The Distance Between Us (21 page)

I studied the red birthmark on his back, on his left shoulder blade, in the shape of a half-moon, and tried to think of something appropriate to say under the circumstances. Nothing came to me. Arthur muttered something about “poor judgment all around,” but Caitlin didn’t hear him.

“Oh, you’re sorry, are you?” She gave Jeremy a brittle, phony smile. “Fine. That makes it all better, then. No hard feelings. We’ll just pretend like this never happened.”

“If I could take it back, I would, but I can’t.” He turned back to the table, chewing on his cheeks. “What else can I say?”

His apology, far from calming her down, incensed her further. Her voice became strident. “How about something along the lines of
‘I’m a complete piece of shit, Caitlin, and it’s no wonder Sarah dumped me, because I’m pathetic and scrawny and worthless?'”

His expression froze. “Tell me something, Caitlin.” He picked up
a fork and poked the tips of his fingers with the tines. “How soon after I left you that night were you guys humping again? Fifteen minutes? An hour? Have you and his wife ever had a threesome?”

Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her face. “You goddamn bastard.”

“Stop, Jeremy,” Paul muttered, surprising all of us. “That’s enough.”

Arthur gazed at me in helpless supplication from across the table, giving me his patented “For God’s sake, do something” look. I made a face at him and put my spoon down next to my cereal bowl, intending to go to Caitlin and hug her.

I never got the chance.

Caitlin leapt at Jeremy and landed on his back, and he crumpled under her assault and flew forward into the table, knocking it over. Everything on it went flying as Jeremy’s chair tipped over, too, and the next thing I knew Caitlin was sitting on top of him on the floor in a puddle of milk and tea and orange juice, slapping his face and shoulders with all her strength.

He didn’t fight back. He just allowed her to hit him, over and over, until Arthur and Paul finally lurched into motion and dragged her off.

Caitlin didn’t attempt to break away once they had her on her feet, and the three of them stood in shocked silence, looking down at Jeremy. I think Caitlin was as amazed as the rest of us at what had just occurred. I was still in my chair, immobilized, with an upside-down bowl of Rice Krispies in my lap.

Jeremy slowly sat up. His eyes were bright with disregarded tears. Caitlin had been hitting him hard enough to leave livid handprints all over his skin.

He cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his matted hair. “Well. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I really think we should do these family breakfasts more often.” He stared at the mess around him and sighed. “Is this what they mean by quality time?”

That was not a stellar day for the Donovan family.

But this sort of chaos wasn’t the norm in our household. It really wasn’t. We had many, many times together when nothing was broken,
and no sordid secrets were revealed, and no one hated anybody else. And in retrospect, the good times far outweighed the bad.

Honestly, they did.

It’s just that the bad times stick in the memory more, for some reason. And I believe they also point the way to understanding what happened, finally, to Jeremy. Good moments in one’s life are just that—good moments. They go nowhere, they just
are.
But bad moments have a clear destination. You may not know where they’re headed at the time, but later, when the story is fully told, they’re as easy to follow as footprints in the snow.

Anyway, as angry as Caitlin was that morning, she eventually forgave Jeremy, because most of the time he was as good as gold, and when Jeremy was killed no one took it worse than she did, not even Paul.

Oh, dear. There I go again.

I’m lying, of course.

One person took it far, far worse.

And that’s as it should be, really. After all, when you’re the party most directly responsible for another’s death, you should be the one who suffers the most, don’t you agree?

“I
’m driving.” Alex reaches for my car keys when I remove them from my purse in the entryway.

“You most certainly are not,” I snap, holding them away from him.

We’re on our way to the grocery store. It’s mid-afternoon on a Monday and ordinarily I’d be teaching and he’d be in class, but Bonnie Norton still hasn’t called to give me permission to return to work, and Alex is playing hooky from Pritchard, for fear of running into Eric.

He puts his hands on his hips. “Hester. There’s freezing rain all over the roads today. It’ll be really slick out.”

“I’m fully aware of the condition of the roads,” I sniff. “Which is why I’m the one who should be driving. I have far more experience behind the wheel.”

“Maybe,” he mutters, “but you still drive like shit.”

