The Word of a Child (36 page)

Inside, she was a mass of painful recollections and raging
arguments. She would be strolling through the classroom, watching students bent
over an assignment, her expression deliberately watchful but pleasant, while in
her head she was reliving year two of her marriage, or the fifth summer, or
Zofie's birth, or the fights with her parents before the wedding.

She began to see that, childishly, she had gone through with
the wedding in part
because
of their objections. In her fierce
resentment at their opposition, she had drowned her own doubts.

That understanding took her further back yet, to see how
hard she had worked for her parents' sakes to be a "good girl," and
how wistful she had sometimes been when others broke the rules or even their
hearts. But her parents were different than her friends', older. Their
expectations were so high, she had never quite felt loved just for herself. She
had spent her childhood scrambling to measure up to the standard set by her
brother, who seemed another adult to her.

She'd met Simon in college. Although she dated in high
school, he was her first real love, Heathcliff and Darcy and Benedick all
rolled up in one. Simon was dark and handsome and moody, a romantic hero, and
he loved
her.

So what if he was angry sometimes without her quite
understanding why, or if he wouldn't explain himself when he missed a date or
snubbed one of her friends or stalked out of her parents' house when her father
questioned him about his ability to support a wife and family? He had been
wounded at some time in his life. Literary heroes did brood and even sulk. He
just wasn't the kind of man her parents wanted her to marry.
They
valued
insincere charm over depth. She would follow her heart, she had told herself
grandiloquently.

He made love to her with careless passion. He was always
intense, and seldom patient. Now, after the one night with Connor, she could
see that she had needed more tenderness, more seduction and less demand. Her
body never responded quickly enough. After a while, it had quit responding at
all.

The first year, she had still seen him as the wounded hero.
By the second she had become frustrated with his moodiness. But she was
pregnant with Zofie, and they were both excited, and she couldn't admit her
parents had been right. He didn't abuse her; if he cut her off curtly, refused
to talk about something important to her, or was inexplicably, even
frighteningly angry when he walked in the door after work sometimes, she walled
off her unease, her anger, her resentment. She was good at that, she realized.
She'd spent a lifetime doing the same.

And he did love Zofie. Sometimes he hurt her with his moods,
but mostly he tried for her sake as he didn't for Mariah's. By the time
Detective Connor McLean knocked on her door that long-ago night, Mariah knew
now, her marriage was a pretense. The sad part was, she had pretended not just to
others, but to herself. She hadn't wanted to fail at marriage.

Good girls didn't. They had nice families.

It was Thursday night, when she was making dinner, that
Mariah came to a conclusion of the sad story of her marriage. Her hands stilled
over the cutting board, the knife suspended above the deep green broccoli,
glistening with droplets.

Lily Thalberg's accusation had given Mariah an excuse. Yes,
she'd feared for Zofie. But most of all, finally she had a reason she could
accept to leave him.

She looked down blindly at the broccoli, seeing the past
instead of her kitchen, her present.

Oh, how fiercely she had clung to that reason, refusing to
admit to herself that she had chosen poorly, endured rudeness if not emotional
abuse,
failed.
She'd rather think that she had a lack than that she had
been wrong. And, of course, she could always fall back on her belief that she
had left Simon for Zofie's sake.

Perhaps she even had, she thought, slowly setting down the
knife. What she hadn't recognized was her enormous relief.

"Mommy? Is dinner ready?" Zofie asked, coming into
the kitchen. She still wore her soccer shorts and practice jersey, but had shed
the muddy socks, shin guards and cleated shoes at Mariah's insistence.

Mariah glanced back at the broccoli. "I still have to
cook the vegetable."

"But I'm hungry!"

Another glance at the stove told her the noodles were ready
to be drained and the stroganoff was done. "Oh, heck," she said.
"Forget the broccoli. We can have some baby carrots."

Zofie, who only grudgingly ate anything green, brightened.
"I'll set the table."

As Mariah put the broccoli away in the refrigerator and got
out the bag of carrots, she felt … lighter. More at peace. Not sure yet what
was right or wrong, but better for understanding what had never been.

Tracy tentatively approached Ms
. Stavig the next day, after her class. Students were still
brushing by when she paused in front of the teacher's desk.

"Um… Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Ms. Stavig smiled warmly. "Of course you can."

"I'm not living at home anymore." She took a deep
breath. "The man who raped me was this guy my mother brought home. He's in
jail now. My mom says she'll never bring any man home again, but Detective
McLean and my social worker and my foster mom think we both need some time in
counseling before I go home."

"Yes, I'd heard." Ms. Stavig's eyes were as nice
as the police officer's. "Are you all right, Tracy? Is your foster mom
good to you?"

Tracy hadn't wanted to cry, but her eyes felt wet when she
pressed her lips together and nodded. She took a deep, steady breath. Rushing,
she got out, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for lying to you."

"I understand why you did," Ms. Stavig said
simply. "Just … don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay." Beginning to feel awkward, Tracy fidgeted.
"I guess that's all. I just… Well, I'm sorry."

"Will you stop and talk to me every week or two?"
the teacher asked, sounding as if she meant it. "So I know how things are
going?"

