Through the Heart Page 11

  “Tell her to come in,” I told Marie.

  Emily entered a few seconds later. Even though she was thirty-five now, in some ways she looked like the twelve-year-old I remembered. For one, she was about the same size. She had been tall even back then, and she still had the straight-as-a-board, pre-puberty body. She wore a blouse with a ruffle at the collar, like a girl. And she wore her hair like a girl’s too: long and straight, pinned up with a simple barrette.

  I got up and came around my desk to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Emily.”

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

  “No, I can take a break.”

  She sat down in the chair across from my desk—not over by the couch. So I went back around the desk and sat down.

  She didn’t look at me right away. She looked down at her lap. She placed her hands on her legs, then spread her fingers out, as if inspecting them.

  I waited.

  “I’ve met someone,” she said without looking up.

  “Really? Who is it?”

  She looked up at me then. “Don’t pretend. I know that Edward told you about him.”

  “I didn’t know if you were talking about the same man,” I said. “It’s been at least a week since I talked to him.” I couldn’t help teasing her.

  She looked at me levelly. “I guess I deserve that. And I don’t expect you to believe this either, but Alejandro is different. This time it’s real.”

  “Okay,” I said. I didn’t believe her.

  “We’re going to get married.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, though I have to admit, my tone was a little dry.

  She heard it.

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  “That’s better,” I said. It annoys me when people aren’t honest and try to play nice because they want something from you.

  “You’re such an asshole. I wanted to come in here and have a civilized conversation.”

  “You wanted to write the script for how it was going to go,” I corrected her. “I don’t like reading from a script, at least not one that someone else writes for me—especially since I gather that you’re not here for a social call. I’m assuming you want something.”

  “Edward told me it didn’t matter if I came in and cursed you out. He said you’d do what you were going to do.”

  “You should have listened to him. So why don’t you tell me what you want.”

  “Fine.” She obviously still wasn’t happy that things hadn’t gone her way. “I told Mother about Alejandro, and that we were going to get married.”

  “And how did she take it?” I asked—though I knew already without her even needing to tell me.

  “She said that if I went through with it, not only would she cut off my money, but that I would never have another cent and I’d be taken out of the will.”

  “Big guns. Did you go to Dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He said if Alejandro loved me, he would provide for me. Provide for me. What, are we living in the nineteenth century now?”

  “Well, couldn’t he? Edward told me that the guy—Alejandro is it? Anyway, Edward said that he had money.”

  She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Yes, but what if it doesn’t work out? What if I’m wrong?”

  “You’re risking a lot,” I agreed.

  “I don’t think it would be healthy for our relationship to have me completely dependent on Alejandro.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says he’ll always be there for me. But that’s what men always say. And then they’re not. How can I trust him?”

  “I don’t have any insight on that one. So why did you come to me? Are you hoping I could change her mind?”

  “Do you think you could?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “No,” she agreed.

  I waited.

  “I thought you could help me another way.” She looked at me for a few seconds, waiting.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re not making this any easier for me,” she burst out.

  It was always people like my sister—victims—who thought other people should always be making things easier for them. Well, that’s what she’d had her whole life, and it didn’t seem to have helped her any. I just looked at her.

  “Okay, I get it. I wanted to ask you if you could give me some money. A lump sum, not a huge amount, just something that would make me feel secure.”

  Enough to make her feel secure—I’d like to know what that amount is. Of all the people I’ve come across, none of them, no matter how rich, seemed to have that magic number—the one that would make them feel secure. Security, as far as I could tell, came from a different place altogether. But I had a feeling my sister didn’t want to hear that.

  “How can I give you money if Mother said no?” I asked her.

  “Oh, come on. There have got to be ways. You could pretend to buy some stock, and then write down that you’ve sold it at a loss.”

  “You want me to cook the books.”

  “I just want you to help me out a little. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me. And I’m not going to do it.”

  “So now you’re this really moral person who’s not going to do anything wrong?”

  “No, I’m just not going to put myself in a dangerous position in order to give you money because you spent all of yours.”

  “Then give it to me from your own money. I know you have bags of it,” she said, and she couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “Emily, I started out with the same amount as you did. If I have more now, and you’ve blown through yours, is that supposed to be my problem? Even if I did give you money, it wouldn’t be enough. You’d be back here in a year, asking me for more. You’re like our mother in the way you go through the cash.”

  “I’m like Mother? Me?” Her voice climbed in disbelief. “My God, you’ve got to be kidding me. You’re the one who’s like her. Exactly. You look like her; you sound like her; you’re obsessed with money like her. Don’t you wonder why she gives you all the attention and none to anyone else? Because you’re just a reflection of her.”

  Up to then I had been mildly amused by the scene, but at that point I started to get annoyed. “If it were up to me, you could have one hundred percent of her attention, Emily,” I said. “If she ignored me completely, nothing would make me happier.”

