Don't Cry Now (8 page)

“Sam and Lauren,” Bonnie corrected, turning back to Josh Freeman. But he was already gone.

“I'm so sorry about your loss,” Marla continued, undaunted.

“Thank you,” Lauren said.

“I finally got a chance to meet your brother a few weeks ago,” Marla said.

It took Bonnie a moment to realize that Marla wasn't
talking to Lauren, but to her. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

“Can my friend have your autograph?” Sam asked suddenly.

Marla's face lit up, as if someone had just shone a spotlight on her. “Of course.”

Bonnie looked over at Haze, who stood there grinning, Magic Marker in hand.

“You could just sign here,” he said, handing Marla the marker and holding up one tattooed arm. MUFF, the tattoo proclaimed above a picture of a beaver. DIVER, it said below.

“Haze,” Marla repeated, after asking his name and how to spell it. “That's an interesting name.”

What's going on here? Bonnie wondered, waiting impatiently while Marla added the
le
that transformed Brenzel to Brenzelle, with an exaggerated flourish. “What do you mean you met my brother?”

Marla flashed her a perfectly capped smile. “Well, I never did get to meet him in high school. I'd already graduated by the time he got there. But I remember hearing stories about how wild he was, how
hot
, as the kids would say today. So I've always been curious about him, especially since you've always been such a goody two-shoes.”

Bonnie ignored the slight, intended or otherwise. “How did you meet my brother?”

“He came by the studio to talk to Rod. Didn't Rod tell you?”

Bonnie spun around, looking for her husband, but he was speaking to one of the undertakers beside the chapel door. Rod had met with her brother without telling her? Why?

“Apparently he had some crazy idea for a series,” Marla said, answering Bonnie's silent question. “Rod told him it would never fly, but I think I may have talked him into appearing on one of our shows. I think he'd make a
great guest, don't you? He's very good-looking, and so charming.”

“My brother is a crook and a con artist,” Bonnie said flatly, wanting only to get away from this woman as fast as she could.

“Exactly my point.”

“I really have to get going,” Bonnie told her, moving briskly from her side. “Thanks for coming,” she added, tossing the words over her shoulder like a crumpled piece of paper.

“Hopefully, the next time we see each other will be under pleasanter circumstances,” Marla called after her.

Don't count on it, Bonnie thought.

 

“Why didn't you tell me you'd seen Nick?” Bonnie asked, watching as her husband spread numerous cartons of Chinese food across the round white kitchen table. The room was longer than it was wide, and opened into an eating area at the front of the house, overlooking the street. The cabinets were bleached oak, the tile floor and appliances almond, the walls white. A Chagall lithograph of a cow suspended upside down over a rooftop hung on one wall; Amanda's painting of a group of people with square heads hung on another.

“You talked to Marla,” Rod stated, his voice calm, his manner unruffled.

“I don't understand, Rod.”

He placed the last carton on the table, absently licked his fingers. “It's simple, sweetheart. Your brother dropped into the studio a few weeks back, without an appointment, of course. He had some crazy idea for a series. I had to tell him it wouldn't work.”

“Fly,” Bonnie corrected.

“What?”

“Marla said you told him it wouldn't fly,” she said testily, tears of anger springing to her eyes. How could he not have told her?

Rod crossed to where Bonnie stood leaning against the
warm oven door. “Ah come on, honey. It was no big deal. I didn't tell you because I knew how much it would upset you.”

“As opposed to the way I'm feeling now?”

He lowered his head. “It was stupid not to tell you. I'm sorry.”

“So, you'd already seen him when the police found his name in Joan's address book,” she stated more than asked, trying to get the facts straight in her mind. “Why didn't you say something then?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, by the way, your brother came to see me last week'? It didn't seem relevant.”

“What about later, when I was trying to reach him?”

“I thought about telling you.”

“But you didn't. Not even after I spoke to him.”

“I didn't see what good it would do. The whole thing was starting to feel very complicated. I still say if he's involved in any way in Joan's death, we should let the police handle it.”

“That's not the point,” Bonnie cried.

“What is the point?” Rod asked, his eyes moving into the hall, obviously concerned that his children might overhear them.

Bonnie instantly lowered her voice. “The point is that you should have told me.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But I didn't. I don't know why. Probably I was trying to avoid exactly the kind of scene we're having now.”

There was silence.

“The food's getting cold,” Rod ventured.

“Did you know he was staying at my father's?” Bonnie asked, as if he hadn't spoken.

“No. I didn't ask and he didn't say.”

“Did you talk about Joan?”

