An Educated Death (5 page)

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You use your womanly wiles to break down my defenses and make me feel things. You make me be alive whether I want to or not."

"Is this turning into a serious discussion?" He nodded. "But you aren't serious about wanting to run away?"

"Half-serious," he said. He put his hand on his forehead as if measuring depth. "Sometimes, when I feel like I've had it up to here with the awful things people do to each other, with the lying and deception and evil, the lack of any sort of fellow-feeling or compassion, I let myself daydream about how nice it would be to just get away from it all to someplace peaceful and quiet. Just the two of us. Maybe a dog. Maybe some kids. Crazy, wild, insolent, headstrong girls just like you, brown as bark with their hair flying in the wind...."

I just stared at him, astonished. Andre loved his work, loved being a policeman. He'd never talked like this before. And while he'd mentioned children, he'd always been joking before. We didn't even talk about marriage. Close as we were, I'd been hurt so much by losing David that a part of me was still terrified of making another commitment.

I met my husband, David, in a bar where I'd gone with some girlfriends after a Bergman movie. The film, as Bergman will, had stirred us all, and we'd all felt we needed to have a drink and talk it over before we went home. Being alone with the bleak and disturbing thoughts his movies inspire can be downright dangerous. David had stopped at our table and said one of the stupidest things a man can say—"I knew three such gorgeous women didn't just come here to talk." We'd begun a three-pronged effort to put him in his place when he turned to me. "I admit it. It was a stupid remark and it was a lie. I was drawn across the room by your eyes and I've come to beg to be allowed to spend eternity in their orbit."

That was David. When there was something he wanted, he didn't let anything stand in his way. And he'd wanted me. I'd ended up going home with him that night and after that I'd never gone home except to pickup clothes. We got married and settled into an intense happily ever after. And it was happily ever after for two years, until the night a friend talked David into coming for a ride in his new Camaro. The friend, who had been drinking, wrapped the car and David around a tree. He walked away with a few bruises but he killed David. When he came to apologize to me, I broke his nose. It didn't make me feel any better. After that, I pulled myself into my shell and stayed there, unwilling to be hurt again. Loving Andre had broken down a lot of my defenses, but as the last year had shown, Andre's job was a very dangerous one. I couldn't bear losing someone again.

Sometimes I forget Andre has the cop's knack for reading people's minds. "Just let me talk, okay?" he said. "I'm not trying to put you in a cage. I know how you feel and I've accepted that. We're not so far apart on things, you know. After Melanie, I still have an intense fear of the prison door clanging shut behind me."

We sure are a romantic pair. I'm afraid of getting too close for fear that I'll be hurt. He's afraid of being trapped in another bad marriage. We'll probably still be like this when we're ninety, still circling warily around the central question. "I'm not sure I could live on a mountaintop with you. When you put on that inscrutable cop's face, lock yourself away, and put out the 'Nobody Home' sign, I get so angry I—"

"Come beating down the door," he said.

"As I recall, sometimes you're not only not home, you've got all the other cops covering for you and nobody knows where you are. When you have a highly mobile job, it's really easy to be elusive." In the past, Andre had dealt with conflict by being unavailable. Now that we were living together, it was harder, but for the past two weeks, with me working in Boston, he'd become impossible again.

"I won't do that again, scout's honor."

"You were a scout?"

He puffed out his chest in mock pride. "Eagle Scout, ma'am."

I fanned myself with my hand. "Don't do that thing with your chest. It gives me palpitations."

"Sorry." He lowered his eyes and tried to look humble. Andre trying to look humble is like a Doberman trying to look friendly. He's too big, too physical, too intense.

"At ease, Trooper," I said.

"I am at ease. More at ease, anyway. You know that losing Ray is going to bother me for a long time. You can understand about that. But it's not locked away anymore. You may complain about the 'Nobody Home' signs, Thea, but you don't let them stop you. Trying to keep you out is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. It just makes you try that much harder."

"When I was little, my mother was complaining to the doctor about how she couldn't manage me. Pigheaded and stubborn is what she said. The doctor suggested these might be easier traits to accept if she looked at me as determined and resolute. It's funny how often she still tells that story, considering I was the good doobie, at least compared to Michael and Carrie."

"Your mother doesn't appreciate opposition."

I gave him the let's-not-go-into-that look and he dropped the subject. Since our big fight in the spring, my mother and I have barely spoken.

"I can picture a little girl like you. I'd like to have one someday."

It was the second time he'd mentioned children. "What's this with you and little girls all of a sudden?"

He leered and twisted the ends of an imaginary mustache. "I'm twisted."

"Seriously."

He finished his drink and stared sadly at the empty glass. Ten feet away, the waitress noticed and through an elaborate series of signals they agreed she'd bring him another. Women notice Andre. He has an aggressively physical presence. Big shoulders, deep voice, strong jaw. The persistent five o'clock shadow that screams too much testosterone. I used to resent it, but I'm getting better. Except when I hear Amanda's honeyed tones on the phone.

"Coming so close to death makes me think more about life." It seemed odd that he was saying these things now and not six months ago, but people come to things in their own time, in their own ways. I waited for the rest but that was all he was going to say about it. "Speaking of life, how's Suzanne doing?"

Suzanne is my partner. Unless, since she started the business, I'm her partner. She's small and blond and even more of a workaholic than I am. I'm a better organizer and a better writer. She's an ace people person. Suzanne could get Godzilla to cooperate and think it was his idea. She had a baby in January and was going crazy trying to balance motherhood and work. "Just as you'd expect. She's trying to nurture the perfect baby between projects and child-care crises. Trying to be the perfect stepmother. Coming in every day impeccably groomed and in despair because she has to wear size four clothes instead of size twos. She'll be lucky if the poor thing isn't neurotic. I imagine its first word will be 'survey,' unless it's 'enrollment' or 'statistics.'
His
first word, I should say. Little Paul Eric Merritt, Jr."

