Fragile (7 page)

Maggie had never thought in a million years that she’d end up back in The Hollows. But she had. She didn’t regret leaving the city behind and starting a practice here, in the town where she grew up. But sometimes, in a low moment, she wondered what would have happened if her father hadn’t died, leaving her mother alone. Would she ever have come back here?

She picked up the phone and dialed her mother. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that Elizabeth picked up. Maggie had noticed over the last couple of weeks that it was taking her mother longer and longer to get to the phone.

“Hey, Mom,” she said. She tried to sound upbeat even though she knew it was pointless. Elizabeth always knew what Maggie was feeling, no matter how she tried to hide it.

“Hello, Magpie.”

“How are your attic guests?”

“Quiet, too quiet,” said her mother, mock-ominous. “And possibly raccoons.”

“Did someone come out?”

“Yes, a young fellow. Laid out a few traps, said he’d come back tomorrow.”

Maggie nodded but didn’t say anything, half forgetting she was on the phone.

“What’s wrong?” asked her mother.

“Probably nothing.” She told her mother about Marshall Crosby lingering across the street, running off when she called his name.

“That boy was always trouble.”

“You don’t even know him.” She knew her mother wasn’t talking about Marshall.

“I meant Travis.”

“Marshall is not Travis.”

“Not yet.”

Maggie felt the familiar rise of annoyance and defensiveness at her mother’s superior, knowing tone. It bordered on imperious. Elizabeth Monroe thought that her seventy-five years of life, twenty-five of which she’d spent as the principal of Hollows High, had taught her everything she needed to know about human nature. Why had Maggie even bothered saying anything?

“Did you call your husband?” Elizabeth asked when Maggie didn’t respond.

“Can’t reach him.”

Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to keep her mouth shut. Between mothers and daughters, it seemed to Maggie, there was so much more meaning in silence than in any words spoken.

“And Ricky?” Elizabeth said finally.
Can’t reach him, either
, Maggie thought but didn’t say,
for different reasons altogether
.

“He’s upstairs studying,” she said.

“Well.” A pause, a sigh. “Lock the door. If he comes back, call 911.”

Elizabeth was always unemotional, pragmatic. Maggie had long ago stopped looking for tea and sympathy from her mother, had actually come to accept and even appreciate Elizabeth for exactly who she was—most of the time. Not easy work, not even for a shrink.

“I will.” Maggie walked back over to the door, peered out. Just the quiet street, the glowing orange of porch lights, the sway of trees. “Good night.”

“Maggie.” Her mother’s voice carried small and tinny over the air as Maggie took the phone from her ear.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Call if you need me.”

She felt a smile lift the corners of her mouth. Her mother was five foot two, a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Would you come over and defend me with your cane?” Maggie said.

Elizabeth gave a throaty chuckle at that. “If I had to.”

“Thanks, Mom. Good night.”

“Good night, dear.” Was there something wistful in her voice? Or maybe Maggie was just imagining things … her husband sounded strained and tense, her son angry, her mother lonely. Was she just projecting? When everyone close seemed to be suffering, maybe it was time to look in the mirror.

Just as she hung up the phone, Maggie heard Jones pull into the drive in his big government-issue SUV. It was a gas-guzzling maroon monstrosity, with big silver stars emblazoned on the doors.
HOLLOWS POLICE DEPARTMENT
. A rack of lights sat on top. At the door she watched her husband turn off the ignition and then just sit there a moment, looking straight ahead. In the light from the garage, she could just see his arm and the shadow of his head. She saw him put his hands to his temples and rub. She felt a gnawing sadness watching him there. Sometimes, even when they were only separated by feet or inches, he seemed so far away, untouchable. When did it happen? When did this strange distance grow between them, and why didn’t she have the energy to open the door, walk out to his car, and bring him home?

6

I
t was one of the things Amber hated most about autumn, the early fall of darkness. Summer days reached lazily on into summer nights, stretching orange fingers against the encroaching black, then surrendering with a shrug. In autumn, the light snuck out early, like it was late for something, like it might not be coming back. After lunch, she started to feel uneasy, had a sense that the day was racing away and she was being left behind. Her mother said that she was too young to feel like that, that she had all the time in the world. But she couldn’t shake the feeling when, even on the bus ride home, the sky was already growing dark.

