Things You Won't Say (32 page)

Chapter Fourteen

WHERE WAS MIKE? HE’D
left two hours ago to take Henry out to buy new baseball cleats, since Henry had outgrown his old ones, before dropping him at Christie’s. He should have been back by now.

The buzzer on the oven sounded, and Jamie grabbed a pot holder and pulled out the tray of sizzling pork chops, then left the pan to cool on the stovetop. The kids were busy at the kitchen table, pulling apart rolls that came out of a can and arranging them on a baking sheet. And miracle of miracles, they were working in harmony.

“Remember to leave a little space between them,” Jamie said.

She put on a pot of water to boil for mac ’n’ cheese and pulled a bag of salad out of the refrigerator. Tonight they’d have a real family dinner, their first in a while. A shrink would probably say she was acting like one of those women who compulsively cleaned or exercised as a way of creating a pleasing superficial picture and avoiding dealing with their inner turmoil. But she didn’t care. One nice dinner with her family, that was all she wanted. Mike at the head of the table, bowing his head and saying grace in his deep voice. The
children pink-cheeked from the sun, their hair combed and hands folded. A basket of hot rolls being passed. An hour of normalcy. Was that too much to ask?

She’d been overly ambitious today. After her fight with Christie and the visit with Ritchie and Sandy, she’d bundled the kids into the minivan and headed to the store. Jamie had always been a careful shopper, clipping coupons and substituting generic for name brands, but today she’d splurged on three perfect pork chops—one for Mike, one for her, and one for the kids to take turns rejecting—from the butcher. At the last minute she’d added a six-pack of Budweiser to the shopping cart, so she and Mike could have a beer or two together. She’d turn on the sprinklers for the kids to run through, and they could catch fireflies. She and Mike could sit on the front steps, and she’d tell him how lonely she’d felt lately. She’d be the one to reach out, to try to break down whatever had arisen between them. Maybe they’d even make love for the first time in weeks, and he’d move out of the basement and back into their bed. She missed looking into Mike’s eyes. She missed holding his hand, and dozing in his lap while he watched television.

Henry was leaving for a week of baseball camp tomorrow morning, and Sandy had offered to watch the other kids so Jamie and Mike could have a date. Maybe she’d suggest they do it tomorrow night. They didn’t have to go anywhere special—they could even stay home together and watch a movie, like they used to back when they first met.

“Can I put on the frosting?” Eloise asked.

“These are biscuits, honey,” Jamie said. “There is no frosting.”

Without thinking, she reached to move the metal pan of pork chops with her bare hands. “Ouch!” She rushed to the sink to run her burned thumb and index finger under cold water.

Jamie heard a clatter and turned around to see the tray of biscuits bouncing off the floor. It landed dough side down, naturally.

“You broke it!” Eloise shouted at Sam.

“It’s fine,” Jamie said. She ran over and picked up the tray. She didn’t look at the crumbs and bits of dirt sticking to the dough; she didn’t want to think about how long it had been since she’d mopped her kitchen floor. “I’m going to show you a trick.”

She took a sharp knife and sliced the very top layer of dough off each biscuit. “They’ll be just as good,” she promised as she popped the tray into the oven. “Emily, can you make the table look pretty? Maybe pick some flowers from the backyard so we can put them in a vase.”

The backyard was a rectangle of grass bordered with a hodgepodge of flowers, since every year Jamie and the kids picked out an assorted packet, dumped it into a hole, and covered it back up—that was the extent of her gardening—but Jamie hoped Emily would be able to find a zinnia or something.

Mike’s beer! She’d put it in the freezer to chill and had nearly forgotten it. She pulled out the six-pack, glad to see no bottles had exploded, and set it in the refrigerator.

What next? She ran into the dining room and searched through the scarred old armoire she’d inherited from her parents’ house for a tablecloth. She found a green one they usually used at Christmas and decided it would have to do. She swept the junk off the table and into an old grocery bag and set it in the corner. She laid out plates and silverware and plastic cups for the kids and glass beer steins for herself and Mike. She dumped the salad into a wooden bowl and took a bottle of Kraft ranch out of the refrigerator and put them side by side on the table. She filled a pitcher with ice water and brought it to the table, too. She didn’t want to have to be jumping up and down during this meal, constantly fetching things.

