Stash (8 page)

When they reached the van, Jude said, “Do you have enough money?”

“I still have what you gave me—how could I have spent anything yet? Plus my credit card.”

“Here.” Jude reached into his pocket and handed Dana three one-hundred-dollar bills he’d been planning to give her. “Just some extra spending money.”

She put the bills in her pocket. “Parents’ weekend is only three weeks away. I’ll see you then.”

“Or before,” Jude added. “I’m thinking of coming to Plattsburgh next weekend for the meet. That’s your first one, right?”

“If my knee is okay.”

“Let me know what the trainer says.”

“I have to go. Jen’s waiting.”

“Don’t worry about anything, you’ll be fine.”

“I think you’re the one that’s worried.”

“You’ll meet new friends, you’ll fit in.”

“I’m not as lame as you think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re lame, I think you’re an angel.”

“Maybe a little nervous,” Dana admitted.

“That’s okay, it’s a healthy sign, like before one of your races. A few nerves help keep you on your game.” He hugged and held her for a long minute and she waited for him to let her go. Then, “Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” He opened the van and got the card out of the door pocket. He also picked up his camera from the center console.

“I couldn’t find the perfect one so I got you this.” He handed her the envelope.

That morning, while Dana had gone out for her run, Jude went to the drugstore to pick out a card for his daughter. He had scanned the racks. There were good-bye cards but their messages were final, suggesting the recipient was moving away forever. There were generic “congratulations on your new adventure” cards. Good-luck cards. Have a great trip cards. Finally he found a “we’ll miss you” card. He wasn’t sure what to do about the “We” part of it, finally deciding to make a joke and sign it “Your Dad and Daddy.”

She looked at the envelope. “Do you want me to open it now?”

“No, no—take it with you. But hold still, I want your picture.”

She cocked her head and smiled as if she were used to cameramen following her around. It was strange she could be so self-conscious about the flaw in her face yet so photogenic. He
snapped the photo and viewed it in the camera’s window, showing it to her.

She shrugged.

He hugged her again and stroked her hair, which still maintained a little girl’s feathery texture. He’d stroked that hair ten thousand times or more over these years and he wanted to stand here and stroke it ten thousand more. Then she was walking back and he was sitting behind the wheel of the van watching until she disappeared into the dorm. In whatever ways Jude had fallen short as a father, the results were tallied and already in, and not much could be done about it now. An assault of loneliness and regret struck him on all sides and he thought he might cry but didn’t, and twenty minutes later he was drumming his steering wheel to Neil Young’s “Rockin’ in the Free World,” driving fast, his attention turned to the next order of business.

Gwen woke in the morning when the kids climbed on the bed. Nate tunneled under the blankets to get next to her, Nora wedged between her and Brian. Gwen hummed something and rolled over trying to find sleep again.

Brian took them downstairs. A few minutes later he came back with a cup of coffee and the newspaper and this time she sat up.

“How do you feel?”

Her eyebrow tugged along the stitch line but the rest of her face felt fine, not even tender to the touch.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“You’re a knockout.”

“You mean I look like I got knocked out?”

He smiled.

“You don’t know how sick I was when you called me from the hospital,” Brian said. “I thought you were dying, I thought … how much I love and need you, how you and the kids are everything to me.”

“I feel the same way.” Gwen wished she could go back to yesterday, a rushed morning with Brian getting ready for work and the kids for camp and Gwen finishing her list of errands, all of them excited about their long weekend getaway. Brian deserved it, even if she didn’t.

“Daddy, the pan is smoking,” Nora called up the stairs.

Brian kissed her and went back down to finish making breakfast for the kids. Gwen turned to the newspaper. A story about a murder-suicide rampage at an HMO in White Plains dominated the front section—the gun work performed by an irate employee passed over for a promotion that was given to an attractive woman, who was suspected by coworkers of having a “personal relationship” with the boss. Now the attractive woman, the boss, and the disgruntled employee all were dead.

The local section was filled with fun ideas to make the most of what’s left of summer, plus safety tips for grilling and two potato salad recipes. She scanned the paper slowly, drinking her coffee, afraid to see a story about the accident. She had gotten through to the last page when she saw a small headline in the far right column, near the bottom of the page, “Niskayuna Man Dies in Accident.”

Gwen held her breath and tried to swallow, but a fist of pain clogged her throat and chest: someone had been killed in the accident. An eighty-two-year-old man was dead after colliding with her car. If she’d been a fraction of a second quicker to react—able to swerve faster or brake or speed up—could she have avoided the collision altogether? Was there something she could have done? She had been looking ahead, steering through the curve, and then the car was right there, across the line, in her face.

And now a man was dead. James Anderson. Where had he been going? Did he leave behind a wife? Were there grandchildren who had lost their grandpa?

She hunched over the paper and flipped to the obits section. His was the first name listed.

She looked up and Nora was at the bedroom door.

“I didn’t hear you come up, sweetie. Did you have breakfast?”

“What are you reading, Mommy?”

“The newspaper.”

“What about?”

“A man who died.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then how come you’re crying?”

“Well, it’s sad when someone dies.”

“How did he die?”

“He was very old.”

“Can I see?”

Gwen pointed to the obituary in the paper. Nora read out loud, holding the page a few inches in front of her face. “What does inter … inter … What’s that word?”

“Interment. It means burial. He’s going to be buried in a cemetery.”

Nora got under the blankets with Gwen. “I’ll bet you had pancakes. You smell like maple syrup.”

