Face Time (17 page)

I think about love. I think about justice. I think about loyalty. I think about sacrifice, and the choices parents make. And their children.

There’s a tap on the door. “Mrs. McNally?’ A white-coated attendant, the same one who reassured me there was nothing ominous about the hospital activity Mom thought she noticed, enters Mom’s room, wheeling a cloth-covered dinner cart. He smiles as he sees both of us.

“And Miz McNally. I saw in the guest book you were here. Nice to have you with us.” With a clang of silverplate, he whisks the cover from a platter of assorted cheeses. “I managed to snag you some delicious apps from the kitchen.” He looks around, then closes the door.

Mom waves the platter away, but I’m focused on the food, realizing my Greek salad with no onions or croutons lunch was long ago. Then I hear a little noise, a mixture of a sigh and a hiss. When I look up, the nurse, his back pressed to the closed door, is looking at us, waiting for us to pay attention.

“I’m not supposed to breathe a syllable, but I have to tell you,” he says, his words tumbling out. “I’m very fond of you, Mrs. McNally, and you, too, Charlie, if I may call you Charlie.” He pauses and purses his lips, apparently considering whether to go on. I’m transfixed, Gouda in hand, waiting for what’s coming next.

“But Charlie, you said your mother was worried. About all the activity. And I just don’t feel comfortable with that. And you’ll probably find out about it anyway,” he says, using the classic rationalization of someone about to spill a secret.

The nurse takes a few steps forward. Then he puts both hands on the foot of Mom’s bed and whispers a name.

Mom’s eyes widen. I put down my cheese.

“She’s here, getting a little work done,” he says, his eyes glistening with conspiracy. “But no one is supposed to know.”

“Y
EAH
,
IT WAS HILARIOUS
,” I say to Josh, holding the phone on my shoulder. Botox is pretending to sleep, so I attempt to climb into bed without disrupting her. She shifts, begrudging me a spot. “So, he says, all her security guards put on white uniforms? Like nurses? So the tabloids wouldn’t know she was there for all the surgery. Apparently the nurses were in a battle royal. Union types, the shop stewards, were enraged the place would let bodyguards masquerade as medical staff. But most were cozying up to the phony nurses, trying to get an audience with their fave rave from the movies.”

I pull my comforter up around my neck, and tuck the phone between my face and the pillow. I wish Josh were here in person. I know he’s in his bed, too. When I close my eyes I can almost feel his arm across my shoulders. Sleeping alone, these days, feels more alone than it used to.

“No, I can’t get you an autograph,” I say. “From her, at least. How about one from me?” I snuggle in closer to the phone. “In a place, say, where only I could see it?”

The
razor wire around the prison glitters tauntingly in the July sunshine, daring the bad guys inside—women, actually—to escape. And keeping the law-abiding citizens out.

I feel like the poster child for good guys as I step out of the sunshine and into the institutionally yellow-tiled entry hall. This is the evil twin of the sleek state archives. The place is barely air-conditioned. Smells like stale everything.

I dig my state-police-issued reporter ID out of my purse and hold it up to the thick glass window of the guard’s desk. The guard looks up, assessing, then she slides a pink piece of paper halfway though a metal slot. I see her hand, ragged cuticles and bluing veins, next to mine, tanned from the Cape, manicured and soft. Inside, outside. “Request-to-visit form,” she says, terse and businesslike. She’s said this a million times, and she’ll say it a million more. No need to elaborate, no need to change. She points to a black cord dangling over the edge. “Pen. Fill it out.”

I carefully print my name and social. U.S. citizen, yes. Convicted of a felony, no. Journalist, yes. Nervous, yes. Although that’s not on the form. I hand the pink paper back to the melancholy-looking guard. Somehow feel I should try to connect with her. “Thanks,” I say. “Nice day.”

