Not Even Past (5 page)

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You’re her dad.”

Leonard tilted his head left, then—as if it was attached to a piece of elastic—snapped it straight back up again. “She’s dead. And Jackson is a drunk, drugged-up moron.” Leonard’s eye flicked upward. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. How can you listen to him?”

“He wasn’t drunk when I talked to him.”

“Do you believe him?”

Martin glanced toward where Leonard gazed. The clock. Ten after three. “Do you believe me?”

Leonard turned back toward Martin. The red in his cheeks had faded. “I believe Jackson Donne came to you and told you lies. I believe he is trying to hurt you, and now you’re here to hurt us.”

Martin said, “That’s not it. There was something to this. It felt legitimate.”

“You have to go.”

Martin flinched. “We need to talk more about this. If Jackson isn’t lying—”

“He is.”

Martin shook his head. “If he isn’t lying, we need to find Jeanne before someone hurts her.”

“You can’t hurt a dead person.”

“I don’t know if—”

Leonard stood up so fast, it was as if he leapt. “You have to leave. You have to go now. Get out of the house. Thank you for coming, Bill. Get out.”

Martin didn’t move. Leonard started to walk to the door. “Come on now.”

Martin stood up. “I wish you’d let me talk.”

Before he could take another step, Leonard froze in front of him. Martin heard the front door swing open. He looked toward it expecting to see Mrs. Baker. He did. She stood there, looking just as old as her husband. She covered her mouth with her hand.

By her side was a young boy, no older than five.

“Grandpa!” the boy said, and ran toward Leonard.

P
ART OF
Bill Martin had always hoped she’d been lying. The day before she died, when she told him she was going back to Jackson Donne, Jeanne lied about being pregnant. It made things less painful, less horrible. He pushed it down, just like he pushed everything about Jeanne down. Hiding it away in the dark recesses of his memories.

But now, with the boy in front of him, one whose age lined up with what Jeanne said, it was impossible to deny.

The room tilted left and Martin dropped back on to the couch. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked up at the boy who was hugging Leonard Baker. Brown hair styled into a crewcut, a slight tan to his complexion. Spider-Man T-shirt and khaki shorts. A Thor bookbag. Smiling. Laughing.

Sarah Baker was staring at Martin, and he could feel it on his skin. He rubbed his face and stood up again. The floor seemed to have regained its equilibrium, so he had little trouble standing.

“Sarah,” he said, as a way of greeting her.

Sarah turned toward Leonard and opened her mouth.

Leonard nodded. “I’m taking care of it. Why don’t you and William get a snack?”

“I think I’m going to have cookies,” William said. He ran out of sight. Martin remembered the kitchen being in the direction William ran.

“Wash your hands,” Sarah called and stalked off after him.

“You still need to leave,” Leonard said when she was gone.

Martin’s hands were trembling hard, and squeezing them into fists didn’t stop it. He thought about jamming them in his pockets, but didn’t want to look like a three-year-old. They remained at his sides, shaking.

“You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t. I made a promise.” Leonard turned toward the front door again. He pulled it open. “Leave us alone.”

“William is hers. I know he is. Before she—” He paused, not sure how to say it. “Died. Before she died, she told me she was pregnant.”

“Why are you chasing this?”

Martin curled and then stretched his toes inside his shoes. He needed to be doing something.

“Jackson Donne came to me and said she was in trouble.”

“Please go.” Leonard’s cheeks weren’t red anymore. They were the opposite. Pale, as if all the blood had drained from his body and pooled in his feet.

“How do you have a child in this house if she’s dead?”

“It’s the neighbor’s kid.” The words were ice chips.

“He called you Grandpa.”

Leonard closed his eyes. Opened his mouth, closed it. Opened his eyes again. They were glistening.

“Please go. You can’t—.”

“She’s alive.”

“Go, Bill.” His voice cracked.

“I can help.”

Leonard shook his head. “No. No, you can’t.”

Martin waited a beat, then walked toward the front door, but turned left toward the kitchen. The hallway used to be barren of memories. Now, the Bakers had lined it with framed pictures. Martin’s eye registered them as he passed. William on a slide at a park. William eating cake. A picture of Jeanne graduating high school.

William and Sarah sat at the kitchen table eating sugar cookies. Sarah was flipping through a magazine, but not really reading it. Her eyes were on William. He was looking at a comic book.

They both looked up at Martin in the doorway. Martin felt Leonard’s hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle grasp, with a quick squeeze. Like he was saying
please
.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Martin said.

Sarah looked back at William.

“Hi, William,” Martin said.

“Hi.”

“What are you reading?”

“Spider-Man.”

Martin nodded. “He’s the best.”

William held up the book so Martin could see Spidey flipping through a hail of bullets. A thug had been firing a machine gun at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

William nodded.

“Where’s your mom?”

Sarah made a noise. Her hand flashed up and covered her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in.

“She’s working,” William said.

“Where does she work?”

William looked at Sarah, then up at Leonard. If he read something on their faces, he didn’t show it. He just went back to looking at the comic book.

“Far away,” he whispered.

“Do you ever see her?”

William shook his head. “Not for a while.”

Martin nodded. “Don’t worry. Spider-Man always gets the bad guy.”

