The Good House: A Novel (31 page)

“No, you don’t, you fuckin’ lush. Do you know I spent the entire night coverin’ your tracks? That if you get caught, I’m gonna get nailed, too? I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME LAST NIGHT.”

“I did.”

“I meant STAY home.”

“What are you talking about? I did stay home.” I was trying to rummage through my thick, throbbing brain; trying to find the missing pieces, the tiny bits of fractured images that lingered from the night before. I had come home. I had opened the bottle. I had spilled the wine.…

“I came home, Frankie. I did. I remember everything. I just fell asleep.”

“Get up. Sit in the chair,” said Frank. He couldn’t look at me. I sort of staggered to my feet. I had to grab the chair to steady myself and then I sat at the table, facing Frank.

“Your windshield’s all smashed in,” said Frank.

“My windshield?”

“Yeah, hood’s dented and the windshield’s all cracked—on the passenger side. Looks like somethin’ bounced off the front of your car, then hit the windshield.”

“Wait … no,” I said. “I was home all night.”

“I was out last night late because of an emergency. The Dwight kid’s missing. Patch’s kid.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “Oh how awful…”

“I heard it on my scanner. Drove right over there. Sleepy Haskell was the cop on duty and he told me that the kid let himself out somehow. I guess there was all kinds of confusion with the family packin’ up to move. First the kid’s cat disappeared and then the kid must’ve gone out lookin’ for it. The mom is out of her mind. So I helped them look for a while, then I drove by here. Saw your car parked half on the lawn, still runnin’, Hildy. Headlights blazin’, and then I saw the windshield.”

I made my way to the foyer window. I made my way to the foyer window by sort of propelling myself off the wall of the kitchen, then off the door frame, then the wall of the living room until I was finally in the foyer. My balance was off, it was true. I was in shock. I was in a state of complete shock.

“Where’s my car?” I whispered.

Time seemed to slow down. I had the thought that I was in a dream. I’d had these dreams a lot when I first stopped drinking. After I had a few months of sobriety together, I would still sometimes dream that I had gotten drunk and embarrassed myself or hurt somebody. But then I would wake up and the relief … well, it was really something. I was fine. I hadn’t gotten drunk, not the night before, not the night before that. Not in months. Maybe this had all been a dream. Maybe I’d never started drinking again at all. Maybe I would wake up again and have one of my Hazelden daily meditation books next to me, and a coin announcing a year of sobriety.

As my father used to say, “And yah, maybe the moon’ll fall outta the friggin’ sky.”

I walked back to the kitchen, and when I saw Frankie turn so that he didn’t have to look at me, I began to cry. I bent over the kitchen counter and buried my face in my hands.

I said it again: “Where’s my car?”

“I ran it down to a guy I know in Lynn. A guy I can trust. He’s gonna fix the dents on the hood and replace the windshield. He’s not gonna tell anybody.”

“Frankie, really, I would remember if I had gone out. And I didn’t hit anything on the way home, after I spoke to you. I wasn’t even drunk. But … where’s Jake? Have they found him? Is he okay?”

“No, the whole town’s out lookin’.”

“Frankie … you can’t be thinking that I … Are you crazy?”

“Whatta you think I thought when I saw your car? WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK? You hit somethin’. And you must’ve gotten out of the car, because there was blood all over your friggin’ blouse.”

It was hard to breathe.

“Frankie, that was wine. Where’s the blouse? You can smell it. I spilled wine all over it.…”

“Smell it? I burned it.”

I really did feel like I might faint, and I’m not the fainting type. I just couldn’t get the air into my lungs.

“Hildy, sit down,” Frankie said now in a slightly gentler tone. Somehow I managed to take the few steps to the table and sit back down on a chair next to Frank.

“Maybe we should call the police,” I whispered. “Maybe you should call Sleepy and let me talk to him. I know it’s best in this type of situation if you come forward.”

“Yeah, right, report that you smashed into somethin’ but don’t remember what it was, the same night that a handicapped kid goes missin’.”

Now I was really crying. Frankie rested his forehead in his hands.

“Hildy, maybe you hit a deer,” he said finally. “Maybe that’s what happened. Deer run off when they’re hit, usually. A deer or a dog. The boy would’ve been found by now … if you hit him. He wouldn’t have been able to go far.”

