No Time for Goodbye (12 page)

16

“Men are weak
—
not you, of course—and they let you down, but just as often it’s the women who’ll really betray you,” she said.

“I know. You’ve said this before,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Getting sarcastic. He didn’t like it when she got like that. “Am I boring you, sweetheart?”

“No, it’s okay. Go ahead. You were saying. Women will betray you, too. I was listening.”

“That’s right. Like that Tess.”

“Yeah, her.”

“She stole from me.”

“Well…”
Technically speaking,
he was thinking, then decided it wasn’t worth getting into a debate.

“That’s basically what she did,” she said. “That money was mine. She had no business hanging on to it herself.”

“It’s not like she spent it on herself. She did use it to—”

“Enough! It makes me crazy, the more I think about it. And I don’t appreciate you defending her.”

“I’m not defending her,” he said.

“She should have found a way to tell me and make things right.”

And how would she have done that, he wondered. But he said nothing.

“Are you there?” she said.

“I’m still here.”

“Was there something you wanted to say?”

“Nothing. Just…well, that would have been a bit tricky, don’t you think?”

“I can’t talk to you sometimes,” she said. “Call me tomorrow. If I need some intelligent conversation in the meantime, I’ll talk to the mirror.”

17

After Abagnall left
, I called Tess from my cell to give her a heads-up.

“I’ll help him any way I can,” Tess said. “I think Cynthia’s doing the right thing, having someone private look into this. If she’s willing to take this kind of step, she’s probably ready for me to tell her what I know.”

“We’ll all get together again soon.”

“When the phone rang, I was actually thinking about calling you,” Tess said. “But I didn’t want to call you at the house, it would seem odd, my asking for you if Cynthia answered, and I don’t think I have your cell phone number around here anywhere.”

“What is it, Tess?”

She took a breath. “Oh, Terry, I went for another test.”

I felt my legs going weak. “What did they say?” She’d told me earlier that she might have a few months left. I wondered if that timetable had been shortened.

“I’m going to be okay,” she said. “They said the other tests, they were fairly conclusive, but they turned out to be wrong. This last one, it was definite.” She paused. “Terry, I’m not dying.”

“Oh my God, Tess, that’s such wonderful news. They’re sure?”

“They’re sure.”

“That’s so wonderful.”

“Yeah, if I were the kind of person who ever prayed, I’d have to say my prayers were answered. But Terry. Tell me you didn’t tell Cynthia.”

“I never told her,” I said.

When I went inside, Cynthia spotted a tear running down my cheek. I thought I’d wiped my cheeks dry, but evidently I’d missed one. She reached up and brushed it away with her index finger.

“Terry,” she said, “what? What’s happened?”

I threw my arms around her. “I’m so happy,” I said. “I’m just so happy.”

She must have thought I was losing my mind. No one was ever this happy around here.

Cynthia was more at ease than I had seen her for some time the next couple of days. With Denton Abagnall on the case, a sense of calm washed over her. I was afraid she’d be calling his cell every couple of hours, like with the
Deadline
producers, wanting to know what progress, if any, he was making. But she did not. Sitting at the kitchen table, just before we headed up for bed, she asked me whether I thought he’d learn anything, so his progress was very much on her mind, but she was willing to let him do his job without being hounded.

After Grace was home from school the following day, Cynthia suggested they go over to the public tennis courts behind the library, and she said sure. I’m no better at tennis now than I was in college, so I rarely, if ever, pick up a racket, but I still enjoy watching the girls play, particularly to marvel at Cynthia’s mean backhand. So I tagged along, bringing some papers to mark, glancing up every few seconds to watch my wife and daughter run and laugh and make fun of each other. Of course, Cynthia didn’t use her backhand to pummel Grace, but was always offering her friendly tips on how to perfect her own. Grace wasn’t bad, but after half an hour on the court, I could see her tiring, and I was guessing she’d rather be home reading Carl Sagan, like all the other eight-year-old girls.

