The Last Secret (16 page)

“You did really hurt him,” Nora interrupts quietly. Both fathers stare with her unsporting comment, but she doesn't care. This was an ugly act of violence and she won't have it glossed over to salve the boy's guilt. They are the adults here, the parents. If they don't speak the truth, who will? “He has a concussion, a fractured rib, a broken tooth—”

“I know!” Clay breaks in, sobbing now. “I know what I did, and I feel real bad about it. I do, Drew. I mean that.”

Ken steps forward and for a sickening moment she is sure from his stricken gaze that he is going to embrace Clay. Instead, he puts his arm around his own son. “Why don't you shake his hand?” he asks gently.

Drew just stands there, looking so slight and miserable next to the men and the bigger boy that she feels like screaming at Ken, Leave him alone, why're you doing this?

“Please,” Clay says through tears, again offering his hand.

“Go ahead,” Ken urges.

Instead, Drew turns and makes his painful climb back up the stairs.

“Aw, he'll get over it,” Ken says with a pat on Clay's shoulder.

“Get over what?” Nora asks.

“Kids,” he says with a look of panic:
surely she won't make another scene.
“You know what I mean.”

“No. I don't.”

“Better get home now,” Bob says, opening the door.

“I'm sorry,” Clay mumbles.

“It's okay,” Ken says, following them out to their car.

She's still standing there when he comes back in.

“Don't look at me like that,” he snaps.

“Do you know what the fight was about?”

“You really want to tell me, don't you?” he whispers, his face close at hers.

“Your son's up there beaten to a pulp, and you act like it's nothing. No big deal.”

“No. It's a mess. Everything. All of it,” he growls, flinging his arm out. “You think I don't know that? You think I want this? Any of it? Do you? Do you?” he demands with a frightening bitterness.

Coldness. Resentment. It's the first time she's ever felt that from him. In all their years together. She has to be careful. Can't push too hard. Can't keep pressuring, piling on the guilt, or there'll be nothing left.

unlight streams through
her office window. It is beautiful outside, cold but clear, the cloudless sky a blinding blue. She keeps yawning. Last night she and Ken stayed up long after the children had gone to bed, but now that she thinks of it, she did most of the talking. Whenever she brought up Robin's treachery, he defended her, at one point even calling her “a victim of circumstance.” Nothing is Robin's fault. Or his. He's the one who betrayed his wife and his best friend but can't or won't say why. Finally, she asked what
she
might have done differently—something, anything that might have prevented the affair. Nothing, he said, sounding surprised. She didn't ask the obvious next question: what might
he
have done differently, because hearing his chipper “nothing” a second time would have been too painful. So she held back, allowing him the lead, in the end both agreeing that they loved their children and for their sake would make every effort to treat one another with respect. As much as she knew she should, she couldn't say the words, she admitted, couldn't say she loved him. Not right now, she said, trying not to cry. At least not in the same way. Sighing, Ken squeezed her hand until it hurt, and in his long pause, she waited, needing him to say it, that he loved her, always had, always would. Instead, he said he understood.

She will go to counseling with him. If the marriage is worth saving, it's the least they can do, she thinks he said. Or did she say it, in desperation, anything, to make herself feel better? Worth saving, she keeps thinking. What, like a TV or car, fix it or get a new one? Tinker with it,
see how long they can keep it running? And why
the
marriage? Isn't it
their
marriage? Maddening, all this dissection and second-guessing. But she's trying hard not to keep bringing things up. They have to move on. She's more than entitled to her anger and pain, Ken admitted. But as long as they were being honest about their feelings, then she has to know that the recrimination only wears him down, day after day, grinding away at him. Guilt isn't his strong suit: he actually said that last night. What is your strong suit then, she yearned to ask, was still wondering, hours later, as he snored next to her, telling herself she should be grateful. Yes. Be grateful for that snoring, for the mess, for the pain; she'd read that once, Dear Abby Dear someone, be grateful he is still here. Grateful she has a husband. A man. Anyone. Grateful she isn't alone.

She is proofing ad layouts when the phone rings, startling her. Hilda's not supposed to put any calls through until she's done.

“What?” she answers distractedly, still reading.

“You don't have an appointment, do you?” Hilda asks in a hushed tone.

“No.”

“That's what I thought. Someone's here, though. A Mr. Hawkins? He says he's got an appointment—” His voice in the background. “Nine thirty, he says.”

“No, he—” she starts to say, then tells Hilda to send him in
. The nerve, thinking he can just barge in here like this.
Hands folded to keep them from shaking, she stares at the opening door.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says, unbuttoning his suit coat and settling into the chair across from her desk like a celebrity about to be interviewed. Almost condescending, as he straightens his tie, smiles.

“Late for what?”

“I hate to keep anyone waiting.”

“I wasn't.”

“Yes you were.”

“We don't have an appointment.”

“I know.”

“I don't even want you here.”

“I know,” he says with a note of surprise. “But some things are unavoidable, aren't they?”

“What do you mean?” She struggles not to lose her temper. He enjoys this, catching her off guard, toying with her.

“Well.” He thinks a moment. “Death. Isn't that the most obvious one?”

“And taxes.” Said with a nod and sweat on her chest as she stares at him.

