Under the Influence (25 page)

W
hen we got back to my apartment, I asked Elliot if he'd like to come upstairs with us, but he shook his head. “You need to take care of Oliver,” he said, and he was correct about that, of course. We'd talk later.

Although Ollie had slept most of the way back in the car, the first thing he wanted to do once we got home was to go lie down in my bed. Five minutes later, he was asleep.

I looked around the apartment. For a long time, all I'd done in this place was sleep. There was no food in the refrigerator, and in the cupboards nothing but a couple of bags of popping corn and a bottle of canola oil. My whole life, for almost a year, had been lived on Folger Lane. No more of that now.

I placed a call to the hospital up at Lake Tahoe to ask about Carmen. Because I wasn't family, no one could tell me anything. I wished I had Estella's number. Though if I had, what would I say? I remembered how she was that day in Ava's closet, folding laundry, telling me her dreams for her daughter.
Mi corazón.

I thought about my camera. I had left it at the party when I ran out to Bobby's car after hearing the news of the accident. At some point I'd need to go back and get it.

From the other room, I could hear the sound of Ollie's breathing—steadier now than it had been at the police station. Whatever dark and
troubling images swirled around in his brain, he seemed to have calmed down, finally.

As much as I resisted it, I knew I would have to call Dwight. I'd promised to have Ollie back in Walnut Creek by bedtime, and there was no way this was possible now. I needed to keep our son with me longer. Evidently the police had already reached Dwight and told him enough that he felt obliged to share with them the story of my DUI. But I didn't have the luxury of being angry with him about that. We had to talk about what had happened. Though I had not yet figured out what I would say to him or to our son.

Sometimes people really disappoint you. Even grown-ups. Especially grown-ups, maybe. There can be a person you love a whole lot, and you think you can trust him and still he lets you down. That doesn't mean you shouldn't ever love anyone. You just need to be careful who you love.

None of this was what I would have wanted to tell my eight-year-old. Only now I had to.

My doorbell rang. I figured it had to be Elliot—and as bad as things were, I felt a certain lifting of my heart that he'd come back. But when I opened the door, Marty Matthias was there, in golf clothes—bright yellow shirt and bright green pants, but carrying a briefcase. How did he even know where I lived?

He stepped in. “Nice place,” he said, though we both knew it wasn't. He set his briefcase down. “Cute.

“I got a call from our friend Swift this morning,” he told me. “He wanted to let me know we should go ahead and file those papers to reopen your motion for custody of your son.”

My custody case. Now?

The detective Swift had hired a while back to investigate my ex-husband—all news to me—had evidently come up with some incriminating information. “Seems your ex-hubby lost his job. He hasn't been keeping up on his mortgage payments for quite some time now,” Marty said. “He's on the brink of foreclosure.”

Foreclosure.
I was having a hard time focusing.

“But it gets better,” said Marty. (Marty, the attorney Swift had described to me once as capable of biting off a person's ear, if they ever threatened his client. Meaning Swift.) “Seems the guy has a little problem with anger management. A while back the wife placed a domestic violence call to the authorities in Walnut Creek. She didn't press charges, but it's on the books.”

That Dwight had anger issues was not a surprise, of course. Only the part about Cheri reporting him. “You need to keep your voice down, Marty,” I said. “My son's asleep in the next room.”

“Gotcha,” he said. “Isn't it something, when you finally get them down for their nap? And you can live a little?”

I just looked at him.

“So things are looking very good for you, Helen,” Marty continued. “If we take this stuff to court, I'm confident we'll get your kid back where he belongs. Though my guess is we won't ever have to even put any of this in front of a judge. Once the ex hears what you've got on him, he's likely to give us what we want pretty quick. Particularly given the guy won't have money for attorney's fees. Unlike you.”

It was a strange thing. For almost three years now, all I'd really cared about was getting my son back, being able to have a life with him again. Now here was this lawyer telling me it was going to happen—soon, probably. And all I felt was numb.

“Swift has already taken care of the detective,” Marty went on. “As you know, the Havillands are very generous people.”