When they were done, I suggested grabbing some dinner on the way home.

“Are you sure?” Cynthia asked. “What with…our other expense of the moment?”

“I don’t care,” I said.

Cynthia gave me a devilish smile. “What is it with you? Ever since yesterday, you’re the most cheerful little boy in town.”

How could I tell her? How could I let her know how thrilled I was by Tess’s good news when she’d never been privy to the bad? She’d be happy that Tess was okay, but hurt that she’d been kept out of the loop.

“I just feel…optimistic,” I said.

“That Mr. Abagnall is going to find out something?”

“Not necessarily. I just feel as though we’ve turned a corner, that you—that we—have gone through some stressful times of late, and that we’re coming out of them.”

“Then I think I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner,” she said.

I returned her playful smile. “I think you should.”

“I’m going to have a milkshake,” Grace said. “With a cherry.”

When we got home from dinner, Grace vanished to watch something on the Discovery Channel about what Saturn’s rings are really made of, and Cynthia and I plunked ourselves down at the kitchen table. I was writing down numbers on a scratch pad, adding them up, doing them another way. This was where we always sat when faced with weighty financial decisions. Could we afford that second car? Would a trip to Disney World break the bank?

“I’m thinking,” I said, looking at the numbers, “that we could probably afford Mr. Abagnall for two weeks instead of just one. I don’t think it would put us in the poorhouse, you know?”

Cynthia put her hand over the one I was writing with. “I love you, you know.”

In the other room, someone on the TV said “Uranus” and Grace giggled.

“Did I ever tell you the time,” Cynthia asked, “when I ruined my mother’s James Taylor cassette?”

“No.”

“I must have been eleven or twelve, and Mom had lots of music—she loved James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel and Neil Young and lots of others, but most of all she liked James Taylor. She said he could make her happy, and he could make her sad. One day, Mom made me mad about something, there was something I wanted to wear to school that was in the dirty clothes pile and I mouthed off because she hadn’t done her job.”

“That must have gone over well.”

“No kidding. She said if she wasn’t cleaning my clothes to my satisfaction, I knew where the washing machine was. So I popped open the cassette player she had in the kitchen, grabbed whatever tape was in there, and threw it on the floor. It busted open and the tape spilled out and the thing was ruined.”

I listened.

“I froze, I couldn’t even believe I’d done it, and I thought she’d kill me. But instead, she stopped what she was doing, went over, picked up the tape, calm as could be, had a look at which one it was, and said, ‘James Taylor. This is the one with “Your Smiling Face” on it. That’s my favorite. You know why I like that one?’ she asks me. ‘Because it starts off how every time I see your face, I have to smile myself, because I love you.’ Anyway, something like that. And she said, ‘That’s my favorite because every time I hear it, it makes me think of you, and how much I love you. And right about now, you need me to hear that song more than ever.’”

Cynthia’s eyes were wet.

“So after school, I took the bus over to the Post Mall and I found the cassette.
JT,
it was called. I bought it and brought it home, and I gave it to her. And she got all the cellophane wrapping off it and put the cassette into her player and asked me if I wanted to hear her favorite song.”

A single tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto the kitchen table. “I love that song,” Cynthia said. “And I miss her so much.”

Later, she phoned Tess. No special reason, just to talk. Afterward, she came up to the extra bedroom with the sewing machine and the computer, where I was typing a couple of notes to students on my old Royal, and her red eyes suggested that she had been crying again.

Tess, she told me, had thought she was very ill, terminal even, but it had turned out to be okay. “She said she didn’t want to tell me, that she thought I had enough on my plate that she didn’t want to
burden
me with it. That’s what she said. ‘Burden.’ Can you imagine?”

“That’s so crazy,” I said.

