Beneath the Weight of Sadness (14 page)

“Because we were drinking at the party. We didn’t call the cops because we’d all been drinking.”

“That’s fine, Carly, but what was the name of the boy Tommy got into a fight with?”

“His name was Steve Brown. Look, Detective Parachuk, no one called the cops because they both would’ve been in trouble…Tommy has a full ride to the University of Virginia on a baseball scholarship. He couldn’t afford to get into trouble with the police.”

“So Steve Brown didn’t press charges because he was worried about Tommy’s scholarship?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“I think he was afraid of Tommy retaliating. But I know Tommy tried a number of times to apologize…I guess to make things okay between them.”

He looked down at his pad again. “When did this happen, Carly?”

I looked up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “In late summer, I guess. I know it was before school.”

“How bad was Steve beat up?”

“Pretty bad, I guess.”

“You guess or you know, Carly? I’m going to talk to him regardless.”

I knew I had to tell the truth. I wanted to tell him anyway. He made it easy with his nice smile and his handsome face.

“He had to have plastic surgery because of his nose. He had some broken ribs.”

“So that’s when you broke up with Tommy, right?”

“Pretty soon after that. He begged me to forgive him and I did at first, but I kept thinking about what’d happened and it just didn’t seem right.”

“You did the right thing, Carly.” He put his one hand over my two hands again and the words and his touch made me want to cry. I didn’t.

He picked up his pad again and studied it, turning over the pages and then looking at me.

“I need complete honesty now, Carly.” He put his hand out before I could protest. “I’m not saying you haven’t been honest. But this is a level above what I’ve asked so far.”

I could feel my heart flutter and I wondered if he saw or felt it. I pulled my hands out from his. I covered my mouth and coughed. I nodded for him to go ahead. My face was burning. I wanted to get up and walk out.

“I don’t want you to answer right off, Carly. I know you’ve probably already thought about this, so I’m just trying to walk into your thoughts and see what’s in there.”

He looked at me with his brown-yellow eyes. Why did I have the urge to kiss him?

“Ask, please,” I said.

“Who do you think murdered Truman?”

The question completely surprised me. I didn’t expect that kind of question. It was as if he was putting all the burden on me to come up with the murderer even though he was the cop. I laughed and then covered my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It just seems like an odd question.”

“Why?” he said.

“Well, because, if I knew, don’t you think I’d’ve come to you by now?”

“I would hope so,” he said. “That doesn’t always happen, though. Sometimes witnesses to a murder are trying to protect someone.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the case at all. I didn’t witness anything. I learned from my dad Truman was dead.”

The thought of Truman made me start to cry. This time I didn’t try and stop it. I put my face in my hands and cried. After a while I heard Detective Parachuk say to the waitress, “She’s upset, Gail. She’ll be okay.” I heard her dress swish and then heard her walk away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t believe Truman’s dead. I can’t believe he’s not here.”

“Do you have any ideas who’d want to hurt him?”

I shook my head. “I don’t. I’ve thought about that myself. Who would want to hurt Truman?” I shook my head again to confirm that idea.

“You knew him better than anyone…better than his own parents, I imagine. Did he ever say he was threatened by anyone? Was he harassed by anyone?”

“I didn’t know Truman in the last two years like I used to. We still hung out, but not like in the past. But back when we were close, I don’t ever remember Truman having any particular problem. I mean, he was teased sometimes because he mostly hung with me, but not by anyone in an obsessive way.”

“Like who?” he said.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” I said. “Kids we both liked. They just teased him because he and I were so close. It was harmless. I think his friends were jealous. Logan Marsh seemed to be jealous at times. People always wanted to hang around Truman. But lately, I can’t think of anyone…but then I don’t know completely.”

“He never said this one or that one was giving me a hard time, something like that?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing like that to me.”

“Where were you in the early morning the day Truman was killed, Carly?”

I’d expected the question, had waited for it when we first sat down, but then I’d forgotten about it.

“I was home most of the night. Saturday evening I went to the movies with a friend of mine. We saw…my friend Caroline and I saw
Shutter Island
.”

“Where did you see it?”

“At the CinePlex. I know it’s out on DVD, but it was there and I’d read the book.”

Detective Parachuk looked around and then back at me. “Would you like anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

He took out some bills and put a five-dollar bill on the table. He stood and so did I.

“Can I give you a lift home, Carly?”

“No, thank you. My dad is outside in the car.” I smiled. “I guess he was there to rescue me.”

“From what?”

“From you, I guess. He wanted me to have a lawyer with me, but I refused.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t need one.”

He put his hand out in a gesture for me to go first. I walked toward the outside and, as I opened the door, he said, “How was the movie?”

“Weird,” I said. “But I don’t remember much of it now. I don’t remember much of anything now.”

I walked outside into the bright sunshine and I had to squint my eyes. I saw my dad’s car in the distance on the other side of the square, but I didn’t walk directly to it. I couldn’t. Truman had been there only days before, and the yellow tape was still there where his body had been. I waved and waved for my dad to come around and finally I saw him pull out of his parking spot. I looked toward the row of stores and the luncheonette I’d just come from. I couldn’t look at the park. As I waited for my dad I thought about the interview I’d had with Detective Parachuk. Everything I’d told him was the truth and everything he’d heard from me was a lie.