It was dark now, as dark as it would be at midnight, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet. As she got farther from her house, she slipped a cigarette from the pack in her jeans and cupped her hand to light it. It wasn’t until after she took the first drag that she saw him sitting there. She didn’t know he had a car.

She heard him lower the window as she approached. She leaned down to look inside instead of walking by without acknowledging him, which she’d usually do if she saw him in the cafeteria or the hallway. Curiosity got the better of her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

She’d told her mom that she was going for a walk, the smokes shoved into her jeans, a lighter in her pocket.
Wear a jacket. And don’t go far. Dinner’s almost ready
. She wondered if her mother suspected that she went out for a cigarette. Anyway, what could she say? Every once in a while, Amber would find a cigarette butt pressed into the soft ground behind the pool house with her mother’s lipstick on it. A little secret
habit they both had. It would be just like her mother to pretend she didn’t know her daughter was smoking, letting herself off the hook of forbidding and then punishing. Her mother preferred the surface of their life to be calm and harmonious, even when the depths were roiling.

He’d been parked down a house or two, just sitting there, smoking, as well. As she got closer, she saw a pack of Lucky Strikes on the dash. No filters. The sight of that red and white soft pack, one cigarette poking out a neatly ripped opening, and he suddenly seemed different to her, less dorky. It was a cool car, too. Old but tough, one of those muscle cars.

“Just chillin’. Waitin’ on my boy.” She hated it when white, suburban guys tried to talk and act like gangbangers, taking on the too-cool lope and apathetic, half-lidded gaze. He immediately sank back to dork in her estimation.

“Who? Justin?”

He gave a slow nod. She didn’t know they hung out. In fact, she doubted it. She just couldn’t see Justin Hawk, football quarterback, pot dealer, senior class heartthrob, throwing this guy a backward glance. Unless.

“You got some? Or are you waiting on it?” Amber asked. It would be nice to get high, even with a dork. Marijuana was the only thing that had ever taken the edge off the constant buzz of anxiety she had lately. It made her calm, relaxed her, made her laugh.

He gave a slow shrug. “Back at my crib, yeah, if you want some.”
Crib. Come on
.

“I can’t,” she said, nodding toward her house. “My mom’s cooking.”

“You’ll be back in twenty. I’m just a mile up the road.”

Was that true? She didn’t know where he lived. She didn’t think he lived that close. Doctors, lawyers, hedge fund managers like her dad—those were her neighbors. She didn’t even know what his parents did. Hadn’t she heard his dad was in jail?

“Thanks,” she said, trying to be sweet about it. “But I have to get back.”

“Suit yourself.”

Just like that he turned her off, tuned her out, and stared blankly
ahead, as if she wasn’t even there. She felt like she should say something, apologize. She’d have gone inside with Justin, or taken a ride with Brad if she’d seen him waiting in that sweet new BMW his parents gave him. She’d even have taken off for a few minutes with Ricky Cooper, gothic freak that he was. At least he had a band.

She started toward home, feeling a little bad. She knew he was thinking that she was a bitch, stuck-up. Everyone thought that. But it wasn’t true.

“Hey, let me ask you something,” he called after her. She stopped and turned.

“I gotta get my girl something. What’s the best gift anyone ever bought you?”

She walked back over to the car, happy for an opportunity to end their encounter on a more positive note. He turned on the interior lights, and she moved toward the open passenger-side window. Closer, she saw that the upholstery was grimy, literally black along the edges and in the creases. Even from where she stood she could smell the reek of years—puke, cigarettes, fast food. She’d been about to lean into the car, but instead she found herself recoiling. Not at the filth, necessarily, but at the unpleasant unfamiliarity of it all—this boy with his ill-fitting clothes and bad skin, his old car, the ugly odor. She knew instinctively that she didn’t belong in his world and was glad for it.

“Who’s your girl?” she asked, moving back again.

“You wouldn’t know her.”

Figured. There probably wasn’t any girl; she knew that.