“Why in God's name would we talk about Joan?”

“Why would his name be in her address book?”

“I repeat,” Rod said, his square jaw clenched tight,
clipping the ends off his words, like garden shears, “let's let the police deal with this.”

“Did you know that stupid woman has asked him to be a guest on your show?” Bonnie asked, switching gears.

“Marla?” Rod laughed.

“You think it's funny?”

“He won't do it.”

“Of course he'll do it. If only to aggravate me.”

“Then don't let it.” Rod kissed the tip of her nose. “Come on, honey. Don't let them get to you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Really, I am.”

Sam casually sauntered into the room, his sister trailing after him. “You think Marla Brenzelle is stupid?” he asked, the laces of his sneakers dragging across the ceramic tiles of the floor.

Bonnie wondered how much of the conversation they had overheard. “Let's just say the woman has a poorly defined sense of irony.”

“What's that?” Sam folded his long body inside one of the tall wicker chairs.

“Irony?”

“That.” Sam pointed toward one of the plastic containers.

“Lemon chicken,” Rod told him. “Help yourself.”

“I think she's cool,” Lauren said, sitting down and spooning a large helping of fried rice onto her plate.

“You do?” Bonnie made no effort to contain her surprise. “What about her do you find ‘cool'?”

Lauren shrugged. “I think she helps people.”

“Helps them? How—by exploiting them in front of millions of people?”

“How is she exploiting them?” Lauren asked.

“Can you pass the chow mein?” Sam said.

“She exploits them because she misleads them into thinking that by confessing their problems in front of millions of people, they can solve them. She offers thirty-second sound bites as solutions. And she provides a forum for every kook and exhibitionist in the country. She le
gitimizes their highly questionable behavior by making it sound like the norm, which it definitely is not.” Bonnie paused, her mind still reeling from her earlier confrontation with Rod, anger fueling her words. “How many twin lesbians are out there who have seduced their mother's boyfriends, for God's sake? Or Peeping Toms who married their first cousins after spying them making love to their fathers? Do you think that's normal? Do you think that by having these people on her show that Marla Brenzelle, whom I used to know as Marlene Brenzel, by the way, is interested in helping anyone other than herself and her precious ratings? I mean, whatever happened to discretion? Whatever happened to common sense?”

Her unexpected outburst brought silence to the room.

“That was some speech,” Rod said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” Bonnie quickly apologized. “I'm not sure where that came from. I didn't mean to sound so—”

“Disdainful?” Rod asked, pointedly.

“I'm sorry. I really didn't mean…”

“I hadn't realized you had such strong feelings about what I do every day,” Rod said.

“When did you know Marla Brenzelle?” Sam asked.

“We went to school together,” Bonnie told him, eyes on Rod.

“Cool,” Sam said.

“Look,” Bonnie said to her husband, “I wasn't trying to denigrate what you do….”

“Good thing you weren't trying,” he said.

“She asked me if I'd like to come on the show someday,” Lauren said, dragging a forkful of long yellow noodles into her mouth. “She said it might help me come to terms with what's happened if I were to talk about it.”

“It would certainly help you to talk to someone, yes,” Bonnie quickly agreed. “But talk to your father. Talk to a therapist. Talk to me,” she offered.

“Why would I want to talk to you?” Lauren asked.

“Lauren,” Rod cautioned. “Take it easy.”

“Well,” Bonnie began, the words emerging painfully,
scratching against the sides of her throat, “I know what it's like to lose a mother you love.”

“I didn't
lose
my mother. She was murdered. Was yours?” Lauren asked provocatively.

“No,” Bonnie said. Not exactly, she thought.

“Then you don't know anything.” Lauren pushed her chair away from the table. “I'm not very hungry. Can I be excused?” In the next instant, she was gone.

Rod reached across the table to pat Bonnie's hand. “Sorry, honey. You didn't deserve that.” He lay down his fork, stared out the front window at the quiet suburban street. “It's been a horrible day for everyone.” He ran his hand through his hair, pushed his plate away. “I'm not that hungry either.” He stood up, stretched. “Actually, I'm kind of restless. Would you mind if I went out for a bit?”

“Now? It's after nine o'clock.”

“Just for a short drive. I won't be long.” He was already on his way out of the kitchen. Bonnie quickly followed him into the hall. “I just need some time to clear my head,” he said at the front door.

“Rod, I'm sorry,” Bonnie began. “You know I didn't mean to criticize you.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He kissed her gently on the mouth, one hand reaching behind him to open the door. “Want to come along?” he offered suddenly.

