The Last Secret (23 page)

Only her threats of running away, then of suicide, some made in repeated, frantic, whispered phone calls in the middle of the night to Carol, stopped her mother from the inquisition, the school board hearing the matter deserved. Yes, Carol agreed with her mother, the man was a pervert and deserved to be fired, but at what cost—Nora's emotional well-being? Instead, a second-year contract was denied soft-spoken, bewildered Mr. Blanchard, who left that June and would have been such a fine friend, lover, partner for her mother, whose quiet life spiraled in on itself She taught, saw Nora through school, a brief career, and marriage, retired, took the train into the city once a month for lunch with the last of the spinster cousins, then died in her sleep, in her cold bed, alone. Nora buries her face in the warm fragrant towel. Guilt, one more reason to hate herself No clarity with the well disturbed. Only sediment. Particles. Can't tell anyone, can only pray he's gone, Eddie Hawkins, the roused beast of an unpunished deed, while in the next room her children laugh, playing cards with their father, the liar, as she stands here surrounded by their underpants and shirts, folding three more facecloths, sea-foam green, from the master bath, a room she hates with its pale green tile, the gold flecks ruining everything. How could she not have noticed, not have known? It was the last room done, and something was wrong, she just didn't know what then, two years ago, insisting that he help her choose fixtures,
deal with the surly plumber, go horseback riding, climb Mt. Monadnock with the children, anything that they could do together.

Telling her not to be so paranoid. Of course he wasn't upset with her. Tired, that was all. Just tired. How ridiculous. He wasn't growing distant. Didn't she know how much she hurt him when she said things like that? The sea-foam facecloths and tile, proof of her inadequacy, like her marriage, interfering in her mother's life, running away. The next shirt from the dryer, his, the liar's. Softly old and worn, his favorite T-shirt. It's from the club. Some tournament. FAIRWINDS 2000 in pale blue stitching. The seam is frayed. One more wash and it'll tear. She tosses it into the mending basket, then takes it out. Why does she care? Or does she want him to need this shirt as proof of something enduring between them, her way of feeling needed? Valued. Cooking his favorite food. Tonight, stuffed chicken breasts and garlic mashed potatoes. Pathetic, this groveling, this being a woman, mother, wife, trying to hold everything together, she thinks with a tug on the sleeve, this fury of pulling, ripping, tearing to pieces. Rags. And he won't even notice. A storm of little consequence, lint and bits of thread drifting onto the counter. He won't even know. Only she will. The keeper of rags.

“Rummy!” Ken shouts, and Chloe squeals in protest at his going out so soon. Drew's complaint is indistinct. How can they still love him? she thinks bitterly, but humiliated by her own complicity for leaving the deck of cards on the dinner table, bait, like the T-shirt and his ancient loafers she has the cobbler stitch and reheel every six months, so she can stake him down, securing whatever she can grasp, the little she has of him.

He swears he hasn't been seeing Robin. He was only with her the night of Oliver's stroke because of Bob's accident. Bob had been on his way home when he hit a patch of ice, going too fast. His car skidded into a private school van stopped at a red light. There were eight children inside. Thank God, no one was seriously hurt, mostly just bruises, but a real wakeup call. Bob wasn't drunk, but he'd been drinking earlier, so he panicked and didn't stop. A witness wrote down his
plate number. By the time the police came to the house, Bob's brothers were already driving him to the usual rehab hospital in New Hampshire. A glass of cabernet and a bad reaction to a sleeping medication, or so the brothers claimed. Robin called Ken, begging him to keep it out of the paper. His job at CraneCopley was in jeopardy as it was. The reporter Ken spoke to omitted the incident from the
Chronicle's
police log.

“Poor guy,” Ken said. “It was the least I could do.”

“No,” she couldn't help saying. “The least you could do is stay away from his wife.”

She doesn't believe his lies, but what she needs is to believe in him. Whether a shift in the wind or galvanic realignment, something is different. Something has changed. He seems, if not happier, certainly calmer. Of course, Nora can't help wondering if it's Bob's absence that buoys his spirits, but in any event, the effect on the children has been immediate and gratifying. Once again, Chloe and her dad are buddies. Drew's bitterness and anger seem to be easing. Tonight at dinner Chloe told them that her girlfriend Luz's little sister wants to ask Drew to the Sophomore Spring Mixer.

“But don't worry,” Chloe said when Drew groaned. “I told her you already have a girlfriend.”

“Who? Who'd you say?” Drew asked, and Nora tensed, expecting an outburst.

“You know. Aimée,” Chloe said, pursing her lips for full Gallic effect.

“Jhell-ee-no,” Drew said, his exaggerated pronunciation making them laugh.

Aimée Gelineau was an old family joke, a kindergarten classmate Drew had declared his love for, then wept when her family returned to Quebec. Even at such a young age he'd been heartbroken. She wishes he had a real Aimée Gelineau in his life, at least one person to be close to. Tonight is the first time in weeks she's heard him laugh.

othing is as
soothing as the sound of Robin's voice. Eddie can listen for hours. Nothing gets her down. Not the chaos of Lyra's toys all over the floor or the chicken bones in greasy napkins and the half-filled takeout boxes still on the coffee table, not even the collection agency call. Another maxed-out credit card, she explains, hanging up, one more mess of Bob's left behind. It's so hard now, having to watch every penny, buying store brands when, before, she'd just grab whatever she wanted off the shelf, not having a clue what anything cost. Of course, she can't just blame him, she sees that now, how spoiled they both were, taking everything for granted. That's the problem growing up with money: hard times came and they just kept on spending; it's so confusing, such a helpless feeling, not having control anymore of the most basic things in life, which is why she always reads the price tags to Lyra. She may be only three, but Robin wants her to know the value of things and not feel entitled. And having to scrape by makes Robin appreciate life even more. She wakes up every morning, knowing what a gift each new day is. It really is.

