Brass Ring (28 page)

“The man is a champion of victims’ rights, Vanessa. He breaks his back for kids who have suffered real abuse. There’s no way he could ever—”

“You don’t know anything about him. You’ve seen ministers and teachers and lawyers and doctors who’ve done it.” She waved her arm through the air. “For heaven’s sake, Terri, wake up.”

Terri was quiet for a long time. “Vanessa,” she said finally, “listen to me. First, I don’t appreciate being screamed at over the phone. Second, while you’ve been an incredibly hard worker and a driving force behind the network for a long time, the truth is that you’ve done jack-shit to help us out with the lobbying and other critical work that needs to be done now.”

Vanessa leaned against the wall, eyes closed, while Terri continued.

“Now, I don’t believe for half an instant that this man who breaks his back every day to protect the rights of women and kids could be guilty of hurting a child. But Vanessa—forgive me for this—even if he
is
guilty, he’s a powerful force in the Senate, and we need him. Got that? I mean, what do you expect us to do? Let go of the one true advocate we have because some fucked-up kid said something negative about him?”

“Actually, yes,” Vanessa said. “At least, I would hope you’d care enough to uncover the truth.”

She hung up without waiting for Terri’s reply and stood staring down at the phone. How many bridges had she burned with that call?

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten-thirty. It was time for bed, but she made herself a cup of tea instead and carried it into the living room, where she settled down on the sofa with a stack of journals. She wouldn’t go to bed. Sleep would only bring her the carousel, and she knew she would fare better tonight if she didn’t sleep at all.

JEREMY, PENNSYLVANIA

1962

THE BIG DOORS OF
the barn were closed much of the summer because Vincent was ill. Every once in a while, he’d manage to get out to the workshop, and Claire and Vanessa would join him there. But despite the coziness and the warm, familiar smells, the workshop was not quite the same as it used to be. Vincent didn’t seem to want to talk, and the sound of his breathing often filled the air as he whittled or painted or glued pieces of wood together. He kept his pipe in his mouth, but he never smoked it anymore.

The young deputy sheriff was around a good part of the summer, helping Vincent with the mechanical workings of the carousel. Zed Patterson. “He’s a genius at making that thing go,” Vincent would say, and then he’d laugh. “He doesn’t understand the meaning of a carousel, though, that boy. Says I should put some prettier music on the organ. What’s he expect—a little Mozart? Chopin? Not on my carousel.”

One day—it was not a Friday—Len Harte showed up unannounced. He walked into the kitchen where Claire and Mellie sat at the table hulling strawberries while Dora rolled pie dough on the kitchen counter.

Len walked straight across the kitchen floor to where Mellie sat and slapped her hard across the face. Mellie’s head snapped to the side, and his hand left a mark on her cheek as red as the berries.

Dora gasped, and Claire dropped the strawberry she’d been hulling to the floor. She had never seen her father hit a person before. He didn’t even hit her or Vanessa when they deserved it. “My God, Len.” Mellie stood up, her pale hand with its pink nails pressed against her cheek. “What’s—”

“Where’s Vanessa?” Len boomed. He looked directly at Claire, who drew her feet onto the chair and hugged her knees close to her body.

“Upstairs,” Claire said, the word barely audible. Vanessa had been upstairs most of the morning. She’d said she wasn’t feeling well.

Len stomped through the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. Mellie looked at her mother. “Why is he acting like this?” Mellie asked.

Dora was trying to press a wet cloth to Mellie’s cheek, but Mellie brushed her hand away and started up the stairs after her husband, with Claire not far behind her.

From the stairwell, they could hear Vanessa crying in little hiccupy sobs.

“Now!” Len yelled at Vanessa. “You have three minutes.”

At the top of the stairs, Mellie turned to Claire. “Go downstairs, darling. Everything’s going to be all right. You just go down and wait with Grandma, and I’ll get everything straightened out up here.”

Mellie’s cheek was still red, but she was smiling. She would fix whatever was wrong.

