Mrs. Kimble (30 page)

Is it just me? he wondered. Am I the only one who sees through him?

He took his plate to the kitchen, thinking of Dinah and Brendan alone on Christmas. He wondered how she’d explained it to the kid, where you’d even begin. How do you tell a kid his father is a criminal?

The kid. He, at least, would believe it; he wouldn’t try to defend the man. My brother, Charlie thought.

Maybe that’s what it took to see through a fraud like Ken Kimble. Maybe you had to be his son.

T
he newspaper sat on the lawn. Dinah peered out the window. The crowd of reporters had dispersed, though a strange green sedan still idled in the neighbor’s driveway.

She decided to risk it.

She opened the door and hurried across the lawn. A short, stocky man got out of the car and ran toward her.

“Mrs. Kimble,” he called. “I need to talk with you.”

She grabbed the paper and ran back inside, slamming the door behind her. At the kitchen table she tore through the editorial pages. For two days straight there had been letters to the editor from Ken’s former clients, low-income families who’d bought houses from the Homes Project. Charmaine Watkins’s house wasn’t the only one with problems. The others had faulty wiring, leaky roofs, appliances that didn’t work.

She’d heard about the fire the day after Christmas. Early that morning a reporter had rung the doorbell. The cul-de-sac was crowded with cars; a van idled in the driveway.

“Mrs. Kimble?” the reporter had said. “Do you have any comment on the fire at the Watkinses’ house?”

“Fire?” she said stupidly. “What fire?”

She saw it on the news later that morning: the blackened remains of the house, where a child had died because Ken wouldn’t fix a furnace. She remembered Charmaine Watkins waiting in Ken’s office, the infant asleep on her shoulder: his halo of dark hair, his perfect rosebud mouth. She thought, My husband killed that child.

The next day she’d called the investigators at HUD. “I want to meet with you,” she said. “I want to get to the bottom of this.” At their meeting the fire was barely mentioned; HUD was more interested in Ken’s financial affairs. Apparently the Homes Project was nothing but a scam, a way to collect federal mortgage insurance. Ken had sold houses to people who couldn’t afford them, had even loaned them money for their down payments. Most of his clients defaulted; when they did, he collected the mortgage insurance from HUD and resold the houses to someone else.

Dinah sat at the table, head in her hands, listening to the gentle noises of her house: the central air purifier, which made dusting unnecessary; the quiet hum of the dishwasher. She had no idea how Ken had paid for these luxuries. She’d never even wondered.

When the phone rang she let the machine pick up. Another reporter, she supposed, asking again when Ken would return. She was tired of saying she didn’t know.

“You’ve reached the Kimbles,” said her own voice, slightly distorted on the tape. “We’re not here now, but please leave a message.”

“Dinah?” A male voice, deep and resonant. “It’s Wayne. Call when you get this. I saw the paper and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

She closed her eyes. Facing him was impossible, given what they both knew: that her husband was a fraud, that she was a fool. For years she’d lived alongside Ken, never suspecting. She had profited from his schemes; in a way she’d even collaborated. She thought of the Man of the Year dinner, the photograph that had appeared on the society page, her hanging on Ken’s arm in the sleazy dress he’d bought her.

She glanced at the clock. Brendan had gone to his tutor’s for a math lesson; soon she’d have to pick him up. She had already told him everything she knew: the fire, the baby’s death, the HUD investigation into his father’s affairs.
He doesn’t need to know this,
a voice inside her said.
He shouldn’t hear these things about his father.
For once she ignored the voice. The story was all over the television, the papers. She could not shield him from it.

Brendan had listened, stone-faced. “Was it his fault?” he asked finally.

“It looks that way,” said Dinah. “We don’t know for sure.”

“He isn’t coming back,” said Brendan.

“He wouldn’t just disappear.”

He considered this for a moment. Then: “If they find him, will he go to jail?”

“He might.”

Brendan turned away from her.

“They won’t find him,” he said.

S
HE PUT ON
her coat and hat, dark glasses to hide her eyes. In the garage she started her car, then opened the automatic door. The same green sedan was parked on the street, blocking her driveway. The stocky man got out of the car.

