The Last Secret (28 page)

Her pillows fall on the floor. Inconsolable, Lyra is curled on her side with the blanket over her head. Her shoulders convulse with her sobs.

“Don't cry.” He picks up a pillow and stands by the bed. Wouldn't take long for a kid. Not as long as Bevvie, drugged-out whore but strong as a man. Strangling finally did the trick. Made him sick to his stomach, though, all the gagging and gurgling. Lisa, now that was quick, surprising with such a meaty gullet.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice from behind. “Is this room three twenty-four? I'm looking for … oh! I remember you.” Ken Hammond looks confused.

“Hey! Sure!” Eddie holds out his hand, says his name. “Robin'll be right back.”

“Uncle Ken!” Lyra cries, throwing back the blanket.

“Lyrrie.” Ken Hammond sits on the edge of the bed and hugs her. “Poor sweet baby,” he croons into her hair. “I didn't know you were sick. I just found out. Your granana told me.”

“I got the flu,” the child whimpers, staring up at Eddie now, triumphantly, taunting him, he knows, as he tries to tamp down his fury. At her. At this preppie asshole Hammond in his open-neck blue shirt
and brass-buttoned blazer. “I kept throwing up. On the couch and Mommy's bed,” Lyra is telling him.

“I know. But I bet you feel better now, right?” Hammond holds her at arm's length to look at her. With her solemn nod, he pulls her back into his embrace. Her eyes dart between the two men.

“It got in my hair and Clay called me barf head,” she complains, pouting.

“Well, that's not very nice, but then again, if it got in your hair, maybe you kinda were?”

“No!” she protests, giggling when he tickles her. “Did you bring me a present?” she asks.

“No,” he says regretfully. “I was in too much of a hurry. I wanted to see you. But I will,” he promises and she grins up at him.

He might as well not even be here, so taken are they with one another. He hates this, hates being reduced to insignificance. Especially by self-centered losers like them.

“Tell me what to get,” Hammond says. “Something you really, really want.”

“My Pony. One with pink hair.”

“Oh, honey,” Hammond groans. “I don't think so. Where would Mummy put a horse?”

“Not a real one,” she laughs. “A little toy horse.” She holds her hands together to show the size.

“Oh boy!” Hammond smacks the side of his head. “You had me worried for a minute there. I was trying to figure out how I was ever going to sneak a real horse not only into the hospital, but onto the elevator, then down the hallway, past all the doctors and nurses, and into this little room.”

Giggling helplessly through Hammond's scenario, she keeps trying to pry open his fist. When she does, she finds four quarters inside.

“So, what're you doing here?” Hammond asks, holding up his other fist now, which she grabs. “I didn't know you and Robin even knew each other.”

“We didn't. Not then, anyway. But now we do.” Eddie smiles knowingly.

Hammond's gaze flickers. “Well, yeah. Small city, one way or another you end up knowing everybody.” He opens his fist and Lyra seizes the five-dollar bill crumpled in it.

“Yeah. She's great. She's … great.”

“Oh, Ken!” Robin squeals through the opening door. She is carrying three frozen yogurt cones in a cardboard box. “What're you doing here?” she asks, pleased, but Hammond, Eddie enjoys seeing, is offended.

“What am I doing here? What do you think?” His smile is strained.

“Oh, I know, but …”

“Your
mother
told me.”

“I know, but you said not to—”

“Obviously not when it's something like this.” His eyes dart to Lyra who sits cross-legged against her pillows. She reaches for the cone from which Robin is distractedly peeling the paper wrapper.

“Here, baby.” Robin hands it to her.

“Eddie scared me,” Lyra says, licking it.

“What?” Eddie does a double-take, but only the brat is looking at him.

“He said you weren't coming back. Never.”

Nora is waiting
in the study when Ken gets home. Nothing wrong at FairWinds, but he looks terrible. They were leaving the high school when he checked his phone messages. Oliver's alarm had gone off earlier. Everything seemed to be secure, the security company said, but Ken said he'd better check the house, just to be sure. She offered to go with him, but he thought she should go home, particularly in light of what Mr. Carteil had said. Ironically enough, Drew had the History Channel on when she came in. She sat down next to him and put her hand over his.

Together they watched the bombing of London. She found the old footage hypnotic and eerily calming, high-pitched air raid sirens, terrified people running through the streets as searchlights crisscrossed the night sky, for a moment putting her own troubles into perspective.

“Is everything all right?” she finally asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, staring at the screen. He slipped his hand out from under hers. “Some lady called. Alice something. She left her number.” He dug the slip of paper from his pocket, but Nora just put it on the table. Her son was her first priority.

She told him she was concerned, that it was perfectly understandable for him to feel depressed about what had happened between his parents, but it was vital that he talk about it.

“Okay.” Another shrug.

“You're not happy, are you?”

“I'm okay.”

“No, you're not, Drew. It's so obvious. You're holding it all in, and that's not right.”

“Why? What am I supposed to do?” he growled, thumping the cushion with his fist.

She was relieved by his anger. “Just tell me what's going on, what you're thinking, what you're feeling.” Bombs dropping from the sky, explosions of light and dust. She turned off the television.

He was chewing the side of his thumbnail.

“Like right now, what're you thinking about? Please, Drew, tell me.” She moved closer and tried to put her arm around him, but he leaned forward, almost cringing from her. “It's me, isn't it? The way I've been lately. My moods … I know … It can't be easy not knowing who you're waking up to in the morning, Attila the Hun or this strange lady who looks like your mother but doesn't act like her anymore.”

