Somebody Else's Daughter (47 page)

He drove into the woods. There was a thin road, what was called a carriage trail, they'd learned about them in history, and there were small huts along the way that had been used for victims of smallpox in the eighteenth century. As he pulled into the woods, branches scratched against the car. He parked in a jumble of overgrowth. In no particular hurry, he took out a gun. It was a small handgun. “My father taught me how to use it on my ninth birthday,” he explained. “There's lots of things I've done in my life nobody knows about. Things that were meaningful, that made a difference. You don't realize it, but I've already made a difference in your life. I suspect you'll never forget it.”

She sat there, looking straight through the windshield. She could feel him looking at her—she knew he was going to touch her.

“It's a gift,” he said. “Knowing people the way I do. Knowing how people think, what they want. Intuition, you might call it.” He did something to the gun and lowered it and sat there for a moment, looking straight ahead. “People don't say what they really think. But you and me, we know better. We see through it. I knew it that time, when I drove you home. I knew what you wanted.” He looked at her and smiled, then played with her hair. “It's okay to admit to it. I'm not going to tell anyone.”

“Please,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

But his voice came sharp. “Let's get out.”

They walked along. It was getting darker by the minute. All the trees were moving. The branches were bare and black. She glanced up at the sky. He walked behind her. Her feet were cold in her sneakers, which were wet from the snow. A chill went all through her body. They were like two soldiers entering into something, some kind of war. She surveyed the woods before her; she could run. But where? She could run back to the road, she thought. She turned her head slightly, trying to see where he was, and, to her surprise, felt the hard ridge of the pistol on the back of her head. “Walk,” he said.

55

Somehow, watching Willa drive off in Heath's car didn't sit well with him. Heath had told him that community service had been canceled indefinitely. He was sitting in Claire's kitchen while she administered first aid, gently wiping the blood from his face. “He did some job on you,” she said.

The phone rang. Somewhere in the house, Teddy picked up. A moment later he came into the room. “That was Willa's dad. She didn't come after school. He wanted to know—”

But Nate didn't wait around for him to finish. “Call the police!” he shouted. “Jack Heath's got her.”

He drove over to the Goldings' house and went to the door. “She's with Jack Heath.”

Joe's hard glare broke. “I'll get my coat.”

They took Nate's old truck. It was just the two of them, the two fathers, he thought. “I'm sorry about before,” Joe said. “For what it's worth.”

Nate nodded. “You can throw a punch, I'll say that for you.”

“Why did you come up here?”

Nate repeated the question inside his head. “I guess I just needed to see her. She doesn't know, of course. I wasn't planning on telling her. That's something you need to understand.”

“I'd like to keep it that way, if that's all right.”

“Yes,” Nate said. “Of course. I never intended for anyone to find out. It was a personal thing. And I'm sorry.”

Joe nodded. “I understand. I might have done the same thing in your place.”

The men looked at each other. Nate felt resolved.

They pulled up in front of Jack Heath's house. The door was open. The house seemed empty. They ran up the stairs and looked in the bedrooms. The beds were unmade, the drawers empty. They went back downstairs into the living room. “Where would he go?” Joe said.

But Nate could hardly hear him, for something else had caught his attention. The last rays of sunlight, shattering the surface of the frozen lake.

The roads were dark now, no lights, and a fog had rolled in, a thick layer of mist that clung to everything in sight. It was not unusual. Like dancing ghosts, the mist haunted the land. Nate pulled down the access road and parked. “His car isn't here,” Joe said.

“He might have come in from the other side, north of here.” They got out. For several minutes they stood there, listening. It was quiet. They stood in fog up to their knees. They started walking north. They walked together, side by side. The trails were dark, it was hard to see. What at first sounded like the cry of a bird came again, and once again, and they realized it was a scream. They wandered deeper into the darkness, trying to locate its source, and then they heard a shot.

56

He'd shot her in the leg. She could hardly believe it. And now her leg was throbbing with excruciating pain. Her leg went numb, as if it had fallen asleep. Blood flowed out of her with surprising speed. She felt his arms around her, pulling her through the dirt. It made her think of Pearl, of what she'd gone through. It terrified her so desperately that she lost all ambition to move and she fell to her knees and began to pray.