Claire walked slowly down the stairs. She sat at the table again while Dora ran the rolling pin this way and that over the dough on the counter. The dough was so flat that from where Claire was sitting, it looked as though Dora was rolling the pin on the counter itself. Dora talked about the state fair while Claire poked at the strawberries in the bowl. Dora spoke very loudly, as though she could overpower the screaming and shouting from upstairs and somehow prevent Claire from hearing it.

After pressing the paper-thin dough into the bottom of a pie plate, Dora pulled a coloring book and a box of crayons from the cupboard by the back door and set them on the table in front of Claire.

“Let me see you color something pretty,” she said, and though the book was far too juvenile for Claire, she obediently opened it to a picture of two robins and a worm.

It wasn’t long before footsteps thundered on the stairs and Len came flying through the kitchen. Claire looked up from her coloring only long enough to see that he was dragging Vanessa by the arm and carrying a suitcase with his free hand. Vanessa was crying so hard she was choking on her tears as her legs scrambled to keep up with his. Then Claire returned to her coloring, carefully staying inside the lines. She didn’t look up at her sister again. And she kept coloring as Mellie ran, screaming, after Len and Vanessa into the yard. That was not like Mellie. Claire squeezed the red crayon as she worked it around the robin’s fat breast. Dora talked even louder. There would be a lot of strawberry pies entered in the state fair this year, she said. The weather had been just right for strawberries. And Claire colored, and as the screaming and yelling and little sobs grew to a crescendo, she held the picture up for her grandmother to see.

Len’s car screeched away from the house and sped down the long driveway. It was a while before Mellie came back into the house. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Dora and Claire looked at her.

Mellie pulled one of the kitchen chairs close to Claire and sat down. She took both of Claire’s hands in hers. “Your daddy and I have decided to live apart for a while,” she said calmly.

What did that mean? “Are you divorced now?” Claire asked. She had a friend named Barbara whose parents were divorced. Barbara saw her father every weekend.

“Divorced!” Mellie laughed as though Claire had said something wildly amusing, and Claire smiled uncertainly. “Of course not. Sometimes a married couple needs to have some time apart. That’s all. And Daddy wanted to take Vanessa with him so he wouldn’t be too lonely. And you’ll stay with me so I won’t be lonely either.”

Mellie stood up and lit a cigarette. She walked to the counter where Dora was laying strips of dough on top of the strawberries in the pie tin.

“I believe that’s the most delicate pie crust I’ve ever seen you make, Mama,” Mellie said. “You’ll win first prize this year for sure.”

VIENNA

EACH TIME CLAIRE RAISED
her eyes from the papers on her desk, the office swirled around her and the windows danced momentarily on the wall before snapping into place again. She couldn’t shake this grogginess. Sleep had been fitful the night before, for both her and Jon, and they had spoken little on the drive into work. Were they both simply exhausted, or did he feel as she did—that once she’d told him she wanted to continue her friendship with Randy, there was little else to be said? He’d stroked her shoulder in the car this morning and rested his hand on hers, and she’d felt the sadness in his quiet touch, a strange sense of resignation that brought tears to her eyes. Jon was in pain, and she couldn’t bear that she was the cause of it.

At ten o’clock, she had her third cup of coffee and met with two of the rehab therapists, Kelley Fielding and Ann Short, to talk about a problematic patient they shared. Kelley was much improved in dealing with her male patients. Her new sense of confidence was evident, and she practically carried the meeting by herself, which was just as well, since Claire’s concentration was nonexistent.

Claire spent much of the meeting pondering her choices. She tried to imagine her life without Randy in it. It would be like cutting off her air supply. Cut the theatrics, she told herself. You have a wonderful husband and an incredible life and no financial problems and

what the hell more do you want? Maybe Jon was right, and the memories would die a natural death if Randy were no longer around to stir them up in her. Maybe she could go back to the woman she used to be—the pre-Margot woman who could turn every problem into a challenge, every tense situation into a festival. Then again, maybe not. It was hard to imagine feeling good again. She never felt happy anymore, never content or at ease with herself. It was as if she were passing through a long hallway, and she had seen too much behind the doors to go back again unchanged. Randy held the key to the last door, but Jon sat in the center of the hall, his chair too big for her to circumvent without injury to herself or to him.

