Lies of the Heart (31 page)

—Okay, then, I’ll let him know you called.

But if Katie was honest with herself, she knew that it was more than this mild triumph that kept her silent. She could still see that look of vulnerability and fear on her husband’s face with Jerry close by, so alien and telling. Was it a clue, this fear of failing with Jerry? A hint about the things Nick kept hidden from her?

Katie spent her days visiting the Warwick Center, watching Jerry watch her, watching Nick watching them both, and—in her spare time—shopping for just the right pair of shoes.

On their way into the Pizza Hut, Jerry loped beside her, Nick striding ahead of them to the door. It was only the second time they’d picked him up from the group home on a Sunday afternoon, but Katie was ready for Jerry now, remembered not to swing her arms, or walk too quickly—impossible in these shoes anyway. A calculated pace so Jerry could find her hand and capture it for those brief moments before they stood beside Nick, and Jerry took his hand back.

Nick stood at the entrance, staring at the space between Katie and Jerry where their hands had been linked only seconds before.

—Age before beauty, he said to Jerry, smiling.

—Oh, Jerry said, stepping back to let Katie go in first.—Oh.

—I think he meant you first, Jer, Katie said. She tried to catch Nick’s eye, but he was watching Jerry’s nervous movements—hands slapping at his thighs, taking a giant step back, two small steps forward, another big step back.

—It’s okay, buddy, Nick said gently.

Jerry took one more step back, then suddenly shot through the door, head tucked down. He stopped short, eyes widening, and turned around to look at Katie. The dining room was teeming with loud, hungry families, with waitresses weaving through the tables, pizzas held high to avoid darting children. Jerry turned to the room again, lips mumbling.

—Why don’t you two get a table? Nick said to Jerry, the frustration clear on his face.—I’ll be right back.

Jerry waited until Nick disappeared up the hallway toward the bathroom, moved closer to Katie. He stared wide-eyed around the room, then looked down at her shoes.

—Pity, he said.

—Pretty?

Jerry nodded.

—Thank you, Jerry. She turned her foot to the side for a better look.

He stared, then looked up at her and smiled.—Day hurt you?

—No, not really.

—Oh, he said, looking disappointed. His lips moved in that familiar way now, like Patricia was coaching him.—Dem shoes old? His face suddenly hopeful.

—I’ve had them forever, she lied.

—Old, he said, nodding.—Good. You wear a lot. Jerry looked back at the shoes.

—You sweat in dere?

Katie hesitated for a moment.—A little bit.

—Dat bad?

—No, not at all.

—Oh. Okay. Day pinchy little? he asked, with that sudden, eager look again.

—Sometimes, yes.

His mouth opened, closed. Opened again, face pink.—May-be, Kay? May-be—I—

The hostess interrupted them, arms loaded with menus and a brittle smile on her face.—Two?

Jerry hid his blushing face in his arms.

At the table Jerry inched his chair closer to Katie’s, just in time for Nick’s reappearance. He pretended not to notice, but his nostrils flared in annoyance.

—Waitress come yet? he asked the space right above Katie’s head.

—Not yet, she said lightly, trying to catch his eye again.

Nick pulled out his chair, careful to keep his glance away from the thin sliver of space between Jerry and Katie.

A few minutes later, a flustered young waitress rushed to the table with apologies, water, and—after Nick’s obvious, appreciative gaze at her—a special smile meant just for him.

—How about a large deep-dish with extra cheese and banana peppers? Nick said, touching her arm.—But I can see how busy you are. No hurry at all.

The waitress smiled at Nick, headed back to the kitchen with a walk that was somewhere between a saunter and a strut.

—Peppas? Jerry asked Katie.

She glared at Nick.

—Haven’t you ever had them, Jerry? Nick asked.

Jerry turned to him. He watched Nick carefully, switched his eyes to the table, and shook his head.

—They’re delicious, he said, looking straight at Katie.—I think you’ll love them.