He draws back, blinking a few times, and she remembers both his dismissive contempt and her eagerness, once, for his approval. “So trite of you, Nora. I'm surprised.”

“Why? What did you expect?”

“Oh. I don't know. That teenage girl? The one I used to know. Whatever happened to her?”

“A few weeks. That's all that was.”

“Longer than that. I've spent twenty-six years with her. That's a long time. Long and lonesome.” He rubs his eyes, then peers out with a sudden thought. “He died. I told you that, right? Took him a while, but like I said, unavoidable.” He grins. “You were trying to protect me. But nobody'd believe me. And you weren't there! You could've told them. The guy was a pervert. A drunken pervert, trying to molest a young girl. I did pretty well, though. Held my own, but then, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what do they do but push the widow in, in this goddamn rickety wheelchair, you should've seen it. ‘My Phil's gone,’” he cries in quivering falsetto. “‘My poor Phillie. Because of him,’ she says, pointing at me. ‘And now there's no one to take care of me.’”

She can hardly breathe. He fills the room, depleting the air, his studied elegance, the drape of his suit, the fine silk shirt, the tilt of his smooth head, all calculated. Waiting.

“So off I went. In chains.” In agonizing detail, he describes his trip to the state prison, the shackles rubbing his wrists and ankles raw, the terror, and his constant faith that she would return and free him from the nightmarish injustice. “All those years, day after day, I kept thinking, she'll come. She's too decent, too good a person not to.”

“Well, I didn't know, did I?”

“You knew.”

“No. Not that he died.” She can hardly get the words out.

He chuckles. “But now you do. So. It's not too late.”

“Not too late for what?”

“I told you before.” He picks up the pictures of Chloe and Drew, studying them in the hinged sterling frame. “A chance. That's all I want.”

Her mind races. Within minutes, she could get her hands on fifteen thousand dollars, money her mother left her.

“A chance to do what?” she asks carefully. He might take less.

He sets the pictures down, facing him. “It's like, you know, when you cut your fingernails and you flush the pieces down the toilet, I think about that. I like that feeling. Parts of me, like, floating into streams and rivers, the ocean. Feeding something. Fish maybe, then people. Like, something organic. Life. The ongoing process. You know what I mean? Some kind of cycle.”

His intensity makes her shiver.

“Regeneration!” he says suddenly. “That's what I mean!”

“If it's money you want—,” she begins, then jumps as he pounds the desk.

“You don't get it, do you, goddamnit! It's way past that now. Way, way past. I want a life, that's what I want.” His voice softens. “What you have.”

“But how can I do that? I don't understand.”

“Be my friend,” he whispers, straining over the desk. “Just be my friend.”

“And then what?” She can't breathe.

“Well. I don't know, do I?” He twiddles his thumbs and looks around. “A job! That's a pretty good start. Place like this, must be something I can do here.”

“No. I can't do that. But money, that would help, right?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I can give you money.”

“What do you mean,
give
me money?” he sneers.

“A loan. That's what I meant.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“To help you get on your feet.”

“Get on my feet!” he roars, his arm sweeping clear her desk, galleys, papers, books, her marble pen set, the children's pictures, the antique glass paperweight that was her mother's, radiating wobbly light as it rolls across the floor. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he rages. Standing now, he reaches across the desk as her phone rings.

Nora grabs it before he can.

“What's going on in there?” Hilda asks. “That man, are you all right?”

“Yes.” She fixes him with her stare, daring him to take another step. “Something fell. By mistake. Mr. Hawkins … he'll be out in a minute.”

With that, Eddie sits back down. He covers his eyes.

“You don't sound right,” Hilda says.

“I'm fine. We're almost done.”

“I can call Ken. He just went by.” Hilda's shadow darkens the strip of light beneath the door.

“No need. Really, Hilda. Everything's fine.” She hangs up but holds on to the phone. The last person on earth she wants in here is Ken, and have the shameful, sordid story revealed, especially now, flushed into the mess her life has become. And the thought of Chloe and Drew hearing any of this sickens her. Imagine, their mother involved in an assault, or maybe worse, no matter how long ago or how young she was. They have enough to deal with, as it is.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he whispers, eyes still shaded. “It's wrong. It's so wrong.” His shoulders narrow as his chest rises, falls, and she remembers exactly this, the sudden fury, his utter desperation, and its powerful effect on a seventeen-year-old.

“I think you better go now,” she says, steeling herself for his next outburst.

“I hate getting upset. You have no idea. The way it makes me feel,” he gasps, peering at her in such a contortion of rage and despair it might seem comical if she weren't so scared. “My head's pounding. I can hardly see. I can't think straight.”

“I'll call someone. They'll bring you downstairs.” Hand trembling, she picks up the phone.

And with that, he opens the door and is gone.

Hilda rushes in, shocked by the mess on the floor. “What happened?”

“Short fuse. No big deal.” The papers she's picking up tremble in her hands. Hilda asks who he was. Just some guy, Nora says. He wanted a job. She can tell that Hilda is biting her tongue.

They work together in silence, getting everything back on the desk.

“There was something really wrong with him,” Hilda finally says.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“No, I mean it. Just talking to me, he was way too intense. On the edge.”

“Like a few people around here. Maybe I should hire him. See what happens.”