She caught sight of the clock on the stove and frowned. It was after six o’clock. She reached for the cordless phone on
the counter and dialed Mike’s cell, but her call went straight to voice mail.

“It’s me,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and cheerful. “Dinner’s almost ready, so . . . hopefully you’re on your way home.”

She felt a little light-headed and realized she hadn’t eaten anything other than a quick bowl of cereal today. She opened the oven door and checked the biscuits. They looked golden brown and smelled out of this world. She pulled out the tray and took one off, biting into it and savoring the fluffy sweetness.

“I want one!” Eloise cried.

“You’ll ruin your dinner,” Jamie said, her full mouth taking away her authority.

“You had one!” Eloise protested.

“I just had a bite,” Jamie said. “Just to test them and make sure they were good.”

“But I’m hungry!” Eloise wailed. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I want one, too,” Sam said, employing logic as his weapon. “It’s not fair for you to try them and not give us any.”

Emily came through the back door, her shoes tracking mud all over the mat and floor. She was holding an enormous branch from a hydrangea bush.

“I need a vase,” she said.

“I want a cinnamon roll!” Eloise cried. She was gearing up for a full-on tantrum now, her little chest heaving.

“They’re not cinnamon rolls, they’re biscuits,” Sam told her, sounding like a miniature professor.

“Just one bite each,” Jamie said. She broke the rest of the roll into two pieces and gave one to Sam and one to Eloise.

“Hers is bigger,” Sam pointed out.

“Why don’t I get one?” Emily cried.

“We’re just testing them,” Eloise informed her, spitting crumbs across the table.

“She’s gross,” Emily said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

“Fine!” Jamie said. She broke another roll into thirds and gave a chunk to each child. “Everyone happy?”

She heard a sizzle and spun around to see the pot of water bubbling over. She reduced the heat, dumped in the macaroni noodles, and gave them a stir.

“I don’t like mac ’n’ cheese anymore,” Eloise said.

Jamie muttered a curse under her breath. “Can we just have a nice dinner? Please?”

Where was Mike?

She called his cell phone again, but he didn’t answer. She didn’t leave a message this time.

He didn’t show up for another hour. By then, the pork chops were cold, the salad was wilted, and the rolls were all gone. Jamie was on her second beer, her appetite having vanished. The kids were watching TV again; by this point she was beyond feeling guilty.

“Hey,” Mike said as he walked through the door. She heard it slam heavily behind him. A moment later he came into the dining room.

“Did you guys already eat?” he asked.

Jamie let silence be her answer.

“I called you,” she said. “A couple times.”

He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s dead.”

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Driving around,” he said.

Why didn’t you want to come home to us?
Jamie thought. True, he hadn’t known about the special dinner, but Mike seemed to be taking every excuse to be away from them lately. No—away from her.

She stood up and began stacking the dirty plates and carrying them to the sink.

“I went to see Ritchie today,” she said. She didn’t bother to
bring up the subject gently, as she’d originally planned. She was too angry. “He wants to testify for you. He’ll tell them you’re not a racist, and when they see how badly he’s hurt they’ll get it—the jury will know you were suffering.”

Mike didn’t react immediately. Then he said, “I told you I didn’t want to ask Ritchie to do it.”

“We have no idea what’s going to happen during the trial!” she cried. “We have to have a strong defense!”

“Did it ever occur to you I might be found not guilty?” he asked. “Did you ever think, hey, maybe we should get Ritchie to testify that my husband doesn’t react unless there’s a real threat, instead of trying to trot out my black friend to prove I’m not a racist?”

“I can’t afford to think that way, Mike! I don’t know what kind of people are going to be on the jury. We’ve got to save you any way we can!”

He shook his head. “Is that where you were today? Seeing Ritchie? Did you even have to go to the doctor?”

“Yes, I lied to you, okay? Because I knew you’d never ask him!” Why was he being so obtuse? She blasted the sink water, rinsing off the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. The wheel got stuck, and when she jerked it the whole rack came out and crashed down onto her bare foot.

“Ouch!” she said. “Why haven’t you fixed that?”

“I did,” he said. “Twice. You keep pulling it too hard.”

