The Guardian (22 page)

He'd been drinking again that night, and both Richard and his mother were trying to stay out of his way, doing their best not to be noticed. As Richard sat in the kitchen, he could hear his father ranting as he watched a football game on television. He'd bet on his favorite team-the Patriots-but had lost, and Richard heard his father's anger as he pounded down the hall. A moment later his father walked into the kitchen with the camera, and he set it on the table. In his other hand was a hammer. After making sure he had his son's attention, he smashed the camera with a single swing.

"I work all week to make a living and all you want to do is piss it away! Now we won't have this problem anymore!"

Later that year, his father died. The memories of that event were vivid as well: the cut of morning sunlight on the kitchen table, the vacant look on his mother's face, the steady drip of the faucet as the hours rolled toward afternoon. The officers spoke in hushed tones as they came and went; the coroner examined and removed the body.

And then, the wailing of his mother, once they were finally alone. "What will we do without him?" she sobbed, shaking him by the shoulders. "How could this have happened?"

This was how: His father had been drinking at O'Brien's, a dingy bar in Boston not far from their home. According to people at the bar, he'd played one game of pool and lost, then sat at the bar the rest of the night, drinking boilermakers. He'd been laid off at the plant two months earlier and had been spending most nights there, an angry man looking for pity and solace in the company of alcoholics.

By that time, Vernon was beating both of them regularly, and the night before he'd been particularly brutal.

He left the bar a little past ten, stopped at the corner market for a pack of cigarettes, and drove past the houses in the blue-collar neighborhood where he lived. A neighbor who was walking his dog saw him as he was nearing home. The garage had been left open, and Vernon pulled the car into the small space. Boxes were piled against both walls.

This was where the speculation began, however. That he had closed the garage door, there was no doubt, evidenced by the high levels of carbon monoxide. But why, the coroner wondered, hadn't he turned the engine off first? And why did he get back into the car after closing the garage door? For all intents and purposes, it looked like a suicide, though his friends at O'Brien's insisted there wasn't a chance he would have done something like that. He was a fighter, not a quitter, they said. He wouldn't have killed himself.

The officers came back to the house two days later, asking open-ended questions and looking for answers. The mother wailed incoherently; the ten-year-old offered only his steady gaze. By then, the bruises on the faces of the mother and son had begun to green at the edges, giving them both a haunted appearance. The officers left with nothing.

In the end, it was ruled an accident, and the death was attributed to alcohol.

A dozen people attended the funeral. His mother wore black and cried into a white handkerchief as he stood beside her. Three people spoke at the graveside, offering kind words for a man who was momentarily down on his luck but was otherwise a good human being, a steady provider, a loving husband and father.

The son played his part well. He kept his eyes downcast; at times, he brought his finger to his cheek as if to swipe at a tear. He slipped his arm around his mother, and nodded grimly and said thank you when others came up to offer their condolences.

The next day, however, when the crowds were gone, he returned to the grave and stood in front of the freshly turned earth.

Then, he spat on it.

In the darkroom, Richard tacked one of the photographs to the wall, reminded that the past casts long shadows. It's easy to get confused, he thought. He knew she couldn't help it, and he understood. He forgave her for what she had done.

He stared at her image. How could he not forgive her?

Because she was already dressed by the time Richard left, Julie had enough time to stop and grab a newspaper before she went into work. She sat at a small table outside a bagel shop, sipping coffee and reading, while Singer lounged at her feet.Putting aside the newspaper, she watched the quiet downtown come to life. One by one, signs in store windows were flipped, doors propped open to catch the early morning breeze. The sky was cloudless, and there was a hint of dew on the windshields of cars that had been parked on the street overnight.

Julie rose, offered the newspaper to a couple at the next table, tossed her empty cup into the garbage, and started up the street toward the salon. The garage had already been open for an hour, and thinking she still had a few minutes before she had to be at work, she decided, Why not? I'm sure he's not too busy yet. Besides, she wanted to drop in to make sure that what she'd been feeling the night before wasn't her imagination.

She didn't intend to tell Mike that Richard had ended up spending the night. Try as she might, she couldn't think of any way to tell him that wouldn't seem suspect, especially in light of what had happened with Sarah. He would always wonder about it, she felt, creating a stubborn splinter of doubt and hurt. Anyway, it wasn't important. It was over now, and that's all that mattered.

She crossed the street, Singer trotting ahead. By the time she walked past the cars waiting to be serviced, Mike was already making his way toward her, looking as though he'd just picked the winning ticket in the lottery.

"Hey, Julie," he said. "What a nice surprise."

Though he had a streak of grease on his cheek and his brow was already shiny with sweat, she couldn't help but think, You look pretty darn good. And I'm definitely not imagining it.

"Yeah, I'm happy to see you, too, big guy," Mike added, reaching toward Singer. It was while he was petting Singer that she noticed the Band-Aids.

"Hey, what happened to your fingers?"

Mike glanced at his hands. "Oh, it's nothing. They're just a little sore this morning."

"Why?"

"I guess I kind of scrubbed 'em too hard last night after I got home."

She frowned. "Because of what I said on the beach?"

"No," he said. Then, shrugging, he added, "Well, I guess that was part of the reason."

"I was just teasing."

"I know," he said. "But I got to wondering whether a new soap might work better."

"So what did you use? Ajax?"

"Ajax, 409, Lysol. I pretty much tried everything."

She put her hands on her hips and studied him. "You know, sometimes I can't help wondering what you'll be like when you grow up."

"I don't think there'll be much chance of that, to tell you the truth."

