The Burgess Boys (24 page)

Jim called out, “Sweetheart, I’ll be good.” To Bob, he said quietly, “
Romeo and Juliet
? Christ. That’s a little bit of torture.”

Bob lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. “Considering what our president’s doing in offshore prisons these days, I’m not sure going to the Metropolitan Opera with your wife can be called torture. But things are relative. I know that.” He regretted this, and braced for Jim’s response.

But Jim stood up and said, “You’re right. I mean, you really are right. Stupid country. Stupid state. See you later. Thanks for helping her look for the ring.”

As he walked home from his brother’s house, stepping around dogs sniffing the sidewalk while their owners tugged listlessly on leashes, Bob’s mind sank deeper and deeper, remembering his days as a criminal lawyer. He used to imagine himself handing to the jury a bubble of doubt, an embolism, to obstruct the steadiness of logic flowing from the facts of a case. And now a bubble of doubt was pulsing through him, doubt that had been growing since Jim handed it to him in Shirley Falls, so that even now, with the report of Zachary’s newest danger, Bob moved past people on the sidewalk and thought only of his former wife. On the car ride back to New York, Bob had not been assuaged by Jim’s dismissiveness, but he had not pressed him further to explain. He thought that to call Pam a parasite was absurd. To say she was needy and managed to get what she needed was not absurd. But if she had come
on
to Jim, and made “poor choices in her confessional judgment” when talking to him, then what in the world would that mean?

Bob stepped around a dog, the owner tugged the dog away. Terrifying, how the ending of his marriage had dismantled him. The silence—where there had been for so long the sound of Pam’s voice, her chatter, her laughter, her sharp opinions, her sudden bursting forth of tears—the absence of all that, the silence of no showers running, no bureau drawers opening and shutting, even the silence of Bob’s own voice, for he did not speak when he came home, did not recount to anyone his day—the silence almost killed him. But the actual ending remained a blur, and whatever details seeped through Bob’s mind turned away from quickly. It was a bad thing, the ending of a marriage. It was bad, no matter how it happened. (Poor Adriana from downstairs, wherever she might be.)

He thought how Sarah, just last year, had said, “Nobody leaves a long marriage without a third party being involved. She was cheating on you, Bob,” and Bob had said quietly that hadn’t been the case. (And if it was the case, what did it matter now?) But Jim’s hint about Pam’s behavior had disrupted Bob. He had not gone to Pam’s Christmas party this year, saying he was busy, and went instead to the Ninth Street Bar and Grille. In the past he would bring her boys Christmas presents, and he thought he should still do that, but he didn’t. He also thought he was being ridiculous, and conjured up the image of his long ago and ever lovely therapist Elaine: What is it that’s bothering you most about this, Bob? The fact that she’s not who I thought she was. And who is it you think she is?

He didn’t know.

He turned and stepped into the Ninth Street Bar and Grille, where some of the regulars were already seated on their bar stools. The reddish-haired man nodded to him, just as Bob’s cell phone rang. “Susie,” Bob said. “Hold on.” He ordered a whiskey straight. Then he spoke into the phone again. “I know it’s hard. I know. I’ll be there for the hearing. Yes, let Charlie rehearse with him, that’s how it’s done. No, that won’t be lying. It’s going to be all right.” He listened, closed his eyes. He repeated, “I know, Susie. It’s going to be all right.”

That Helen found Dorothy to be judgmental and wearisome did not alter the discomfort Helen felt on their way to Lincoln Center as she realized that Dorothy had hardly phoned since their trip to St. Kitts, and it could only be, Helen concluded, that the Anglins were tired of them. Jim said this was not the case, the Anglins were having a bad time with their daughter, the family was in therapy, Alan found it expensive and without results, Dorothy wept through every session.

Helen tried to keep this in mind as she greeted Dorothy, settling into her seat in the box they’d held for years with season tickets. Below them the orchestra was starting the pleasant disharmonious sound of tuning strings and running trills while people continued to fill the hall. There was a lushness to the scene: the huge chandeliers that would soon rise, the heavy curtain crumpled so grandly where its velvety tasseled edge met the stage, the panels that reached high, high, to absorb noise and return noise—all this was familiar to Helen, always enjoyed. But tonight the thought streaked across her mind that she was locked inside a velvet coffin, that operas went on too long, and that they would never leave early because Helen herself had never allowed it, leaving early made you appear a dilettante.

She turned back to Dorothy, who did not look as if she’d been having weekly weeping sessions. Her eyes were perfectly clear and perfectly made up, her dark hair pulled back as always into a knot at the base of her neck. She gave a little tilt of her head as Helen said, “I lost the diamond from my engagement ring today, it’s made me positively sick.” At intermission Dorothy asked how Larry liked the University of Arizona and Helen said he loved it, he had a girlfriend whose name was Ariel, who sounded nice, but—and granted she hadn’t met her—she wasn’t
quite
sure she was the girl for Larry.

Dorothy’s steady gaze—no smile, no nod—while Helen delivered this seemed to be saying to Helen, Let him marry a kangaroo, who cares,
I
don’t, and this, as the music resumed, hurt Helen, because friends faked it with each other all the time, it’s how society existed. But Dorothy turned her eyes to the stage and did not move, and Helen crossed her legs, feeling how her black pantyhose had become twisted at the thighs, no doubt from having to pull them up quickly in the stall as the gong rang out its warning. What had the feminists accomplished, she thought, if women still had to wait twice as long in ladies’ room lines?

Jim was saying to Alan, “She’s good. She’s great, actually.”

