The Guilty One (34 page)

“Okay,” Maris agreed.

ON THE WAY
home, Pet fell asleep, snoring softly, but she woke up when Maris had to swerve to get out of the way of a car changing lanes at the 580 split.

“So. You okay?” Pet asked.

“I'm fine.”

“It wasn't that bad, right?”

Maris smiled in the darkened car. “It wasn't terrible.” After a few minutes she added, “Jared seemed okay.”

“You still hate Jeff?”

“Well, yeah, for some things, anyway. But maybe not, you know, like, forever.”

“Okay. Good.” Pet yawned and turned her face against the window. “Wake me up when we're home.”

MARIS HAD BOUGHT
Alana a gift when she was out shopping on Piedmont: a T-shirt with the phrase I Hella ♥ Oakland over an outline of the famous shipping cranes. It had seemed funny in the store, but as she slipped the tissue-wrapped package into her purse, she wasn't so sure. She'd just wait and see how the lunch went. She had some making up to do—and she still hadn't decided what to tell Alana about her future plans.

When she came out to the drive, she saw Norris kneeling next to the mailbox, pulling weeds around the post.

“Oh, hey,” he said, standing. “I just wanted to tell you again. Thank you, for, you know, taking care of everything. I've got your cash upstairs, give me a minute and I'll go get it.”

“No, just hang on to it.” Maris sucked in her breath. Was she really doing this? “I was thinking you could apply it to my rent. If you don't mind.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I think. I mean, I've invested a lot of Comet in this place.”

“Well. That would be nice. Real nice. Me and my ladies, that'll keep Duchess on her toes. And maybe get George over to visit a little more often. Speak of the devil.”

Maris followed his gaze; rolling slowly past the house was George's familiar tan-and-brown truck.

If she made a dash for it—

If only she'd thought this through before committing to staying—

Or maybe he'd get the hint and find some other, more appropriate woman—

“Hey, real quick, speaking of Duchess,” Norris said in a low voice, ducking in close. “She and I had a talk. She thinks—I mean,
I
think—I'm going to take a little time off in August and go see my girls.”

“Really? Oh, I'm so happy to hear that.”

“Yeah, I figure if I just show up, they can't exactly refuse to see me.”

“Norris. You're doing the right thing. Really, I'm so proud of you.”

“Okay, all right, okay,” he said, tugging her hand off his arm. “Your date's here, though, so you might ought to go tend to him.”

“I'm not her date,” George said. He was hesitating on the drive, a large black plastic case in one hand. He was wearing a silky blue shirt and Maris caught a faint whiff of aftershave. The scent, etched forever on her memory, instantly turned her insides to jelly. “I'm just returning your drill.”

“
My
drill?” Norris demanded, laughing. “The one you borrowed two years ago? The one you're always saying you can't find? That you accused me of forgetting who I lent it to?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” George said, his cheeks flushing pink.

“You two can stand out here and jaw all day,” Norris said, taking the case and heading up the porch steps. “I've got important things to do.”

Once he disappeared inside, George cleared his throat. Maris was afraid he was going to turn around and leave.

“I owe you an apology,” she blurted. “It's kind of a long story.” She stared at the pearl buttons of his shirt, unable to look into those amber-brown eyes, afraid she'd lose her place, her momentum. “Two things. First, my name isn't really Mary. But I'm thinking of changing it. And second, if you're not busy right now, how would you like to meet my sister?”

RON WAS UP
early, as he was every Saturday these days. He'd found a new rhythm for the weekends, now that he was going to the prison on Sundays with Deb. At first it was a patch for his nerves, a way to steady himself, to remind himself that he could get through the visit. Now that all these weeks had gone by, it was taking on the pleasant feel of ritual.