“And then she finds out she’s actually okay, and felt she could tell me everything, but I just wish she’d told me when she knew, you know? Because she’s always been there for me, and no matter what I’m going through, she’s always…” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. Finally, she said, “I can’t imagine losing her.”

“I know. Neither can I.”

“When you were so happy, that didn’t have anything…”

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

I probably could have told her the truth. I could have afforded to be honest at that moment, but chose not to.

“Oh shit,” she said. “She asked me to tell you to call her. She probably wants to tell you this herself. Don’t tell her I already told you, okay? Please? I just couldn’t keep it to myself, you know?”

“Sure,” I said.

I went downstairs and dialed Tess.

“I told her,” Tess said.

“I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

“He was here.”

“Hmm?”

“The detective. That Mr. Abagnall. He’s a very nice man.”

“Yes.”

“His wife called while he was here. To tell him what she was making him for dinner.”

“What was it?” I had to know.

“Uh, some sort of roast, I think. A roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Anyway, I told him everything. About the money, the letter. I gave all of it to him. He was very interested.”

I nodded. “I would think so.”

“Do you think they can still get fingerprints off those envelopes after all these years?”

“I don’t know, Tess. It’s been so long, and you’ve handled them quite a few times. I’m no expert. But I think that was the best thing to do, giving him everything. If you think of anything else, you should give him a call.”

“That’s what he asked me to do. He gave me his card. I’m looking at it right now, it’s pinned to my board here by the phone, right next to that picture of Grace with Goofy. I don’t know which one looks goofier.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Give Cynthia a hug for me,” she said.

“I will. I love you, Tess,” I said, and hung up.

“She told you?” Cynthia asked me when I got up to our bedroom.

“She told me.”

Cynthia, now in her nightshirt, lay on the bed, on top of the covers. “I’d been thinking, all evening, that I would like to make mad, passionate love to you tonight, but I’m so dead tired, I’m not sure I could perform to any reasonable standard.”

“I’m not particular,” I said.

“So how about a rain check?”

“Sure. Maybe what we should do is, get Tess to take Grace for a weekend, we could drive up to Mystic. Get a bed-and-breakfast.”

Cynthia agreed. “Maybe I’d sleep better up there, too,” she said. “My dreams have been…kind of unsettling lately.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like I told Dr. Kinzler. I hear them talking. They’re talking to me, I think, or I’m talking to them, or we’re all talking with one another, but it’s like I’m with them but not with them, and I can almost reach out and touch them. But when I do, it’s like they’re smoke. They just blow away.”

I leaned over, kissed her forehead. “Have you said goodnight to Grace?”

“While you were talking to Tess.”

“You try to get some sleep. I’ll say goodnight to her.”

As usual, Grace’s room was in total darkness so as to give her a better view of the stars through her telescope. “Are we safe tonight?” I asked as I slipped in, closing the door to the hall behind me to keep the light out.

“Looks like it,” Grace said.

“That’s good.”

“You wanna see?”

Grace was able to stand and see through her telescope, but I didn’t want to have to bend over, so I grabbed the Ikea computer chair from her desk and sat in front of it. I squinted into the end, saw nothing but blackness with a few pinpricks of light. “Okay, what am I looking at?”

“Stars,” Grace said.

I turned and looked at her, grinning impishly in the dim light. “Thank you, Carl Sagan,” I said. I got my eye back in position, went to adjust the scope a bit, and it slipped partway off its stand.

“Whoa!” I said. Some of the tape Grace had used to secure the telescope had worked free.

“I told you,” she said. “It’s kind of a crappy stand.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, and looked back into the scope, but the view had shifted and what I was looking at now was a hugely magnified circle of the sidewalk out front of our house.

And a man, watching it.

His face, blurry and indistinct, filled the lens. I abandoned the telescope, got out of the chair and went to the window. “Who the hell is that?” I said, more to myself than Grace.

“Who?” she said.

She got to the window in time to see the man run away. “Who’s that, Daddy?” she asked.