  “Oh really? Then why don’t you just fax her the update at the end of the week? I’ve heard her ask you to do that, but you never do. You always bring it with you. Why is that?”

  “I thought I was actually doing you a favor, taking up her time and letting the rest of you off the hook.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. You mean you’ve been telling yourself you’re the hero of the family? That’s what’s been going through your head? You’re sicker than I thought.”

  “Me? I’m sick?”

  She didn’t seem to hear me. She just barreled on.

  “And clueless. You’re good at money and absolutely nothing else. You have no idea what’s actually going on. You bring that stupid spreadsheet with you every week because if you didn’t it would become embarrassingly obvious that there is absolutely nothing else going on in your life. There would be nothing else for Mother to talk to you about.”

  “You don’t know anything about my life,” I told her.

  “Don’t fool yourself, Timothy,” and the contempt in her voice was so real, it penetrated even my thick skin. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve got this girl or that girl or twenty of them. They might as well be blow-up dolls, for how real they are to you. We all know it. Even Mother. That’s why she doesn’t bother asking.”

  “You’re just pissed because she doesn’t butt into my life.”

  “See, you still don’t get it. She doesn’t butt into your life because you don’t have one. You don’t have a life; you don’t have friends; you
don’t have anything but money. You know, I’ve just decided I’m going to go and marry Alejandro anyway. Even without the money. And that terrifies me, but not doing it terrifies me more. Because I worry that I might end up like you.”

  “There are things about me you don’t know.”

  “Yeah, right. I would love it if that were true. But the sad fact is, you’re the one who doesn’t know. You don’t know about yourself, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Yes, I do. I know more than you think. I knew about Alejandro, didn’t I?”

  “You only know what Edward tells you, and he doesn’t tell you shit. He and I talk about what bullshit he’s going to feed you this week. It’s a game for us. We laugh at you.”

  I didn’t believe her. I said to her, “Maybe I don’t know the details, but I don’t give a crap about those.”

  She looked at me pityingly. “You don’t believe me. Okay. How about this? Edward has been writing books for years now. He has four published, under a pseudonym of course, so Mother won’t know. His fifth is coming out this spring. And, Andrew, he’s gay. He and his wife still live together, but she knows and he’s got his own place downtown where he stays half the time. Dad, he has a house down on St. John. We went down last year. Me and Edward and Andrew and Dad’s mistress. The woman he’s really been with for the last twenty years, and you’ve never even met her.”

  She had to be lying. That’s what I told myself. She must be lying. But then why did I believe her?

  She stood up. “I’m sorry, Timothy, but I thought it was time that someone told you the truth.”

  Then she turned around and walked out.

  THE INVESTIGATION

  MOTIVE

  In the chapter “Homicide and Human Nature” in the book Homicide, it states that “People who kill in spite of the inhibitions and penalties that confront them are people moved by strong passions. The issues over which people are prepared to kill must surely be those about which they care most profoundly” (Daly, Wilson, p. 12).

  Nora

  Timothy Comes Back to Kansas

  You probably think I’m going to tell you that it was a total surprise when he came back. But it wasn’t. Or maybe it was and I’m just rewriting the story in hindsight. But I’ll tell you how I remember it.

  I was standing behind the counter. I had a cranberry muffin stashed away on a lower shelf, and I was picking at it. I had a piece of it in my mouth—a piece that had a cranberry, so it was both tangy and sweet at the same time—when I got a picture of Timothy. I could see him walking down the street outside, headed toward the store. I closed my eyes to see it more clearly. In my mind I could see him approaching the store. I could see him reaching out for the door, and even as I saw it in my mind, I felt the rush of cold air as the door opened. When I opened my eyes, he was there standing in front of me.

  Did that actually happen? Or did it happen in one of the dreams I had about him, and I just rearranged it in my head? I don’t think so, but I can’t know for sure. Dreams and memory blur together for me now, so I can’t really tell them apart. Can you tell the difference? Are you sure?

  When I opened my eyes, he wasn’t smiling. He seemed almost angry. But a different kind of angry than the last time I’d seen him. Before he’d been a cold sort of angry. This was more agitated angry. Upset maybe.

  “Well,” he demanded. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  I smiled at him. “What can I get you?” I asked.

  He didn’t smile back. “This,” he said, and he reached over the counter and cupped the back of my head with his hand. I could feel his fingers twining into my hair. When he leaned over, there was no way I could have escaped. But I didn’t want to. His lips were softer than I could have imagined. All he did was gently touch them to mine. He left them there for a lingering second, but just as I started to lean forward into him for more, he pulled back. Then he was smiling. And he turned around and walked out again.

  Oh, did I mention that Neil was there?

  As Timothy walked out, he gave Neil a little nod.

  After the door closed behind him, Neil looked over at me and shook his head. He said, “I’ve always wished I could do something like that.”