And what would her life be like without Jon in it? Unthinkable. Unbearable.

At noon, she carried their lunches into Jon’s office. He looked surprised to see her as he raised his eyes from his work.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course.” He moved his papers to the side of the desk and took the bag she held out to him. They were quiet as they poured bottles of apple juice into Styrofoam cups and opened their bowls of salad.

Jon squeezed a packet of dressing onto his salad and glanced at her. “Margaret’s accepted our invitation to be keynote speaker at the retreat,” he said.

“Fantastic.” She didn’t care who spoke. She didn’t care if anyone spoke at all. In years past, the SCI Retreat had consumed them both. This year, it seemed like an event in someone else’s tiresome dream.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said.

Jon raised his eyebrows. “About?”

“I won’t see Randy anymore.” She looked at him. “I’ll go to his restaurant this afternoon to tell him in person, but that will be it. I’ll try very hard to put this past month or so behind me, and I’ll think of some things we can do for fun. And plan a vacation, if you still want to do that. I love you, Jon. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately.”

Jon set down his fork. He wheeled his chair over to the door and shut it, then reached toward her. “Come here,” he said.

She stood up and let him pull her onto his lap. Silently, he buried his head against her shoulder, and she felt his relief and his love. She held him close, struggling to share those emotions with him, but a numbness quickly settled over her.

Finally, he spoke. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“Be patient with me,” she said. “I’m hoping the crazy little flashbacks will go away when Randy goes away, like you said.”

“And if they don’t, Claire, you could see a therapist.”

“Maybe.” She supposed that would be the next logical step, but she couldn’t imagine trying to sift through those images with anyone other than Randy.

Jon rested his hand on her knee above the wool of her skirt. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re supposed to be a professional counselor, but I don’t think you’ve ever really looked at yourself.”

His words made her prickly. She got off his lap and took her seat by his desk again. “I’ve been in therapy before,” she said.

“Yes, I know. But that was to learn how to deal with a disabled husband or cope with an adolescent daughter. You’ve never really looked at
Claire
.”

She replaced the lid on her uneaten salad as he spoke, and by the time he was finished, she’d stood up. “I don’t think I want to look at Claire right now.” The angry tone in her voice startled her. Jon shouldn’t want her to look at Claire, either. She might just discover that Claire was a little resentful, that she felt coerced into giving up something she wanted because Jon couldn’t handle it. “I’m going to put on my happy face again—I’ve always been great at that, right? And then we can both pretend that none of this ever happened.”

There was a red blotch on Jon’s neck, and his hands were tight, white-knuckled, on the wheels of his chair. Claire slipped past him and pulled open the door. She walked through the maze of hallways, quickly, so that no one would think she had time to talk.

In her own office, she sat down and rested her head and arms on her desk. Well, that hadn’t gone quite the way she’d planned. Jon was right. The times she’d been in therapy, she’d made sure to let the therapist know that
she
was all right—it was the people around her who merited her concern.
I am very happy. I have a wonderful, perfect marriage. My husband is sweet and generous and loving; my child is bright and beautiful. A little on the feisty side, but I’m glad she has that spirit. My childhood? I was surrounded by love and laughter
. Two different therapists had bought it. That’s how convincing she had been, how deeply she’d believed the words herself at the time. She didn’t believe them any longer.

She had plenty of work to do, but she left the foundation without finishing her lunch and drove to the Fishmonger in Arlington.

The small parking lot was full, and she had to leave her car two blocks away. She unbuttoned her coat as she walked toward the restaurant, trying not to think too much about what she would say when she got there. She would let her words come out unrehearsed. Inside the crowded restaurant, she was greeted by the smell of fresh fish and lemon and mesquite. Knowing Randy and his taste for antiques and order, she was surprised by the rustic trappings of his restaurant. The wood ceiling was crossed with thick beams, and the tables were made of heavy rough-hewn wood. She couldn’t picture him selecting the colorful paintings of tropical fish that hung on the walls.