Ask Again, Yes (42 page)

Anne Stanhope alone with her children. Kate tried to picture it.

“Can we be sure she won’t hurt them?”

“Of course she won’t hurt them,” Peter said.

“Of course? No, don’t act like the idea is absurd. You know, we didn’t ask her many questions but I’d like to know what medication she’s on, whether she’s seeing someone regularly.”

“She seemed okay the day she was here, Kate. We have no one else. This is why she came back. This exact reason. In case we need her.” He crossed his arms and considered another option. “Or maybe I should wait a week or two. Until another bed opens up. Maybe this is a little too rushed.”

“No,” Kate said. “No, you’re not waiting.” Seven hours at the most. Six if she sped. She handed him the phone. “You make the call. If she’s there, tell her we’ll pay her. Or don’t. I don’t know. Say whatever you think is best. I’m going to change my clothes.”

She’d barely gotten untangled from her bra when Peter called up the stairs, “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”

When she arrived, Anne received her instructions like they were handing her the nuclear codes. She didn’t ask where they were going or why, though Kate had the sense that she’d figured it out. She asked them both to stay put while she looked over the list—what they should eat for dinner, where their pj’s were located, what time they had to head to bed. Kate tried to think of a way to let Anne know that at almost ten years old Frankie would report everything to them. Any weird thing that might happen, he’d be ready with it as soon as Kate walked back through the door.

“If it’s okay with you,” Anne said, her expression so serious Kate decided that if whatever came out of her mouth was scary, she’d bail on the whole plan.

“Yes?” Kate asked.

“Can I take them for ice cream after dinner? There’s a Carvel on Hillside Avenue.” Anne produced from her pocket a map she’d printed from the internet.

A trip in the car. It was supposed to rain. The air already felt heavy with it. Kate could pick up a gallon of ice cream and drop it back at the house before they left. She could pick up toppings and they could make their own sundaes at home. But that would take at least twenty minutes.

“Yes,” Peter said, before Kate had a chance to answer. He took out his wallet but Anne waved him away.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Anne asked.

“Yes, are you sure?” Kate echoed.

“They’ll love that,” Peter said.

They set off around three o’clock like two kids playing hooky for the day. Anne walked them out and sat down on the front step to look out
for the bus, even though it wasn’t due to arrive for another forty minutes. Both Peter and Kate walked around to the driver’s seat of Kate’s car and she thought he’d argue with her about driving, suggest they could switch seats around the corner from the facility if she was worried about their policies. But he walked back around to the passenger door without comment. All the way down their block, Kate kept her eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Anne. When they got to the expressway, Kate told him he could sleep if he wanted to, but he stayed awake.

“Let’s head to Mexico,” he said after a while. “A few days on the beach and I’ll be good as new. My mother will be fine with them until we get back.”

“Oh come on,” he said after a second. “That was funny.”

Traffic was heavy near the airports and then cleared to almost nothing. They sailed by the northern end of Manhattan and over the George Washington Bridge.

“If it’s like this all the way, we’ll get there in no time,” Kate said. There was peace between them, a sense of bubbling optimism that Kate wanted to swim inside. She turned south on the turnpike and though she knew the rolling hills to the west were landfills, they were grown over with grass and she thought they looked beautiful. Nothing had happened, yet, that couldn’t be fixed. And now nothing would. Together, they were facing this thing and battling it, side by side. Next to her, fiddling with the radio, he seemed healthier already, like the switch had already been flipped. They’d vowed to remain together through good times and bad, and now look at them. If these weren’t bad times, what were they? And they were doing fine.

She headed west, south, west again, the road unfurling before them and rolling up behind them. How could she ever have thought that they might not make it?

“So what happens when we get there?” he asked, pensive now.

“They’ll assess you, decide whether you fit the criteria for detox, then
when they decide you do, they admit you. A few days of detox and then you get to work. You come home to us in a few weeks.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. But think of it as an opportunity. How many people get a chance to start over again? You decided to be a cop at twenty-two. Did you really think out all your options? Do you remember when you told me you’d decided? You’d never, not even once, mentioned becoming a cop before that day. Be a pastry chef. Be a librarian. No matter what you’ll still be a husband, a father,” she said. “Those are the main things anyway.”

“You realize we’ll have a lot less money coming in.”

“Yeah, maybe. But more money or less money, none of it matters if you don’t get your act together.”

