And When She Was Good (24 page)

T
UESDAY,
N
OVEMBER 22

T
he familiar drive to the prison feels new, as if she's seeing it for the first time. It's an odd kind of nostalgia, nostalgia for nostalgia's sake, the preternatural desire to be done with a place so she can long for it. She sees Baltimore as so many people have seen it throughout the years from this highway, marveling at its ugly, hardworking façade, as embodied by the mountains of coal, the grain elevators, the huge cranes. This part of Baltimore looks as it did when she and Billy arrived twenty years ago.

But when she heads west, into the city, the landscape has changed. There are more and more signs in Spanish, businesses catering to an immigrant population that wasn't yet here in the early nineties. The high-rise housing project, Flag House, hasn't cast its shadow over the city in years. The area around Hopkins Hospital has been depopulated.

She enters the visiting area, her cheeks flushed, her smile barely compressed. How often is one lucky enough to recognize a seminal moment? So much in her life has happened
to
her. That's about to change.

Val picks up on her mood. “Well, if it isn't Miss Mary Fucking Sunshine.”

“The weather's nice for this time of year.”

“Sky looked overcast to me. The little of it that I can see.”

Ugh, it's self-pitying Val today. She almost second-guesses herself. But no, she has promised herself this moment. Part of changing her life means fulfilling the promises she makes to herself.

“I've been thinking—”

“Aren't you always?”

The question seems a little freighted, but she pushes on. “I've had an offer for the business. It's a good one, and I'm going to take it.”

“How much?”

She halves the number, halving Val's take as she does so. The way she sees it, Sophie's demands would have lightened his take anyway. And Val uses money only to keep score. She could hand him Monopoly dollars for all the good it will do him.

“Then what?”

“I'm not sure. Something new, something different.” She shies away from saying
legitimate.
Val not only won't respect that choice, he'll see it as a criticism.

“And what about me?”

“You're getting half the money.”

“Yeah, in a onetime payment. I mean, your buyer's not going to keep putting money in my accounts, right? Probably doesn't even know I exist.”

More self-pity, yet a different flavor. It's been more than a decade since Val's arrest. Does anyone on the outside remember that he exists?

“I couldn't. You're a silent partner, remember. While you helped me set up the business, you haven't been active. For obvious reasons.”

“Yeah, we're like Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak, only I'm Wozniak. Which means—”

“That I'm Steve Jobs? Why, thank you.”

“It means I'm getting screwed out of the credit I deserve, but you'll die young and I'll be rich.”

He's joking. She hopes. “You yourself said I couldn't do this forever.”

“I expected you to keep managing the enterprise. I mean, Christ, Hel, what else can you do?”

How many more men are going to ask her that?

“I don't know. That's why I need to make a definitive split. I want to choose a life for once, not just fall into something. I feel like I've never had the luxury of choosing what I wanted to do.”

“That makes two of us.”

She's not going to argue with him. She must not argue with him. “I'm tired, Val.”

“You're thirty-seven. Get over it. You'll be working until the day you die. Everybody does now. The thing is, you can't make this kind of money doing anything else. What, you think there's some job out there with health care and a pension, paid vacations? Not for you. Not for anyone, hardly.”

His argument strikes her as prepared, as if he has seen this day coming and readied his talking points. How can that be? How could Val have anticipated this conversation? But Val, like Heloise, anticipates a lot.

“I want a change.”

“Too bad.”

She is not entirely surprised by his resistance. But she's also not cowed. “Jesus, Val, you don't even
need
the money. It's just something for you to keep score with.”

“That's not for you to say. Besides, my appeal won't be free.”

They sit staring at each other, at an impasse but far from impassive. Heloise realizes that she has never allowed Val to see her angry with him, has always pretended deference. No more.

“Val, I'm selling, and you can't do anything about it.”

He smiles. “I can't prevent the sale, no.”

“Are you saying I'll be harmed? That you'll do to me what you had done to Shelley and Bettina?”

He looks side to side, although she is the only visitor just now, then hunches forward, his eyes searching her face, locking on hers. She still can't get over his physical resemblance to Scott.