“I know,” William said. “And sometimes he has help.”

Martin paused. “You mean like Doctor Octopus?”

“No. Doctor Octopus is a bad guy. They don’t work together. Doc Ock would hurt Spider-Man. I mean the Avengers.”

A thought crossed Martin’s mind. He reached out and shook Will’s hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

William nodded.

Martin turned, trying to ignore the tears in Sarah’s eyes. Leonard stared at him as he walked by. He felt like he was passing through needles. It took until he got to the front door until it hit him.

He’d been alone for so long, years. Martin didn’t go out with people. Didn’t talk to anyone.

No one ever had long conversations with him. And when someone did need his attention, it was either by calling him “Bill” or “Martin.”

No one had used his full first name in years. Maybe Jeanne was the last one. She liked the formality of it. It wasn’t a boy’s name. It wasn’t a baseball player’s name.

The realization froze him cold at the doorway.

He hadn’t been called William in six years.

Bill Martin turned on his heel and faced Leonard.

“Jesus Christ,” Martin said. “He’s named after me.”

K
ATE
E
LLISON
stared at her fiancé. He sat across from her, not making eye contact, jamming invitations into envelopes. She’d already asked him once to be gentle. He did for about three invitations, and then the jamming started again.

“Do you want a beer?” She really didn’t want to nag or ask what was wrong. He’d get to it. Jackson always got to it.

Eventually.

Jackson shook his head. He jammed another invitation and it bent at the corner, like a dog-eared page in a book. A tremor went through her, a short bolt of electricity.

“Stop it,” she said, hoping the words came out evenly.

Jackson froze, except his eyes, which finally met hers. He held them for an instant, then his shoulders slumped and he looked down. After placing the envelope on the table, he sat back on the couch.

“What the hell, Jackson?” Even just went out the window.

“Kate, I—”

“No, seriously. You’ve been acting weird all day.”

She searched her memory for another time he’d acted like this, sullen and quiet. A petulant child. All she wanted was a moment to compare this to, something to latch on to and help her understand. This wasn’t like him at all.

Nothing came back to her.

Their fights were always full of screaming, but open and honest. They always knew where the other stood. The first night Jackson promised to come over but didn’t—their first fight, actually—she knew he was right for her. There were no games. His phone had died, and without the clock on it, he lost track of time bullshitting with Artie. She argued he could have checked another cell phone, or—for pete’s sake—looked at a clock. The Olde Towne Tavern was littered with them.

Their points were clear, even if they shouted them at each other. She always understood what he meant Hopefully, Jackson understood her too.

But now, he was obtuse.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s … it’s just exams.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve been with you for at least three exam sessions. You’ve never been like this.”

Jackson looked at the table, strewn with envelopes, stamps, and address labels.

“Jeanne Baker? Remember?”

The name didn’t come up often, but it did come up. Kate knew who Jeanne was. The hair on her arms stood.

“I think she’s alive.” He slumped deeper into the couch.

The muscles between her shoulder blades stiffened.

“That’s not possible,” she said. “You told me—you …”

Donne blinked. He put the envelope he’d been stuffing on to the cushion next to him.

“You were gone all day,” she said. “You went to Newark, you were … You promised lunch.”

Kate got up, and the muscles in her back grew tighter, turning into sailor’s knots. She went into the kitchen and surveyed Jackson’s fridge. When she’d first met him it was a mess of leftover Chinese food or pizza and Molson. At least she’d gotten him to upgrade his beer choices. Better beer, but less of it. He thought the prices of a six pack were ridiculous.

She grabbed two Troegs Hopbacks, popped the caps and poured each into its own pint glass. That was the other thing she’d taught him: Use a glass to drink your beer. It tastes better. Might actually enjoy it.

And he did.

Small things. He started to drink less and take his time when he did. They would watch movies together, and he’d only drink three beers. Friday night alternated. Either they’d do takeout, Jackson’s choice. Or they’d go out, Kate’s choice.

Compromise.

She brought the glass to him and put it on the end table—away from the envelopes. After she sat, she took down half the pint in one gulp. Jackson didn’t touch his glass.

The first time he told her about his dead fiancée, she held him close. He told Kate how Jeanne called to see what they needed at the supermarket while he was on a case. Something about her own father needing help. Suicide watch, maybe? She couldn’t quite remember. After he finished talking, Kate and Jackson sat there for a long time. They didn’t make love. They didn’t go to sleep. They just sat, until he gave her a small kiss on the cheek.

Today, he told her about the email. About going to the FBI and how they didn’t believe him. How he went to the bar and drank, when she asked him to call her if he did that. After he finished talking, he rested his elbows on his thighs and let his head hang between his knees.

“We should do something,” she said.

“No.”

“Come on, someone can help you. We can get to the bottom of this.”

Donne shook his head. “I don’t want to involve you.” He paused. “But I didn’t want to lie to you either.”

“Senator Stern. He knew Jeanne. Remember? The night we met. I’ll get my father to put us in touch with him.”

“No.”

The buzzer to his apartment rang, and Kate jumped in her seat. The electricity that had been buzzing through her veins sent another jolt. She looked at Jackson, who bounced up out of his seat, as if the buzzer was as starter gun. He rushed to the intercom.