“Wouldn’t know,” she says through the metal grate. Her patent-billed cap shades her eyes as she reads my paperwork, then she feeds it into what looks like a fax machine. She cocks her head toward a bank of lockers. “Everything in there,” she orders. “Everything. No cell phones, pagers, belts, receipts or keys. Wedding ring, medic alert, you can keep. And the locker key.”

“I can take in my notebook, though, correct? And a pencil?” I ask. I know I can.

My stuff stowed, I hear a phone ring. The guard answers, then points to a sliding door. The rasp of a buzzer cuts through the silence. “Into the trap,” she says. A massive metal door rumbles open. I step in and it closes behind me.

Metal detector. Pat down. Another buzz. Another sliding door opens, then clicks closed with a mechanically final clang. I’m inside.

I’m on the way to meet Dorinda Keeler Sweeney.

A
NOTHER THING
Mom was right about. It’s impolite to visit someone’s home without bringing a gift. What I brought to offer to Dorinda Sweeney is her freedom.

Problem is, she doesn’t seem to want it.

The “no-contact room” is painted rancidly avocado. The walls are cinder block. No windows. A wall of thickly aging Plexiglas goes ceiling high between us, years of cigarette smoke and handprints filming Dorinda’s face with a yellowing veneer. The phone-like receiver that connects us is up to her ear, but so far, she’s all yes or no answers, not really participating. She refuses to give any details of the murder and insists she’ll walk out if I keep asking. I wouldn’t call this an interview. It’s more like a monologue. Mine.

“But why did you confess?” I ask again. I figure I owe her the respect to lay my cards on the table. “Look, Dorinda. I don’t think you killed Ray Sweeney. But I think you know who did.”

“I told Will…” she says. Her voice is steady and she looks me in the eye. “I told Will to tell you. The truth is the truth.”

Her nails are bitten to the quick but her granite eyes are solemn, her posture graceful, head high. She blinks, her fingers wrapping and unwrapping on the receiver.

My visit can last fifteen minutes. Twenty at most. I need to keep talking, even if she won’t.

“But I found the nursing home time sheets,” I say. I lean forward, my elbows on the wooden counter, beseeching her. The surface is pockmarked, gouged with remnants of countless initials, numbers and imperfect hearts. Marks of time and fear and hope. “We have the tape, Dorinda. The eyewitness identification was obviously wrong. You were at work, not in the bar. Your lawyer—”

Then I hear a change in the silence. The receiver is clamped to my ear, and the muscles in my hand tighten as I feel her change her mind. I pause, scanning her face. It’s unsettling to be talking to someone on the phone but still be able to see them.

“What?” I ask.

Her chest rises and falls, the fabric of her too-large cotton T-shirt folding gently as she moves. Even a size small would engulf her. She’s wearing what look like hospital scrubs, patch-pocket top, draw-string pants. Hers are faded, drab. I see why they call them fatigues. Dorinda is the month of March, bleak and colorless.

Suddenly she smiles. Nothing could have surprised me more.

“You know I’ve seen you on television. I admire your work,” she says. It’s as if we’re having a cup of tea in a cozy luncheonette instead of a grim institution with correction officers hulking at the door. “Will told me what you think, that I’m protecting Gaylen. But on this story, you’re wrong. I’ll tell you what you need to know. Then you need to, please…”

Her forehead furrows, and she leans her face close to the glass. “…leave me alone.”

Dorinda fidgets in her metal folding chair, crossing her legs, uncrossing them. She’s wearing what look like Keds, scuffed, one edge fraying and threadbare. Velcro flaps instead of shoelaces. Tube socks. She shifts the receiver to her other ear.

“I worked the overnight shift at Beachview. For hours, it was just me and the clients. I had the run of the place. You saw the time sheet book. I just filled mine out when I finally got to work that night. Went to work, went to the bar, went—home. Then came back to Beachview.”

She looks down, briefly, then back at me. “As for the video—I just took the tape from the night before, and changed the label. Changed the date stamp. Destroyed the tape that showed I wasn’t there. I’m the only one allowed in the meds room that time of night. And trust me. Every night looks the same.”

