Things You Won't Say (18 page)

“I should go,” Doug said. He stood up.

“Okay,” Christie said.

“I’m sorry,” Doug said. He walked toward her, clearly intent on giving her a consolation kiss, but Christie sidestepped him and stuck out her hand. When he was finally out of the room, she took a deep breath, inhaling a potentially dangerous amount of Axe, and collapsed onto the bed. A moment later she heard a knock and she sprang back up. Maybe Doug had changed his mind.

“Did someone order champagne?” Elroy asked when Christie opened the door. He was shaking with laughter. She gave him the finger and walked back to the chair Doug had just vacated. He hadn’t even taken a sip of his beer, so she gulped some.

“Boobies?” Elroy echoed, and Christie began to laugh, too.

“I still get paid, right?” she asked.

“Of course,” Elroy said. “Not the first time a guy has chickened out. His wife is going to be thrilled. She won’t dispute the bill. Good thinking on asking if he’d ever cheated on her before, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Christie said. She began to feel a little better. The Heineken could be helping with that, too, she thought as she had another gulp. “So what now?”

“Now I prepare the file for the wife and you get ready for your next victim,” Elroy said. He stood on a chair and peeled away his device from the light fixture.

“Good,” Christie said. She tipped back the glass and swallowed the rest of the beer. “You know, I could juggle more than one at a time. I mean, if you’ve got that many clients.”

Elroy appraised her.

“You wanted to see how I’d do on this job first, didn’t you?” Christie asked. “Was this a trial run?”

Elroy nodded. “Yep.”

Christie wondered, not for the first time, how it was that she could be so cunning about some things and so dumb
about others. In high school, she’d known during the first week which teachers were going to ride her ass, giving her Ds on homework assignments and suggesting she sign up for the free tutoring the geeks gave in the library after school, and she’d easily discerned which teachers didn’t care if she copied off other kids. And take men—she could be so savvy about certain guys, knowing which ones would be good in the sack but bad about remembering her birthday. Yet when it came to Simon, she’d been a complete fool. It all boiled down to not caring, she thought. Emotions distorted your vision. Maybe those women at the hair salon who’d cried about their divorces hadn’t thought about holding on to their assets because they were too busy trying to hold together the shards of their hearts, Christie thought.

“You might’ve told me this was a test before I quit my job,” she said.

“I didn’t know you quit your job,” he said.

“Well, I did,” Christie said. “So you’d better keep me busy.”

“Okay,” Elroy said. He tossed her two folders. “Take a look at these guys. We can set up meet-and-greets tomorrow if you’re free.”

“At sixty bucks an hour, you’d better bet I’m free,” Christie said. She emptied her beer, then reached into the minibar and took out a few mini-bottles of alcohol. “Let’s call these a signing bonus, shall we?” she said. She put them in her shoulder purse along with the two folders.

“I think Doug’s wife would want to treat you to them,” Elroy said.

Christie grinned, then walked out, her step light.

Chapter Eight

JOSE. THAT WAS THE
name of the boy Mike had shot. The teenager had been in trouble a few times before, for fighting and truancy. He’d also gone to church with his mother every Sunday and had sung in the choir. He’d possessed a rich tenor, the newspapers reported. He’d lived with his mother and younger brother in a transitional area of D.C.—not far from the million-dollar row homes or from the run-down ones with cardboard covering broken windows. He was an in-between in other ways, too. Not quite a man, but at five feet, eight inches tall, no longer a boy. The brushes with the law and the church choir were balancing on opposite ends of a scale, too. Eventually Jose would’ve tipped one way or the other.

The press conference was scheduled for noon today, and Jamie had no idea what Jose’s mother was planning to say.

The front page of the Metro section held a photograph of Jose looking off to one side and grinning, his eyes shaded by a sweep of long lashes. Jamie stared down at it, wondering if he had been smiling at his mom. She didn’t realize she’d released a whimper until Sam, who was lying across her lap, asked what was wrong. Sam had been extra clingy lately, trailing after her as she worked around the house and waking up in
the middle of the night to climb into bed with her and Mike. “Nothing,” she said as she bent to kiss his head. Jamie caught a whiff of sweet shampoo and something else, a scent that was uniquely Sam. She wondered if Jose’s mother was kneeling in her son’s closet, breathing in, despairing at the thought that she might someday forget the sound of her boy’s voice. Jamie closed her eyes against the sharp prick of tears and held Sam tighter.