We were still standing in the foyer of my apartment. I had not invited Marty in to sit down. As little as I understood about what was going on, I knew this was not a simple friendly visit.

“Now of course there will need to be a significant retainer for ongoing legal services.”

A retainer.

“I'm guessing we can take care of this matter for under thirty K,” he said. “Not that you have to worry about any of this. Swift is happy to cover the full amount.

“We just need to be sure, before we move forward here, that we're all on the same page concerning the events at Lake Tahoe this weekend. With your son.”

I didn't say anything. I knew Marty would let me know exactly what he wanted.

“It would be unfortunate if any discrepancy were to arise concerning the details of the accident,” Marty said. “Not that any of us anticipates this. But given how confused young children can be about things, I wanted to clarify. You can understand that it would not be possible for our friend to make such a generous offer to you if there were any question that you or your son might offer an account of what took place the other day that could conflict with that of Swift and his son. And of course, they were the ones who were actually present.”

“So was Ollie,” I said. “He's very upset.”

“Kids get all kinds of crazy ideas, don't they?” Marty said. “It's so great, their big imaginations. Not that they've got any proof to back up the stories they tell. But you got to hand it to them. They sure can be entertaining. And I gather you're quite a storyteller yourself, by the way. Swift was just telling me about some of the wild yarns you yourself have spun on occasion.”

“I wouldn't ever lie under oath, if that's what you were suggesting,” I told him.

“Of course not.”

Marty seemed to be heading for the door then, but he turned around. He had picked up one of Ollie's stuffed animals. Now he was taking his time, studying the toy. “Ava tells me you had a little slip with your drinking problem recently,” he said. “But I see no reason to worry about
that. The Havillands are the only ones who know. We certainly wouldn't want that information getting out.”

“Ava told you that?” I said.

“One thing to know about me and the Havillands, honey,” said Marty. “They tell me everything.”

I
didn't call Officer Reynolds the next morning. I did call my ex-husband, who had heard from the police that there had been an accident in which our son had been involved. Perhaps for the reasons Marty Matthias had now revealed to me, Dwight offered no resistance when I told him I felt I should keep Oliver with me for another day or two, rather than bringing him back to Walnut Creek that night. If, in fact, Dwight was now faced with losing his house, this might have explained how distracted he seemed when I tried to fill him in on what I knew.

“Keep him all week if you think it will be good for him,” Dwight suggested, sounding almost relieved.

The next day, Monday, I called Elliot. I hoped that what had taken place the day before might have changed something between us, but it was clear, hearing his voice on the other end of the phone, that the kindness he had shown Ollie and me after the accident had come strictly out of a place of friendship and compassion. Nothing in his tone suggested that he saw us getting back together. Elliot was loyal to the ends of the earth, but he could not forget my profound betrayal. I had recognized how wrong I'd been to attack him for his distrust of the Havillands. But this happened too late.

Now, though, out of kindness, he offered to drive Ollie and me over to the Havillands' house to pick up my car and my camera.

When we got to Folger Lane, Elliot got out of the car, but only long enough to open my door for me. He stood next to the driver's-side door and with an unmistakable air of finality, he reached down to shake Ollie's hand.

“You're a fine young man,” he told Ollie. “Whatever happened up there, don't let it change your opinion about what kind of a person you are.”

It was the kind of thing a person says to another when he does not expect they'll see each other again.

To me he said, “Take care of yourself, Helen.” He put his arms around me, but very briefly, and stiffly. He got into his car and left.

My son and I stood in the driveway, watching him drive away. Then I turned to look at the house: the camellias and the jasmine, the tinkling wind chimes, the sign,
ALL DOGS WELCOME HERE. AND SOME PEOPLE
. It was a sight that used to lift my heart every time I pulled into the driveway. Now I felt relief that from the looks of it, the Havillands weren't around. No sign of either of their cars, though I recognized the van of a cleaning company, and another belonging to the party rental company, who must have come to take away the chairs and tables and whatever else remained of the wrecked birthday celebration.

“I don't want to go in,” Ollie said.

“That's okay,” I told him. “You can wait outside. I'll only be a minute.”

