Burying Ben (23 page)

“He doesn’t have to raise it. I do. If he
cared about
m
e or the baby as
m
uch as he said, he’d still be here.” She picks pieces of unpopped popcorn out of the bowl. “I’ll
g
et a good ho
m
e for it. Open adoption. I’ll
m
eet the parents and I can visit the baby anyti
m
e I want. If it’s a boy, I’ll na
m
e it Ben.”

“Have you talked t
h
is o
v
er with any
o
ne?”

“I’m
nineteen. I can
m
ake
m
y own decisions.”

“So
m
eti
m
es
it’s best not to
m
ake
i
m
po
r
tant decisions while you’re in a crisis. You’re still grieving. Adoption is irreversible. You
s
hould think it through very carefully
.
”

She pats her bulging sto
m
ach. “I don’t have
a lot of ti
m
e.” She sets the bowl of popcorn on the floor and stands up. “I’m
tired, I want to sleep.”

I take her upstairs to the e
m
pty guest room
and we
m
ake up the bed. I give her an old t-shirt that used
to belong to Mark.

“
W
hose was thi
s
?”

“A friend’s.”

“You
m
arried
?
”

“Divorced.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“So why are you lecturing
m
e about adoption?”

“I wasn’t lecturing you.
I
was just trying to help you
think about it.”

April gets into bed
, her stomach sloping under the blanket. I sit down on the foot of the bed and rest my hand on her ankle. At times, I regret not having children. It had been a constant tension between Mark and me. But when push came to shove, publication deadlines won out over pregnancy. Instead of babies, we made books. Looking at April’s swollen, sullen face, I feel lucky, at least for the moment, to have escaped the pain of watching a loving child turn into a scornful stranger.

“Ben wanted a family, didn’t he?”

“He was wicked happy that we were going to have a baby.” She rolls to her side, still facing me, her eyes open. “He’d have been a good father, better than me as a mother. He was so straight. Didn’t drink or do dope because his parents were stone junkies. Didn’t want to do that to his own kid.”

“What did you say about his parents?”

She frowns. “They were junkies. Didn’t you know that? I thought you were his shrink and he told you everything.” She rolls on her back again. “I can’t get comfortable.”

I hand her another pillow. She moves back on her side and wedges it under her stomach.

“How do you know this?” I ask, thinking if Ben’s parents were drug addicts, why didn’t his grandparents say something to me about it?

“He told me. How do you think? Duh.”

She opens her eyes wide and twists her mouth into a moronic grin. Once again, I have an overwhelming urge to slap her. I don’t know what kind of training or saintliness a therapist needs to treat adolescents, but I’m certain I don’t have whatever it takes.

“He didn’t want to tell me at first because he was ashamed. I thought it was funny. He was so straight and his parents were speedball artists. My parents are total nerds, and I want to party all the time.”

“Does your father know about Ben’s parents?”

“No way. He’d have busted us up in a minute.”

“Really?”

April pulls herself up to a sitting position. Her baby-fat face shifts into sharpness. “Are you kidding? When my father wants something he gets it. Ever see my mother walk? Notice her limp? My father did that.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns away from me. “Can we talk about something else? Or watch TV?”

Off comes the mantle of therapy. I grab her shoulder and turn her towards me. “I’m not playing this game with you. Ben is dead and everyone is holding me responsible. When I ask you a question, you answer.”

“He knocked her down the stairs and she broke her hip. Happy?”

She tries to shrug my hand off her shoulder. I don’t let go. “I came home late from a date. My mother told me it was okay to stay out. He told me the next time I disobeyed him, he’d break her arm. My mother said that she fell down, but I don’t believe her. She always defends him. Says his job makes him over-protective because he sees so much bad stuff. Tells me I should understand that he is the way he is because he loves me. Bullshit.”

She flings my arm off, scoots down and pulls the covers up to her chin. “You ask too many questions. I want to go to sleep.”

“I’m not finished. Not by a long shot. Why did Ben kill himself? And where were you when he did?”

She
squints her eyes closed and stuffs her hands over her ears like a child.