Tears threatened again. Tracy nodded hard. "Sure,"
she said, as she backed away. "I promise."

"And will you try out for the spring play?"

Tracy stopped, hope blooming. "Do you think I might get
a part?"

Her teacher's smile was a little mischievous. "I think
you have great dramatic potential."

Amazed at being teased, she began to dream as she left the
classroom. Maybe she'd get a lead role. Her mom would be in the
audience—without
any
guy. It would be just the two of them, like it used to be.
Only maybe Detective McLean would come, and of course Ms. Stavig would be in
the wings.

Tracy did a dance step and bumped into a senior guy, who
frowned.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Sorry!" she said, but she was still smiling when
she whirled away.

Calling Simon was the
second
hardest thing Mariah had ever done, right behind telling him she wanted a
divorce.

"I suppose you're going to justify necking with my
worst enemy right where you knew I'd see," he said bitterly.

It had hurt him.
She
had hurt him. Mariah bit her lip and said, "I didn't
expect you for hours. You know that. I have never been cruel, Simon."

"Haven't you?" His tone raked her.

She let it pass, because he had some right to be angry.

"There are things I should have said to you years
ago," she began. "Because I'm a mother, I've been afraid. But I don't
think in my heart I ever really believed you molested Lily."

He gave a harsh laugh. "I can't believe I'm hearing
this. It's a little goddamn late, Mariah. Do you expect me to be touched by the
way you backed me?"

She didn't let his fury do more than shake her briefly.
"I'm sorry." Her voice quavered, but she kept on. "I wasn't
honest back then with either of us. I didn't want to admit that our marriage
was over, that I didn't love you anymore."

"You didn't love me." His incredulity blistered
the phone line. "It was that easy? You fell out of love, so you ditched me
at the worst possible moment?"

Because she felt guilty, she reined in her hot response.
"Easy? No, it wasn't easy," Mariah said quietly. "I worked at
our marriage more than you did." She told him some home truths, then,
which he didn't want to hear. He was no more ready now to admit that he was
moody, angry, domineering, than he had been then.

Perhaps the worst part was when his voice became quieter and
he said, "Why didn't you suggest counseling? Why didn't you confront
me?"

"You always brushed me off. I think," she
admitted, "I was afraid of you."

"I never hurt you! Not once!"

"You didn't hit me," she corrected him. "You
hurt me in small ways every day, when you didn't think my opinion was worth hearing,
when what I wanted or needed didn't matter, when you didn't care about my day
or my mood or my beliefs. I think to you women are second-class citizens, and I
refuse to live as one."

His string of obscenities didn't shock her; they made it
easier to finish.

"The way I met Connor McLean had nothing to do with our
past, and our relationship has nothing to do with you. I'll try to keep the two
of you from coming face-to-face if it's important to you, but I am not
responsible for how you react to his presence in my life. I will not let your
moods dictate my choices." She was shaking, sick to her stomach, but
exhilarated, too. "That's all I have to say, Simon."

When he began to rant, she quietly hung up the telephone. It
was done.

Saturday night
, when
Connor called, Mariah asked if he might like to come to Zofie's final soccer
game on Sunday.

There was a brief silence. Finally, sounding cautious, he
said, "Simon isn't coming?"

"No." She thought about saying more, but she
wanted to see his face when she told him about her confrontation with Simon.

"I'll be there," he said. "What time?"

Miraculously for a final game in November, the day was clear
if very cold. Following a stream of others, she and Zofie crunched across
frozen grass to their field, where girls a year older were just finishing a
game. Mariah couldn't help noticing how much more aggressive they already were
than the younger girls.

They chose an empty place along the sideline, and Zofie
started to shrug out of her coat.

Mariah stopped her. "Leave it on while you warm
up."

"But I'm not cold. Besides, no one else is wearing
one." Zofie tossed the coat at her mother and trotted off with her ball
under her arm. In a reluctant concession, she did wear leggings and a
turtleneck under her team shorts and jersey.

"Damn, it's cold," Connor said from just beside
her.

Mariah jumped six inches. "You scared me!"

"I'm sorry." He looked genuinely surprised.
"I didn't sneak up."

"I just didn't expect you so early," she defended
herself.

"I was looking forward to seeing you."

Her cheeks might have turned pink if they weren't so cold.
Her nose, of course, already
was
pink, she felt sure. So much for her careful makeup and the
time she'd spent on her hair, tucked under a fleece hat.

He looked formidably masculine in a parka over jeans and
boots. He did wear gloves but not a hat; none of the fathers had, she saw in an
automatic glance along the sidelines. Hats, like umbrellas, were sissy-wear.

She smiled a little at the idea that this big, tough cop
harbored some vanity. To hide her amusement, she asked, "How was your
week? Did you catch your flasher?"

"Actually I did. I'd mapped his, uh, appearances, as
well as the directions he took in his escapes. One block was clearly central. I
checked out residents and found a few likely candidates—men who lived alone,
and one in his forties who lived with his elderly mom. We staked out those
houses, and he presented himself in a raincoat at eight-fifteen on the nose
Friday morning. Not a pretty sight when we cuffed him." Connor gave a sly
grin, "I think the cold got to him."