He opened the door of my car and lay down on the backseat. I made my way up the path to the front door. On either side of me were the puddles left by melted snowdrifts and the remnants of the ice penguins that had lined the walk just a day and a half earlier.

Estella would be at the hospital with her daughter now, of course, waiting for Carmen to wake up. Cooper must have taken off with his fiancée—back to business school and the rest of his life. I figured Ava and Swift were probably staying up at the Tahoe house a little longer, preferring to avoid Folger Lane until the last remnants of the disastrous
party were safely cleared away. No problem with that: What did I have to say to them? Now or ever again? About as much as they intended to say to my son and me, evidently.

Every other time I had shown up here, the dogs were there to greet me. (Lillian and Sammy, anyway. While somewhere, lurking behind them, Rocco growled.) But there were no dogs in evidence. As I opened the door—unlocked—I was met with an unaccustomed sound. Silence.

Somewhere out by the pool there must have been workers packing up, but here in the house, no one. There were pools of water everywhere from the melted sculptures, and a few place mats blowing around with Swift's face on them. Unopened presents had been piled on the living room table, along with a basket filled with the envelopes that must have contained the contributions made by the birthday guests that night to the Havillands' foundation. Stacks of extra copies of the book we'd produced,
The Man Is a God.

I picked up a copy and flipped through the pages. As familiar as I had become with every image between the covers—as well as I knew all the players—I was curious to see if, studying them now, I might discern something in their faces that I had failed to detect before. Maybe it had been there in the pictures the whole time: the essential truth about the man with whom I'd spent so many hours over the course of so many months, who had finally revealed his character to me just twenty-four hours earlier. Maybe it had been here in these pages the whole time and I'd just missed it.

I was just setting the book down again when I heard a voice behind me.

“They're such amazing people, aren't they?” I turned around. It was Ava's new friend, Felicity.

“They're unbelievable, all right,” I said. “I never met anybody like those two.”

I did not add that I hoped I never would again.

“It's just such a tragedy, what happened,” she said. “They've been so kind to me. Meeting Ava changed my whole life.”

“She does that,” I said. “Is there any news about Carmen?”

“Carmen?” said Felicity. “Who's that? I was talking about the Havillands' dog.”

“Their dog? Which dog?” I asked. What was she talking about?

“Rocco,” she said. “I thought you knew. It's just unbelievable that those two wonderful people would have to endure this after everything else. As if having the whole party ruined wasn't enough. I don't know if Ava will ever get over it.”

Rocco. In my mind's eye I saw his sharp little teeth, which he bared whenever he saw me. More than once, they'd drawn blood. I continued to stare at Felicity. Baffled.

“After all hell broke loose and you and Ava took off, Rocco got out of the bedroom where he'd been left for the party. You know Rocco, always getting into things. He came downstairs and ate the entire birthday cake. Chocolate. Must've made him thirsty, because then he drank champagne from that crazy ice sculpture. We found him yesterday afternoon, dead on the laundry room floor. Who knew chocolate and alcohol are poisonous to dogs?”

She went on to explain that Ava and Swift were at the crematorium now, making arrangements for Rocco's ashes. Lillian and Sammy were with them, “to help them understand and say their final good-byes.”

All I could do was shake my head.

From the kitchen, I heard the phone ringing. “I bet it's Ava,” Felicity said, running to pick it up. “This is such a difficult time for her.”

My camera was where I'd left it, on the chair by the door, but for once, I felt no impulse to record the scene photographically. No need for a picture. I'd remember, though I might wish I didn't.

I stood alone in the middle of the room then, just taking it all in—this place where I had believed, for almost a full year, that I'd finally found my home. I looked out at the garden—the paper lanterns, the
strings of snowflake lights still blinking because nobody had thought to turn them off, the last of the melting snow and ice—and breathed in the eucalyptus candles. Noted the cashmere sweater Ava had given me once, draped over a chair. Left it there.

I was just heading to the door when I spotted the little carved bone Chinese figurines of the man and woman: the good-luck charms, the happy fornicators, stretched out blissfully on their tiny carved bone bed. I slipped them in my pocket and headed out to my car, back to my son.