“Did your father really force you to file a complaint against me or did you do that on your own?”

She pulls the blanket over her head and starts kicking me off the bed with her feet. Assault and battery on a pregnant woman isn’t my style, although it’s appealing. Instead, I stand up, shouting at the lumpy figure under the covers.

“Tomorrow, young woman. We have a lot to talk about. Get ready.”

First thing in the morning, I call Eddie at the department. The automatic voice mail system routes me to Sgt. Lyndley’s extension. “You didn’t know? The Chief put Eddie on admin leave. I don’t know where he is. Maybe he went fishing.”

I call Eddie at home. It’s just past 7:00 and he’s drunk.

“Hey Doc. Funny thing, I was going to call you. Tell you about my idea. I’ve got a little vacation time coming. Think I’ll go up to the Sierras. I have a fishing buddy up there. While I’m there, I’ll check around, see what I can find out about our boy, Ben.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“What else I gotta do with my time? The chief thinks I did it. You think I did it. Maybe I did. I should check it out for myself.”

He hangs up before I can ask him what exactly he thinks he did.

April is not happy when I wake her to say I’m going out to get us something for breakfast. I tell her to stay inside and keep the blinds closed.

“Don’t call anyone, don’t go anywhere. The minute I get back we’re going to have that talk.”

Fran is turning flapjacks with her trowel. Sausages sizzle on the griddle. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you in hiding?”

“Sorry, I don’t have any time to talk. Can I get two pancake breakfasts to go?“

She yells for some help at the stove and grabs my arm, steering me through the steamy kitchen and out the back door to a concrete patio. A small picnic table with a lopsided umbrella stands between a row of garbage bins and an assortment of scraggly plants growing in old metal cans.

“Coffee?” she asks. I shake my head.

“Eddie’s gone. He came by here to tell me he had time off, courtesy of the chief, and he was going to Mexico where the beer is cold and cheap. He’s thinking he might as well retire down there.“

“Really? That’s not what he told me this morning.”

“He’s not going to Mexico to retire, Dot. He’s going somewhere he can drink himself to death or worse. He hates traveling. Thinks everywhere but America is dirty and dangerous. I know him. Without his job, he’s a dead man. There’s no way I can leave the restaurant to look for him.” She grabs my arm. “Stop him, Dot, before he does something terrible to himself. Promise me you’ll try.”

I lift her hand off my arm and hold it between my own two hands. She’s a dear woman, but this is one promise I’m not going to make.

When I get home there is a note on my kitchen counter. “Thanks a lot. I’ll be in touch. P.S. I borrowed your t-shirt and some make-up. XOXOXO, April.”

I’m not feeling the slightest bit XOXOXO. I have just committed professional suicide by violating a psychology board regulation. Eddie Rimbauer is maybe going to kill himself because of me. And the unstable and immature daughter of an unstable, powerful man, a girl I have voluntarily taken into my home, has disappeared, pregnant and penniless, into a strange city.

Chapter Twenty Five

Better late than never, I call Frank and invite him out for dinner. He sounds surprised to hear from me after all this time. He hems and haws a little bit, trying to decide if he wants to accept my invitation. It takes two or three apologies cum explanations to persuade him that I’m not a total flake before he agrees to meet me at Sabrosa, a Mexican restaurant in East Kenilworth.

The walls are covered with tiny
milagros
and large colorful masks. Tin framed mirrors sparkle in the candlelight. The waiter seats us in a booth next to a small alcove displaying the smiling ceramic skeleton of a pregnant female dressed in a brightly painted clay skirt and sunbonnet. She is holding a ruffled parasol in her bony hand. I can’t help but think that this is an ominous portent of April Gomez’ future, which I have just linked to my own.

Technically speaking, this is Frank’s and my first real date. The food we shared at the festival we had eaten standing up in the midst of a crowd. Here, alone in this booth, we fumble at the chips and salsa, trying not to touch.

“How are things going?” he asks.

“So, so.”

“Working hard?”

“Taking a little time off.” I make it sound like my idea. If he’s read about my mandatory leave in the newspaper, he doesn’t mention it.