I bristle and he rushes to head off the explosion. “I’m just saying I’m a really good winter driver. You can pretend I’m your chauffeur and order me around and stuff, like in that old chick flick my mom used to watch all the time.
Driving Miss Doofus,
or something like that.”

I shake my fist at him. “I have no need of a chauffeur! I’m an excellent driver, no matter the weather.” As fond as I’m becoming of him, I will not allow him to treat me in this fashion. “And if I were
you, I’d begin groveling immediately, unless you intend to to walk to the grocery store.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m just trying to help.”

“That may be, but I require no assistance from a chauvinistic young man who is getting much too big for his britches. Do I make myself clear?”

I’m more on edge than I should be. Tomorrow is the pretrial conference with Arthur and our lawyers, and worrying about it is making me irritable.

He grimaces. “Okay, fine, whatever. You drive. But I’m going to wear a motorcycle helmet and ride in the back seat.”

As infuriating as his attitude is, I must say I’m pleased to see him put up a bit of a fight. When he finally went to bed after our heart-to-heart, pre-dawn discussion this morning at the kitchen table, he trailed up the stairs to his apartment like a zombie. Yet here he is a mere nine and a half hours laters, bruised and rumpled—and highly annoying—but at least functional.

I wave him outside. “Be a dear and go open the carriage house door for me,” I grate. “Then stand perfectly still in the middle of the driveway, so I can run over you.”

He steps out on the porch and shivers as the cold wind hits him. “You might want to hold off on that,” he grunts as I follow after him. “What if you get stuck in a snow bank and need a push or something?”

He glances over his shoulder and flashes an insolent grin at me.

I grit my teeth. “Just hurry up and get in the car.”

“Peanut butter and soy sauce?” I eye his corner of the grocery cart. “Is that all you’re purchasing?”

He shrugs. “I’m getting bread, too, and some toilet paper.”

“I see. You’ve got all the major food groups covered, then.” I frown up at him. “No wonder you’re so thin. You’re living on a starvation diet.”

Bolton’s sole grocery store is a Hy-Vee, and it’s clean and pleasant, but quite small. If I were more interested in cooking, as is my daughter, I’d be forced to venture up to St. Louis on a regular basis
to acquire more exotic fare, but since most of what I eat is either frozen or canned, this little market suits my needs.

Alex yawns. “I’ve got rice and beans at home, and milk, and some fruit and lettuce. I eat fine.” He picks up a jar of pickles, then puts it back on the shelves. “Besides, I’m kind of on a tight budget.”

His parents should be boiled alive for cutting him off as they have. It’s a miracle he’s managed to put together enough financial aid to keep a roof over his head, let alone food in his non-existent belly.

He makes a face as we pass the meat counter. “Beef,” he reads aloud. “Poultry. Pork.” He rolls his eyes. “I guess it wouldn’t sell as well if they were honest and said what it really is, right? Butchered Cow. Plucked Bird. Slaughtered Pig.”

Other than this bit of vegetarian snobbery, he’s been almost totally silent since our mild spat at the house regarding my driving. I don’t believe he’s upset with me (although he did make an obnoxious show of covering both eyes with his hands when I brushed up against the highway median near an intersection on our way here), but his mood feels heavy again, as if his trouble with Eric is consuming him. I try to distract him.

“So have there been any new developments in your creative writing class since we last spoke of it?” I pretend to be absorbed in my shopping list. “Has my daughter disemboweled anybody recently?”

Before he can answer, Karla Greenbauer, my accountant’s secretary, rolls by with a cart full of red meat and M&M’s, and stops to greet me. I merely nod at her and keep walking to avoid a conversation. Once we’re safely away, Alex glances down at me with an inquiring expression.

I reach for some horseradish. “That woman will talk your head off. I once said hello to her and she latched onto my ear like a deer tick.” The horseradish joins the honey mustard and the capons in a corner by my purse, and we turn the corner to enter the bread aisle. “So tell me about Caitlin’s class.”

Alex rubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “There’s not much to tell. Especially considering that I skipped this morning.”

“Oh, yes.” I stand on my toes to retrieve a box of croutons from the top shelf. “I forgot. I imagine you’ll be caned for that.”