He dragged her several feet and laid her on her back. Her eyes were fluttering and the world came in flashes, like a film playing on a broken projector, all you see are flashes of white light. She thought she might pass out and tried very hard not to, but it was the only thing she wanted to do. Sleep, like a velvet tunnel. She wanted to curl up inside of it. Mr. Heath stood above her, the gun in his hand. Looming over him was a sort of tower. It was for hunters, she realized. A place to wait for deer.

“You shouldn't have tried to run like that,” he said.

But now someone was calling her name. She could hear her name flying through the darkness like some great bird.

Heath cursed. He seemed frantic. He kneeled down and pushed his hands beneath her and lifted her in his arms. With great difficulty, he climbed the ladder, hauling her up to the high dark place. He was making sounds, breathing very hard. And now her name came again, rising up and falling down. There were two voices now, but she was too tired to call back. They wouldn't know that Heath had a gun, that, like two unassuming deer, he was waiting for them.

Heath clicked off the safety. He was taking aim. She turned, she screamed. And something very hard landed on her ear, the barrel of his pistol. He'd hit her there to make her quiet. And her ear rang and rang. It was very dark and she suddenly felt very tired. Perhaps if she could just rest a moment. A little sleep, she thought, was all she needed. Then she would climb down from there and find her way home.

57

For Joe, it was like being inside a nightmare, the darkness, the naked trees, the fog—and the gunshot that came out of nowhere. Instinctively, he zipped up his coat, as if to protect himself from what he knew was about to occur, and when he felt the bullet enter his arm, a vigorous burning sensation overtook him. For several seconds he could not move, even as it became clear to him that the bullet had kept going and had made a big hole in his flesh. His arm was falling asleep. Gallagher and Heath were fighting, rolling around on the ground, and Gallagher had rolled on top of him and was grappling for the gun. He got it and threw it someplace. Noises curled out of their bodies as one man overpowered the other. Then Joe gripped Heath's coat, binding it up in his fist, and hit him very hard. He went down, out cold.

They left Heath on the ground and ran over to the tree stand. Pain rippled through him, but in truth the wound was of no real consequence. His face was wet, freezing in the cold wind, and he realized he'd been crying. They approached the tree where a crude ladder led up to a small tower, made for hunters.

Joe felt Gallagher's hand on his back. “Go get your daughter,” he said.

But Heath was on his feet; he had found the gun. He staggered toward them. “You think you're so clever. We've had you pegged from day one.”

“Put the gun down, Jack,” Gallagher said.

But Heath was in no mood to be told what to do. He put the gun to his temple and fired. They watched him drop to the ground.

Joe climbed the ladder. Willa was lying on the small platform. It occurred to him, with horror, that perhaps she was dead. But then he saw the rising and falling of her chest. “Willa?” he said. “Willa, honey.”

“Daddy? Is that you?”

She turned into his arms.

“Yeah, it's me, honey. I'm right here.”

Assessment and Interpretation

[sculpture]

Claire Squire, Her Own Good, 2007. Paper, methylcellulose, horsehair, tartan kilt, Victoria Secret bra and thong, knee socks, 67¼ x 18 x 50 in. The Abby Wexler Collection, Los Angeles.

The girl stands alone in her school uniform, showing off her underwear. A tattoo across the small of her back reads IN YOUR DREAMS.

58

Shortly after Maggie Heath's arraignment, Nate went to visit her in prison. It was a minimum-security facility in Lancaster, a two-hour drive from Stockbridge. He felt he owed her somehow, some remnant of prep school loyalty. They visited in a large open room full of other prisoners and their guests. There were children. The walls were lined with soda and fast-food machines. In her gray smock, she was calm, pale. She'd put on a little weight. “How's Ada?” he asked.

“She's all right. She's with my parents.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she said. “Really.”

She could say it a million times and he'd never believe her.

“I wanted to give you this,” she said, handing him a small snapshot. He studied it, amazed by his own youth, the greenish glow of Catherine's skin, Willa's tiny little face. The picture was responsible for the scar over his right eye, where Joe Golding had punched him, but he still wanted it. It was the only photograph he had of Cat.

