Guilt (5 page)

Pearl gave a minuscule head shake when Peter went for the paper napkins in the kitchen drawer. So it was to be cloth napkins. Peter went to the cabinet in the dining room and took out four crisp, ironed, white linen napkins, folded them, and put them on the table.

When the potatoes were wrung out, Pearl shook them into a bowl. She helped Sophie crack two eggs over them, sprinkle on a fistful of flour, and stir with a wooden spoon.

“You'll make an excellent cook,” Pearl said, as she heated oil in a skillet on the stove, “but I'm afraid you can't help me with this part. Frying in hot oil is for grown-ups.”

Without being told, Sophie washed her hands again. Then she watched as Pearl ladled spoonfuls of grated potato into the hot oil. The kitchen filled with the rich, thick aroma of cooking potatoes, and Peter felt his stomach rumble as the fat sizzled. Minutes later, Peter's mother lifted a round of crispy brown potato pancakes onto paper toweling and started a new batch. As the mound grew, it was all Peter could do to keep himself from sampling one.

Before they sat down to eat, Pearl bustled into the living room and brought back an African violet plant that was bursting with pink blossoms. She set it in the middle of the table.

Every one of the potato pancakes disappeared, at least ten of them into Sophie, who made an art out of icing each one with a thin layer of sour cream. Sophie was a welcome distraction, Peter thought. She kept them all from having to think about backpacks exploding or the need for safe places to spend the night.

After dinner, Sophie sat on the living room rug using the hard candy Pearl kept in a cut crystal bowl to outline the patterns in the oriental rug. Jackie was helping dry dishes and Peter was putting them away when the phone rang. It was Annie. She'd found a place that could take Jackie and Sophie. Peter wrote down the information, but found himself feeling increasingly uneasy about dropping Jackie and Sophie at a homeless shelter. Annie's “It's one of the better ones in the area” wasn't all that reassuring.

When he relayed the news, Pearl's reaction was more precise. “Shelter shmelter,” she said under her breath. “They have bed bugs.”

“Mom,” Peter said, giving the word an extra syllable.

Pearl folded her arms over her implacable front. “We're not sending that nice woman and that adorable little girl out into the street.”

“We'll be fine,” Jackie said, overhearing Pearl's stage whisper. “It won't be the first time we've stayed in one of those places.”

“Foo. Don't be ridiculous. You'll stay right here. There's plenty of room.” There was a spare room with the same twin beds Peter and his brother had slept on growing up.

Sophie was in the doorway, listening. She had the lace antimacassar from the back of the sofa draped across her shoulders, and one from the arm of an easy chair on top of her head. She wore a pair of black patent leather high-heeled pumps that must have been Peter's mother's, though he couldn't remember Pearl wearing shoes like that for decades.

“Can we, Mommy? Can we?”

“It's settled, then,” Pearl said.

*   *   *

Peter opened the front door the next morning just as Jackie, Sophie, and Pearl were leaving for Sophie's school. The warm, humid morning felt more like summer than fall. He watched them walk to the street, Pearl holding Sophie's hand on one side, Jackie on the other. It struck him how much his mother would have enjoyed a grandchild, and how much he appreciated her never pestering him and Kate about having kids. Yes, they'd talked about the child they might someday have, but
now
had never been the right time. Then, four years ago, Kate was murdered by a man Peter had helped defend. He sometimes wondered if the loss would have been more bearable if they'd had a child.

Kate would have gotten a kick out of Sophie Klevinski. She'd have had her upstairs in her studio, throwing clay, showing her how to make a graceful shape grow out of nothing. The loss still hurt, but at least now memories brought sweetness with the pain.

Peter walked outside, picked up the
Boston Globe
off the lawn, and opened to the front page.
FATAL BLAST AT HARVARD
. The picture was of the front of Storrow Hall, the building façade and steps blackened. A chunk had been blown out of the portico overhang.

There was also a photograph of a smiling young woman wearing pearls and a sweater—a typical yearbook picture. Mary Alice Boudreaux.