“You been talking to the cops, Hel?”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am. You know they asked me about Shelley's death, but that's not my fault, is it? I certainly didn't know she was on your visitors list.”

“Shelley's a good example, though.”

“Of what?”

“Of what happens when someone gets in a bad situation, starts to wonder how to get out of it, what she has of value. I'd hate to think you were here today trying to get me to admit to things I never did because you have some legal problems.”

“I don't have legal problems.”

“Then why now?”

Impossible to answer without mentioning Scott.

“I just feel it's time.”

“I feel like it's not. And I have fifty-one percent of the voting stock.”

“Really? When did we establish that?”

“That's just how I've always thought of it in my head. You still work for me. You owe me, Heloise. You can never get out from under me. I saved you. All those years ago. Remember?”

“It was a curious kind of saving.”

“It was a better situation than you had. That stupid druggie was going to drag you down with him, and you knew it. You said as much. When my luck ran out, I didn't take you with me, did I? You owe me. You'd be dead without me.”

That's the second time in this conversation he has pronounced her dead.

“You had Bettina killed,” she says.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Shelley, Bettina. You think you have a shot of getting out if there are no living witnesses. But the ballistics testimony against you is going to stand, Val. It's not in contention. The expert was flawed, but not his expertise. Besides, there's always George.”

“Haven't you heard? He took a bad fall in the shower over at ECI last week. Hit his head so hard he broke his neck. Poor fucker is still alive, but he's not expected to make it.”

“I haven't seen that in the news.”

Val grins. “Who says it was in the news? It's not like some poor little Baltimore County housewife, killed by an intruder. But I expect it will make the paper when he finally dies. And he's going to die, Hel.”

She sits back, taking it all in. So she's right. Everyone has to die before Val files his appeal. But she gets to live because she makes money for him. Only she doesn't want to make money for him anymore.

“I'm out, Val. I'm sorry, but I'm out.”

“Then you're no good to me.”

“I never was any good to you, nor you to me. We brought out the worst in each other.”

“We're exactly like each other.”

“No. No, I don't agree with that. I can't agree with that. I don't harm people. I haven't hurt anyone the way you have.”

“What about your boyfriend, all those years ago? You think he didn't get hurt?”

“He was alive the last time I saw him.”

“Honey, he had a bounty on his head. The two Georges drove him back to Pennsylvania in the trunk of a car, got a nice payoff. I think we bought lobsters or steak. Whatever it was, you ate it, you enjoyed it.”

“I didn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't not ask. You knew what was happening, Hel. Always. And I did, too.”

She supposes this is the kind of down-and-dirty fight that only a long-married couple can have, another thing she's been spared. The layers, the viciousness, the resentments—it's all new to her.

She sits quietly. For how long? Five seconds, ten? A minute? She knows only that she wants to change the mood, to make sure that he understands she's not speaking from anger or hurt.

“I put you here.”

“What?”

“I'm the one. I was always the one. I was the one who knew where the gun was.”

“No, there was a CI—”

“Yeah, a CI who was dying of cirrhosis. He was a straw man, willing to carry the tale for money. I told the cop, the cop told him what to say. I thought Bettina was dead, or on her way there, so I didn't see the harm in letting you think she was the one.” A beat. “I see it now.”

“You are in legal trouble, aren't you? You'll say anything right now to get me to say what they want you to get out of me.”

“No, I'm not under anyone's thumb. For once. I'm telling you the truth. I'm—” The phrase comes back to her. “I'm making a clean breast of things.”

“Why?”

Why indeed? Because she wants him to know that in the long chess game that has been their relationship, she finally has him in check. Fifty-fucking-one percent. She'll tell Tom, she'll get protection. She'll move Scott at midterm, change her name again. She has been scared every day of Scott's life, scared of so many things. Scared something will happen to Scott. Scared she'll be arrested. Scared that Val will hurt her.

She's still scared, and yet she's not.

She sits, waiting for him to lash out with words, assuming there will be threats. But Val doesn't rise to the occasion. He just stares at her, his face unreadable. Meanwhile, Heloise feels an odd sense of relief. Not exhilaration or anything that giddy. But she has faced down something she has dreaded for years, and like most people in that situation she has found that it was just as terrible as she feared. But it's done.