“Nah.” He pauses by the bread rack and tugs off a loaf of Roman Meal. “She’ll just lecture me in front of the class next time, and threaten to give my scholarship to somebody else.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and his tone abruptly changes as he does a startling imitation of Caitlin.
“Don’t think for a moment you’re exempt from playing by the rules, young man, no matter whom you’re unfortunate enough to have for a landlord. Do we understand one another?”

His impression is perfect, down to my daughter’s icy, imperious glare and her flawless, haughty diction.

I stop still and laugh, even though it doesn’t escape my notice that Caitlin must have said something much along these lines for him to ape her so well now. “That’s quite impressive, dear. You’re a gifted mimic. For a moment there I was afraid I’d given birth to you.”

He flushes a bit, smiling. “When I imitated her for Eric he about split a gut laughing.” He starts to say something else, stops, then decides to keep on talking. “He doesn’t like her very much at all,” he confides. “He thinks she’s a total whack-job.”

His smile is gone as fast as it appeared. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Not to worry.” I pat his arm. “Truer words were never spoken.”

Poor Caitlin. It saddens me to hear her students are so aware of her shortcomings. You’d think a brilliant woman like her might be better able to conceal the less savory aspects of her personality, but a duck could sooner type the Magna Carta than Caitlin could repress her chronic hostility.

I’ve never agreed with the theory that one’s faults make one endearing to others. People are drawn to strength and repulsed by weakness; vulnerability is only attractive when it’s something cute and inoffensive, like having a soft spot for teddy bears, or an uncontrollable midnight craving for chocolate macaroons.

But Caitlin is all too much her mother’s daughter, and she inherited the worst aspects of my temper, and then some. And a bad
temper is neither cute nor inoffensive, and it’s harder to hide than a clubfoot.

“Hester?”

Alex is watching me, looking chagrined. He probably thinks he’s the cause of my sudden mood shift.

I pat him again. “I’m fine, dear. My mind just wandered off.” I commence walking again, pushing the cart in front of me. “I’m done in this aisle, I believe. Let’s head on to the tea section, shall we?”

We turn the corner and nearly collide with another cart coming the other way. I look up to apologize to whomever is driving it, and my breath catches in my throat.

It’s Caitlin herself, looming up next to a Campbell’s soup display, as if I had conjured her out of thin air simply by thinking about her.

I’m too flustered to greet her at first, and she stares at the two of us for a long time before speaking. “Hello, Hester,” she says at last. She sets a can of New England clam chowder in the kiddie seat of her cart and narrows her eyes at Alex. “Hello, Alex.”

She’s wearing a knee-length, coal-black coat and a bright wool scarf the same color as Alex’s crimson hair.

Alex mutters hi and fiddles with a price tag on a shelf.

Her cart only has a few items in it; I see milk and eggs and some wheat germ, all lined up on one side of the basket like children at a playground fence.

“Why, hello there, Caitlin.” I force a smile. “How good to see you again so soon after our last encounter.”

She runs a hand through her thick black hair. “I feel blessed.” Her tone is corrosive. “I would have thought you’d be at home, sharpening your claws for the pretrial conference tomorrow.”

I have no idea how she knows about
that,
considering she doesn’t speak to either Arthur or Paul.

“I haven’t seen you here in years, dear. Don’t you usually shop in the big city?”

She doesn’t bother to answer me; she’s too busy studying the boy. “You missed class today, Alex. I assumed you were sick.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m sorry, I just overslept.” He glances over at me. “I forgot something. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

His discomfort is so obvious I can’t help but be amused. I nod at him and he touches me on the arm before beating a hasty retreat around the corner, leaving Caitlin and me staring after him.

I sigh. “I think he’s in mortal terror of you, dear. Whatever do you do to your students?”

She scowls. “I expect them to show up. I expect them to work.” She adjusts her scarf with impatience. “I awarded Alex a sizable scholarship to allow him to transfer here this semester, but I fear that was a mistake. He’s lazy and irresponsible, and he seems to be making a series of poor choices.” Her eyes flit to my forearm, where the boy rested his fingers a moment ago. “Especially when it comes to selecting his friends.”