“Mrs. Kimble,” he called. “I’ve been waiting all day to talk with you.”

She rolled down her window. “Please move your car.”

“First let me talk to you.”

“Please.” She glanced at the clock in the dashboard. “I need to pick up my son.”

“I have to talk to you about your husband.”

“MOVE YOUR CAR!” Tears rained down her face. “Right now, or I’ll back into you. You think I’m kidding?” She threw the car into reverse and backed down the driveway. The brakes screeched, the bumper inches from the sedan’s side panel. The cool air reeked of rubber.

The man got into his car and disappeared down the cul-de-sac.

O
n New Year’s Eve Charlie packed a box with things Anne-Sophie had forgotten: the cookbook, the hair clip, a silk kimono she’d left hanging from the bathroom door, still smelling of her perfume. He had no plans for the evening; there was nothing to celebrate. A coworker had invited him to a party, but showing up alone was impossible; he dreaded the sympathetic looks, the gentle inquiries about what had gone wrong. I’m what went wrong, he thought. He was defective in some basic way, broken in places that couldn’t be fixed.

He found the address easily, an old brick apartment building off Dupont Circle. Anne-Sophie had lived in this same neighborhood when they first met. After moving in with Charlie, she’d commuted to Washington every day from Baltimore, forty minutes each way by train. She’d never complained. She was happy to merge her life with his.

He parked on the street and stood in front of the building, holding the box of her things. Her new apartment was on the second floor. The lights were on; shadows moved behind the bright curtains.

He buzzed her apartment from the lobby. “Come in,” said her
voice over the intercom. She ought to know better, he thought. The city was full of freaks and predators. She ought to at least have asked who it was.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor. Anne-Sophie’s door was open a crack; through it he heard soft jazz, voices, laughter. She was having a party. He left the box outside her door.

Afterward he sat in his car for a long time. The night was cold and clear; soon the fireworks display would begin on the Mall. He thought of Dinah and Brendan alone in the big house, another wife and kid his father had left behind. He considered calling them but decided against it; for a week he’d carried their phone number around in his wallet. He still hadn’t used it. What in God’s name would he say?

He took his mobile phone from the glove compartment and dialed Jody’s number. She’d invited him to watch the fireworks with her and Russell. He couldn’t think of a more depressing way to spend New Year’s.

She answered on the first ring. “It’s about time,” she snapped. “Where the hell are you?”

“Relax, Jo. It’s just me.” For just an instant he felt sorry for Russell. That poor bastard’s in for it, he thought.

“I’m at Anne-Sophie’s,” he said. “I came to drop off her stuff.” A golden light appeared in the sky, followed by a tremendous boom. “Hear that? They just started the fireworks.”

“Come on over,” said Jody. “Russell should be here any minute.”

“Nah, that’s all right.” Charlie reached into his wallet and fingered the slip of paper.
Dinah and Brendan
. “I’m wiped out. I think I’ll just head home.”

A shower of red exploded in the sky, leaving traces in the air.

O
N
N
EW
Y
EAR’S
E
VE
Dinah packed Ken’s clothes in a box: shoes, sweaters, winter coats. His suits she zippered into garment bags. On January 2 the whole mess would go to Goodwill. She knew he would never return.

The house was silent around her. For the first time in fifteen years, she was alone on New Year’s Eve. Brendan was spending the night at Sean Guthrie’s. Sean and another boy had come to pick him up; Dinah had watched the Jeep back out of the driveway and accelerate down the street. She’d been doing it too much lately, watching Brendan leave. One day she would see him for the last time; recent events had taught her that the day wouldn’t announce itself. She had no memory of her last morning with Ken: whether they’d quarreled, whether she’d kissed him good-bye.

She sealed the box of clothes and glanced at the clock, thinking of Wayne. Parties would be starting; those with plans for the evening had already arrived at their destinations. She wondered if he had a date.

For the third time that evening, she dialed his number. This time she waited for the machine and left a message.

“It’s me,” she said, her voice quavering. “I called to wish you a happy new year.”