“The best gift I ever got was a pair of diamond earrings, from my parents.” She knew she sounded haughty, like the snob everyone thought she was.

“From a dude,” he said with a sneer. “From your boyfriend. What’s his name—Josh?”

The question made her a little angry, a little self-conscious. Everybody knew, didn’t they, that she and Josh had broken up? She’d caught him flirting with another girl on Facebook, leaving sweet, sexy notes on her message board. I love your pix. You’re such a cutie! Can I have your number? Josh swore it wasn’t him, was still calling every day.

Just thinking about it made heat come to her cheeks. Everyone had been talking about the breakup all week. She was certain that even her best friends were gossiping about it behind her back, consoling her, then laughing about it together. Amber knew Tiffany had her eyes on Josh, too. Was he making fun of her?

“A locket,” she lied. “A gold locket with his picture inside.” It was the kind of gift she would have liked from Josh, something grown-up, something with meaning. But he always gave her drugstore teddy bears and supermarket flowers, boxes of candy she wouldn’t dream of eating. Of course, she was always grateful.
Aw, Josh! You’re so sweet. Thank you soooo much
.

He nodded. “That’s cool,” he said. “I like that.”

He didn’t say anything else, just kept his eyes on her. She noticed the stubble on his jaw, the size of his hands. He reached for the cigarettes, and she moved away from the car and headed toward her house again. She heard the engine start, and she broke into a run for home. She couldn’t say for sure what scared her, but she didn’t stop running until she reached her front door. She pushed on the great knob and walked into the tall, bright foyer. She could smell her mother’s tomato sauce, heavy with garlic and basil. She locked the door and looked out the window. She watched him drive slowly by, then gun the engine and rumble off.

“Josh called. Again,” her mother said from the kitchen. Amber thought tonight she might call him back. She didn’t like not having a boyfriend. As she walked toward the kitchen, she wondered suddenly if Marshall Crosby had been there to see Justin at all.

7

R
insing the dishes, Maggie cut her finger on a chip in one of the dinner plates, and she bled into the soapy water. It looked like nothing, little more than a paper cut, but she couldn’t stop the bleeding. She put her finger in her mouth, tasting the salty sweetness of her blood, a little soap. The offending dish was a piece from the casual dining set they’d received at their wedding, a discontinued line of Royal Doulton stoneware. She wondered how it had chipped.

“You okay?” asked Jones, coming up behind her.

“Yeah,” she said, showing him her finger. He lifted it to his mouth and gave it a little kiss. Then he finished loading the dishes in the dishwasher as she pressed a dry napkin against the cut until the bleeding stopped. She wiped the countertop with a tattered old dishrag that needed replacing, passing it quickly over the appliances, too, just like she would have had to do in her mother’s home.
Keep on top of the surfaces and your house will always look clean
, her mother would say. Upstairs, Ricky’s music had stopped. He’d never come down for dinner, and Jones had told her to leave him alone, let him sulk it out—whatever it was.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and Charlene dumped him,” Jones said, starting the dishwasher.

“Jones.”

“Well?”

He poured them each a glass of red wine, the merlot they’d opened last night, and she followed him out to the deck, even though she thought it was too cold to sit outside. She didn’t like to miss their ritual if she could help it. Maybe it was the wine, or the semidark in which
they sat, but in recent years, this place after dinner was where he was most open, most relaxed. Later, the television would go on and he’d blank out. Maybe she’d sit beside him and watch whatever he had on—usually something on the Discovery or History Channel; he wasn’t into sports, didn’t like other television shows, or even movies for that matter. Or maybe she’d go to bed and read or maybe, if she had a lot of paperwork, back to her office.

She’d told him about Marshall over dinner, the scene in her office, how he’d appeared across the street. She’d mentioned Travis as well, his new business endeavor.

“As if anyone in this town would hire Travis Crosby,” said Jones. “You’d have to be the biggest moron alive to bring that guy into your business.”

Her husband had always disliked Travis, though she remembered that in high school they’d played on the lacrosse team together, been occasional friends. They’d both joined the police department in the same year, Travis staying on the street, Jones moving over to the small detective division and eventually rising to head detective, a post he’d held for ten years.