First he took a long run out past the townhouses they were putting up down Black Canyon Road, past the old pear orchard and around back by the middle school. By then, the farmer's market was getting under way, and he bought two large cinnamon scones and a bag of ground coffee from the redheaded grandmother who came down from Petaluma to sell her baked goods. Once home, he brewed the coffee and set the scones on plates. For the last two weeks, he'd snipped roses from the garden and put them in a vase on the table. All week long he'd had his eye on a few fat pink buds on the bush by the garage; today they should just be starting to open. He'd picked up a couple of books for Karl; he had no idea if his son would read or even appreciate them, but the guy at the store had taken some time with him and showed him what they were doing with graphic novels these days. Deb said that Karl was drawing, and if his son hadn't gotten around to showing him his work yet—if the boy still wouldn't look him in the eye—so what? It wasn't like either of them was going anywhere anytime soon.

Ron dressed in his shorts and T-shirt, took one last look at his wife sleeping with her hand curled up under her chin, and headed downstairs. He opened the front door and nearly tripped over a woman sitting on his front step.

Then he saw who it was, and swallowed hard.

“JESUS,” RON MUTTERED.

Maris jumped up, patting the dust from her shorts, and turned to face him. “Ron, I'm so sorry, I didn't—”

She'd thought about this moment so many times. Seeing him again, after—after they'd each gone back to the lives that had been left to them like fast-food wrappers stuck to the bottom of a trash can. The ones left behind, abandoned, condemned to a life that wasn't really living.

And maybe that's what she would have found if she'd come here six months ago. Or even three.

But the man who'd emerged from this pleasant fortress didn't look all that destroyed.

“I was just going for a run.” He gestured—at the street, the hill, anything.

“I know I shouldn't just show up like this. With no warning. I just thought, I wasn't sure you'd—I wanted to see you in person.”

“Well.” Ron put a hand to his face, rubbed at his eyes. The skin there seemed slacker than it had during the trial. Or before, that one time Maris had been with Ron when he'd seemed truly unguarded. “After what I pulled—the bridge thing. I mean, I don't even know where to start, to apologize.”

“No, look, that's not why I'm here.” She looked down the street, at the cul de sac where someone had left orange traffic cones out so their kids could play safely. “Um, do you mind if we walk?”

“No. Sure.” They fell in step, along the sidewalk to where the trail joined up with the street. Ron was in good shape; he barely seemed to mind the incline that left her breathing hard.

When they had climbed halfway up the hill on the trail, their shoes stirring up little clouds of dirt, Maris stopped.

“This is far enough. I don't have a lot to say, I just didn't . . . I don't know, I still feel so exposed, you know?”

“Yeah,” he said, and Maris knew he understood completely. Maybe everyone who'd ever been at the center of a news story or a scandal felt the same way: as though around every corner, in every crowd, someone waited to expose them, to broadcast their most private pain.

“Look. I've had an interesting few months. Jeff and I are splitting up, for one thing.”

“I . . . I heard.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I guess I'm not really surprised.”

“Oh, God—you knew he was gay too?”

“What? No, I only meant—”

“No, it's okay.” Maris sighed. “It's just if one more person tells me that they always suspected . . . He
is
gay, I guess I should start with that. He's moved in with his boyfriend.
Boyfriend
, it just still sounds funny to me, you know?”

“Uh, I can imagine.”

“I mean, it's okay. Really. It was hard at first, because
I
didn't suspect. I mean, deep down, yeah, I guess I'd wondered, but . . . let's just say I never dreamed the day would come when I was invited to sign the documents for the sale of my former house at my ex-husband's apartment, while his lover served me coffee using my own wedding china.” She laughed. “That's actually pretty good. I should write about that.”

“Write? Like for publication?”

“No, no, not yet anyway.” Maris hadn't really meant to bring it up. Even if it felt good, revealing this little glimpse into the life she was leading now. “Although I'm thinking of submitting something if I can get it polished the way I wanted. I'm taking a class . . . but it's only my first one, I'm just starting.”

“You went back to school?”

“Just a class at the community college. For now. I'm working, though. In Oakland. I'm an assistant produce manager at Village Hall—do you know it?”

“That fancy market by the BART station?”

“My boss would die if she could hear you. They prefer to think of themselves as a ‘collection of boutique offerings.' ”

“Wow, that's quite a mouthful,” Ron said. He seemed to have relaxed. “Do they make you answer the phone that way?”