As she rises to leave, Val asks, “Will you still visit?”

“I don't think so.” Yet she can't help holding out a bit of hope, pretending that they can go on. “Certainly not as often.”

“I'll miss you,” he says.

She realizes she will miss him, too. She came here out of duty and fear, but she enjoyed their conversations in spite of herself. She and Val are not, as he insists, exactly alike. But they've been together for almost twenty years. Released by circumstance from the daily burdens that weigh down most married couples, they have been free to speak about ideas and books and the news. Yet he doesn't know her as well as he thinks he does, can't see that she has managed to stay human despite all her mistakes.

“I'll miss parts of you, Val. You're smart. I like talking to you.”

“And back in the day—the other thing. Did you enjoy that, too?”

His euphemism, if that's what it is, surprises her, catches her off guard. “Sometimes. You could be rough, though.”

“Had to be, sometimes.”

She nods. “A little fear goes a long way, as you often told me.”

“But it only goes so far. You don't fear me anymore. Even with what you think you know about me—and let me be clear, I didn't have anything to do with those things—you're not scared of me, are you?”

She has to think about that. “No, I guess I'm not. Or maybe— I don't know. Maybe I just don't fear anything anymore.”

“What, you got nothing to lose?”

“Something like that.” She has everything to lose.

“I need that money coming in every month, Hel.” His voice is low and wheedling, a tone he hasn't used since their early days together. “I
need
it. Everything else can be forgiven if you keep up your end of the bargain.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Val. Pretty soon there won't be any more money. But you will get a nice lump sum. I can sweeten it a little, but that's the best I can do.”

He nods, and she realizes she's safe for now. Until Val gets his share of the sale, he won't try to have her killed.

After that, all bets are off.

W
EDNESDAY,
N
OVEMBER 23

S
cott has a half day the day before Thanksgiving, so Heloise clears her own calendar. By December she won't be taking any more appointments anyway. By December—oh, Lord, it's only a week away—she'll be long gone from here. The other regulars, the ones who aren't Paul, don't yet know. Having the conversation during an appointment seems wrong somehow, a reminder that the relationship has been pure commerce. She also doesn't want to be asked about her plans, given that she has none. All she wants is a long weekend free of worry, time with Scott apart from his sleepover with Lindsey, their intimate dinner, just the two of them. Her shopping is done, the house is clean, the compromise piecrust waiting for Scott to fill later today. Heloise has never understood people who groove on the adrenaline of doing things at the last minute.

She, for example, is already making arrangements to leave the country the moment she sells the business. She's going to take Scott out of school and head for Costa Rica or Belize, two countries that came up most often in her Internet searches for best places to retire. (She has to think that the article recommending Greece is out of date.) She figures she can buy two years abroad, maybe more if she chooses wisely.

And once she's abroad, she'll write Jolson—anonymously, of course—and tell him what she thinks she knows about the deaths of Michelle Smith and Betty Martinez.

A phone rings, the house phone. “Let it go,” she tells Scott. This week Sophie has started calling the house phone, although she usually rings late at night. Damn Leo. Is there anything he didn't tell her? “But it's Lindsey's last name on the caller ID,” Scott says. He's still young enough to like talking on the phone, whereas Heloise is one of those people who don't even like to listen to voice-mail messages.

“Hello? . . . Oh. Okay.” He brings the phone to his mother. “It's for you. Lindsey's mom.”

Heloise barely has time to say hello before Coranne, her voice thick with held-back sobs, starts stammering. “I—I didn't know who else to call. I took the baby in for her second part of the flu shot this morning, and she's had a reaction and we're in the emergency room—” Her voice fades in volume; she's talking to someone where she is. “Yes, I know I'm not supposed to use my cell phone here, but what would you have me do, go in the parking lot with my sick baby?—and there's all this stuff that has to get done for Thanksgiving. Rick's family is coming, and his mother is so judgey.”

Mothers-in-law. Another thing Heloise has been spared.