“How’d it go with that family you met in the park?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential. I can’t talk about it.”

“Sorry.”

The waiter delivers us from the awkward moment by arriving with our meal. We eat in partial silence, commenting on the food. Frank is an amateur cook with a particular interest in ethnic cuisine. He orders a beer. I have a second Margarita.

“I was thinking on the way over here that I don’t know much about you. I’ve been divorced five years. How about you?”

“One year.”

“The first year is the hardest.”

“I don’t want to talk about that either,” I say and regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. He takes a swig of his beer. I sip my margarita. The waiter asks if everything is okay. There is a burst of laughter from an adjoining booth, mocking our discomfort.

“You don’t have to do this you know,” Frank says. “No pressure. We can just finish our dinner and say Adios. It takes time to get back in the swing of things. I hate dating. Eventually, I want someone in my life, but in the meanwhile, I’m perfectly content by myself.”

“Sorry, I’m not much fun to be around these days.”

“I thought you were a lot of fun at the festival.”

“Things have gotten worse since then.”

“This is probably your line, but talking does help.”

I blame it on the two margaritas, but I tell him a little about my marriage. How Mark had encouraged my writing, pushed me to work with him on three books, and then pushed me to write one of my own. I talk about my divorce settlement and explain that Mark had bought out my half of our testing and consulting practice and, in exchange, I took over the full-time contract at Kenilworth P.D.

I leave out the part about Melinda. What man wouldn’t wonder about the wifely failings that had pushed my husband into another woman’s arms?

Frank asks me about Ben and the ethics complaint. I am too embarrassed to tell him about kidnapping April, which is how I have come to think about it. I only say that I think the Patcher family is highly dysfunctional, and I’m baffled about how a nice kid like Ben got mixed up with them.

“I don’t know that many cops, but Ben doesn’t sound like a typical officer. How’d he get hired in the first place?”

“My ex recommended him.”

“Sounds like a poor decision.”

“Mark is a crackerjack psychologist. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

Frank’s face suddenly looks like a closed door. I’ve shot my mouth off once again, this time defending my ex for no good reason. I reach across the table and lightly touch Frank’s hand.

“Thanks for your concern. I know you’re trying to help. It’s just that it’s always best to start with an easy case.”

My dinner with Frank seems neither a success nor a failure. It hovers somewhere around the pleasant side of neutral, about three on a scale of one to five. Still it got me out of the house.

By the time I drive home, most of my neighbors’ lights are out. I don’t know my neighbors. Our interactions are limited to a brief wave as we zip in and out of our garages. The homeowner’s association maintains the landscaping, eliminating any opportunity I have to socialize while watering the lawn. My tiny backyard is hemmed in on three sides by vine-covered stucco walls. Only the neighbor’s cat breeches the divide to visit me.

There is an SUV parked under the shadows of a large oak tree at the end of my cul de sac. It looks familiar. I can’t tell if there’s anyone in it. I start to shiver in the warm air. I think about parking in my driveway and ringing my own doorbell, a tactic recommended by the crime prevention unit to frighten off burglars.

Then I remember how Vinnie Patcher had blocked April’s car with his own. I turn off my headlights and slowly cruise the cul de sac. In the dark, I can’t tell if the SUV is blue, black or green. A porch light goes on and someone unceremoniously pushes a black cat out the front door. It shakes itself and sits on the doormat looking at me with yellow eyes as though questioning why I’m skulking around my own neighborhood in the dark.

This is ridiculous. I drive into my garage, shut the door behind me and sit in my car listening to my heart until it slows. The SUV probably belongs to a neighbor. People around here are always buying new cars. The overhead light goes out and I feel a streak of terror, until I remember it is on a timer. In the dark, I can see packing boxes, my garbage can and the recycling bins I have piled against a wall. Nothing else. I feel my way to the kitchen door and let myself in.

The refrigerator is open, spilling light into the room. Eggs, milk, and juice puddle together in a congealing mess on the floor. Tributaries of coffee ooze down one wall. Kitchen stools lie at odd angles. I flatten against the wall and listen to the open refrigerator straining to stay cold.