“Juliet?” asked Helen. “You think she’s great? I don’t think she’s great.”

“The new paralegal.”

“Oh,” said Helen vaguely. “Yes, you’ve said that.”

And then the curtain rose again, and on and on it went. Oh, it would take
forever
for Romeo and Juliet to die. Romeo was a pudgy man in baby-blue tights; he could not conceivably attract the attentions of this Juliet, at least thirty-five years old and singing her full-breasted heart out. For the love of God, Helen thought, moving once more in her seat, put that stage prop knife in your chest and die.

As the final clapping dwindled, Alan leaned in front of Jim. “Helen, you’re looking lovely as always tonight. I’ve missed seeing you. We’ve had a hell of a time on our hands, maybe Jim has told you.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Helen said. “I’ve missed seeing you, too.”

When Alan reached and squeezed her hand, Helen was shocked to feel in herself a response fleetingly sensual in its gratitude.

3

The hearing took place in the new addition of Superior Court. Bob was used to old courtrooms that held a tired grandness, and he thought there was a prefab feeling to the shiny wood paneling of this room, as though they had all been asked to gather in someone’s renovated garage. Through the window could be seen the low gray clouds that hung over the river, and as people entered the room, a plain young woman wearing oblong glasses silently placed a stack of folders on the plaintiff’s table, then walked to the window and looked out. A green blazer covered the top of her beige dress, her shoes were a low-heeled beige patent leather, and for a moment Bob—knowing from newspaper photos that this was the assistant attorney general Diane Dodge—was touched by her unadorned hesitant flight toward style. No one in New York would dress that way, not in winter, probably not ever, but she did not live in New York. She turned from the window, tight-lipped, and walked back to her table.

Susan had dressed that morning in a navy blue dress, yet she did not take off her coat. Two reporters had been allowed in, and two photographers; they sat with their cameras and bulky coats in the front row. Zach, wearing the suit that Susan had bought him at Sears, his hair newly cut and very short, his face pale as pasta, stood—as they all did—for the entrance of the round-shouldered judge, who took his seat above the bench and in a grave, directorial voice read that Zachary Olson had been charged with violating the First Amendment right to freedom of religion—

And so it began.

Diane Dodge stood, and clasped her hands behind her back. Her voice was surprisingly girlish as she brought forth the testimony of the police officers called to the scene that night. Walking back and forth, she seemed like a high school student with the lead in a play, praised so often that the self she carried on her slender frame seemed infused with unassailable confidence. The policemen answered in flat tones; they were not impressed.

Abdikarim Ahmed testified next. He wore cargo pants and a blue collared shirt and sneakers, and Bob thought he did not look African so much as Mediterranean. But he looked very much a foreigner, and when he spoke his accent was thick and unfamiliar, and his English was poor enough that a translator was needed. Abdikarim Ahmed told how the pig’s head came suddenly through the door, a small boy had fainted, the rug had to be cleaned seven times as required by Islamic law, they had no money to replace it. He spoke with little affect, warily and wearily. But he looked at Zach, and he looked at Bob, and he looked at Charlie. His eyes were large and dark, and his teeth were uneven and stained.

Mohamed Hussein testified to the same thing, and his English was better. He spoke with more energy, saying that he had run to the door of the mosque but seen no one.

And were you frightened, Mr. Hussein? Diane Dodge placed a hand below her throat.

“Very frightened.”

Did you believe that you were being threatened?

“Yes. Very much. We still do not feel safe. This has been painful. You do not know.”

Against the objection of Charlie, the judge allowed Mr. Hussein to speak of the camps of Dadaab, the
shifta
, bandits who came in the night to rob and rape and sometimes kill. The sight of the pig’s head in their mosque had made them very afraid, as afraid as they had been in Kenya, as afraid as they had been in Somalia, when doing any daily task could mean the possibility of a surprise attack and death.

Bob wanted to put both hands to his face. He wanted to say, This is awful, but
look
at this boy. He’s never heard of a refugee camp. He was teased to death when he was a kid, beaten up on a little playground in Shirley Falls, no bandits around. But to him the bullies were like bandits, and—can’t you see he’s just a sad-sack kid?

But the Somali men were sad, too. Especially the first guy. After testifying he had taken his seat in the courtroom and not looked around, keeping his head down, and Bob saw the exhaustion in his profile. Margaret Estaver had told Bob that many of these men wanted to work but were too traumatized to work, that they were living in the section of the city where drug dealers and addicts were living, that they had been, right here in Shirley Falls, threatened, attacked, robbed, and the women frightened by pit bulls. She had told Bob this, and said as well that she wished she could do something for Susan and Zach. Bob craned his head around and there she was, standing in the back of the courtroom. Their nod was almost imperceptible, the way it is when you have known someone a long time.

Zachary took the stand.

Diane Dodge scribbled without stopping while Charlie led Zach through the story of going to the slaughterhouse in West Annett with the hopes of becoming friendly with the son of the owner, who had worked at Walmart with him, no, they weren’t really friends at this point, no, but back then the guy had said he could drop by. No, he’d never heard about the mad cow disease regulations, he’d had no idea anything with a spine had to be killed in a special way and its head taken to be used for coyote or bear bait; he hadn’t known what was slaughtered at the slaughterhouse he went to. He took the pig’s head because it was there, he didn’t really know why, no, he didn’t buy it, the guy let him have it, but he brought it home and put it in his mother’s freezer and kind of thought maybe it’d be a Halloween thing or something, and later took it to the mosque as a dumb joke, he didn’t know it was a mosque, just that Somali people went in and out of there, and it slipped from his fingers and he was really sorry.