She laughed, thinking, I like this guy. How could I not?

"Well, I just wanted to drop in to tell you I had a great time last night."

"Me too," he said. "And I'm looking forward to tonight."

"It should be fun."

Their eyes met before Julie glanced at her watch. "But listen, I should probably be going. I've got appointments all morning, and I'm supposed to have lunch with Emma, so I can't fall behind."

"Say hi to Emma for me, will you?"

"Sure," she said. "Have fun today."

"You too."

She winked. "And watch those fingers, will you? I'd hate to think you'll be bleeding all over the engines you work on."

"Ha, ha," he said. Not that he minded being teased. He knew this was her way of flirting with him. Real flirting, not friendly flirting.

And by God, he liked that! He liked that a lot!

They said good-bye, and a moment later Julie was crossing the street with a bounce in her step.

"So it looks like your date went pretty well, huh?" In his hand, Henry held a half-eaten doughnut.Mike hooked his thumb into his coveralls and sniffed. "Oh yeah," he said. "It went real well."

Henry waved the doughnut and shook his head. "Will you cut the James Dean stuff, little brother? I'm telling you-it's not you. And it can't hide the cross-eyed goofy look in your eyes, either."

"I don't look goofy."

"Goofy. Love-struck. Whatever."

"Hey, I can't help it if she likes me."

"I know you can't. You're just irresistible, aren't you?"

"I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am happy," he said. "And I'm proud of you, too."

"Why?"

"Because somehow, whatever your plan was, it looks like it worked."

"So what happened with Richard?" Emma asked. "At the bar the other night, it looked like you two were getting along great.""Oh, you know how it goes. . . . He was nice, but I just didn't feel anything for him."

"I guess it was the way he looked, huh?"

"That part, I'll admit, wasn't so bad," Julie said, and Emma laughed.

They were having salads at the deli, formerly a home in the historic district. Sunlight spread across the table in the corner, collecting in their glasses of tea and making them glow amber.

"I said the same thing to Henry after I got home. I kept asking why he didn't look that way anymore."

"What did he say?"

"He said . . ." Emma sat up in her seat and lowered her voice, mimicking Henry. " 'I don't know what you're talking about, but if I wasn't sure you loved me so much, I'd think you just insulted me.' "

Julie laughed. "You sound exactly like him."

"Honey, when you've been married as long as I've been, you'll find out that it's not all that hard to do. The only thing I'm missing is the waving doughnut."

Julie giggled into her tea, spilling a bit on the table. "But he still makes you happy, right? Even after all this time?"

"Most of the time he's a pretty good guy. Sometimes I want to whack him with the frying pan, but I guess that's normal, right?"

Julie's eyes took on a mischievous gleam as she leaned forward in her seat. "Did I ever tell you I once threw a pan at Jim?"

"You did? When did that happen?"

"I can't remember. I don't even remember what we were fighting about, but I launched that pan right at him. It missed, but I had his attention after that."

Emma's eyebrows went up and down. "Life behind closed doors is always a mystery, isn't it?"

"I'll say."

Emma took a sip of her tea, then started on her salad again. "So what's this I hear about Mike?"

Julie had known this was coming. In lieu of politics or sports or the latest headlines, people in this small town thrived on the goings-on of its citizens.

"That depends on what you heard."

"I heard he asked you out and that you went to dinner."

"Kind of. Actually, I was the one who asked him out."

"He couldn't do it?"

She looked over her glass. "What do you think?"

"Mmm . . . I think he probably froze up like a shallow pond in winter."

Julie laughed. "Pretty much."

"So how was it? What did you do?"

Julie recounted their date, and when she was finished, Emma leaned back in her seat.

"Sounds like it went well."

"It did."

She studied Julie's face for a moment. "And, what about . . . you know . . . Did you think about . . ." She trailed off, and Julie finished for her.

"Jim?"

Emma nodded, and Julie considered it. "Not as much as I thought I would," she said. "And it didn't really bother me at all by the end. Mike and I . . . we just get along so well. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel good about myself. It's been a long time since I felt that way."

"You sound surprised."

"I was. To be honest, I wasn't sure how it would go."

Emma's face softened. "That's not surprising. You and Jim were really something. We used to joke about the way you stared at each other when we went out."

"Yeah, we were something," she said, a touch of wistfulness entering her voice.

Emma paused. "How did Mike seem?"

"Fine, I guess. He was pretty nervous, to tell you the truth, but I don't think it had much to do with Jim. I think it had more to do with the date itself."

"Oh, gee, really?"

Julie smiled. "Really. But I had a good time."

"So . . . do you like him?"

"Of course I like him."

"No. I mean, do you like him?"

That's what it came down to, didn't it? Julie thought. In the end, she didn't need to answer; her expression spoke volumes, and Emma reached across the table to squeeze Julie's hand.

"I'm glad. I always figured this was coming."

"You did?"

"I think everyone did, with the exception of you and Mike. It was just a matter of time."

"You never said anything."

"I didn't have to. I figured that you'd recognize the same things in Mike that I do when you were good and ready."

"Like what?"

"That he'll never let you down. That boy's got a heart the size of Kentucky, and he loves you. That's important. Take it from someone who knows. My mom used to tell me that whatever you do, marry someone who loves you more than you love him."

"No she didn't."

"Of course she did. And I listened to her. Why do you think Henry and I get along so well? I'm not saying that I don't love him, because I do. But if I ever left Henry or something, God forbid, ever happened to me, I don't think he'd be able to go on. And the guy would risk his life for mine in a heartbeat."