“Yep. Are we going up to the lake today?”

“Would you like to?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. We all do. I have a few things to take care of first this morning, and maybe we can leave this afternoon.”

“Daddy said we might not be able to go.”

“He did? Daddy and I will talk about it.”

Nora peered at Gwen’s stitches.

“Do those hurt, Mommy?”

“No, not really. It hurt a little bit when I got them but not now.”

“Did it feel like getting a shot?”

“It was just little pricks.”

“Can I touch them?”

“Sure, if you’re careful. Just use one finger.”

Nora slowly moved her index finger to Gwen’s eyebrow and hovered there, trembling a little, then barely touched the thread of the stitches. Her hesitant gesture was heartbreaking. Gwen’s eyes filled with tears again.

“Did that hurt?” Nora asked, pulling her finger away.

“No, that was fine,” Gwen said, holding Nora’s hand in hers.

They were quiet for a minute, then Nora asked, “Can we go in Daddy’s car?”

“I think we have to, until the van gets fixed.”

“It doesn’t have any cup holders in the back.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Gwen reassured her.

Nora jumped up from the bed and ran downstairs, calling, “Nate, Nate, we’re going—Mommy said we’re going!”

Wait, I didn’t say that. Not for sure. A man has died
.

Brian came upstairs.

“I was just getting up,” Gwen said, rising out of bed. “Brian, did you know about James Anderson, the other driver?”

“I heard it from Roger, last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“By the time I got a chance you were asleep.”

Gwen shook her head. “It’s so sad. I feel sick over it.”

“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Brian reassured her. “Roger told me the investigators already determined the other driver crossed the line.” He put his arms around her. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

“How do I know that? What if there was?”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. He held her tighter.

She let go of Brian. “I feel terrible,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower.” The spray of water would drown her thoughts, the soap would smell sweet.

“You told them we were going up to the lake?” he asked.

“I said we’d talk about it. But I don’t see why we can’t go this afternoon after court. I could really use it now.”

Brian hesitated, then came out with it. “I know this is bad timing, but I have to go into work.”

“What?” She said it too forcefully and had to back off. “I thought you had cleared this time off months ago.”

“I had, but circumstances changed yesterday—I never finished the meeting and wasn’t there to address some issues that came up.”

“Can’t you deal with it when you get back?” It couldn’t hurt to ask, but if he could deal with it later, Gwen knew he would wait. Brian wouldn’t go into work unless he really had to, although
Gwen didn’t know much more than that. Brian didn’t talk about the details of work—he claimed to be immersed in them all day long and when he got home he’d had enough, wanted to leave it behind. So Gwen got only the big picture: he disappeared from home for ten hours a day or more or for a week of travel and was paid well for it. He held the title of director. He was involved with a complicated new effort to get his company’s anxiety drug Zuprone approved for weight loss. About the same level of detail he knew about her day-to-day life.

“If I had stayed at the meeting, I probably could have juggled and gotten by—but I wasn’t there and others decided we needed a more detailed look at some of our data. And I’m the one who has to look at it.”

“Can you bring your computer and carve out a few hours?”

“My laptop’s at work, and some reports. I need to go in. I’ll go right after court and be back later in the afternoon. Maybe we can still go tonight. Either way, we have to get a loaner car for you while the van’s being repaired.”

Gwen sighed. There was nothing she could do about it, and she was the reason he’d left the meeting in the first place.

She said, “I haven’t heard the phone. Roger hasn’t called about postponing the arraignment?”

“It’s only nine o’clock.”

“I should call him. Maybe it’s better if I just go to court this morning and get it over with. Who knows what day it might be next week.”

“Let’s have Roger figure that out; he’ll work in our best interest. I’m sure as soon as he knows anything he’ll call,” Brian said.

The phone rang just before ten, setting off war cries of
I’ll get it I’ll get it
from the kids and a race to the phone that typically ended up with one of them trampling the other and hell erupting before
the third ring. Today the commotion was just background noise that Gwen let Brian deal with. She had the cordless receiver next to her and answered Roger’s call to find out the court appearance had indeed been moved to next week, Tuesday at 7:00
P.M
.

“But that could change, too,” Roger added, and now hesitated.

“What is it?” Gwen asked.

“When I was talking to Bob Donovan this morning I concluded this Detective Keller has his ear a bit. You remember him? He was at the hospital.”

“The one with the warrant.”

Roger explained that the Morrissey PD had been responding to an increased number of incidents involving drugs recently—traffic accidents and stops, but also residential break-ins and situations at both the high school and middle school. There was mounting pressure to clean it up before Morrissey started getting a reputation the way some colleges did. As part of the crackdown, any arrest involving drugs of any kind, in any quantity, was carefully investigated.

“They’re talking to the DA,” Roger said.

“The district attorney? You said this whole thing would just go away quickly.” Gwen felt a pinch in her abdomen.

“That remains the most likely scenario,” Roger said. “When they see the evidence in this situation it will go back to Donovan and we’ll resolve it. But still, they’re looking at every case.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. There has to be a little posturing and showmanship so everyone covers their asses and shows they’re doing the right thing to combat the drug problem. And you know, there has been an increase in drugs in the schools—there is a problem.”

“If that guy hadn’t hit me …” Gwen had felt sadness for the old fellow earlier, and guilty for her own involvement. Now anger
rose in her. It’s true: if the old guy hadn’t struck her car, this never would have happened. And then, just as before, remorse and regret filled her. She replayed the accident again, trying to conjure a different outcome. There wasn’t one.