  “Neil!”

  “What?” he said, as if he had no idea why I was angry. Then he made it even worse. He said, “Do you think he’s coming back?”

  Timothy did come back, but he took his time. He waited until almost the end of the day. I was just locking up to leave when he came sauntering up.

  “Hello,” he said.

  I was so angry I almost couldn’t speak. But I managed to get something out. “Where have you been?”

  He kissed me again. Then he pulled back and looked at me intently. “Now I know why I couldn’t forget about you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shook his head at me silently, and I knew it wasn’t going to be that kind of relationship. It wasn’t going to be something logical. Women like to talk about it, to try to figure it out, to pin it down and capture it with words. He wasn’t going to do that. He didn’t even try.

  “Come on.” He took my hand and led me to his car. It was another BMW rental, but not a convertible this time.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Back to my hotel.”

  I stopped.

  “Come on,” he said.

  I shook my head. “It’s a small town.”

  “And it’s a short life,” he countered.

  I still hesitated.

  “Do you want to?” he asked.

  That was a question I didn’t usually ask myself. I asked what other peopled wanted. I asked what I should do. What I shouldn’t do. But what I wanted?

  The answer was surprising.

  “No. I want to go have a cup of coffee, and I want you to tell me what your last name is.”

  “Coffee and my last name. That’s what you want?”

  “Yes. I haven’t seen Jeanette in a while. Don’t you want to say hello?”

  It wasn’t until much later that I found out he’d already been to say hello to Jeanette. That was where he had been most of the day. So he said no to going to Joe’s. At the time I assumed it was because he was scared of Jeanette, and I remember thinking it was sweet and funny. Our conclusions are based on nothing: partial truths and assumptions.

  We agreed to go for a drive instead. I unlocked the door to Starbox, made us two large lattes, and we got into his car and drove out of town. It was getting dark already as we left, and soon we couldn’t even see anything, but he kept driving. And we talked. At first we talked about his life in New York, and his work, and then he started telling me about his family. He started off by describing their family dinners. He told me about the color themes: the matching food and outfits that his mother liked to coordinate. Then he told me how, at a recent one, his mother had made his sister, who had been battling anorexia for years, get on a scale in front of everybody to prove she hadn’t lost more weight.

  So I told him how, before we went to dinner last time, I’d put on jeans and a coat over my dress to sneak out of the house to meet him. And how it totally hadn’t worked, my mother had known anyway, and it felt like this elaborate game of unspoken things that everyone knew but no one talked about.

  He was silent for a bit after I said that. At first I thought he was thinking about the fact that I still lived at home with my mother. Because in telling that story, I had to admit that detail—but I didn’t tell him that I’d been at school and that she got sick and that that was why I’d come home. I didn’t tell him that I was working at the coffee shop because I needed to pay the bills and in our tiny town that was the only job I could get. I felt like it would sound like excuses, and I didn’t want to make excuses. I knew it wouldn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to move to Kansas, and I certainly couldn’t pick up and move to New York.

  But when he spoke, it was clear he hadn’t actually been thinking about me at all. He had been thin
king about the phrase I said: “unspoken things that everyone knows.” He told me that there were unspoken things in his family, and not everyone knew about them. He paused again for a long time. Then, with the hesitation of confession, he told me the story of how his sister had come in to see him and spilled all these secrets about the family that he didn’t have any idea about. He admitted that he didn’t even know his sister well enough to know if she was lying.

  And with that story, I got a peak underneath the facade. Before I had seen him as good-looking, confident, magnetic, and a bit of a jerk. I have to admit I was attracted to that man, but I didn’t trust him at all. But then I caught a glimpse of the man underneath that facade—the uncertainty, the insecurity, the questioning, the honesty—and that man . . . That man I knew I could fall for. And in the moment that I realized I could fall for him, I knew I already had.

  We drove all night, and we told each other stories. A lot of them were stories about our families. I told him how diabolical my mother had been in punishing us when we were very young. My sister was claustrophobic, and, knowing this, my mother would lock her in the closet. But it was also a punishment for me at the same time; I would have been fine in the closet, but having my sister in there screaming and not being able to help her, that had been the perfect brand of torture for me. And my mother knew it. When I was bad, my mother didn’t threaten to do anything to me, she threatened to lock my sister in the closet. And she even did it once when I lied about having done my homework. My mother found out I had lied, and she locked my sister in the closet for three hours. I never missed a homework assignment again after that. It was probably why I’d done so well in school.

  Timothy’s stories were like something out of another world, like something I’d seen on a TV show, with money and fancy schools and fancy clothes and alcohol and drugs and no parents in sight.

  When it got really late, and I realized we weren’t going to be getting back anytime soon, I borrowed his cell phone to call my mother. She didn’t pick up, so I just left her a message that I was staying over with Tammy.