—Nick knows I don’t like them, Jerry, she said, staring back at Nick.—He knows I think they’re pretty gross.

Jerry looked from Katie to Nick and back again.—Gwoss?

—Disgusting, Katie said directly to Nick.—And childish.

—Oh,
please.

When the pizza came, Nick beamed at the waitress, then served Jerry, who stared down at his pizza as if it were trying to communicate with him.

—Peppas, he said.—
Oh.

Katie served herself, took her time flicking off the banana peppers one by one and sliding them to the side of her plate. Jerry watched her and followed suit, used two fingers to pick them off like bugs.

At first Nick scowled, but then he reached across the table, lifted one of the peppers off Jerry’s plate, and raised it to eye level. Turned it around slowly to inspect it.

—Hmmmm. Yes, this one will definitely work, he said, studying the pepper.

He caught Jerry staring.—Okay, buddy? Nick asked, and Jerry nodded shyly.

Nick curved the pepper against his teeth, pressed it down, tucked the ends into the corners of his mouth. Opened his lips for a wide, waxy yellow smile.

Jerry stared. Nick’s lips stretched, and then he munched the pepper, swallowed.

—Crunchy smiles, Nick said.—Dee-licious.

Jerry’s mouth dropped open.

—Yup, Nick said, reaching for another one. He fit it into his mouth, smiled big again and raised his hands.
Ta-da!

Jerry peeked at Katie. She shrugged, and he picked up a pepper with two fingers. Looked at Nick, who nodded his encouragement. Jerry lifted it up to eye level for careful inspection, but then his elbow dropped, landing squarely in the center of his piece of pizza. Like a sudden sting—Jerry flung the pepper onto the table, turned his arm sideways. Stared at his elbow in horror.

—
Uh-oh!

—Man, I hate when that happens, Nick said.

He looked at his piece of pizza, looked at Jerry. Plunked his elbow into the very center of his own slice. Smiled a waxy, banana-pepper smile.

Jerry’s lips moved as he looked at Nick’s mouth, his elbow firmly planted in the pizza. And finally, what Nick had waited for, had clearly hoped for, since his first meeting with Jerry. A slow grin spread over Jerry’s face.

Giggling, Jerry reached for another banana pepper—watching for Nick’s approval.

—Dis one good, Jerry said, holding it up for Nick. Nick nodded, and Jerry dropped his elbow back into the pizza. Giggled again.

—Wait a minute, buddy. Someone here is holding out on us, Nick said.

Katie and Nick held each other’s eyes for a moment.—Do I have to? she said, shaking her head with a smile.

The pepper in Jerry’s mouth was crooked, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

—’
Mon,
Kay, he said.—You, too!

Katie picked up a pepper from her own plate. Plopped her elbow into her pizza.

Jerry’s squealing laughter filled the restaurant.

E
ddie Rodriguez, a normally youthful and athletic man in his mid-fifties, looks as if he’s aged twenty years since May. His thick brown hair has new patches of gray on both sides, and his shoulders are rounded as he makes his way up the courtroom aisle with a studied are rounded as he makes his way up the courtroom aisle with a studied gait.

Eddie doesn’t look at the jurors as he answers Richard’s questions; instead, he explains his duties as the Warwick Center’s recreation director in a soft, faltering voice, his eyes glassy and focused on the floor. Judge Hwang asks him twice to speak up, and both times he stops his narration to cast a wary glance in her direction before beginning again.

“So you were away from the building when the shooting took place?” Richard asks him quietly.

“Yes,” Eddie says.

“And Detective Mason eventually brought you to the shed that day?”

Eddie nods, then mumbles another “Yes” after Judge Hwang asks him to speak up again.

“And how did the defendant know that the gun was in that shed, Mr. Rodriguez?”

“We had a game—we tried to sneak up on each other. I didn’t know he followed me outside. If I knew he saw it . . . if . . . I didn’t intend on leaving it there—”

“But you did leave it there.”

