Garden of Lies (35 page)

accelerating engine. “I never knew my father. My mother either. She died in a hospital fire the

night I was born. How’s that for cinematic?” Her voice held a bitter twist.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t remember any of it. I got the whole lurid story later on. About how I was carried

down by one of the nurses, wrapped in a wet blanket. And how my grandmother came to get me

—my father was overseas at the time—and she thought there had to have been some mistake.

You see, I didn’t look like my two sisters, or either of my parents. But I was the last one, you see.

All the other babies had been claimed. Do you think my mother would have wanted me if she’d

lived?” Rose clapped a hand over her mouth. “God, did I really say that? I can’t believe the things

I’m telling you.”

“It’s all right. I’m a good listener. Go ahead.”

“The rest is pretty boring. You wouldn’t want to hear it.” The line of her mouth grew even

harder. “I saw this old Tarzan movie once, and there was this scene where Johnny Weismuller

gets stuck in quicksand—in fact, I think he got stuck in quicksand in every picture—but as corny

as it was, I knew exactly how he felt. What it was like to be trapped, slowly sinking down, and

the harder you struggle to get out, the worse it gets.”

[204] The needle had crept up past eighty-five and was hovering somewhere near ninety now.

The noise of the engine a shrill whine.

“Do you know what that’s like?” she said loudly.

“Yes, I know.” He thought of Bernice, and it gave him a kind of perverse pleasure imagining

what his wife’s reaction would be to this little escapade of his. “Rose, I think you really had

better slow down.”

“What about Quent Jorgensen?”

“I suppose killing ourselves might help his case in the end, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I mean, don’t you want to find out if—” Abruptly she tensed, leaning forward slightly, her

fingers locking about the shiny red steering wheel, knuckles showing white.

“What’s wrong?” Max could feel himself go suddenly tight all over, as if his skin had shrunk

several sizes.

“Holy Mother of God,” she swore. “It’s stuck. I can’t ...” She struggled with the wheel, which

appeared to be locked, with only an inch or two give in either direction.

That’s when Max saw it. The curve ahead. And the glut of slow-moving traffic just beyond.

Rose had taken her foot off the gas, and was now pressing down on the brake, down-shifting into

low gear. Her whole body rigid, face white as library paste.

Christ. She was panicking, braking too hard.

There was a horrible squeal, the stink of burning rubber, and the back end fishtailed out into a

spin that sent them skidding across two lanes. The guard rail loomed, with a straight drop below.

Fear struck like a sandbag hurled at his chest.

“Jesus Chri—”

The instant seemed to hang in space, irrelevant to anything past or future; there was only that

looming white guard rail and rocky slope beyond, the endless shrieking of the tires.

And now Rose, a wild woman he scarcely recognized, eyes huge and black as the hot-top

racing at them, let loose a high, primal yell as she fought for control.

Max was thrown forward against the dash, his forehead thumping painfully against the strip of

chrome alongside the windshield. An explosion of white like a flashbulb popping behind his eyes,

then a moment when his senses went skidding over the edge of some abyss.

[205] Through the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard her cry out someone’s name. It

sounded like “Brian.”

Now his head was clearing, and he watched Rose throw her weight against the steering wheel

with every bit of strength she possessed. Then a muted noise like the tumblers inside a balky lock

clicking home.

And suddenly the steering wheel was turning, Rose in control again, easing the car around,

pulling off onto the shoulder, and finally, blessedly, jerking to a stop.

Max opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. He could only stare at this

woman beside him, this good Catholic girl turned madwoman, her dark hair matted and tumbled

about her shoulders, her blouse untucked from the waistband of her skirt, her face stamped with

the high fevered color of an adrenaline rush. He was too shaken, too overwhelmed.

“My God,” he finally choked. “My God, Rose. When did you learn to drive like that?”

“I didn’t know I could,” she said, expelling her breath in a short explosive laugh even as tears

of stunned relief filled her eyes. “You see, I just got my license a couple of months ago.”