Ethan

Seventeen years before Truman’s death

Our Truman was conceived in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, mid-December of 1992. Amy had completed her first semester teaching at a community college in central New Jersey and we wanted to celebrate her success, our happiness, our deep love. Amy wanted to go to the mountains where Melville, Hawthorne and Wharton had spent their time hiking and writing. Our decision to go north was impromptu and so we made no reservations, which, as it turned out, was a mistake. We hadn’t thought of the skiing season, and every available bed was taken—it had been one of those winters where snow seemed to fall every fourth or fifth day in the north.

In New Jersey we’d had a relatively mild season so it hadn’t occurred to us to check. We were only four hours from New Jersey and we decided after driving to Pittsfield and touring Melville’s Arrowhead and then going into Lenox to see Wharton’s “summer home”—which was larger than most of the homes in Persia—we’d find a place to have an early dinner and then head south and find a place where we could be comfortable, and that afforded some hiking and stay there.

I remembered the restaurant was on the right and as we came over a rise I spotted it. It sat back from the road a bit and could easily be missed. It was early evening and just getting dark. The parking lot was almost empty. We parked in the front and, before we got out of the SUV, I kissed Amy on the mouth and felt her warm, moist breath on my face.

“We might have to drive a few hours south on the thruway before we find something,” I said as we got out of the car, our breath billowing in the clean, cold air.

The restaurant was dimly lit with glasses that twinkled with the candles on each table, and there was a lovely smell of garlic and tomatoes and herbs. We were greeted by a friendly woman, perhaps in her thirties. She was heavy but walked with a nimble deliberateness. Her face was handsome and dark with an olive tinge that denoted her Mediterranean background. She had shining black eyes. When we sat she put menus before us and I ordered a bottle of Chianti.

“What a great place, Ethe!” Amy whispered.

She opened her menu and glanced at the entrees. I watched her, and as always I was struck by how beautiful she was. It never had changed since I’d first known her. Each time I looked at her I was once more surprised by that fact. I thought of the cousin I once was in love with when I was still a young boy. She had deep red hair and freckles sprinkled across her bright flaming cheeks, and looking at Amy now I saw the same fresh beauty. At times it seemed as if I had to fight to get air in my lungs, I was so madly in love with this woman.

She was right, of course. It didn’t matter where we ended up as long as we were together. I still felt responsible for not reserving something so that we could’ve been close to Pittsfield and Mount Greylock. If I had, I would have been that much closer to taking off her clothes and making love with her instead of driving hours to find a place. We’d seen the mountain from Melville’s piazza and, just as Amy had said, it looked like a white sperm whale breaking the surface. I determined we’d return in the early spring.

The waitress returned with our wine and two glasses and began to open the bottle.

“Are you up here for the skiing?” she asked, assuming we were not locals.

Amy laughed. “No, actually. We came up to see Herman Melville’s Arrowhead in Pittsfield. We wanted to hike Mount Greylock.”

“Too much snow to do that, I guess.”

She had a girlish laugh that didn’t match her heaviness.

“Maybe,” Amy conceded. “But we would’ve liked to have tried.”

“Why can’t you?” she asked as she poured the dark red wine into my glass for me to taste. I swirled it around and then smelled its rich fragrance. The taste was clean with a bit of oak at the end. I nodded and she filled our glasses.

“My lovely husband didn’t make reservations,” Amy teased. “In his defense, I wouldn’t have, either. Neither of us really thought of this area as a ski area.”

The waitress laughed. “Not like Vermont or New Hampshire, but we’ve had good snow and the slopes are full every day. Or at least that’s what they tell me.”

“You don’t ski?” Amy asked.

“No,” she smiled. “I have all I can do to raise my three kids while my husband works two jobs.”

She said this with pride rather than complaint and Amy and I instantly liked her.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

She seemed in no hurry to take our order, her arms resting comfortably on her large stomach. She had very large breasts and I couldn’t help but think her husband thought of them as a treat to come home to. She seemed instantly domestic, something Amy would bear out later.

“New Jersey,” I said.

“And you intend to drive back down there tonight?”

“No,” Amy laughed. The wine had made her cheeks even more inflamed with red and I wanted to lean across the table and kiss them. “We’ll hopefully find something in Albany.”

She turned toward the kitchen and then looked back at us.

“My parents own this restaurant…or they’re married to it, more like it. They spend most of their time here.” She shook her head as she smiled. “There’s an apartment upstairs that’s never used, mostly. We only use it for family gatherings. My sister lives out in California and when her husband and kids come out for holidays we use the place upstairs for all the festivities…that way we have the restaurant kitchen to cook in. It has everything up there, including a kitchen, fully equipped—it’s just with the size of our families it’s easier to cook down here.”

She took in a deep breath and exhaled. She eyed us critically.

“You two seem like nice people and it’s getting late…by the time you eat and all.” She nodded toward the bottle of wine. “It doesn’t seem quite right that you should have to drive tonight. I think my parents would be happy for you to rent the place for a couple of days is why I’m telling you this.”

“That would be lovely,” Amy said, not even looking toward me. “Could you find out if your parents would be okay with that?”

“I’ll ask them now,” she said and turned to go.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She wheeled around again with an agility that defied her weight. “Victoria,” she said.

I stood and put out my hand, which she took. Her handshake was warm and firm.

“I’m Ethan and this is Amy.”

“Amy and Ethan,” she repeated as if committing it to memory. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

She leaned over and shook Amy’s hand.

Amy smiled brightly. “Nice to meet you.”