“You're not strange.” His voice cracked.

“Oh, Drew. Honey. I love you so much. Please don't worry. Everything's going to be all right. Really. It is.” Realizing that he was crying, she tried again to hug him, but he pulled away. “Sometimes it's hard to talk about your problems. I know. I was the same way. I still am. But I try, and that's all I'm asking you to do. Please, Drew?”

“I'm going up now,” he said, quickly standing.

“Drew! I'll make an appointment. Someone you can talk to. At least that—”

“No, don't!”

Trying to get every word right, she has been recounting this conversation for Ken, but he seems distracted, impatient for her to finish. “But I'm going to anyway.” She means finding a therapist for Drew. “He's all bottled up inside. He needs to get it out.”

“He'll be all right.” Ken checks his watch for the third time.

“No, I can tell. He needs to talk to someone.”

“He's a kid. He's moody. He'll get over it.”

“I don't know. I'm worried. I think we should call someone.”

“Let's not go down that route yet,” Ken says, opening the study door. “We don't need another Stephen in the family, do we?”

“That's a strange thing to say,” she calls after him, “when you're seeing someone yourself every week.”

He turns back, glaring, then seems to realize what she means. “I'll talk to him. Okay?” he adds, his coldness a deft and sudden scalpel. She can't do this anymore.

“No! It's not okay! We need more than that.”

“What? What do you want me to do?” He looks almost frantic.

“No, you tell me! What
do you
want to do?”

“I'm trying, Nora. You know I am.”

“Trying what? To save our marriage? Or are you just putting in your time here? Because that's what it feels like.”

“Just so you know,” he says with a bitter hiss. “You're not the only one hurting.”

“Actually, I'm getting better at that, the hurting. And the anger. No, what's really messing me up now's all up here,” she says, tapping her temple. “Because I don't get it. I still don't know what happened. I really, really don't. What did I do wrong, Ken? And don't keep saying nothing!” she warns because he's shaking his head and won't look at her. “That's just too insulting! I tried to be a good wife. And I think I was—most of the time. Wasn't I? I loved you. How did I hurt you? What was it about me you didn't want, that you couldn't stand anymore? When we made love? Was I—”

“No.” He rubs his face with both hands. “Don't—”

“Don't what? Don't be honest? Don't tell you how much I still love
you? And how sorry I am for my part in this? I know sometimes you think I'm cold—”

“Nora—”

“No. Listen. Please! I
need
you to listen. The thing is, deep down, I never felt good enough—for you or the kids—or anyone. And I think that's what happened. That's the problem, isn't it? Because I hold everything in and I shouldn't, but it's hard for me. I'm so afraid of losing anyone that I just shut down. It's safer that way. Even now, there's so much I need to tell you, things I've never said before—to anyone. And I … I still can't. But I want to, Ken. I have to. But I need your help. Because, lately … I can't even think straight. And it scares me. It really does.”

He puts his hands on her shoulders, but can barely meet her gaze. “You don't deserve any of this.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he finally whispers. “You're one of the finest people I've ever known.”

She closes her eyes and forces herself to stand there.

inally,” Nora says.
She and Kay are having dinner at Chesley's. In the past few weeks Kay has left the same message with every call: “I miss you. Call me and we'll meet for lunch or dinner or something. Please.” Nora would want to, but as with most obligations lately, she never seems to follow through.

Kay pours more wine, Nora's second glass. Nora almost feels relaxed. She's missed the intimacy of this, having someone to talk to, another woman. Lately, her conversations are all work-related or with the family. She's either trying hard to be happy or trying hard not to be hurt, angry, suspicious. At least with Kay she can be herself. Their long friendship has been a haven, the one safe place she can let down her hair without fear of betrayal or judgment. All their ups and downs, they've shared a lot through the years, though most of the rough spots have been Kay's, she realizes. Poor Kay, she hasn't had an easy life at times, not compared to her own.
Until now, anyway.

“When you didn't call, I began to wonder,” Kay says.

As Kay speaks, Nora's smile freezes with a sudden deadening chill.
So why didn't you tell me about the affair? Because you enjoyed it, enjoyed watching my so-called perfect life being undermined; admit it, you did, didn't you? Like the rest of them, gloating behind your false concern. Oh, poor Nora, you must be so devastated, all the while thinking, so, the fairy tale's finally over.
She traces her finger around the top of her glass. She can't think like this, can't keep letting herself be consumed by bitterness and fear. And dread, the worm in her soul. On her way here
tonight she made up her mind to tell Kay about Eddie Hawkins. She needs to confide in
someone
, tell how the man screamed, begging for the savage blows to stop and what did she do? Nothing. She ran. As bad as him, as guilty, blood money to make him go away, her life in turmoil, in the end it all comes home to roost, the bad you do, the pain you cause, the lies you tell, came her mother's warning as she sat up with a start at two in the morning, wind howling, security lights on. Ken wasn't in bed. Hearing voices, she ran downstairs, convinced Eddie Hawkins was in the house, but it was only the television. Unable to sleep, Ken had gone downstairs.

“Tell you the truth,” Kay confesses, “I was afraid you were mad at me.”

“Of course not.” Nora manages a weak smile.

“We've been friends for so long, that sometimes—”

“It's okay,” she interrupts. “It's just me, that's all. You know how I get.” She shrugs. “Awfully hung up on things.”