The waitress brought his drink and another bowl of smoked nuts and we stopped talking about children. With a gentle buzz on, we collected our luggage, let the doorman summon a taxi, and left San Francisco behind.

The plane was on time. We ignored the beverage service. Ignored the dinner service. Ignored the movie. I used his shoulder as a pillow, he used my head as a pillow, and we slept in a companionable heap all the way to Boston.

It was a sad parting. We should have been going home together to build on our hard-won closeness. We hated to say good-bye. Maybe it was a good thing we had such busy lives, such demanding schedules. Otherwise we would have gotten so caught up in saying good-bye we'd never have gotten around to parting and neither of us would ever work again, just a pair of happy, homeless street people, singing in the rain. Some days I think I wouldn't mind that at all and today was one of those days. "Take care of yourself, Andre," I told him. "No more cowboys and Indians." It was not a politically correct remark.

"Good guys and bad guys," he corrected.

"Just be careful."

"I will," he said. "You, too. No more Detective Kozak. You go out there to Bucksport and do your consultant thing and that's all, you understand?"

Since neither of us has a personality that takes kindly to being told what to do, we walk a fine line in the orders department, but this time he had a point. Since he'd known me, I'd required more stitches than a baby quilt and none of it had been any fun. All I have to do is think the words
'emergency room'
and I break into a cold sweat. "Believe me, that's all I intend to do. This is work, the stuff I do every day, not one of my mother's save-the-world projects."

"It better be. If you find anything even slightly questionable, let the police handle it. I've spent enough time hovering by your bedside waiting for you to wake up."

"I thought you liked me in bed...."

"Not in hospital beds, Thea."

"I could say the same about you."

They announced that his flight was boarding. He gave me a hug that would have cracked the ribs of a lesser woman and a kiss that should have gone on forever. Then he picked up his bag and walked away without looking back.
Way to go, Lemieux,
I thought.
Leave 'em hungry for more.
I picked up my own bag and headed for central parking.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

It was a bitter cold morning. Clear and windy. Little bits of orphan snow blew around the parking garage looking for the rest of their drift, warring with the windblown sand for space in the corners. If this was a taste of the winter to come, we were in for a hard time. I was parked on the roof so I let the car warm up while I brushed off the snow and dirt that had settled on my windshield. As soon as the temperature rose, I'd take her to the car wash. Under her coat of dust and road salt my nice red Saab looked pale and ancient though I'd only had her for six months. You can't own a bright red car and not keep it up. It wouldn't be right. Across the harbor, Boston looked surprisingly clean. Snow sparkled off some roofs and the wind was blowing great plumes of white smoke sideways and tearing them into pieces like a giant shredding cotton.

Even with a Saab, I hate driving on slippery roads, but luckily the roads were clear. Massachusetts highways are hard enough without ice and snow. They don't have driver's ed here, they have bumper cars. I negotiated the tunnel, merged onto the expressway and burst out onto I-93 ready to make some time. Unfortunately, the other cars on the road didn't share my agenda. I got stuck behind a trio of law-abiding citizens, spanning all three lanes, determined to make the rest of us go fifty-five. Very unlike Massachusetts drivers. They were lucky some truck hadn't flattened them like recyclable cans. I wasn't surprised that one was from Maine, another from Illinois and the third, I saw when I finally passed, was a tiny old lady who couldn't see over the steering wheel.

I'll never have that problem. Even if I do shrink when I get old, it'll only bring me down to five feet nine or ten or so, and maybe I'll finally be able to find clothes long enough to cover my knees. I don't wear short skirts from choice. I wear short skirts because when you're almost six feet tall, all skirts are short. My partner, Suzanne, who is short, says I'm wrong. She thinks all the clothes are made for tall women. Maybe clothes aren't made for women at all. One thing I know. If men had to wear skirts and dresses, they'd come in short, regular, and long, just like suits do. They do make something called petites, but Suzanne, who is petite, says they aren't proportioned for anyone she knows. Just as jackets are fitted to accommodate men's shoulders, women's should be fitted to accommodate our chests. I'm sick to death of blouses that bulge between the second and third buttons. Minimizer bras and double-sided tape are all that stand between me and ostentatious display. The challenge would be to find a form of sizing that wouldn't make the smaller-chested woman feel inadequate. Maybe we could size them like champagne? A magnum, a jeroboam, or a Methuselah?

Today I was not wearing a blouse. I was wearing a plain gray-green sweater dress, purchased by Suzanne back in the days when she'd had the energy to shop. It had the virtue of being able to be slept in and still look decent. When she first hired me, Suzanne had found my wardrobe deplorable. She'd tried nagging and nudging, but I don't much care what I wear as long as I'm comfortable and covered. She finally solved the problem by buying my clothes herself, a solution which suited both of us. I didn't know what I was going to do now that she'd stopped doing it. Maybe I'd get a personal shopper.

I rolled off the highway, drove through the uncluttered streets of Sedgwick, and through the tall brick pillars that marked the entrance to the Bucksport School. As the narrow road meandered along through a stretch of swampy forest, I wondered how fire engines ever got in. Maybe there was a school rule against fires. More likely they just used another entrance. This one was to impress prospective students and their parents. The road widened slightly at the top of a rise and then rolled down between the manicured lawns and scattered brick buildings to the big, grassy circle that formed the center of the campus. It reminded me of a New England town common. I put the car in one of the visitor spaces in front of Metcalfe Hall between a police cruiser and a shiny black Lexus. The tall bell tower, faintly reminiscent of the factories of Lawrence and Manchester, cast a long black shadow across the snowy lawn.