“How can I leave Amanda?” Bonnie pictured her daughter asleep in her bed.

“Sam and Lauren are here,” Rod reminded her.

Bonnie looked toward the staircase, thought of Sam in the kitchen and Lauren in her room. “
Don't even think of using my kids as baby-sitters. They're not here for your convenience
,” Joan had berated her one memorable evening soon after Amanda's birth.

“I better not,” Bonnie said, thinking of how Joan had done everything in her power to keep Sam and Lauren from knowing their half sister. How spiteful and mean
and cruel she had been. Certainly not the paragon of virtue Bonnie had heard eulogized this afternoon.

“Be back soon,” Rod said, shutting the door after him.

Sam was still sitting at the table, hunched over his food, the light from the overhead fixture picking up the midnight blue of his hair, when Bonnie returned to the kitchen.

“I'm glad that someone has an appetite,” she said.

Sam turned around, orange sauce coating his lips like a heavy lipstick, the same shade his mother used to wear, the same shade she'd been wearing when she died.

Bonnie took an involuntary step back, as if she'd seen a ghost. Sam smiled, something dangling from his right hand, like a pocket watch on a chain, except this wasn't a chain, Bonnie realized, clutching her stomach. It was a tail.

“Oh God,” she said. “Tell me that's not what I think it is.”

“It's just a little white rat,” Sam said, laughing. “I let him nibble on some sweet-and-sour pork. Kind of a last meal sort of thing before I feed him to L'il Abner.” He stood up, and Bonnie tried not to notice the slight orange halo around the doomed rat's twitching nose and mouth. “Want to watch?”

“No thank you,” Bonnie whispered, as Sam left the room. Then she sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, across from Joan's ghost, and waited for Rod to come home.

B
onnie pulled her car into the staff parking lot at the front of Weston Secondary at exactly seven twenty-nine the following Monday morning. “The clock in my car is digital,” she remembered telling the police not long ago. And then she'd laughed. Not long, not loud. Just long enough to increase their curiosity, just loud enough to arouse their suspicions. They'd been back over the weekend to question her again, covering the same familiar territory, probably hoping she'd contradict herself, say something suitably incriminating, enough to justify Captain Mahoney clamping the pair of handcuffs always dangling from his belt around her wrists, and taking her away. They seemed unconcerned about whatever danger she and her daughter might be in, the danger Joan had warned her against. They probably think I made the whole thing up, Bonnie thought, frustrated by how little the police had revealed about their investigation, other than the coroner's conclusion that Joan had been killed by a bullet from a .38-caliber revolver, quite possibly the one still registered to Rod.

“Yo, Mrs. Wheeler,” someone called as Bonnie reached the front door of the one-and-a-half-story reddish brick building. “Let me get that for you.”

Bonnie turned to see Haze running toward her. Well no, not exactly running, she thought, watching him, mesmerized by the easy insolence of his gait. More like lop
ing. A sleek, muscular, white stallion, dressed all in black, and totally tuned to his own body rhythms.

“You look real nice today, Mrs. Wheeler,” he said, pulling open the heavy door and standing off to one side so that Bonnie could enter first. “Nice to see you back,” he said as they stepped into the cafeteria.

Bonnie smiled. “And what can I do for you, Haze?”

Haze lowered his head, his voice teasingly soft, so that she had to lean forward to hear him. “You're not still expecting that essay for today, are you?” he asked.

She almost laughed, would have if not for the sudden tension in the boy's face, the noticeable stiffening of his smile.

“I'm afraid I am,” she told him, the noise and smells of the room crowding around her. “You've had over a month.”

Haze said nothing, a subtle smirk replacing his frozen smile, as he slowly backed into a group of students hovering nearby. Bonnie watched him disappear, the rat being swallowed by the giant snake, she thought, feeling somewhat unsettled by their encounter, although she wasn't sure why. She proceeded out of the cafeteria, nodding at several boys roughhousing in one corner, and walked briskly down the corridor. A long fluorescent light ran down the center of the high ceiling, like a single line on a highway, casting shadows on the yellow brick walls, lending an eerie glow to a large framed photograph of recent graduates, their smiling heads severed and mounted in a series of small neat ovals, hanging outside the door to the staff room. Bonnie pushed open the door, heading straight for the pot of coffee percolating on the side counter, quickly pouring herself a cup.

“Hi there, everyone,” she said to no one in particular, walking to a chair by the long wall of windows. The view—a small inner courtyard with a single tree—was something less than spectacular.