Patcher’s in the house, waiting for me. I edge around the corner to the living room. My only plant is upended on the carpet and the television is lying on its side, the glass screen fractured into tiny shards. My one painting hangs crookedly, pieces of ripped canvas dangling over the frame. Sofa cushions are strewn around the room.

My heart is pulsing furiously. I back into the kitchen and call 911. “Help,” I whisper into my cell phone. “Please, someone help.”

Manny arrives first. Sgt. Lyndley pulls up seconds later and orders me to stay on the sidewalk while he and Manny go inside, guns drawn. Lights are popping on in the neighborhood.

I look down the cul de sac. It is empty.

They come out in less than five minutes, declaring that the house is secure. Lyndley informs me that I have been burglarized, to state the obvious, probably by some neighborhood kids. He isn’t persuaded to think differently when I tell him that this is an
adults only development.

“Nothing’s missing. Aren’t burglars looking for TVs and electronics?”

“You don’t know that yet. Your place is a mess. You won’t know if something’s missing until you put everything back.”

“I’m telling you, this is personal. Whoever did this is furious with me.”

“Kids these days are spoiled rotten. Their parents buy them everything they want. They have no respect for anything. They get loaded and trash stuff.”

I tell him about Patcher and how he is blaming me, first for his son-in-law’s suicide and now for his daughter’s running away from home.

“If Patcher wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t do it like this.” He doesn’t elaborate on the alternatives. “Officer Ochoa can dust for prints if you want, but he won’t find any.”

He looks at Manny. “When you’re done with your report, leave it in my box.” He turns back to me. “Sorry for your trouble, Doc. If it wasn’t neighborhood kids, maybe a former patient? If I were you, I’d change the locks a.s.a.p. And from now on, make sure all your windows are closed when you go out.”

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Manny asks. There are sooty smudges all over my kitchen where he has dusted for fingerprints. “You shouldn’t be alone after something like this.”

“Thank you, no. There’s no one I want to call.”

He looks puzzled. People think psychologists qualify to counsel others because their own lives are so together. I am sorry to disappoint him.

“Let me walk you upstairs,” he says. “There’s something you should see.”

My bedroom looks like a homeless encampment. I can smell sweat, pungent and coarse, like an animal in rut. My clothes are trampled on the floor. Dresser drawers have been pulled open and upended. Jewelry is strewn everywhere.

The only things of real value I own are a diamond tennis bracelet Mark gave me after our first book was published – it still boggles my mind that he thought I would wear something so ostentatious – and the gold locket my father bought for my sixteenth birthday. Lord knows how many overtime shifts he had to work at the print shop to pay for it.

Manny puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me gently toward the back of the bedroom door. My good luck sweater, the one I had worn to the interview with Ms. Hudson, is pinned to the door by a kitchen knife that has pierced it through the center, right where my heart should have been.

I sleep, barely, on my living room couch, with all the lights on. As soon as the sun comes up, I call the chief. He starts work at the crack of dawn.

”Someone broke into my house last night. I think it was Vinnie Patcher. Trashed everything in sight. He wants to hurt me. He stuck a knife through one of my sweaters and pinned it to the door. You don’t have to be a psychologist to see the symbolism. Can you assign somebody to keep a watch on my house?”

“What a coincidence. I was just about to send an officer to your house to bring you into the station. Vinnie Patcher claims you kidnapped his daughter and ran him over with your car.”

“I did not kidnap his daughter. She was trying to get away from him and he was restraining her. She got in my car voluntarily. She’s over eighteen. She has the right to go where she wants to.”

“You don’t have the right to run people over with your car. That’s assault with a deadly weapon.”

“I did not run him over. He deliberately stepped in front of my car, trying to stop us.”

“That’s not what he says.”

“He’s a liar. You told me so yourself. Anyhow, I have a witness. His daughter can tell you what happened.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Patcher thinks you do. He thinks you put her up in a hotel.”

“I haven’t got the money to do that. I’ve been on administrative leave for six weeks with no pay, waiting for you to finish my IA. Remember?”

“Actually, your status has changed. As of today, your contract is terminated. You don’t work here anymore.”