She hung up the phone. I’ll never be free, she thought. And then: How can I get a divorce if I can’t even find him?

The doorbell startled her. Wayne: it had to be. She ran a hand through her hair and threw open the door. A short, stocky man stood on the step: the man from the green sedan.

“Mrs. Kimble,” he said. “At last.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she said, closing the door. “Don’t you people have the night off?”

“Wait.” The man grabbed the door handle. Dinah felt a flash of fear. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and large hands. She’d been an idiot to open the door.

“Who are you?” she said. The neighbors’ windows were dark; if she screamed, nobody would hear.

“It’s not what you think.” He had dark curly hair; his brown eyes looked unnaturally large behind his glasses. She made a mental note in case she had to describe him to the police.

“I’m not a reporter,” he said. “I’m a relative of your husband’s.”

“A relative?” She stared at him: the stout frame, the round face. He couldn’t have looked less like Ken.

“Please,” he said. “Let me come in. Here.” He took off his glasses and handed them to her. “I can’t see a damn thing. There’s no way I can rape and murder you. I’m completely helpless.”

She took the glasses, her heart racing. This is insane, she thought; but she couldn’t help herself. The thought that Ken might have a relative fascinated her.

“Come in,” she said.

In the living room they sat on the sofa. The man reached for his wallet. “Before we start, some visual aids.” He handed her a worn photo.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“My sister,” he said. “That’s Joan.”

She stared at him, confused.

“Your husband’s former wife.”

Dinah studied the photo—square, with a white border. The woman was dark, with the bouffant hairdo of twenty years ago.
She sat next to a swimming pool in a colorful caftan, her shapely legs crossed at the knees.

“My name is Ben Cohen,” he said. “I live across the river, in Bethesda. I haven’t seen your husband in years, but I’ve always wondered what happened to him. When I saw all this business in the newspaper, I had to get in touch with you.”

Dinah handed him his glasses. “You knew Ken?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He’s a hard guy to know.”

You’re telling me, she thought.

“He and Joan were only married for a few years. I met him two, three times.” Cohen put on the glasses. “The first time was at my father’s house in Florida. My father died that year, and my sister was staying in his house.

“I flew down from New York to see her at Christmas, and there she was, living in my father’s house with this guy she’d just met. I was shocked. It was 1969. You didn’t see many unmarried couples living together in those days, and Joan—she wasn’t that kind of person. You’re probably not old enough to remember how it was, but that’s how it was.”

Dinah nodded, calculating. In 1969 she was fourteen years old, living in Richmond, still baby-sitting for Ken’s children. He had run away with Moira Snell that spring. Yet by Christmas he’d already moved in with Joan.

“It was bizarre.” Cohen leaned forward in his chair. “I could see she was crazy about this guy, but he wasn’t her usual type. She was very sophisticated; she had traveled all over the world—London, Paris, you name it. I was used to her dating lawyers, Wall Street guys. But this one had long hair and a beard. A hippie.” He sat back in his chair. “That was the first time I met your husband.”

Dinah blinked. For no reason she thought of Ken shaving, the meticulous way he went over his long face, how he never missed a hair. Ken with a beard seemed impossible.

“Mrs. Kimble?” said Cohen. “Are you with me?”

Dinah hugged her sweater around her; she was suddenly freezing. “Yes. Please go on.”

“Well. I went back to New York, and a few months later I got a wedding invitation in the mail. In the mail! Her own brother, and she couldn’t even call and tell me herself.”

“How strange,” said Dinah.

“It was,” Cohen agreed. “But what could I do? She was my sister. So I got on a plane and flew down there for the wedding.”

The wedding: Ken’s second. It was a strange thought. Dinah had never told anyone she was Ken’s third wife; even her own parents didn’t know. There was no reason they should, she’d rationalized; but the truth was more complicated. She and Ken had promised each other their lives; that he’d already made this vow to two other women cast doubt on its seriousness. Her parents, had they known, would have questioned the worth of her marriage. On some level she’d felt the same way.

