Stash (21 page)

“Look at them, they’re like animals,” Marlene said.

“I actually don’t mind playing that game when they ask,” Gwen admitted.

Marlene smiled. “We used to get high for this.”

Sometimes they took turns sneaking to the garden shed or basement to light the pipe. Afterward, engaging the kids on their level was fun and easy, playing make-believe games with silly rules or baking cookies or having water fights. Cave Times had been Gwen’s invention, at least the sign language and grunting part. The kids added eating out of bowls without hands or silverware.

“That won’t be happening anytime soon,” Gwen said.

Marlene sipped her coffee. “It was so unfair what you’ve been put through. Although Roger said it’s just how the system works, you having to give up the name of your friend.”

Gwen wondered if Roger had told Marlene the name of her friend. Hopefully, he had respected client/attorney confidentiality, but husband/wife intimacy might have trumped it.

“I can’t imagine having to hand
your
name over to the police if someone asked me where I got a bag of pot,” Marlene said. “It would be terrible, I couldn’t do it.”

“That’s funny, because I asked Roger what he would tell the police if he’d been the one arrested.”

Marlene didn’t respond. Gwen had said something wrong. Marlene was taking some measurement of friendship and loyalty and didn’t like the results. Gwen added, “He told me I can’t deal with hypothetical situations when the real problem is staring me in the face. Which I suppose is true.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Marlene said. “You did the right thing.”

“They basically backed me into a corner. Neither option felt right—giving up the name or dealing with the charges.”

“At least now it will all go away,” Marlene said.

Gwen nodded. “Yes, that’s why I did it.”

Gwen went inside and brought out the coffee and refilled both their cups.

“I wish I knew where to get something now,” Marlene said. She flipped her hand, as if chasing a fly. “But I guess I shouldn’t be doing anything if I’m trying to get pregnant. Not that it’s going to happen. We have sex only if I initiate it. I’m ovulating fine, but Roger refuses to have any testing done. He says our two children are proof enough he’s firing live ammo.”

“What is it with guys and the weapon metaphors?”

Marlene laughed. “Did I tell you I once saw Richard Makowski take a hit off a joint at Heather’s party?” Marlene said. “Maybe I could ask him.”

“The editor of the
Bee?
I went to see him to keep my name out of the police blotter. I wouldn’t have taken him for someone who gets high.”

“I can’t ask anybody I don’t know well.”

“And I’m never asking anybody again,” Gwen said.

“You said you couldn’t go back to your friend?”

“Are you kidding? After what I just did?”

“I mean before this happened. You said you couldn’t go back to him again.”

“It got a little complicated,” Gwen said. “I used to go out with him, years ago, just before I met Brian. When I went to see him, he … I think it’s unresolved for him.”

Marlene leaned forward in her chair, interested. “What about you?”

“Me?” Gwen paused. “I feel awful for giving his name.”

After another painful day on the track, Dana sat on the training table with an ice pack on her knee. Her coach and the trainer stood next to her.

“The next course of treatment would be a cortisone shot, if we want to go that route,” Sarah said. “The only other thing to do is stay off it, for at least a month.”

“The season will be practically over,” Dana said. “And I’ll be completely out of shape by then.”

“Injuries are part of any sport, and the hardest part to deal with.”

“I want to race this weekend.”

“It’s the cortisone then,” Sarah said. “What do you think, Coach?”

“We could use her in Plattsburgh.” He turned to Dana. “And I think you’ve got great potential for Rookie of the Year.”

“Frank’s in the building today. We could get it done this afternoon. If it works, there’s a chance you can run this weekend. If you don’t get it, there’s no chance.”

Dr. Frank Collard was the consulting orthopedist for the Saints athletic teams. He administered the shots, set the bones, performed the surgeries—the kind of doctor that her former boyfriend Sean Connelly had wanted to become, if he didn’t make it
as a football player. Dana had seen Dr. Collard around the athletic facilities but had never spoken to him.

“Is there any reason not to get it?” Dana asked.

“It doesn’t always work,” Sarah said. “And it is a steroid, so you have to take it seriously. The most common side effect is called steroid flare. The cortisone crystallizes and it hurts for a few days, but that doesn’t happen often.”

