Lies of the Heart (48 page)

—Holocaust survivors, Nick said.—That’s a tough one.

Katie didn’t reply. She was watching Jerry in the visor mirror now, sitting in the backseat and staring at the back of Nick’s head. Lips mumbling.

—You know her? Jerry blurted out, and Nick adjusted the rearview mirror to look at Jerry.

—You okay, buddy? he asked.

—You buy her coffee. An accusation.

—I told you, Jer, she forgot her wallet. I was being nice.

Nick turned to Katie for help, saw her watching him, too.

—
Shit,
he muttered, and turned the mirror back.

No one mentioned Katie’s failure to get pregnant anymore. Only Jerry, who watched Nick tirelessly, who started asking his questions again.
Nick okay?
Jerry would say, as if he were responsible for taking care of Nick instead of the other way around.
He mad about no baby?
And other questions, ones that recurred too often now.
Nick knows dat lady? Why is he talk to her?

At The Inn, where they went for dinner with Katie’s parents one Friday night, Jerry put his fork down every time the young waitress approached the table and bantered with Nick. And the weekend after, when they went for doughboys at Iggy’s in Oakland Beach, Jerry was by Katie’s side, pointing to Nick by the jungle gym on the beach, chatting with a young mother who bounced her son on one hip.
Nick knows her?

Katie, who couldn’t keep her eyes off Nick either, who found herself compulsively tracking his movements, too, started asking questions back.

—Why? Did he say something to you?

It was almost a year and a half since the doctor had told them everything was okay physically—over two years since they’d begun trying. And while Nick still told her he hadn’t given up the idea of starting a family, there was a palpable presence in their bedroom at night, especially when they moved into each other’s arms. She was used to the quiet ways he moved around her in the dark, how he reached for her without words, but now it felt loaded down with something bigger. Disappointment? Blame? Or was Jerry onto something? Was there another woman in Nick’s life, or the possibility of another woman?

Sometimes she felt this presence outside their bedroom, too, when Nick caught her staring—in the seconds it took for him to turn away from her, that look on his face she couldn’t interpret.

—He come back, Jerry said one weekend, after they had dropped Nick off at T. F. Green Airport for a conference.—He come back in time for turkey.

—That’s right. He’ll be back next weekend, and then we’ll all have a big Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’.

They had watched his plane take off, Jerry waving with both hands.

—He go by himself, Jerry said.—He alone.

—Of course.

Katie steered the car onto Post Road, pictured Nick miles above them, jetting through the clouds.

Maybe the break would be good for them, she thought. Maybe it’s all they needed.

But then she pictured Nick, sitting in his seat by the window, watching the earth disappear below him. Wondering what he was thinking about, how he felt as the miles opened up between them. And then, before Katie could stop herself: She saw the woman dozing lightly in the seat beside him. And then Nick, pulling up the armrest between them, gently shaking the woman’s shoulder. His smiling offer. She saw the woman’s sleepy surprise, her answering smile. She saw this woman lean across the space separating them to rest her head against Nick’s chest.

She was standing at the counter, chopping broccoli for a stir-fry, respecting Nick’s moody silence. He sat at the kitchen table, drinking a Heineken, one arm draped over the back of his chair, legs stretched out long. She knew that Nick was frustrated with a new client at work, a boy named Joey who could barely communicate. For weeks now it was the same thing when he returned from work: eyeing her briefly before going upstairs to change clothes, sitting around listlessly, snapping at her. She hadn’t learned very much about Joey from Nick, didn’t prod him into talking about it either; instead, she roamed around the Warwick Center, waiting for the employees to fill her in.

Jerry helped him today, this new kid, Joey,
Billy said last week.
Knew Joey just needed to take a leak—oops, ’scuse me, lady. I mean, use the bathroom. But Nick is having trouble with him. All the grunting and whatnot,
Billy said, stroking his beard.

Katie turned away from the cutting board, watched Nick, who kept his eyes fixed on the green bottle as he took another swig.

—Stop it, Nick said.

—What?

—Just stop, he said, voice fat with disdain.

The look on his face frightened Katie.

—You’re not hungry?

—Forget it, he said, pushing away from the table. His eyes sliding up and down her body.

She watched him stalk off toward the living room, shoulders squared.

—
Stop,
he said, not bothering to turn back.

—What are you doing out here? Katie said.

Nick was sitting on the floor of the shed, a wrench in one hand, parts of their lawn mower scattered around him like puzzle pieces. It was mild for February, though not so mild that his T-shirt could be enough to keep him warm. Nick splayed his empty hand at the parts: isn’t it obvious?

—I thought you might be cold, she said, handing him his favorite sweatshirt.

—Thanks.

He dropped the sweatshirt by his side, picked up a small motor, turned it in his hand. There were grease marks on his fingers, a streak on his neck. Lately anything in their home that could be taken apart and examined ended up like this: in pieces, with Nick turning them around in his hand, a baffled look on his face.

—We’re going to my parents’, she said.—We were thinking of watching a movie after dinner. Trying to make it sound fun, inviting.

—Have a good time.

—Want to come along?

—Nope.

Dismissed, again. Ever since he had to call his mother, because Katie needed more film and bulbs for her flatbed—but it was before that, wasn’t it?

I want this documentary to be perfect,
she had said.
This is the one, I know it.

Fine,
he said, stopping her rush of words. The look on his face this time easy to interpret. Scorn.

Nick put the motor on the floor, wiped his hands on the sweatshirt.

These recent projects, Dana had told her, were simply Nick’s way of trying to fix things, probably the result of his inability to “fix” Joey, who could barely form basic words to communicate. The Warwick Center staff confirmed Dana’s suspicions.

Nick doesn’t seem fazed, but things aren’t going so great,
Veronica said last week.
Still.
And Jan Evers, who believed that anything could be fixed with love and harmony and a good long talk, had to agree.
Nothing Nick tries is working. Though you couldn’t tell by looking at him.

If they saw him now, eyeing the spare parts of their lawn mower, they might change their minds.

And if they saw the way he looked at other women all the time now, Katie thought, the whole picture might come into sharper focus. How his failure with Joey, and her failure to give him a child, has led to this—sitting in the shed in a T-shirt, too proud to admit that he was cold.

—Anything else? Nick said irritably, waiting for Katie to leave. She hadn’t realized she was staring.

She followed the streak of oil on his neck to the dark spot on the collar of his shirt.—No.

At dinner they listened to Katie’s father speculating about the new neighbor next door, a strange, quiet woman who barely came out of her house. How he was positive he saw her on
America’s Most Wanted
the week before.

—Robbed a bank in full daylight, he told them. He crooked an eyebrow at Katie and Dana.—Still at large.