“Who was she?” Maggie asked.

“Someone I knew once.” He looked at her; he didn't want to get into it. She was the last person who deserved any of his secrets. He put the picture in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She cracked a smile. “I suppose you hate me, now.”

“No,” he said. “I don't hate you, Maggie.”

He squeezed her hand, more out of pity than anything else. He had known her before Jack Heath had come into her life and swept her up in a squall of bad luck.

“And you, what will you do? Did you finish your novel?”

“Not quite,” he said. “I've got some other things I need to do first. I'm planning on doing some traveling.”

“Where do you have in mind?”

“Mexico,” he said.

“That sounds wonderful, Nate. Good for you.”

A buzzer sounded, indicating that visiting hours were over.

“Good-bye, Maggie.”

She raised her palm. And then, within seconds, she was gone.

When he got home that evening there was a note on his door from Larkin, asking him to stop by. “Someone left this for you,” he said, handing him a cardboard box. “It barks.”

“What?”

There was a puppy inside, a little yellow mutt. The note said, “He's for Teddy. He earned it.” It was signed Ada Heath.

59

Enchanting
was a word people used to describe the Berkshires in springtime. And it was true. As if overnight, the fields had suddenly turned green. The trees shimmied with new leaves and sprouted fruit. The air smelled sweet.

Claire had been working in the barn all night, trying to finish the new piece. It was a sculpture of Petra. She washed her hands and dried them on a towel and stood back, appraising the work. She'd built her out of plaster, a dancer in a pink tutu, her long legs slightly turned out, her arms down at her sides. Her face bold, arrogant, the way Claire remembered her. It was a gift for her, an apology. Things could have been different for her; they should have been.

“She's beautiful,” Nate said from the doorway.

Claire nodded her thanks.

“I think she'd be pleased,” he said.

“I hope so.”

“She looks . . . almost innocent.”

“Good,” she said. “I wanted that. I wanted that for her.”

They stood there a moment, looking at it. Claire felt a flutter of pride.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed her an envelope. “This came for you. I thought it might be important.”

It was from her gallery in Los Angeles. Eagerly, she opened the envelope and read the letter. They were opening a new space in New York. “They want some of my pieces!” She started jumping around. “Oh, my
God! Thank you!
” She threw her arms around her lover's neck and kissed him over and over and over again, and she did not think that she would ever stop.

60

The sun had decided to shine brightly on their wedding day.

They'd set up a tent on the back field. It was to be a small wedding, with only a few people attending. Afterward, they would have a feast at the long table. From where she stood in her beautiful dress she could see Joe and Candace and Willa sitting in the front row. She caught Joe staring at her, admiring her in the dress with his dark, gypsy eyes. He smiled at her meaningfully, then mouthed the words
Mazel tov.
Candace gave her a little wave. Except for a small scar on her thigh, Willa had fully recovered from the gunshot wound. She was wearing a short dress and sandals and Claire could clearly see the tattoo on her ankle. There seemed no point, she'd told her, in trying to hide it. Anyway, she'd said, it was permanent—it was part of her identity now. A few rows behind her was Rudy, Teddy's illustrious cohort, who was all dressed up in a suit and sitting very tall in his seat, putting her in mind of Abraham Lincoln. Across the aisle, on the other side, Greta was sitting with her new boyfriend, the bereft neurosurgeon, and some of Teddy's friends, Marco Liddy—whose mother had made their wedding cake—and Monica and several others. Nate's father had come with a nurse attendant and sat off to the side, in a wheelchair. Irving Lubin had come with his wife, Sheila. Old Mr. Larkin had come too, and had brought them two lovebirds as a gift, in an old-fashioned birdcage. They'd hired the cellist who lived on the third floor of Larkin's house; she was playing the Bach Suites. The minister was waiting patiently, holding his Bible. From her position under the magnolia tree, she watched her lover walk down the flower-strewn path. In his black tuxedo, he looked exceptionally dignified, she thought. She loved his long legs and arms, his broad shoulders, the way he moved, with grace, like Gulliver the gentle giant. After the wedding, the three of them were going to Mexico. They had reservations at a small resort on the gulf owned by a man named Billy McGrath, Teddy's father.