“Am I allowed to have it?”

“You mean is it within the rules? Sure. But the effect of a cortisone shot is inconclusive. It definitely masks the pain, whether it helps or hinders the healing process is not as clear.”

She didn’t hesitate: “I have to run this weekend. I really want to.”

She waited around the training room for an hour to see Dr. Collard. When he arrived, he explained that the iliotibial band was a strip of tendon that wrapped around the outside of the knee and connected to the tibia. When it gets inflamed, it rubs against the bone and causes pain. The cortisone would help reduce inflammation and hopefully she could be back on the track in a few days.

He injected the cortisone directly into Dana’s joint, and she snapped her jaw shut from the burn.

“That’s it,” he told her. “Take tomorrow and Thursday off, then test it on Friday.”

She returned to the locker room and showered, staying under the spray for a long time and muting all sounds except the water falling over her face.

When she was dressed and heading to the library for an evening of study, her phone rang.

“Hi, Daddy, what’s up?”

“Just checking. How are you?”

“I might not be able to race this weekend because of my knee. I’ve got ITBS in my tendon.”

“I thought that was irritable bowel syndrome.”

“That’s not funny. I said ITBS. It stands for ‘iliotibial band syndrome.’”

“I’m sorry; that hurts just hearing the name. It’s the same thing that bothered you over the summer?”

“I got a cortisone shot today, so I might be okay in a couple of days.”

“Does that help with the pain?”

“It’s supposed to.”

“Let me know how you feel, because I want to come to your meet.”

There was a pause, then Dana said what she’d been rehearsing to say the next time she spoke to her father. “I’m sorry I said what I did about you being able to bring your women home now. I was just mad because you keep asking me the same stuff about drugs and sex.”

“I know, I can’t help it, I’m your father.”

“I can take care of myself.” Although she couldn’t take care of one small tendon on her knee; if she had no control over that, could she really take care of the rest of herself?

“I miss you, Dana. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“I miss you too.”

“Call and let me know about the track meet. I hope the cortisone shot works.”

It was one of those mornings if you breathed near Nora a firestorm ignited. She couldn’t find the pants she wanted to wear and threw a full body fit. The zipper stuck on her backpack. She could see much better today than yesterday and didn’t need glasses. Really. I promise. I don’t need to go to the optometrist appointment.

“Wear your yellow pants,” Gwen suggested.

“They have a stain.”

“Did you put them in the laundry?”

“I want to wear a skort.”

“Then wear it. Just get dressed. We have to leave soon or we’ll be late for the breakfast. And stop flapping around like the world is ending.”

“I don’t want to go. It’s a bunch of first graders.”

“You have to go because no one is here to get you on the bus.”

“Daddy can.”

“Daddy’s coming with us—just like he came to your school breakfast when you were in first grade.”

Nate worried about being late. Mom—it’s 7:47. It’s 7:48.

Everyone bagged their own breakfast. The school provided coffee for parents, juice for kids, and doughnut holes to share, which Gwen had to pick up at Dunkin’ Donuts now that she had been named room parent in Mrs. Viander’s first-grade class.

Gwen sliced bagels and spread cream cheese, packed bananas and grapes.

“Mom, it’s 7:52!”

“Nora, are you ready?”

“Mommy, Nora’s crying!”

“Let me finish up here and bring the kids,” Brian said, taking the knife from her. “You go ahead and set up at school.”

She couldn’t grab the keys fast enough and bolt. She had gone to bed tense, woke up the same way—and the feeling had spread like a virus to her kids. Instead of making love last night as Gwen had hoped, she and Brian had argued. He’d been coming home late every night from work, a noncommittal expression on his face, as if walking into a hotel of strangers and not his home of waiting loved ones. When she asked what was wrong, he explained in a slow, patient voice that a lot was going on at work.

Did he want to talk about it?

Not really, he’d been talking about it all day.

This wasn’t like Brian. Although he didn’t get into work details with her, she was his most trusted counsel when a problem came up. Two years ago they’d spent weeks discussing whether he should accept the transfer offer to business development. Now he didn’t want her opinion.