He came over, bent down next to her, and picked up the rack, and that’s when she saw the pink mark on his cheek. It was very close to the corner of his mouth.

“What is that?” she asked. She reached out a finger and touched it.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh my God,” she said, staring down at the sticky smudge on her fingertip. “Christie kissed you.” She jerked back, scrambling to her feet. Mike jumped up and reached for her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

“She kissed me good-bye on the cheek,” he said. “After I dropped off Henry.”

She could smell alcohol on his breath. “And you had a drink with her!” she cried. “That’s why you were so late.”

“Just one . . .” Mike said.

His voice was drowned out by the roaring in her head. She was shaking so hard she felt as if she’d implode. She’d done everything possible to hold their family together, while Mike was off with his ex-girlfriend. He’d lied to her, too, even if it was just a lie of omission. Christie had been overly flirtatious with Mike before. Even Mike had agreed that sometimes she tried to cross boundaries. Was that what had happened tonight?

Jamie began to cry and pushed him away.

“Fuck you,” she said. “Our family is falling apart and you’re out drinking with your ex.” Her heart was pounding and her breath felt raggedy. She could still see a hint of pink on his cheek and she wanted to slap it off.

“Why are you so mad?” Mike looked incredulous. “Because of one drink?”

“It wasn’t just one,” Jamie said. “Was it?”

“What do you mean? I told you—”

“No,” she said. “
Christie
told me. You had pizza and beer with her, too.”

“Give me a break, Jamie. We talked, okay? That was all. We were talking about the case. Can’t I even talk to her?”

Not when you don’t talk to me,
Jamie thought. A hurricane had swept through her body, leaving it bruised and battered. Her head was so muddled and heavy it was impossible for her to think about anything but the terrible smudge of pink on her finger.

“All you do is sit in the basement,” Jamie said. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be around me. You won’t even sleep with me anymore!”

“So everything’s my fault,” Mike said. His voice was so flat
it was almost worse than if he were yelling. At least if he were yelling she’d know he still cared. “I’m guilty of everything, according to you. Good thing you’re not on the jury.”

He stormed out of the room, and she heard his heavy footsteps going upstairs. Then there was silence until Mike retraced his path downstairs and into the kitchen, where Jamie had slumped onto the dirty floor, next to the stupid broken dishwasher.

He was holding a duffel bag in each hand.

“When did you stop believing in me?” he asked. She blinked and looked up at him. His gaze was steely, but it flickered away a second after she met his eyes. It was as if he could hardly bear to look at her.

“Nothing happened with Christie,” he said. “Nothing ever has.”

“This isn’t just about her,” Jamie said. “You’re not the only one in trouble. You abandoned me, Mike!”

“You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t about her at all.”

Then he took his bags and left the room.

“Where are you going?” she called out, but the only answer she heard was the slamming of the front door.

Chapter Fifteen

THE SKY CYCLED THROUGH
darkness, then began to turn light again as Tabby entered her second day of labor. Lou leaned against the fence, her mind drifting. She’d meant to check in with Jamie last night, but she’d been so focused on Tabby she’d forgotten to call. Jamie had probably been too busy to chat anyway. Lou hadn’t realized until she’d moved in how exhausting it was to constantly care for small children, and she wondered how Jamie found the strength to do it day after day—to cook meals, clean up endless spills, and referee squabbles, to ease socks onto wiggling little feet and cajole reluctant kids to change into pajamas and brush their teeth and get into bed, to read storybooks and throw in a load of laundry before racing back upstairs to warn the kids to stop talking and go to sleep, to do the hundreds of other things Jamie did every single day, so reflexively she probably didn’t even have to think about it. A mother’s love could power you better than any race car’s motor, Lou thought.

“Doesn’t Mike help with this stuff?” Lou had asked Jamie right after she moved in.

“Usually, yeah,” Jamie had said. She’d been trying to wash Eloise’s hands, which had inspired a shrieking fit in Eloise,
who’d had a temporary tattoo applied to her wrist and was worried it would wash off. Jamie had finally rubbed a wet washcloth against Eloise’s palms, made a game out of counting her teeth while she brushed them, and picked up and carried Eloise to bed when the little girl thrashed.