“Are you going to watch?” Jamie asked Mike a few hours later.

Mike shrugged. He was sitting at the little table in the kitchen, an untouched turkey-and-cheese sandwich on a plate in front of him. Three large electric fans had appeared and were blowing air around the house, giving them a little break from the stifling heat. Lou must’ve bought those, Jamie thought. She vaguely remembered hearing her sister go out last night.

By now the kids were in the living room, watching
Frozen
for the dozenth time. At this point they could probably recite all the dialogue. Jamie had started to set up the sprinkler on the front lawn, but then she’d spotted a guy with a big camera slung around his neck. She’d run back into the house and yanked the curtains shut, her rage swelling. They were trapped. How long were reporters going to be lurking? So far Eloise was mostly unaware of what was happening, but Jamie knew Sam and Emily had figured out some of the details. And Henry had probably read all of the news stories.

So had the neighbors, apparently. When Jamie had driven past an older woman who lived alone at the corner of their block, someone who’d always made a nice fuss over her kids, the woman had deliberately averted her head after Jamie called a hello out her van’s window. Jamie’s back had stiffened as she pressed harder on the gas.

At least most of their friends were being supportive. The family two doors down had put together a container of fried
chicken and a green salad and dropped off the meal along with a kind note, and a number of other people had called or emailed, offering to help in any way possible. Sandy had brought by a giant box of brownies and she’d given Jamie a fast, hard hug.

“I know,” Sandy had murmured. But she couldn’t. Jamie had sensed Sandy wanted to come inside, but she made up an excuse about Mike being asleep on the couch. If Jamie sat down and looked into Sandy’s soft brown eyes and felt Sandy’s slim hand grip her own, she might fall apart, and then what would happen to her family?

“Reporters keep trying to interview me,” Sandy had said just before she’d left. “They’ve been leaving messages.”

Jamie’s heart had skipped a beat. “Please don’t talk to them!” she’d cried.

“Of course I won’t,” Sandy had said. “I deleted all the messages. I just wanted you to know.”

Jamie had held the box of still-warm brownies in her hands as she watched Sandy get into her car and drive off. The casualties kept mounting—Jose, Mike and his reputation, their family’s happiness . . . Maybe her friendship with Sandy would be another.

Ritchie had also left a message on the answering machine that morning in his new broken cadence: “Be strong, man . . . this is going to . . . blow over soon. I’ve still . . . got your back.” Jamie had watched Mike bend his head close to the machine. She wondered if he ever wanted to switch places with his best friend, to erase that quick, spontaneous nudge that had sent Ritchie walking through the doors of police headquarters, into the path of the shooter. She didn’t know how to ask him, though. The words that had always flowed steadily between them had dried up like a shallow riverbed in the summer heat. All she could think about was the possibility of the looming indictment, and she knew it was the same for Mike.

Three months ago, the guys had been competing in one-
armed push-up contests—Ritchie was the record holder with eight, but Mike had been gaining on him fast—and cruising the streets and giving talks at schools. Their lives had stretched out in two smooth, parallel lines. Now both men were deeply scarred in different ways. But at least Ritchie had a chance of getting better. Hope hadn’t deserted him, the way it had Mike.

“Do you want to call Ritchie back?” Jamie had asked when Mike continued to stare at the machine after the message ended.

Mike had shaken his head. “I’ll go visit him tomorrow,” he’d said. “Drop off a freaking tofu dog.” He’d tried for a light tone but couldn’t pull it off.

“Good,” Jamie had said. She’d reached for him at the same moment he’d turned to walk away. He never even saw her outstretched arms. After he left, she’d stood still for a long moment, feeling so hollow she ached to collapse to the floor.

The previous night she and Mike had been in bed, lying on top of the covers in their underwear because it was so hot, and Mike had suddenly rolled onto his side, kissing her deeply. She’d kissed him back, glad for the connection, and then he’d climbed on top of her and yanked down her underpants and abruptly plunged into her, before she was ready. She’d gasped, but had put her arms around his back, feeling his body grow slick with sweat, grateful for the contact.