“For them,” he said. “They’re great kids.”

“For yourself, Peter. Not for them. Not for me. For you.”

They drove down a local road that was thickly forested on both sides. They passed a row of farm stands, boarded up.

“Did you really think about leaving?” he asked eventually. “Do you think about it, I mean? It seems a little quick, don’t you think? Considering everything.”

“Quick?” she repeated, and tried not to let it darken the bright hope that had kept her foot on the pedal for over a hundred miles and counting. “This has been going on for a very long time. You haven’t been sitting where I’ve been sitting. And also, life goes more quickly now. Have you noticed that? Everything that used to move at a normal rate is moving faster now.” What she didn’t say: Technically, you’re the one who would have left. I would have stayed and kept those kids exactly where they are.

“And you haven’t been sitting where I’ve been sitting.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Anne had the kids color pictures but that took only fifteen minutes, so then she had them make paper airplanes. Then all the paper was gone. Frankie dropped a crayon on the floor and the dog ate it before Molly even had a chance to scream. Then they listed all the amazing things the dog had eaten in his life, then they asked Anne if she had a dog, and then they had her remind them once again of who she was, exactly.

Frankie disappeared upstairs with some sort of electronic device, and she didn’t know if she was supposed to stop him. He could be watching pornography on that thing, and then they’d blame her, say that she hadn’t been able to keep a proper eye on them for even a handful of hours. The girl watched a television show about elephants, but that was over in twenty-two minutes and Anne was still heating up their dinner. It was the first time in several years that she’d used an actual stove, and not just a microwave or a hot plate. When the chicken was done, and the potatoes had cooled a little bit, she called them in to the kitchen. They were just getting seated when Anne heard a car slow outside.

“Who’s that?” Anne asked them. She checked the instructions Kate had written out. “Who comes around at dinnertime?”

The kids shrugged, their mouths full of chicken and milk. Kate hadn’t said anything about visitors. Anne stood by the table, thinking about what to do, when the car drove off in the direction it had come. She had two seconds of relief before there came a pounding at the door.

“Hello?” a voice called. Someone was rattling the doorknob, trying to get in. “Kate?”

The kids all sat up taller to listen. “Pop Pop!” Molly cried after a second, and let her fork drop with a clatter as she raced to the door. She unlocked the dead bolt, pulled the door open. Anne heard all of this from the corner of the kitchen by the pantry. She pulled back as far as she could and tried not to breathe.

“Where’s Mommy?” came his voice, and the kids spoke over each other to tell him their news, that they’d gotten off the bus as usual but instead of their usual babysitter guess who was there? Their daddy’s mommy! And she let them watch a TV show even though it was Thursday and she said if they did a good job eating their dinner they could go out for ice cream later. And their mommy wouldn’t be home until very late because she was dropping Daddy off somewhere for work.

“Whose mommy was it?” said Francis slowly, and Anne could hear him getting closer.

“Daddy’s,” Molly said.

“She has white hair,” Frankie said. “Short like a boy’s.”

And then he was in the kitchen, and she was caught. She pressed her cheek against the cool of the wall and counted to three before turning to face him.

“Hello,” she said.

“Well, I’ll be switched,” he said, gaping.

“Long time,” she said, taking in his face, his cane. “They had an emergency. I was close by.”

“Yes, that’s why I came,” he said. He took a step closer to her as if to see her better. “I took a taxi. Sara called me and told me Kate needed me. The taxi cost one hundred and twenty dollars. Plus tolls and tip.” How odd that he’d told her that, Anne thought.

The kids adored him, Anne could see. He looked around the kitchen as if to discover what other secrets it might be hiding.

“Give me a minute,” he said to the kids, who were hounding him, pulling at him, trying to get him to hear their stories. “Pop Pop needs five minutes.”

He continued to stare at Anne.

“How long have you been back in touch?” he asked, finally. He was breathing heavily, as if someone had cut off his wind.

“Not long,” she said.

“I thought you lived up in Saratoga.”

Anne felt a flush rise to her cheeks. He knew about the halfway house then. He knew everything.

“Yes, I do.”

He folded his arms. “Free as a bird,” he said.

She had only to look at his face to remind herself that he’d earned the comment. And she was free, in a way, except for the tie she felt to Peter.