There were perhaps half a dozen teachers scattered about the predominantly blue and beige room, several
grouped in conversation around the water cooler, others seemingly absorbed in the morning paper, all a careful study of casual nonchalance. A smattering of
hi's
reached her ears. Someone asked how she was; she said okay. “It's nice to be back,” Bonnie volunteered, noting that Josh Freeman was nowhere around.

“It must have been horrible,” Maureen Templeton, a science teacher with frizzy yellow hair and a pronounced overbite, offered, and everyone nodded, further embellishment not required.

“Yes, it was,” Bonnie agreed.

“Do the police—?”

“Nothing yet,” Bonnie said.

“Rough week?” asked Tom O'Brian, the suitably brooding dramatic arts teacher.

“The pits.”

“Well, anything we can do to help….” Maureen Templeton offered, while the rest nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Sam's in my third-period class,” Tom O'Brian stated. “He's a real talent, a natural-born actor. How's he doing?”

“Better than you might expect,” Bonnie answered, still not sure what to make of Sam's behavior. The police had released Joan's car, and Sam had happily volunteered to drive his sister to and from her school in Newton for the balance of the school year. “Did you know his mother?”

“I met her at parent-teacher interviews back in November. She seemed nice enough.” Tom O'Brian shook his head. “Awful thing. Hard to believe.”

There didn't seem to be anything left to say, and the room fell silent. Gradually, everyone returned to whatever each had been doing before Bonnie's entrance. Bonnie reached for a section of
The Boston Globe
that lay on the Formica coffee table in front of her chair, flipping through it, relieved her name was no longer front and center on the pages. Other murders, bloodier, more sensational, had rendered her old news: a murder-suicide in Waltham; a
drive-by shooting on Newbury Street; a couple stabbed while having dessert at a trendy bistro.

Bonnie quickly traded the first section for the Life section, scanning the recipes for low-fat brownies and high-fiber apple crumble, ignoring an article on sex and the elderly, and focusing on “House Calls,” an advice column shared by two doctors, general practitioner, Dr. Rita Wertman, and family therapist, Dr. Walter Greenspoon.

What had Dr. Greenspoon's name been doing in Joan Wheeler's address book?

Dear Dr. Greenspoon
, the first letter began.
I'm the mother of a hyperactive seven-year-old girl who is driving my husband and me crazy. She refuses to get up in the mornings, screams when I take her to school, and won't eat her supper or go to bed. My husband and I are exhausted, and are constantly at each other's throats. I'm afraid our marriage won't survive this child, and I don't know what to do
.

Dear Frustrated Mom
, began Dr. Greenspoon's reply.
You and your husband need to learn how to act as a unit….

“Excuse me, Mrs. Wheeler,” a voice interrupted.

Bonnie looked up, the paper dropping to her lap. Josh Freeman stood before her, tall and lean, a shy smile on his lips, looking appealingly boyish, although there was something about his posture that warned her not to get too close. “Mr. Freeman,” she acknowledged, awkwardly.

“You said you'd like to talk to me.”

“Yes. If you wouldn't mind.” Bonnie nodded toward the chair beside her. Josh Freeman hesitated, then sat down. “How are you enjoying Weston Secondary?” Bonnie asked, not sure how to begin, feeling as awkward as if this were their first date. What was she doing? Why had she asked to speak to him? What exactly did she want to speak to him about?

“I like it here very much,” Josh Freeman told her. “Lots of talented, creative kids. I don't have to do much
to motivate them. But I don't think that's what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

So, he wasn't one for small talk, Bonnie thought, normally a trait she admired. “I was surprised to see you at Joan Wheeler's funeral,” she ventured.

Josh Freeman said nothing.

“I hadn't realized you were friends.”

Still nothing.

“You're not saying anything,” Bonnie said, staring at his lips, almost afraid to look into his eyes.

“You haven't asked me anything,” he told her.

She smiled, understanding she would have to be specific if she hoped to learn anything, although what exactly she was trying to learn puzzled her. “How well did you know Joan?”

“We met in November at parent-teacher night. We talked a number of times after that.”

“She had your home phone number.”

“Yes, she did.”

Bonnie took a deep breath, forced her eyes to his, was momentarily startled by their clarity, by the intensity with which he returned her gaze. “You're not making this very easy for me.”

“I'm not trying to be difficult,” he said. “I'm just not sure what you're getting at.”

“Have the police contacted you?”

“I've spoken to the police, yes.”

“May I ask what you talked about?”

“You may not,” he said evenly.

Bonnie felt her cheeks grow red. “Did you know about my connection to Joan?” she asked.

“I know that you're married to her ex-husband.”