“Well.” Cohen rubbed his hands together. “I show up at the wedding, I take one look at the groom and I can’t believe it. He’s a changed man. He’s shaved off the beard, he’s working for my uncle Floyd selling real estate, and guess what? He’s a Jew!”

“What?” said Dinah.

“You heard me.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. “He used to be a minister, for God’s sake. A college chaplain. He worked with my father.”

Cohen burst into laughter.

“A minister! I knew the guy was a fraud, but I had no idea.” He shook his head. “That’s some chutzpah.”

“I don’t get it,” said Dinah. “Why would he pretend to be Jewish?”

Cohen chuckled. “You’d have to know my uncle Floyd. He was a tough customer. Never finished the eighth grade, and he died a millionaire. He had two rules in life: pinch a penny until it screams, and never do business outside the tribe.” He adjusted his glasses. “Your husband’s a smart guy. I’m sure he picked up on that right away. It worked, too. Uncle Floyd loved him like a son.”

“That’s incredible,” said Dinah.

“No kidding! He looked about as Jewish as you do. I don’t know how he pulled it off. Anyway,” he continued. “The wedding. The guy fakes his way through the ceremony, and afterward I find out Uncle Floyd has handed him the keys to the kingdom. The guy’s selling real estate, which makes sense—he’s a born salesman. And he and Joan are living in my dad’s house, this ridiculous
Gone With the Wind
mansion. Unbelievable.” He broke off.

“At least that’s how I felt at the time. I was living in New York then, working at a homeless shelter, what they used to call a soup kitchen; handing out overcoats to homeless people, which they used to call bums.” He smiled. “I was disgusted by my father’s money, like any good hippie would be.”

He clapped his hands, as if a genie would appear.

“But not this one! Here’s this old beatnik my sister dug up God knows where, wearing a suit, spending my father’s money. My father who worked himself to death so he’d have something to leave his kids.” He stopped for a breath. “As you can see, it bothered me. I didn’t want the money myself. But I didn’t want this guy to have it either.”

Dinah nodded. Suddenly it was something she could picture, Ken in Florida selling real estate, wearing a suit, living with Joan in a
Gone With the Wind
house. A picture of her husband emerged like a fresh Polaroid, an image appearing from swirls of gray.

“Then what happened?” she asked.

Cohen shrugged. “Who knows? For three, four years I barely heard from her. Birthday cards, holidays. Finally she does call me and tells me she’s dying.”

He removed his glasses. Without them his dark eyes were delicate as a bird’s.

“She had cancer,” Dinah said softly.

“Breast cancer. For the second time.” Cohen’s eyes brushed hers. “She never told anybody about the first time. Apparently it was why she left New York in the first place. She had the mastectomy all by herself and just left. None of us had any idea. Except your husband, I suppose. He was the only one who knew.”

He replaced his glasses.

“I can’t blame him for what happened to Joan. My mother had breast cancer too; I guess it’s in the genes. But the guy took advantage of her. They spent, what, four years together? Five? And he walked away with millions.”

“That much?” said Dinah, reddening. “I knew she’d left him some money, but I had no idea.”

“It wasn’t just hers. Apparently he talked my uncle into making him a partner in the business. When Floyd died, your husband got everything.” Cohen chuckled. “Floyd’s kids weren’t too happy about it, I can tell you that. My cousin Ruth even hired a lawyer. I guess nothing ever came of it, though. Your husband knew he was in hot water. After Joan died he skipped town pretty fast.”

Dinah looked down at the engagement ring on her left hand, the four-carat diamond Ken had given her.

“He was an opportunist,” said Cohen. “Joan never saw it. She was in love with him.”

Dinah examined the photograph in her hand. “When was this taken?”

“Right after they were married. The spring of 1970. Joan was thirty-nine.”

“My age,” she said softly, studying the woman’s broad face, her lively dark eyes. “Who took this?”

“I imagine it was your husband.”

She handed back the photo. “Ken never talked about the past. I knew his wife had died, but that’s all. I never even knew her last name.”

Cohen nodded. “That’s why I came. I thought all this might interest you. I don’t think Joan knew much about him either. She said that he’d been married before. I believe there was a child.”