“How have you been?” she asked, her voice so weak and small it scarcely sounded like her at all. She heard how paltry the question was against all those years of not inquiring. The scar on his face was both silvery and red and reminded her of the thin end of a tenderloin that had to be doubled and pinned up against the rest of the meat in order to cook through evenly. Why hadn’t he gotten fixed up? Wonders could be done now with plastic surgery. She watched a television program a few years ago where a man had gotten reconstructive surgery after a firework had gone off just a few inches from his nose. At the time she’d thought that’s how it had been for Francis, that he’d gotten a new face and been sent on his way. Now she could see that she’d imagined wrong. And yet, once she got past it, he still looked like himself. It didn’t take over his face, exactly. He looked younger than his age—mid sixties, like her, Anne guessed. He was trim, hadn’t gotten fat like so many men seemed to. He still took everything in with that one good eye.

“Jesus Christ,” he said instead of answering. “They could have given me some warning.”

“I think they had to move quickly,” Anne whispered. She should leave. He could handle the kids; they knew him better anyway.

“Where were they going in such a hurry?” he asked. “Is he going to dry out somewhere?”

So unpleasant, to just put things out in the open that would be better kept quiet. “Why don’t I head out,” she said, “now that you’re here.”

It was hard to fathom that this tiny woman was the same person he’d been angry with for so many years, the locus of all his trouble. He couldn’t stop staring at her, even when she looked down at the floor, over
at the cabinets, her cheeks growing red and mottled under his gaze as if she’d been slapped. She seemed not harmless, exactly, but not dangerous either. She had no secret weapon, no intent to do harm. He’d honed his sixth sense as a cop, and that’s what it was telling him now. She was nervous, quavering, her fingers dancing down the front of her shirt as if there were buttons there to play with. He saw, all of a sudden, that she was never to blame, not entirely. Where the hell had Brian been? And why had Francis gone over there in the first place? He’d been puzzling over it for more than two decades. All he knew was that when he looked at her now she seemed so weak that it would be pointless to hate her. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of what. If she stayed, then it might come to him and he’d have his chance.

“You might as well stay,” he said. “You’ve never experienced bedtime in this house. It’ll take the two of us. Plus if you leave now, they’ll think I sent you away.”

“Which I’m sure they’d understand.”

“Yes.”

The kids raced back into the kitchen, armed with books and board games. They dropped everything at his feet.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he shouted at them as they squealed and giggled and forgot Anne was there.

He had a feeling. Before he saw her. Something Kate said on the phone a few weeks back, about help arriving from surprising directions. And then in the same conversation she told him a story about Frankie, that he’d recently tried to break his remote control airplane rather than share it with their neighbor’s son, that it said something about him that would probably always be true.

And then she’d asked, “Do you think a parent always knows a child best? Even when that child is an adult?”

Francis had said, “A mother maybe.” For himself he couldn’t have predicted half of what his daughters had decided in their lives. Kate choosing Peter Stanhope over every other man in the world was a riddle he’d never be able to solve. And then more riddles on top of that main one: that his Kate, his bright girl, chose to pretend what was happening in her house wasn’t happening rather than face it head-on.

“Leave the kids alone,” Lena said when he tried to discuss it with her. She always said Peter had been a sweet boy, and when you thought about what he’d been through, it was a miracle he was as normal as he was. And he loved Kate. That’s all that mattered to Lena. They’d hurt her when they’d got married like that, without anyone knowing. They were too bold. People didn’t get married that young anymore. They’d come to Gillam and told them together, the four of them seated across a table, Peter’s leg bouncing, so nervous he spilled his glass of water all over the bills Francis and Lena had been going through just before they walked in. There was something pathetic about a young man so tall and strong being that nervous, and Francis had poured him a drink. He thought about that a lot now. How he thought a stiff drink would hit the kid hard but Peter had put it down the hatch like it was no more than a cup of lemonade. He should have known then, Francis thought. There were a lot of things like that. He’d known Anne Stanhope was not right in the head but he hadn’t really known. If someone had asked him if she was capable of shooting a person in the face, he would have said no. Anne, herself, would have said no. Everyone in the world would have said no. After Kate and Peter left that day, after Lena cried a little at the table and said she’d been robbed of seeing her daughter take the biggest step of her life, she’d gone out the next day and bought Kate eight bone china place settings because that’s what she’d have gotten her if she’d had a bridal shower, a wedding. Kate had giggled when she unwrapped the boxes. One gleaming plate after another. Little cups and saucers.