“Stop saying that,” I begged, grabbing his hand and clutching it.

“The thing is, Hil, we both know that even if you didn’t hit anybody last night, there could always be a next time. When this is all over, when they find the kid, the thing you gotta do is, you gotta stop drinkin’.”

What Frankie said made sense. If I
had
hit Jake—oh, how my pulse raced when I even thought about it—but if I had hit him with my car, he would have been found by now.

“I didn’t go out last night. I didn’t hit anybody. How could you even have thought that, Frank? I mean,
really.
”

“You can stop drinkin’ again, Hildy. For good this time. I really liked the way you were when you weren’t drinkin’. I really liked you better that way.”

I dropped Frank’s hand. “Well, that must have been nice for you. Did it ever occur to you that I might like you better when I AM drinking? That I really don’t like you much at all when I’m sober? Does anybody ever consider the way
I
feel?”

Frank just sat staring at me. I couldn’t help but notice that his old shirt was stained with grease. His hands were rough and chapped and looked dirty, as they so often did, especially after work.

“You’re just like my girls. You only think of yourselves. I have to change
my
behavior, so
you
all will like me better.”

“I’m not thinkin’ about myself, I’m thinkin’ about you, Hildy. It’s what I’ve been doin’ all night long.”

“So that YOU’LL like ME better. Well, what about what I like and don’t like? I like myself the way I am.”

Frankie was walking toward the front door, which enraged me.

“I like myself fine just the way I am, except for one thing … this stupid arrangement I’ve got going with you. Did you see me listed with the top fifty most successful business owners in Massachusetts two years ago?” I was shouting now. Shouting and crying. I guess you’d say I was a little hysterical. “And you, the fucking fix-it man,
the garbageman,
think you know better than me how I should live my life? That’s really outrageous.”

Frankie stopped, and without turning to face me, he said quietly, “Listen, Hildy, you’re a drunk. You can’t go there now, but when this thing has some time behind it, you better go back to that place your daughters sent you and stay a good long time.”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. I had nothing to do with Jake’s disappearance. I was home last night. Just mind your own business. And get me my car back as soon as possible. I want to go see Cassie.”

But I was saying it to nobody. Frankie had left.

I admit, I was a bit of a mess. How could Frankie have said such awful things? And where was Jake? I searched for my phone with the intention of calling Cassie, but when I finally found it on the floor next to the fireplace, I had a fuzzy recollection of calling somebody the night before. Yes, now I remembered. It was Frankie. I had tried to call Frankie, but he wouldn’t pick up his phone.

I had wanted to convince him to come over. I often get all mushy with sentimental ideas when I drink, and I recalled now that I’d felt this crazy urgency to be with Frank, to tell him how much I loved him. I must have been hammered. Was it a dream, or had I put on lipstick and fussed with my hair and wandered out to my car in the middle of the night? I had a recollection of doing so, of floating out to my car so that I could go see Frank.

What have I done?

Scott used to keep a pack of Marlboros in the cabinet above the fridge, and though I hadn’t smoked in years, I dragged a chair over and climbed up, head pounding, hands shaking. I found a twisted old pack with three cigarettes left in it. I lit one and coughed. It tasted horrible. It was old and stale. I took another drag. I felt the little nicotine buzz. I needed it to clear my head. The dogs were barking incessantly and I shouted at them to shut the hell up. I would need another drink soon, but I waited. Frankie was coming back with my car. It wouldn’t do for him to think I had been drinking after all his wild accusations that morning, so I sat at the table, puffing on my butt, crying like a baby.

I saw a movement in my living room. There was somebody in my house.

“Rebecca?” I cried.

Why Rebecca? I don’t know. I sensed Rebecca there. Instead, Peter Newbold stepped into my kitchen and made me scream. My nerves were shot.

“Peter, what? Why didn’t you knock?”

“I did knock, Hildy. Didn’t you hear me?”

I took another drag of my cigarette and shook my head.
Why did Peter have to show up now
? I supposed he suspected me as well in this whole Jake business, and when I looked up into his eyes and saw how red they were, I knew that he did.

“Peter, what’s going on?”