A guilty crimson steals over Eddie’s face. “I only planned to keep it there overnight. I just picked up the permit—”

“There had been some robberies in your neighborhood?”

Eddie nods, catches himself. “Yes.”

“So you purchased the gun for protection?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t want to take it home that night because . . . ”

Eddie steals a look at Donna. “I was picking up my sons at school that day,” he says quietly. “My wife wasn’t crazy about them being in the car with a gun.”

“So you were going to store it in the shed and take it home after work the next day?”

“Yes.”

“And then the next day the defendant broke into the shed and stole it.”

“Yes.”

“Did the defendant ask you why you had a gun, Mr. Rodriguez?”

Eddie turns to Donna again, eyes beckoning.

“Mr. Rodriguez?”

He clears his throat, a high-pitched cracking. “Yes.”

“Can you tell us what you told him?”

“I told him . . . I said that I bought the gun,” Eddie says, “because there were some bad men in my neighborhood.”

“And what did Jerry say about that?”

Eddie looks to Donna again for help. She shakes her head slightly at him, and Eddie’s hands come up to cover his face. Richard could prod him to answer again, but it’s the exact buildup he wants: the only sound that breaks in to the layered silence is Eddie’s stifled attempts to hold back his tears.

“He said . . . he said that bad men . . . belonged in hell,” Eddie says. “He said it’s okay if I—if I shoot them. Because God would want that.”

As Judge Hwang bangs the gavel for silence, Eddie lowers his head, the tears finally escaping. Only then does Katie realize she’s been holding her breath. She lets it out, sits straighter on the bench. This was all about Jerry’s history, his confusion about God and sin from when he was a child, she tells herself. Things taught to him by his mother, long before Katie ever met him.

Judge Hwang calls for a fifteen-minute recess, asks the jurors to step across the hall. Katie takes the stairs to the ground floor, pushes her way outside and into the frosty morning air. She sits on the stairs, pulls out her cell phone.

“Oceanside Realty, Elizabeth speaking. How may I help you?”

“Paul Minsky, please. This is Mrs. Burrelli, returning his call.”

It takes longer for Paul Minsky to answer this time.

“Hello, Katie,” Paul says in a falsely cheerful voice.

“Good morning. My mother said you called the other night?”

“Yes, though I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

“Oh, no.”

“I’m afraid that the owner simply isn’t willing to wait for your visit.”

“May I ask why?”

“Well, it’s simple, really. Mr. Barber is motivated to sell, and there’s a list of eager people with offers already on the table. There’s virtually no chance that the cottage will stay on the market another two weeks.”

“But you said Mr. Barber liked my husband. I thought he wanted—”

“Yes, I did. Listen, Mrs. Burrelli,” he says crisply, “something isn’t adding up here, to be honest. Nick—your husband—never mentioned he was married when he came for his visit last spring. He . . . well, let’s just say that Mr. Barber is an old southern gentleman. Male alliances and all that. He’s a little twitchy now.”

“Twitchy?”

“Yes. He’s eager to sell, and he doesn’t like entanglements.”

“If you could just send a property package, I could give it to Nick and see if he could meet with Mr. Barber right away and clear up any misunderstandings.”

“Again, there are already offers on the table.”

“Please,” Katie says, trying not to beg.

She listens to the Realtor’s sigh. “Okay. I suppose that can’t hurt. But please be aware that by the time you get the package it might already be off the market.”

“I understand.”

A long pause, then: “Could I ask you something? I don’t mean to pry.”

Of course you do.
“No, it’s okay.”

“Well, Nick told Mr. Barber that he needed to get away from New England. That it had become too claustrophobic?”

“Yes?”

“Well, we were under the impression . . . well, I don’t mean to be insensitive. But he didn’t have on a wedding ring, so when you called . . .” He lets the question hang in the air for a moment. “It’s just a little confusing, because Nick didn’t mention a wife.”