But it didn’t feel like lovemaking. It felt like he needed to release something and she was a handy receptacle.

The sad memory fell away as Jamie looked at the clock. The news conference was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour. It would be held at a park near Jose’s mother’s apartment, where Jose had learned to ride a bike, a reporter had said. Jamie tried to focus on the image of Jose attacking another boy, punching him repeatedly, but the image of him as a little kid, a smile wreathing his face as he learned to pedal, kept intruding.

Jamie could hear the treadmill squeaking in the basement, and the sound of ESPN, and she hoped Mike would keep running and watching baseball instead of tuning in to the press conference. It wouldn’t be good for Mike to see the boy’s mother on television, to bear witness to her anger and pain.

Jamie went into the kitchen and saw the plate with Mike’s sandwich still on the table. He hadn’t eaten a single bite.

“I’m bored,” Emily called from the living room, drawing the word out to three syllables. “And Eloise spilled her apple juice.”

Jamie rushed to clean it up, grateful to have something to do, some small task with a clearly defined outcome. Jamie was just wiping up the last drops when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t a reporter, sighed, and answered it.

“Honey?” It was Mike’s mother. His parents still lived in New Jersey, in the house where Mike had grown up. Jamie liked them well enough, even though their conversations always circled the same familiar ground. Mike’s mother talked about weight—who among her friends had gained or lost a few pounds, who was trying Paleo and who was cheating on the Zone—and Mike’s father was obsessed with the weather. He’d spend ten minutes telling you about a storm front gathering over Ohio, then hand the phone to his wife as if you’d had an emotional conversation that had left him drained and unable to carry on.

“Hi, Gloria,” Jamie said.

Gloria’s voice was always high and anxious, but even more so now. Jamie pictured her pacing around her small living room. Gloria always tried to burn calories while she talked on the phone.

In the week since the shooting, Mike had been checking in frequently with his parents. He’d wanted them to hear about it from him rather than on television, since the story had made
the national news, but Jamie worried about how the conversations were affecting him. When he was a kid, his mother had tried to make Mike wear a knitted cap whenever the temperature dropped below sixty. A cold portended pneumonia in her mind, and a stomachache always meant appendicitis. Mike downplayed his job to her, saying he spent a lot of time at his desk doing paperwork and that he always wore a bulletproof vest. Sometimes Gloria’s fretting annoyed Jamie. Other times, it made her mourn her own mother, and what might have been.

“I was thinking we should come down there and help,” Mike’s mother said.

“Oh, no,” Jamie said without thinking. “I mean,” she quickly qualified, “things are going just fine here, really. I bet this is all going to be cleared up in another couple weeks.”

“Are you sure?” Gloria asked. “I’ve just been so worried.”

“I know,” Jamie said. She kept her voice light and steady. She had to dissuade Gloria. If she were here, fluttering around Mike and insisting he eat and ferreting out the problems in every situation, like a woodpecker boring into a tree to pull out insects, Mike might snap. He seemed so close to it anyway.

“Gloria, I promise you we’re all doing fine,” Jamie said. “How about we plan a trip up there later on this summer? We’d love to go to the shore with you.”

“I’ll make cannoli,” Gloria said immediately.

“That sounds wonderful,” Jamie said, reaching around with her free hand to rub the back of her neck, where knots seemed to have taken up permanent residence. It was exhausting to have to provide comfort and reassurance to someone when you so badly needed it yourself. Her father had called a few times, and had also offered to come stay with them, which she appreciated, but she knew he wouldn’t be much help with the kids—and having more people crowding into the house would add to the stress level.

She eased off the phone a few minutes before the news conference was to begin. She could still hear the sound of the treadmill and Mike’s heavy, rhythmic footsteps. She went upstairs, to their bedroom, shutting the door in case one of the kids tried to come in and she had to change the channel quickly.

The news channel was already broadcasting footage of the scene. Dozens of people crowded onto a patch of concrete encircling the park. The playground equipment behind them was outdated—metal monkey bars and swings and a few slides. One lone, scraggly-looking tree decorated a corner.