“I know there’s a lot of pressure on you,” Gwen said. “And I appreciate what you do for our family. But you seem so stressed. You’re working all hours and coming home late and—”

He interrupted her. “That’s why it’s called work, Gwen.”

“Don’t talk down to me.”

“I’m just telling you it’s part of the package. If you want to live in Morrissey and own a house on a lake in the Adirondacks, and have the luxury of staying home with your friend Mary Jane—”

“I was waiting for that one. You should leave your job if it’s making you this mean,” Gwen said.

“I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

Still, she fumed. There would be no love again tonight, and at this point she didn’t care.

“Mary Jane,” she repeated. “No one calls it that.”

She picked up two box carafes of coffee—regular and decaf—and three boxes of Munchkins, then hurried to school.

In the cafeteria, Mrs. Viander helped her set up the coffee and put out the cream, sugar, and napkins. Gwen opened the doughnut boxes, resisted the sparkling glazed ones. First graders from two classes and their parents trickled in. Gwen saw Amy Hellman sitting with her daughter. Amy had sold Gwen and Brian their house in Morrissey six years ago. When she saw Gwen approach, she got up from her chair and smiled. She wore a fitted gray suit with a red blouse and stood poised and confident like an executive on the rise.

Gwen asked how real estate was going.

“In a few select cities it’s booming, in most of the country it’s flat or down, and here in Morrissey it continues a steady but slow growth trend,” Amy said. “We’re a desirable community. Are you planning on selling, or buying?”

“Actually, I was thinking of getting my real estate license. Going back to work.”

“That’s a great idea, Gwen! You’d be perfect. I remember when we were looking at houses together—you noticed all the things that are important to buyers. And of course with your personality. Everyone trusts you.”

“I don’t know if I’m much of a salesperson.”

Amy brushed off the comment with a
bah
sound. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Houses sell themselves. All you have to do is speak for them.”

“The buyers?”

“No, the houses. You speak for the houses because they can’t speak for themselves.”

Gwen tried to decode this. “Don’t I have to take a course to get my license?”

“A forty-five-hour course. You could do it five consecutive Saturdays or get it all done in one week. You can even take some of it online. You need a broker to sponsor you, though. I could do that.”

“Wow, that would be great.” Gwen could see herself showing prospective buyers houses around Morrissey. She wouldn’t be aggressive; she’d try to match buyers to the right house. She’d speak for the house, like Amy mentioned. Let its personality channel through her. She’d get to see the inside of a lot of houses, maybe pick up decorating ideas.

“There’s going to be a lot of opportunity with the Vista Tech Park opening next year—more people moving up from downstate, people moving from adjacent towns. You should call me at the office.”

“I will. Thanks,” said Gwen.

She’d never felt compelled to pursue a career once the children were born, had not let the lack of professional achievement interfere with personal fulfillment. She was satisfied being a mom, helping in the school, spending the time with her children. Unsusceptible to the “having it all” syndrome that preyed on many women she knew. Yet maybe it was time to get a part-time job to take the pressure off her husband. She had graduated from college and finished most of a year of law school, although that was a long time ago. What skills did she have? What contribution to family finances could she make compared with the income Brian wheelbarreled home? A little. A gesture. Selling real estate in her spare time could help. She should do it.

The lift in her spirits from this idea lasted the time it took to turn and see Detective Keller with his wife and their son. Gwen knew that running into him was a possibility, had hoped it wouldn’t happen, yet also had prepared for it. But rather than lurk and stare and avoid from the other side of the cafeteria, Gwen walked up to them.

She had never met Mrs. Keller, a thin woman with bags under her eyes and heavy lids on top. Attractive, but tired, like she’d been working too hard. The boy a miniature of his father: square head and a stocky frame, needed a better haircut.

Keller introduced his wife, Patty, and son, Andy.

“This is Gwen Raine. She has a son in first grade.”

Patty threw Gwen a smile as fake as play money, revealing a small chip in one of her front top teeth. She knew all about Gwen. Of course the detective shared the gossip with his wife—investigations, arrests, and whatever else—unlike some husbands who had gotten tight lipped about their work. It made Gwen realize there was no preventing the news about her arrest spreading around Morrissey; there was only controlling the ferocity of the burn, possibly.