“Did Joan tell you that, or did the police?”

“Joan told me.”

“What exactly was your relationship with Joan?”

“I'm not sure that's any of your business,” Josh Freeman said, glancing at the large clock on the wall. “And the bell's about to ring. I should get moving.”

“We have another five minutes.”

“What is it about my relationship with Joan that you want to know?”

“So, there
was
a relationship,” Bonnie stated.

He said nothing.

“Did she ever talk about me?” Bonnie asked. “Or my daughter? Did she ever tell you she thought we might be in danger?”

A look of concern flickered briefly through Josh Freeman's eyes, then disappeared. “I'm not sure what you're getting at,” he said, standing up, “and I find I'm getting very uncomfortable with this conversation. I really should get to my class.”

Bonnie rose immediately to her feet. “Can we talk after school?”

“I don't think so.”

“Please.”

“We'll see,” he said, clearly torn. Before she could protest further, he was gone.

 

Bonnie took a deep breath and pushed open the door of her classroom. Immediately, those students who were still grouped in front of the long side window raced for their seats. They were a motley group, all hair and denim and pierced body parts, an approximately equal number of young men and women from relatively affluent homes, determined to look as impoverished as possible, their blank eyes reflecting a collective cynicism beyond their years. Whatever happened to sweet sixteen? Bonnie wondered.

There was some giggling, and many nervous glances, as Bonnie scanned the faces of the twenty-four students in her first-period junior year English class. From the back of the room, Haze winked and nodded his head up and down, like a ventriloquist's dummy. Bonnie approached her desk at the front of the class and edged herself into her seat, quickly checking to make sure everything was as she'd left it. The chalkboard had been wiped clean; the
bulletin board on the east wall was a familiar assortment of maps, signs, and playbills.
LITERATURE THROUGHOUT THE AGES
, 1400–1850, one sign announced. Next to it were student-drawn posters illustrating some of the things her classes were studying:
Catcher in the Rye, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Cyrano de Bergerac, Macbeth
.

“What did the substitute do with you last week?” she asked, lifting her copy of
Macbeth
from the top of her desk.

“Not much,” someone said, and laughed.

“Out out, damned spot,” Haze bellowed. More laughter.

“He was pretty incompetent,” one of the girls said from the first row. “He just had us work on our own most of the time.”

“Good. Then there shouldn't be any excuses for not having your essays handed in today,” Bonnie reminded them to a series of loud groans. “In the meantime, let's turn to page seventy-two.”

A hand reached up, fluttered into the air.

“Yes, Katie?”

“What was it like to find a dead body?” the girl asked shyly.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Well, of course they would be curious, Bonnie realized. They'd read the papers, knew all about Joan's murder, were aware she'd found the body. “Awful,” Bonnie told the girl. “It was awful.”

“Did the body feel cold?” another girl asked.

“It felt cool,” Bonnie told her.

“Cool,” a chorus of voices repeated.

Cool, Bonnie thought. Had they misinterpreted the word?

“Did you do it?” The voice was male and deliberately provocative. Bonnie knew it belonged to Haze without having to look.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Bonnie said, struggling to keep her voice even, “but the answer is no. Now, I think
we should turn to page seventy-two.” She flipped through the small text, hands noticeably shaking. “Macbeth's speech at the top of the page.”

She glanced toward the window, pleased with spring's progress. Despite the less-than-seasonal temperatures, the trees were all budding, some already in bloom. It looked as if someone had taken a finger through a chalk drawing, she thought, smudging the boundaries of the branches, engulfing them in a soft green mist. It was her favorite time, Bonnie realized, watching as several girls ran across the large back field, obviously late for class. One of the girls dropped a notebook and had to run back to retrieve it. Bonnie followed her with her eyes, saw the girl bend forward, her short black skirt riding up to reveal a pair of plaid boxer shorts. Bonnie smiled, about to return her attention to the text when something else caught her eye: a man standing at the far end of the field, not quite hidden by the trees. Was he watching the girls? Bonnie wondered. Or something else?

She walked to the window, leaned forward, pressed her nose almost to the glass. As if he knew he was being watched, the man stepped away from the trees and out of the shadows, affording her a clearer view. He was wearing a tan windbreaker over a pair of blue jeans, large sunglasses covering his eyes. Mirrored sunglasses, Bonnie knew, gasping, taking a step back, bumping against one of the student's desks.

“Mrs. Wheeler, are you all right?” someone asked.

“Tracey, take over until I get back,” Bonnie said, already on her way to the door. “Work on your essays,” she instructed.