stop should I
be convicted of murder. But for now I can relax my guard.

There
is one thing I must remain vigilant over, however: thoughts of Owen. The empty
hours of jail life are fertile ground for a guilty conscience, and the more I
dwell on my baby’s fate, the more I wish to join his blessed soul. But then
comes my first visit from Tim and Ally, and I am born anew.

For
the privilege of contact visitation, I have signed a strip-search consent form,
which means I must submit to a full-body invasion before and after each visit.
But the sixty minutes between such episodes are heavenly enough to prove the
tradeoff worthy.

It
has been but four days since Tim, Ally and I faked our way through that
chocolate cake in our kitchen in Calvary, but it seems a lifetime. My husband
and daughter enter the visitation area, where I am seated politely in
anticipation, my eyes trained on the doorway as they plod through with the rest
of the day’s visitors. Ally flinches at the sight of my prison uniform and
makeup-less face, but Tim holds strong. “Hi,” I say as I stand, saving them
from breaking the ice in a place like this.

Tim
clutches my shoulders across the table and delivers the briefest kiss to my cheek,
his discomfort palpable. “You look good,” he whispers.

I
would laugh if such an outburst didn’t possess the power to end our visit.
Instead, I simply say, “Thank you.” Nothing ages a person like jail, except, of
course, the death of a child.

We
sit. “Doesn’t Mommy look good?” Tim asks Ally.   

Ally
nibbles her lip and nods, her gaze finally meeting mine.

I
reach for the mundane. “How’s school?” I sense that Ally is afraid to speak
here, as if the visitation officer may shackle her wrists next. “It’s okay,” I say,
“as long as we’re quiet.”

Tim
prods, “Tell Mommy about Muffin.” But even as he says this, his eyes snag on
the clock. Fifty-five minutes to go.

“What
about Muffin?” I say.

Ally
giggles. “He’s having puppies.”

“Puppies?”

“You
know the Mulligans, two blocks over by the park?” asks Tim.

I
furrow my brow.

“Their
son’s a grade above Ally. His name’s Brian, I think.”

This
isn’t ringing a bell with me in the least. “Okay.”

Tim
goes on, “They have a pretty, young Irish Setter named Daisy.”

I
can see where this is going by the way Ally’s eyes widen. “So they…”

“Yup,”
Tim says. “The owners offered us one of the puppies. I told Ally to ask you.”

My
husband and daughter exchange giddy looks that says they crave nothing more
than my blessing. Yet part of me begrudges Muffin the chance to parent. “We
should take it,” I say anyway, because it’s not my place to deny them. After
all, there’s a chance I may never lay eyes on Muffin again, let alone his
progeny.

“Really?”
Ally squeaks, drawing a stern glare from the visitation officer.

I
smile. “Uh-huh.”

Tim
turns serious. “Any problems around here?” he asks with a nod at my fellow
inmates and their friends and families. “I can talk to Rudy if…”

“Not
really,” I say, “other than the obvious. The food stinks. I think my hair is
falling out from a vitamin deficiency.”

Ally
stares at me a little too closely, makes me wonder if she’s doing the mental
dance I did with my mother at Meadow Haven. Finally, she says about my hair, “I
like it that way. It’s pretty.”

She
must be referring to the crown of gray that tops my chemically-processed locks,
a ring that began forming the day before Owen died. “Maybe I’ll keep it,” I say
with a twirl of my split ends, knowing the choice might not be mine anyway.

There
is a brief silence while Tim stares at the floor, notes that the table and even
the chairs are bolted down. “Have you talked to Jenna?” he asks with a quick
glance at Ally, who is preoccupied with a Betty Boop tattoo on a burly
visitor’s bicep, the man’s arm so hairy it appears as if Betty may be part
Sasquatch.

“She’s
on my list,” I say, knowing he can’t grasp the shame I must overcome to dial
Jenna’s number. Thus far, I have spent my limited phone time on calls to Tim
and Ally and updates from Zoe and Rudy about my case.

“There’s
talk at Hazelton United that they’re posting your job.”

I
have some wiggle room on this issue, but not much. The vacation and personal
time I’ve accrued should cover us for ten weeks, but then my employment can—and
certainly will—be terminated. “Oh.”

“I’m
going to put out some feelers,” Tim tells me confidently, only a hint of
nervousness coloring his voice. “See if they might need an engineer at the D.O.T.”

It
was thoughtful of Jenna to give Tim a heads-up, but I hate what this news has
done to him. No matter how effectively he grovels, it will not be enough. The
best he can hope to earn is a quarter of my salary, which puts everything we
have in jeopardy. And we both know it. I force a smile. “That would be good.”

His
gaze wanders back to Ally, who is squirming in her seat as if she has to pee.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

I
don’t want to tell him this, but if either he or Ally exits the visitation
area—even to use the restroom—our time together will be over, a consequence drawn
clear in the inmate handbook, which I read cover to cover my first night here
in an attempt to kill a case of insomnia.    

Ally
nods, and my heart sinks. “Can it wait?” I ask optimistically. We still have
thirty-eight minutes to go.

She
shrugs, reads the disappointment on my face and backtracks. “I’m okay,” she
says. Her resolve lasts eleven-plus minutes before biology trumps her
willpower.

Tim
notices the tense way she crosses her legs, taps her toes faster and faster
against the concrete. “Come on,” he says with a gentle smile, “let’s go.”

They
stand to exit, and I secretly bid them goodbye. There is always next time, and
I’m going nowhere.

“A
Genesis County grand jury handed down an indictment today in the death of nine-month-old
Owen Fowler. The baby’s mother, Claire Fowler, of Calvary, Rhode Island, is
being held at the Genesis County Jail on charges of murder. A trial date has
yet to be set in the case.”

I
hear these words not from my lawyer but from a toupee-clad news anchor, his
voice so silky and upbeat I nearly miss the dire turn my life has taken.

The
following morning brings a visit from Zoe and Rudy and their note-taking
assistant. At the direction of my housing unit officer, I proceed to the area
reserved for such interactions, which amounts to nothing more than an
out-of-the-way cell fitted with yet another bolted-down table and chairs.

“Hey,”
Rudy says as I wander in, a twinge of shock stopping him from whatever he’s
planned to utter next. In the weeks since he’s seen me, I’ve aged probably
twenty years.

Zoe
seems less surprised by my appearance. “Obviously, you heard the news.” She
smiles. “Don’t worry, though. We’re prepared.”