Coranne has barely paused for a breath. “I thought I was so smart, I had a lot of things done ahead, but my order's over at Tommy's, the whole Thanksgiving dinner essentially, and they close at seven, and the linens are at the dry cleaners, and would you believe my furnace died, and I managed to get a service call, but the window is four to eight, and I'm not sure when I'll get out of the ER, and while I'm okay with Lindsey being home alone, but not with letting some strange service guy in—I mean, that's like a scenario out of a Lifetime movie, he'll be a pedophile, and I'll be the mom who—”

“It's okay, Coranne,” Heloise says. “It will all be okay.” Meaning,
Leave me out of this.

“I didn't know who else to call. I tried three other moms. Everyone is as frantic as I am, and I know you work, but I thought—”

“What do you need me to do?” But that's a mistake. She meant to say,
What do you expect me to do?
—a very different question.

“If you could go to the market and the dry cleaners, then stay at my house until I get there? Scott knows the garage code, and the kitchen door is open, of course.” Her voice slows, calmed by the possibility that Heloise might really help her. “I know it's a lot to ask. I'm embarrassed to ask so much from someone who's never even asked me for a ride. I just didn't know who else to call.”

Heloise's mind divides; it's almost like a cartoon, with the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. But in her case the two personas are Heloise, always in control and with a plan, and Helen, the poor sap to whom life just happens. If only she could have sent Audrey, but she let her leave early today for her own Thanksgiving break with some distant cousins in Greenbelt.

“Okay, give me the details again. Slowly.”

The weather is clear, thank goodness for that. She and Scott take off in her Lexus, Bluetooth disconnected in case Sophie tries the cell number, hitting the dry cleaners first, then descending into the hell that is Tommy's Market on the day before Thanksgiving. At least Coranne was truthful: Her order is completely assembled. Heloise and Scott carry it into her house, which is basically a messier version of Heloise's.

She puts the groceries away and hangs up the linens in the hall closet, while Scott avails himself of some video game that she won't let him have. It is only three, and the repairman isn't due for an hour at the earliest. Bored out of her mind, she decides to start straightening, then out-and-out cleaning. Given that she has a housekeeping service, it's a bit of a novelty, almost fun. She checks in with the furnace people, who initially insist that the window is the window and they're slammed. But after working her way up to the office manager and telling the story about the sick baby, she earns some sympathy, and the woman agrees to juggle the appointments so the repairman will arrive at four. It turns out to be a problem with the thermostat, and, miracle of miracles, he has the right model in his truck. She and Scott could leave, but Heloise has noticed Coranne's daunting to-do list on the refrigerator and realizes that the turkey from Tommy's must be brined, which requires twelve hours of immersion. Assuming Coranne wants to put it in tomorrow morning, first thing, there's not much time to waste. With Scott's happy help, Heloise assembles the brine and they slide the turkey into the large plastic bag. “Their turkey is so big,” Scott says in wonder, and Heloise feels guilty about their two-person tradition.

Coranne arrives while they're loading the dishwasher—and promptly bursts into tears, which embarrasses Heloise no end.

“How's the baby?” she asks, crouching down to inspect the sleeping Jillian in her car seat, which Coranne has carried in rather than risk waking her.

“Fine, fine. I probably overreacted, but it is a holiday weekend, and—well, you know. I didn't want to risk having it get worse.”

“I know. Look, put your feet up, have a glass of wine.” Heloise has seen a half-full bottle of chardonnay in the fridge. “Everything's been done. The furnace works, the turkey's in the brine, the dry cleaning's in the laundry room.”

“You're a saint, Heloise. I mean it. I wish I could hire you.”

Heloise laughs.

“My husband has an assistant who does all the little things for him. Remembers birthdays, runs personal errands. I always say, ‘Where's my assistant?' But, you know, as a stay-at-home mom, I'm not supposed to require any help.”

Heloise pours herself a glass of wine, although it had been her intention to bolt the second Coranne got home. Scott has disappeared with Lindsey, probably to the basement rec room that seems like such a novelty to him. She has that nagging tug of an idea again—the valet line, the Mandarin Oriental, the Four Seasons.

No, not the valet. The
concierge.
The woman who looked like her, trying to assist that petulant man. Lord, the last thing she wants to do is wait on petulant men for less money than she makes now. But what if—

“Would you pay someone to help you?”

“I can't afford a full-time assistant.”