“So you’re saying the tapes and time sheets were a cover-up? And it really was you at the bar?” My notebook is burning a hole in my pocket, and I’m longing to take it out to capture her exact words, but I’m afraid that will intimidate her. What she’s saying is unforgettable, anyway.

“Ray was—” Dorinda’s eyes flicker to the guards by the door, and she cups one hand over the receiver to mask her words, whispering as she looks back at me “—a bastard. He was disgusting, and worthless and…and…and…manipulative. I’ve talked about it with my counselor here. I can’t even imagine what he wanted to do to Gaylen.”

I’m trying to process these disturbing details, assess whether I really believe them, and dig for more information at the same time. Change the date stamp? With every answer I get, it feels like the Dorinda-is-innocent story is fading into fantasy. I have about ten minutes to resuscitate it.

“And where is Gaylen?” I ask. “Do you see her? Write to her?”

A look crosses Dorinda’s face, too fleeting for me to read. “She’s disappeared,” Dorinda says. “She was so confused and angry, she vowed she’d never see me or speak to me again. I don’t know where she is.” Dorinda shakes her head, as if erasing a memory. “I don’t blame her. Look what she got in the deal. A creep for a father. A murderer for a mother.” Her shoulders almost shudder. “Far, far away is where she is, that’s what I’d say.”

“So, no idea where? Really?” This is somewhat hard to believe, a mother not knowing where her only daughter is. But I guess when the mother is behind bars, it’s easier. “Gaylen was what, twenty-one years old back then? And living at home? Do you have a picture of her?”

Dorinda’s face softens as she reaches into the front pocket of her shirt. With two fingers, she extracts a snapshot-size photo. I can’t see who’s in it, but from the back I can tell it’s tattered around the edges, one corner repaired with transparent tape. “Only this one,” she says, staring at the photo. “Gaylen threw it at me when she left. Mine got lost somewhere when I came here, but we each had one, made copies. It was always my favorite. From when she was nineteen.”

She carefully places the snapshot flat against the glass, a proud parent showing off her daughter. I see a teenager in Levi’s and a Swampscott High hoodie, smiling and giving the peace sign. I don’t have to memorize her face. I don’t have to ask Dorinda for a copy. This photo is already stored in my phone. I was right. It looked a lot like Dorinda, but it wasn’t. Gaylen. Of course.

“You know, Dorie,” I begin, “if Gaylen were being abused by Ray, if he attacked her. Or threatened her. And she pushed him down the stairs to get away, she’d never be convicted of anything. You don’t need to protect her. If she killed him in self-defense, she’d…”

Dorie’s face tightens as she slides the photo back into her pocket. “Her father never touched her. I made sure of that. Gaylen was asleep that night. Asleep. Just like I told the police. Just like I told Will. And that’s all I’m going to say.” She clamps her arm across her chest and leans back. Body language for
I’m done.

I suddenly comprehend all the time and space and conflict that separate Dorinda the prom queen from Deadly Dorie the convicted murderer. How do we get where we are? At what point do our decisions become our destiny? The door clanging shut behind us doesn’t have to be made of steel. It can just be made of time.
Yeah, fifteen to life in Framingham,
my cynical reporter brain puts in. Still, I know the prison sentence is not only for Dorinda, but also for her daughter.

One thing for sure, she consistently calls Ray Gaylen’s “father,” not “stepfather.” Do I need to reconfirm who Gaylen’s father is? I do. I check my watch. Doomed.

“I saw your prom photo in the yearbook,” I say. I’ll try a new tack. “With your friend CC Hardesty?”

Staring at me, eyes welling, Dorinda slowly takes the receiver away from her ear and, still holding it, drops her arm to her side. As if to make sure she doesn’t hear any more. Then, even more slowly, she brings the black plastic phone back to her face. For one moment I get a glimpse of the girl who once danced and curled her hair. I can almost see the memories unreeling in her mind.