Peter scanned the story. For all the inches of newsprint, actual information was scant. Apparently, had the device gone off inside the building, dozens would have been killed. Instead, it had only been Mary Alice. There were dozens of injured.

MacRae's question taunted Peter—
What kind of sick fuck does this kind of thing?
Had Jackie's husband found out where she was meeting her lawyer? More likely it was something else, and Mary Alice was a random victim. Bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. Peter wondered who or what was the intended target. Some
one
or some
thing?
Perhaps the institution itself?

Peter recoiled from his next thought: They'd know more after the next bombing. And more with the one after that.

5

I
T SEEMED
appropriate to Annie to be giving a final exam to her self-defense class three days after the law school bombing. Freddie Mancusi, the owner of Slim Freddie's, a martial arts school in the basement of a bowling alley behind Union Square in Somerville, was unrecognizable in full-body, padded, red-plastic armor, complete with helmet and faceplate. Born Freda, Freddie looked like a cross between the Michelin tire man and a mutant lobster. It was Annie's turn to be spotter and Freddie's turn to wear the red-man suit.

Molly Kennedy, an athletic college student with short dark hair and a turned-up nose, pretended to be walking down the street. She wore protective gear, too—a helmet plus knee pads, elbow pads, and a face mask. Freddie took a step closer to Molly, and waved her arms menacingly.

“Stay back!” Molly shouted at Freddie.

The large basement with its padded floor and mattresses wrapped around the lolly columns was the perfect place for a self-defense class. No windows meant no one could watch from outside. They didn't want to inadvertently train offenders, like Molly's ex-boyfriend, who was stalking her.

Freddie made a grab for Molly.

“Stop! Get away from me,” Molly yelled, loud and from the diaphragm, the way they'd been teaching her. “No!” She took a defensive stance, one foot ahead of the other, hands raised.

Freddie came at her again. Molly jabbed gloved fingers into Freddie's face mask and kicked at her padded groin. Annie knew Freddie couldn't feel a thing, and she couldn't see down over the throat guard. So she gestured to show Freddie where she'd been kicked so she could react.

With Freddie off balance, Molly tried to take off, but Freddie recovered and grabbed her from behind.

Molly came down hard with her heel on Freddie's instep. Annie yelled to let Freddie know she'd been stomped on. When Freddie loosened her grip, Molly broke free. She raced to the wall and stood there, panting for breath and exhilarated.

“Free free free!” she cried, like this was a game of hide-and-seek. She pumped her fist in the air. “YES!”

Freddie pulled off her helmet and faceplate. Her face was almost as red as the plastic suit. She shook out her dark hair, sending out a spray of sweat. Then she leaned over, hands on her thighs, and took some deep breaths. Annie handed her a bottle of water.

“Great way to lose weight,” Freddie said, grinning. She chugalugged from the bottle. The deceptively slight woman had won every single one of the person-sized trophies that lined one wall of the dojo.

Annie told Molly she'd done great, and reminded her how timid she'd been when she started taking the classes. She'd had no idea how to defend herself, and could only raise her voice to a shrill scream, the kind of sound people tend to ignore.

Annie followed Molly to the closed office where the other women were waiting their turn to take the final test. They were huddled together on folding chairs in the office, deep in conversation, and didn't look up when Molly and Annie came in. Everyone was there except Jackie. It was already a quarter past. Jackie hadn't missed a class before. In fact, she'd never been more than five minutes late. Annie hoped she was all right. The restraining order would have been served yesterday, and Jackie had planned to move home today.

“I'm afraid to get on the subway,” one woman said.

“What do you think this guy looks like?” another asked. “I mean, could you tell by looking at him?”

“I get the heebie-jeebies driving through the tunnel,” a third one said. “I mean what if there was a car bomb? You wouldn't have a chance.”

By contrast, fending off a rapist seemed like a walk in the park.

“Hey, guys,” Annie said. “Who's up next?”

Geneva Devaille stood. She was a plump woman with skin so dark it was almost blue, a lilting Jamaican accent, and enormous dark eyes that gave away the fear she'd lived with since she was robbed and raped in her own apartment. At first she hadn't wanted to take the final test—no one had to. For women who'd been hurt, it could bring back what they were trying hard to forget. But Geneva had come in that morning and announced she'd try.