“Ha, probably. I don't use a phone, though. All of the assistant managers use tablets. It's very hipster, practically everyone has tattoos and rides their bike to work . . . I'm like the mother hen.”

The word
mother
hung between them; Maris felt her face freeze, her heart's rhythm staggered.

“I do love it, though,” she went on. She could do this. She'd already proved to herself that she was braver than she'd ever imagined, when she and Alana finally went through Calla's things, getting ready to sell the house. It hadn't been easy, but she'd done it. She'd survived. “I'm living in an apartment for the first time since I was getting my teaching certificate. I can eat popcorn for dinner if I want. I'm thinking of getting a cat. A shelter cat.”

“That's great, Maris,” Ron said, seeming sincere.

“Ron, how are you guys doing?” she asked. It was the question she'd come here to find the answer to, the key to the serenity she'd been toying with giving in to. “Really?”

Ron frowned and stared at the ground. He pushed his toe over a bent weed, crushing its fragile blossoms. “Well, it's not something I ever expected to have to do. Rebuild a relationship with my son before he's even old enough to drink. Ask him for another chance when he was the one who blew up our lives.”

“I . . . can only imagine.”

“I know. I know, Maris. That's why . . . I don't even know how to talk to you about this. They say Karl could still be out in five years. He'll be barely twenty-five.” He paused, giving Maris a chance to react.

Maris didn't need anyone to tell her the numbers. Numbers didn't mean anything anymore, when it came to Calla. Her daughter was with her in the morning, when she stepped out of her apartment as the sun was just beginning to rise up above the distant hills. She was with her during the hectic days at work, as Maris arranged shelves and helped customers and ended the day with a pleasant ache in her calves. She'd kept only a few of her daughter's things, and even those were still in their boxes in Norris's shed, wrapped lovingly in tissue and waiting for the day when Maris was ready to hold them in her hands. But the things didn't matter, anyway.

“I don't know what will happen,” Ron said. He cleared his throat. “I don't know . . . anything.”

“But that's why I'm here,” Maris said. She took a moment to center herself, to draw her mind to the place where she taught herself to linger. “Look, I don't have any big plan or goal. I'm not trying to forgive you or even Karl. I just . . . somehow, this summer, I started living again. I can't explain it. I could point to pieces, I could say that this thing or that thing made it easier. I mean, I've been dating someone, which I can't even believe . . . I'm going to start volunteering again in the fall. My sister and I are talking about going to Mexico for the holidays. What I'm trying to say is, there are good parts of my life now, things to look forward to, but that isn't what made the difference.”

Very gently, she placed her hand flat against his chest, over his heart.

“Before Calla died, I didn't know who I was. I guess that sounds like hyperbole, but I mean it literally. I didn't know how I had gotten to be me—forty-nine years old, married to a man who barely spoke to me, with a C-section scar and lactose intolerance and my dead mother's rosary in my jewelry box, staring down the next half of my life with no idea what to do with it. One of the last times Calla and I talked—I mean,
really
talked, one of those nights we stayed up for hours when I went in her room to say good night—I told her to never let a chance go by without thinking long and hard about taking it. She was having second thoughts about Santa Barbara—you know, typical fears for a sheltered only child, thinking she'd rather stay close to home. But the thing was, and I didn't even realize it then, I wasn't talking about her.

“I was talking about
me
. It was kind of my own pep talk to me. To be braver, to stop settling for good enough.”

She lowered her hand, warm from his skin through his shirt.

“And then, you know, for a while there I was just lost. I guess I don't need to tell you. I thought I hated Karl, I thought I hated you and Deb . . . Jeff, my sister, everyone. I just wanted the whole world to shut down and disappear. And then Jeff told me he was gay, that he'd been miserable for years, trying to keep it all going. He'd had an affair a couple of years ago and called it off when it got serious. Decided to recommit himself to me, to Calla. And then she died . . . and he said he just couldn't do it anymore. That there wasn't any more reason to lie. And at first I couldn't imagine anything more cruel. Because it made it sound like I was
nothing
, you know?”