Chapter 11

It was the ugliest shiner Rose could ever remember seeing, more black than blue, and puffed up

almost the size of the eight ball they used to play with when they were kids, the one that told your

fortune different ways depending how it was turned.

Now Rose needed no fortune-telling to read what had happened to her sister. Rose stood in the

shabby hallway outside Marie’s apartment and stared at the black eye peering over the door

chain, anger rising in her.

“Marie, my God, your
eye
.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Alfred Hitchcock, he’d like me to star in his next movie.” Marie gave a

dry bark of a laugh as she unlatched the chain and opened the door the rest of the way to let Rose

in. Even in the dim foyer, Rose could see that her sister was nothing but skin and bones under a

faded duster stained with baby food, her unwashed hair pasted to her skull. “Dumbest thing you

ever saw. I walked into a door. Do you believe it?”

No,
Rose wanted to say,
I don’t.
Last time, what had it been? The stairs. Marie said she’d

broken her arm falling down the stairs. And the time before that, she’d slipped on a Matchbox car

and somehow broken her nose and knocked a tooth out. And, sure, it was just a coincidence that

each of those times Pete had been home, and out of work.

But Rose kept her thoughts to herself. There was a hands-off look in Marie’s good eye, a look

that warned,
It’s my business if my old man beats on me, so keep your sympathy to yourself.

She followed Marie into the living room, a cramped boxlike space with flaky plaster walls and

the temporary look of a seedy motel room. Pete was slouched in front of the television, his fist

wrapped about a can of Budweiser. Bobby and Missy were playing on the floor by the radiator.

[207] “Is that why you called?” Rose asked, instinctively reaching up to console her sister, then

letting her hand fall uselessly to her side as Marie moved a bare, almost imperceptible fraction

backwards.

“This?” Marie touched her eye, wincing a little. “No big deal. I can take care of myself. Hey,

you want a cup of coffee or something? I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but it’s not exactly the

Waldorf. Beans and franks.”

Pete glanced up from “The Flintstones.” “Again? Christ, Marie. You know they give me gas.

Hell, I could open up my own Mobil station with all the gas you give me.” He chortled at his own

joke, then called out, “Be my guest, Rose. I’m going out anyway. I’ll grab a bite down at

Tony’s.” Tony’s was the local beer joint.

Marie shot him a dark look, then bent to scoop up the baby. Little Gabe was howling, head

thrown back, mouth open so wide Rose could see not only his four little teeth and glistening

gums, but all the way back to his tonsils.

“What did you do to him?” Marie snapped at Bobby, now innocently absorbed in unraveling a

long curly strand from the olive-colored carpet where it had come untacked from the floor.

Bobby stuck out his lower lip. “He hit me first.
Hard,
too. With his bottle.”

“
I’ll
hit you, next time,” Marie said. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Bobby shot Gabe a murderous look, and went back to his unraveling. He had dark hair like his

father, and small, angry eyes.

Rose went over, and hunkered down next to him. “Hey, Bobby. I brought you something.”

She fished a tiny paper umbrella from the pocket of her raincoat, the kind Polynesian

restaurants put into mixed drinks. Mr. Griffin had brought it back from a lunch at Trader Vic’s.

For luck, he’d said with a grin, dropping it on her desk.

And then he’d told her about his friend Sam Blankenship and the Phipps Foundation, the

possibility of a scholarship for college and maybe for law school too if she wanted to go that far.

What a dear man Mr. Griffin was. Holy Mother, wouldn’t that be something, studying philosophy

and Shakespeare, and learning French maybe ... though God knows where she’d ever use French.

Still, how wonderful if she could. ...

[208] But then her bright fantasy faded.

What difference would any of it make without Brian?

Four months, dear God, and not one letter.
Could he have forgotten me? Has he stopped

caring?