“I think of him every day. He was…” She shrugs. “He was my first love, what can I tell you? He was wild. Possessive. My mother thought he was—a bad egg, she called him. Made him all the more desirable, of course. He was Romeo in the Swampscott spring play, when I was Juliet, did you see that in the yearbook? A born actor. He would call me Juliet all the time, swear he loved me just as much. When I got the phone call from the Navy that he’d been killed…”

Suddenly, her eyes turn resistant. “What about him?”

Now here’s the part in the soap opera where the organ music swells, and they cut to the tease of tomorrow’s show. The announcer’s voice intones the questions: Is Gaylen actually the boyfriend’s daughter, conceived in one stolen night of passion before a loveless forced marriage? How will the hapless reporter, desperate for answers, find a way to ask such a delicate question? And what—big organ chord here, da-dummmm—will be the answer? Wait until tomorrow’s episode of—

Except this hapless reporter doesn’t have until tomorrow. I have now.

I can feel my foot jiggling under the counter. All I have to go on here is town gossip and a hunch that makes this a story for Danielle Steel instead of Diane Sawyer. Two choices here. Ask. Or don’t ask.

“Dorinda,” I begin. I pause. Suddenly the phone receiver feels sticky. I switch ears and begin again. “Dorinda, forgive me. I just have to check all the facts. In researching what happened that night—”

“I told you what happened,” she snaps.

I hold up a hand, apologizing. “I know,” I say. “Just let me ask you two more questions. Three. Was CC Hardesty—”

Dorinda bursts into laughter, the alien sound ricocheting off the cinder-block walls. I stop, surprised into silence.

“Was he Gaylen’s father?” she says. “Is that your question?” She shakes her head, as if she’s hearing a familiar story. “Wish I had a nickel for every time someone tried to ask me that. I know it’s what everyone thinks. I’ve heard the gossip, too, you know? I’ve lived it. But no, Ray Sweeney is Gaylen’s father.” Her mouth twists, regretting. “More’s the pity.”

“Did CC know Gaylen was born? Did he ever come back to town? Could he have seen her when he did?” A thought skitters through my brain. “Did he ever meet Ray? He had to know him, right? CC spray painted the sidewalk with your names.”

“Never came back that I knew of,” Dorinda says. “His family’s long gone. No reason to.”

“Except to see you,” I say.

“But he didn’t,” Dorinda replies. “And then he was killed.” She looks past me, and I turn to see what she’s watching. A blue-uniformed guard points meaningfully to the clock on the wall beside her, then gives me the wrap-up signal.

Dorinda taps on the Plexiglas to retrieve my attention. “I’m sure your heart’s in the right place. I know you’re a good person. That’s why I told Will I’d talk with you. But stop wasting your time with me, all right? You should try to help someone who needs you.”

And then she hangs up the phone.

W
HAT HAVE
I
LEARNED
? I interview myself as the guard leads me through the long dingy hallway back to the outside. Do I think Dorinda is guilty? Yes. Maybe. No. But if she faked the time sheets and the video, after killing her husband, that means it wasn’t even an accident. She planned it. No wonder she confessed. First-degree murder is life without parole. With her plea deal, at least she has a chance to get out in fifteen years.

I turn to the guard, who’s silently escorting me. She’s an imposing package, broad-shouldered and stocky, with tiny graying dreadlocks tucked under her cap. Her wide black belt carries metal D rings for clanking pass cards, a tiny flashlight and a silver whistle. The embroidered name over her breast pocket says Off. Delia Woolhouse. Might as well give it a try. I hold out a hand. “Officer Woolhouse? I’m Charlie McNally, from—”

“Didn’t even need to check your name on the sheet, Miz McNally. Know who you are from the tube,” the guard says. Her tough exterior melts as she stops and bestows a wide smile, shaking my hand. “You tough, girl.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You, too. And call me Charlie. Could I ask you—”