Yes, and for him, too. Especially now that he's flush. He's never had this much money in his pocket. Tonight, he brought dinner over: KFC. The simplest things delight her.

The past is like a dream, she is saying, and once a dream is over, it's gone, right? What's important is living in the moment. This, the right here and now, she declares with such intensity that as he sinks into her
blue gaze he knows he'd do anything for her, anything. It's taken her years to see this, she says. Her mother worries that she may be over-medicated. Instead of just drifting along on Prozac and Xanax, she should be talking to someone, a counselor. The very suspicious Mrs. Shawcross called her daughter a little while ago with the name of a therapist her hairdresser recommended.

“She says I'm just existing, not dealing with anything, but that's okay. As long as my children are happy and I'm here with them, what more do I need?”

“What's she want you to do?” he asks, uneasily.

“Oh, just love my husband,” she says with a forced lilt. Her daughter sits at her feet, watching television.

“What else?”

“Live happily ever after.” She sighs.

“Yeah?”

“It's kinda way past that now.”

He met her mother a few days ago when he stopped by with two boxes of cookies. He had remembered Robin's saying money was so tight right now with Bob in the hospital and no more sick time, that she could barely afford treats for the children.

“Aren't you sweet!” Robin said, patting his cheek through the doorway.

Suddenly Mrs. Shawcross appeared, her narrowed eyes cued to the distrust in his.

He and Robin were quick friends. Two old souls, she likes to say. His head spins listening, trying to keep up. He blinks. Sparks in her voice, veering from topic to topic. His heart races. Images flash into mind, churning thoughts, twisted metal and broken glass, goose feathers red with blood, the black arch of a penciled eyebrow. No way, he keeps thinking. Not this time.

Trusting, she holds nothing back. Her truth is childlike in its raw purity. Not like nervous Nora, all that money and still can't have what she wants. She doesn't stand a chance. No wonder, he thinks, hating the two men. Robin is talking about her husband's drinking. This time
when he gets out he'll stay sober, swears he will. Still thinks he can, she says with a sigh.

“He doesn't deserve you,” he snaps, resenting her concern for the weak bastard.

“It's not just him. Poor Bob, he doesn't want to hear it, and I can't say it.”

“What? Say what?” His fidgety fingers twist and turn.

She stares at him. “It's such a mess.”

“So do something about it.” Hard to hide his impatience. Just an old friend, she said when he asked who Hammond was, the guy in the bar that night.

“I know. I have to. I know that.” She looks down a moment, troubled.

“Can I help? What can I do?”

“No. Same thing, it's me.” She sighs. “Just gotta get my act together, that's all.”

Lyra changes the channel and they sit quietly for a while, watching another cartoon. Robin seems lost in thought. She often does this, the half smile, staring as if she is suddenly somewhere else, or wants to be. She has three cats and loves to go barefoot. The largest, the gray and white cat, jumps onto the couch and settles between them, purring. Cat hair floats through the air, and he holds his breath, trying not to move. The slightest disturbance, an opening door, sets it adrift. When he leaves, his clothes are covered. The tail flips back and forth, whipping up more hair. He picks a strand from his mouth. Cats don't like him, he says.

“Here.” She takes his hand and places it on the cat's back. The purring stops.

“Smoky!” Lyra cries, startled as the cat springs past her head and runs from the room.

“He's scared because you are,” Robin chides with a pouty look. “He can tell.”

He never had a pet, it was all he could do taking care of himself, he snaps back. He feels accused. Judged. He takes deep breaths. Can
barely look at her for fear of losing it. He should leave, but doesn't. Can't. His scalp shrinks on his skull. The frantic cartoon voices pitch higher, shriller, faster. He can't think straight. Can't stand being turned on like this.

“Not having a mother, I can't imagine it.” Her eyes fill up, blind to his agitation.

“Your mother, she doesn't like me.”

“It's not you,” she says, with a shrug, and leans closer. “It's me. My judgment. Or lack thereof,” she laughs.

“Meaning me, right?”

“No!” She laughs. “Eddie! Why would you say that?” She touches his arm. “Eddie?”

“I can tell, that's all.”

What began as rejection ends the way it must, whenever the quest is meaningful. It is an obsession and he accepts it as such, not a flaw or illness to be defeated with padlocks and pills, but a strength. All he seeks in this jangled universe are connections. While others lose their way, puzzling over randomness, he easily recognizes patterns, linkages, preordained paths only the few, the gifted, ever find. Through perseverance.

Robin thinks their meeting happenstance. Serendipitous, she declares again. Her blonde hair is pulled loosely back. Stray wisps frame her face. Like a teenager with her turned-up nose and legs tucked under her. An athletic teenager. She is running again and works out every morning in her friend's home gym. Her slender fingers sift absently through her daughter's fine, pale hair. Lyra wears silky pink Cinderella pajamas and sits on the floor in front of her mother. The child is beautiful. She was there when he found her mother. On the playground. Easy enough. Everyone in town knows Robin Gendron. He watched from the car a few times, watched her hang from the monkey bars to make the little girl laugh. Even in the bitter cold she wore sandals and a bulky sweater, no coat. She dresses Lyra the same way. Skirts, bare legs, that day, a thin red cotton jacket. They're never cold. And never apart, she tells him. Clay is another matter. Sports or out with friends, her son is seldom here. It bothers her, but she tries to
understand. It's his age, rebellion, part of growing up. He won't listen to anyone. Bob's no help. Clay can't stand his father's drinking. In a way, it's almost like not having one, a father he respects, anyway. That's when she wishes he doesn't come back. Bob, she means. He barely speaks to Lyra. Her sweet baby girl.