No, not true, she would not let herself believe that. There
had
to be an explanation. Rose

swallowed hard against the tight, aching knot in her throat.
No more tears,
she told herself.

You’ve cried enough. Any more and you’ll be running into a serious salt deficiency.

Bobby was staring at the little umbrella suspiciously. “Does Gabe and Missy get one, too?”

“Just you,” she said. “But don’t tell. It’s our secret.”

He smiled then, like the sun breaking through a bank of thunderclouds. And Rose felt her heart

lift a little.

“You’d make a good mother,” Marie said as they were sitting at the yellow Formica table in

the kitchen, drinking their coffee. She sounded wistful, Rose thought. As if she didn’t quite

believe in such a thing, as if good mothers were like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus.

“Why not? Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. I could give them all a try.”

Rose again thought of Max—he had insisted she call him Max, not Mr. Griffin (it seemed a

little silly, he’d said, after they’d come so close to getting killed together). She’d been worried

when he summoned her into his office the following morning—after all, it had been
her
bright

idea to take the Cyclone for a spin. But he hadn’t said one word about it. Instead he told her he

might have a bit of a surprise for her after lunch. And that afternoon, when he told her about the

possibility of a scholarship, Rose had been so overwhelmed she hadn’t been able to say a word

except “Thank you.”

She told Marie about it, trying to keep the great excitement she felt out of her voice.

So fierce was the expression that then came over Marie’s battered face that Rose was stunned.

Her sister’s mouth trembled, and the slit where her left eye peeked through the ghastly swollen

flesh glittered like stainless steel.

“Do it,” she hissed, leaning forward, her thin hands clutched about the coffee mug set before

her. “For Jesus’ fucking sake, Rose, a chance like this won’t ever come again. College. I wish to

God
I
had that chance. Don’t waste it like I did, Rose. Don’t do anything stupid.”

[209] A tear formed on the pale blue of her sister’s good eye. A hard tear like ice that didn’t

fall. Rose felt a wave of sorrow for her sister, trapped in this apartment, this kitchen littered with

dirty dishes and toast crumbs, the only dream within Marie’s reach the marked-up Help Wanted

columns of the
Times
folded out on the table next to a Bic banana.

“Nothing’s for certain yet,” she said. “Mr. Griffin—Max, I mean—just had lunch with this

man. It probably won’t amount to anything. Besides, I’d still have to work at least part time, and

if I did that, plus school, who would look after Nonnie?”

Marie slumped back in her chair, eyes dull, as if the effort of thinking back over her own

missed chances had drained her. In a bitter voice, she said, “You asked me why I called? Well,

maybe when I tell you, you’ll think twice about wasting your life playing Florence Nightingale to

our dear Nonnie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This, that’s what.” Marie got up, yanked open a drawer full of old rubber bands, plastic baby

bottle stoppers, strips of twist ties. She rummaged in back, then pulled out a handful of letters,

wafer-thin blue airmail envelopes tied together with grocery string.

The top one was stamped with half a dozen postmarks and addressed to her in Brian’s tight,

spiky scrawl.

Rose’s temples began to pound thickly. There was a humming, staticky noise inside her head,

and she suddenly felt quite dizzy.

She reached out with a trembling hand to take the bundle of envelopes from Marie, and the

solidness of it after so many days and nights of empty longing, the cool crinkly paper against her

skin, her name scrawled in Brian’s hand leaping out at her, sent the dizziness spiraling up and up.

Oh, merciful God, he didn’t forget.

“How did you get these?” she managed to ask in a shaky voice. But for one delirious instant,

she didn’t even care. All that mattered was the letters in her hand. Her heart was racing.
Oh God,

dear God, he loves me, he still loves me.

Marie folded her bony arms across her chest. “I did what you been nagging me to do all these

months. I was out shopping, and I thought what the hell, okay, I’ll drop in on the old lady just this

once. And boy was she glad to see me. Just couldn’t stop talking. The words weren’t so clear, just