Molly took off her padding and handed Annie the helmet. Annie spritzed the interior with disinfectant and wiped it clean.

Sonya Mckay, a twenty-something in tight jeans, a short top, and a sun tattooed over her navel, said, “There was a bomb scare at my daughter's school. Turned out it was a volleyball in a paper bag. But they didn't know that until after they'd evacuated all the classrooms and—”

She stopped in the middle of the sentence and the place turned silent, the only sound a thud, then a rumble as a bowling ball rolled down one of the alleys overhead.

“I just want to talk.” The man's voice came from the main room.

Annie went to the doorway and the women crowded behind her. Jackie Klevinski was backing up into the room. Coming at her was a man in a dark blue work uniform. He was of average height, with dark hair, clean-shaven except for a scraggly mustache and a little triangle of hair under his lower lip. He had the body of a man who worked out, lots of upper arms and chest, bullnecked, with a slight bow to his legs like they had trouble supporting all that bulk. Had to be Joe Klevinski, Jackie's loving hubbie.

“Come on, Jackie. It's not fair. You can't just—”

He froze when he saw them all.

“Joe, I'm sorry, it's just that I can't go on like this,” Jackie said.

She had on the same pants she'd been wearing three days earlier, cleaned and the knee mended. Her long hair was tied back, low at the neck.

“Give me a chance to make it up to you,” he said, lowering his voice, the tone pleading. “You know how much I love you and Sophie. Please, don't do this.”

Jackie turned and saw them all watching.

“Come on, baby. I just want to talk,” he said, his voice wheedling, his arms outstretched as he closed the space between them.

Jackie scrambled back. “I can't. It's too late.”

“Honey—” Klevinski started. His voice had a flinty edge. That sound combined with that word brought back a memory from childhood.
Honey, don't make me hurt you,
delivered in just that tone of voice, was what her best friend Charlotte Florence's father used to say to Charlotte's mother. Annie shuddered and stiffened.

“Mr. Klevinski,” she said, shooting for a loud, confident tone. She strode over. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” She kept her voice calm as a telemarketer's. “You're not supposed to be here.”

He dodged to one side. Annie blocked his way. He tried to go around her but Annie was in his face. He strained to see around her. When he saw Freddie, he gawped. “What the hell is that supposed to be?” he said. She'd removed neck guard and chest plate and was trying to strip off the rest of the gear. The damned red-man suit made it impossible to move.

“I need you,” Klevinski shouted to Jackie. “You know I'm no good without you. Sophie needs a father. You're destroying me—”

Right. It was her fault.

“Joe, please stop,” Jackie said, tears running down her face.

That's what they did, the bastards. Laid the guilt on thick, like it was Jackie's fault that he drank and had to use her as a punching bag to prove he was a man.

“She's not … going … with you,” Annie said. With each word, she felt adrenaline pump through her. Her vision turned sharp. She became aware of the space between his crooked front teeth, the slight paunch hanging over his belt, the hairs on his knuckles.

He blinked at Annie, his lower lip curled with disdain. He gave her a slow once-over, up and down. “Why don't you just mind your own business?”

The women had closed ranks around Jackie. Klevinski eyed each of them, leering.
Just a bunch of women,
his look said.

Annie held up both hands, palms facing him. “You're interrupting our class. I'm asking you to leave.”

“Cunt,” Klevinski said, and faced off opposite her.

Go ahead,
Annie thought,
make a move. I'd just love to wipe your smug expression off on the floor.

“You slimy-assed bitch.” Klevinski raised his hand to grab Annie's wrist.

Before she was even aware of her own movement, Annie had grabbed his arm at the elbow and pulled him off balance. In an instant, she'd pivoted behind him. She had his elbow anchored, and was pressing down hard on the back of his hand. It was a very effective hold and excruciatingly painful.

“What's the matter?” Annie said. “Not as much fun, is it, when you're on the receiving end?”