“Are you alone, Hildy? Is anyone else here?” He was looking around my kitchen. I supposed he was looking for Rebecca.

“No, nobody’s here but me, Peter. Rebecca’s in Nantucket for the weekend. What’s going on? Have you heard the awful news? About Jake?”

He slumped down into a chair across from me and said, “Yes, I was on my way over here and saw all the police cars in town. I stopped for a while.”

“So they haven’t found him?” I whispered.

“No, not yet. I came to talk to you about Rebecca, Hildy. But now, with this sad business about the missing child, it all seems so much less important. Seeing those poor parents downtown, now…”

Now what?
Why was he looking at me like that? Did he think I was somehow responsible for Jake’s disappearance, too?

“I have no idea where Jake is. I was home all night. I can’t imagine what happened to him,” I said, looking at my cigarette. I took one more puff, then I dropped the butt into my remaining coffee.

“I know. Nobody knows where he is.” Then he said, “Hildy, I need to make sure that Elise and Sam are going to be okay. I came over to ask you if I can count on your discretion. Can I trust you?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, no matter what happens, can I rely upon you to not tell anybody about what happened between me and Rebecca?”

“Peter, why are you asking me this again? I have more important things to think about. Patch and Cassie are certainly out of their minds with worry. I’d really like to go to them.”

I stood up to make a fresh pot of coffee, but I had to steady myself for a second by gripping the back of my chair.

“I spoke to Rebecca last night. She knows about our plans to move, and she’s … threatened to reveal our affair if we proceed. My career will be over, my family destroyed. I’ll be unemployable, unable to send my son to school.…”

“I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re thinking, Peter.”

“I know that, Hildy. It seems almost impossible to keep a secret in this town, but I think you can keep secrets. I think you
do
keep them, when you need to.”

“Of course I keep secrets,” I snapped.

Oh my head.

“I just want your promise. It’s not for me, not just for Elise and Sam, either. It’s also for Rebecca’s own good. Why should her husband and children get dragged into this mess? Once I’m gone, I know she won’t say anything. That’s why the sooner I leave, the better. I’m leaving today, Hildy. I just wanted to stop to say good-bye, and to make sure that I can count on you.”

“Peter, I think Rebecca is used to getting what she wants; in fact, I’m quite sure of it. I don’t see how your leaving town today will in any way satisfy her.”

God, the man has to get a clue,
I thought. How could he call himself a psychiatrist and have so little insight? Well, Peter was always a little weird. They say all shrinks are. That’s what draws them to the profession, I guess, a need to come up with answers, to fill in the missing pieces of their own jigsaw psyches.

I had to hold the coffeepot with both hands in order to keep the water from sloshing over the sides when I filled the coffeemaker. “Anyway. You can count on me, Peter.”

“Why are you so shaky, Hildy?”

“I’m not.” I turned on the coffee and then walked back to the table and sat opposite Peter. I looked at him and what I saw made me brace myself against the back of my chair. I know I’ve said it’s all a gimmick, but the truth is, I can read intentions and certain types of thoughts people are having. Anyone can, if they’re taught, the way my aunt taught me. I learned by watching her. I saw the way she was able to clear a path through the air with her gaze, and if the room were to have burst into flames around her, she wouldn’t have noticed. That’s how locked in she became with the subconscious of another. It was the submerged memories, urges, longings that she saw in the flicker of an eye in response to a question; secrets and fantasies that she saw in the fluttering of eyelids or the pulsing vein of a temple. Mild thoughts are like whispers, but intense feelings of love, hate, joy, fear—well, it’s almost hard to hang on when you’re trying to read them, they can be so fast and furious. When a person has evil on his mind, he shouts it with his thoughts, and they almost drown out his words.

“I just don’t like the way you’re looking, Hildy.” I heard him, finally, over all the noise of his rage and despair. “You look like you might do something … well, something crazy, for lack of a better word.”

But I read the following, loud and clear:
Hopelessness and something else. Hate? No. It’s death. He has death on his mind.
I had to look away. He was a reader himself. I didn’t want him to see my fear.

“Maybe you should take something, Hildy. I have something. It’s just Xanax. A mild sedative. Let me get you some water.”