“But what if you could hire someone hourly, à la carte, to do the things you need done? What if there had been a service you could call today? Is that something you would pay for?”

“Would I? And every mother I know at Hamilton Point would probably do the same. There's just so much fucking—sorry—driving, and if you have more than one kid, there are so many conflicts. Rick is like, ‘But you have all the time the kids are in school,' except I don't. We have a baby. She sleeps maybe two hours a day.”

“Interesting,” Heloise says, and Coranne shoots her a look. It
is
an odd thing to say. She lets the conversation switch to the more acceptable banalities, refuses Coranne's offer to open another bottle of wine, and announces she must take Scott home. He has a pie to make, many apples to peel and slice.

“We look forward to having you over Friday night,” Coranne says to Scott, and Heloise is reminded that one thing she likes about the woman is the way she treats her son. He's an individual to Coranne, not merely Lindsey's friend.

The way home takes them back past Tommy's Market, now in even more chaos, and Heloise is stuck for a long time waiting for her left turn. But when her moment comes, she almost misses it, and Scott has to prod her.

“There's a gap, Mom, you can make it.”

“What?” She is thinking again about the concierge. When they come back from Belize or Costa Rica—
if
they come back from Belize or Costa Rica. Doesn't it just figure that she gets an idea for a business when she's no longer trying to find one? The Reverend Frida was right. You have to leap. But what's the point of figuring it all out if it ends up that you have no place to land? It's about as useful as seeing every vivid detail in the landscape—right before you slam into it because you have no parachute.

T
hat night, Scott in bed, his pie cooling on the counter, the wrecked kitchen reclaimed—Lord, she feels as if she's been cleaning all day—Heloise checks out various Web sites that offer expedited passports. Another service an à la carte concierge could offer a busy woman, she thinks. The house phone rings, startling her. Sophie.

“Yes?” she asks, not bothering to hide the sigh in her voice.

“Heloise, you can't just cut me off.” Sophie's voice is slurry with some kind of alcohol or medication. She's given up hiding her bad habits from Heloise.

“I'm sorry, Sophie.” She almost is. She tries on the empathy she found for Coranne this morning. But she can't feel anything for this girl.

“It's not like I can go home, you know? I've got no one, nothing, and now I don't even have any money. Look, I'm sorry I tried to shake you down, but if you could just keep paying for my meds—”

“I was happy to pay for your meds when I thought they were meds. But not this, Sophie. I can't give you money. If you want to go to rehab—” It's a safe offer to imply. Sophie's not going to rehab.

“You owe me. You ruined me. It's not like I can get married now or have a normal life. Once a whore, always a whore. You're living proof of that.”

No I'm not,
Heloise thinks, feeling a thrill of joy she has never known outside her relationship to Scott.
I'm not, I'm not.
What she told Terry is true: She's not defined by what she does.

“Sophie, I can't help you.”

“You better. You better. I know where you live, you bitch.”

She probably does. Goddamn Leo.

“Sophie, let's talk after the holiday, okay?”

“You better—” Her voice is trailing off. She doesn't even have the energy to keep up her own threats.

“After the holiday weekend, Sophie. I know it's a tough time to be alone. But we'll talk Monday.”

Buying more time. After years of selling it, she can't get over how expensive time is, how much each increment is costing her. Placating Sophie. Placating Val. But as of Monday it's only three days until the sale goes through. On December 2, Val's share of the money will be deposited in the offshore account maintained by his lawyer—and she and Scott will be en route to Miami, where they will leave for a Caribbean cruise that Heloise booked just an hour ago. They simply won't return. Audrey has agreed to stay behind and take care of everything else—selling the house, selling everything in it. That's another thing she has to add to her to-do list—consulting Tyner, making sure that Audrey has limited power of attorney.

On the bright side—she now has a very good reason not to honor her mother's wish to have a relationship with Scott.
Sorry, I'll be murdered if I stay around. Toodle-oo.

She can't help thinking that if she has to keep getting these distraught, needful calls, it would be better if they were from Terry. She could be kind to Terry. Just her luck, he's the one person in her life who's true to his word. He promised to leave her alone and did. Terry and her mom have that in common. Go figure.