Through the Heart Read online

  Still, I waited a moment for what he would say.

  “You’re going to leave me to eat my hamburger alone?” he said, but he said it in that same voice he’d used to talk to Jeanette. It was mocking, slick banter. That was all.

  “I have a feeling you’re almost never alone. I think you’ll be fine.”

  And I left.

  Did I come close to escaping fate that Monday afternoon when I walked out of Joe’s Diner?

  You can play “what if?” games until the Resurrection, but how can you escape fate? Maybe you don’t believe in fate. But fate doesn’t require belief. As Timothy said, you’re ruled by it whether you believe in it or not. If it exists. I’d say it’s up to you to decide, but you don’t even need to decide. Just live your life, and when it’s over, then tell me. Do you believe?

  THE INVESTIGATION

  STATISTICS

  The Human Side of Homicide reports that currently a quarter of all murderers are women, and their victims are usually someone close.

  Timothy

  What Timothy Thought

  When Nora Walked Out

  I’ll admit it. I was sure she would come back.

  I sat there. I sipped from my water glass. It was barely an inch below the lip, but that waitress came back with the water jug to fill it up. And she bent over to show me her tits. They weren’t bad, not great either, but there was something sexy about the pride she had in showing them.

  I flirted with her and waited for the other one to come back. That’s how I thought of her—as the other one.

  There was no strike of lightning for me. It might have seemed like it, but there wasn’t. I was just bullshitting about fate. I’d been in the habit of talking that way to women for years. They loved it, and it kept me from having to answer questions. They just went off into their dream world; I could see them construct the image right before my eyes. “This is the guy who believes in fate.” “This is the guy who believes in love.” “This might be the guy I’ve been waiting for all my life.” And then they don’t even bother to get to know me. They think they know already, and then they just look for evidence to back it up.

  So at the time I was sure it was just more of my bullshit. But later I looked back and asked myself, why did I get off the highway? And why there? I wasn’t really hungry. I didn’t need gas. I wasn’t in the mood to explore. There was no reason. I just did it. And when I was driving through town, I saw the sign for Starbucks, though it wasn’t a Starbucks, and I just thought I’d get myself a coffee.

  I walked in and there was that girl. I found out later that she was over thirty, but there are some women who are women and some women who are girls. One isn’t better than the other. They’re just different. This one was a girl.

  Anyway, she was just a girl with beautiful hair. I couldn’t really see it well, but I could imagine what it looked like down. It was the kind of hair that when you see it down, it’s almost like seeing the girl undressed.

  I have to admit, it annoyed me that she didn’t even seem to notice me. Oh, I suppose she did notice in a way, but she looked at me like you’d look at something through a window. That was why I asked her to come get a coffee. I wanted to crack the glass. And I thought I had shattered it pretty good when she came running out of the coffee shop after me. It was the kind of thing I was used to. That proved to me she was just an ordinary girl—a girl with beautiful hair and a mysterious look but underneath that obviously the same as all the others.

  So when we got to the diner, I acted with her the way I acted with all women: never awful but just rude enough that they knew exactly what the deal was. Yet they always chose to ignore my clear signals. They saw what they wanted to see.

  Until now.

  This was the first one who watched me, listened, and got it. And walked out. Not because she wasn’t interested. Not because she was playing a game. It was because she understood me.

  She was the only one.

  Nora

  What Nora Thought

  After She Walked Out

  Should I lie and say that after I walked out on him, I never gave him another thought?

  The truth was that even as I was walking out, my brain was screaming at me, “What are you doing? Did you even look at him? Do you have any idea what you’re walking out on?”

  That was what it was like to be inside my head that afternoon. I don’t think another thought got any play time in my brain. That’s the downside of working a job that doesn’t require you to think—it leaves you at the mercy of whatever thoughts are tormenting you. I hadn’t realized how peaceful I’d become over the past few years. Or maybe I was just empty. There was nothing to want. There is great peace in that. Boredom too. But also peace.

  But I have to tell you—when it came back, it came back with a vengeance. By the time I left work my mind had him at Jeanette’s place in a bad soap-opera scene. I had myself so convinced that I even drove by Jeanette’s house on my way home to see if his car was parked outside.

  I know it undermined my bold move in walking out on him. I wish I could take credit for strength and self-respect, but since I’m confessing, I might as well go all the way. I didn’t walk out on him thinking that I wouldn’t let a man treat me that way. I didn’t look at the situation and realize that, no matter how good-looking he was, if he was flirting with another woman right in front of me on what had to be considered a date, he would only bring me misery—no matter how much I wanted him.

  No, it wasn’t like that at all. Even if I can see the truth in that kind of reasoning, I still wanted him. And seeing how much Jeanette wanted him only made me want him more. If I had any question in my mind about how desirable he was, I could see the answer reflected in Jeanette’s eyes.

  So why did I walk out?

  All I can say is that I didn’t do it.

  It was like when you jump onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train to save a person who has fallen, and after it’s over, there was no sense of you having done it. Suddenly I found myself getting up and walking out, when no part of my conscious brain wanted to do it.

  Because, truthfully, I can’t say I’m any different from Jeanette in her search for a man. The only difference between us is that I don’t try so hard. In fact, I don’t really try at all. So who, between the two of us, is the more honest?

  How could I escape being like Jeanette when it had been my mother’s favorite theme for my entire life? I know it was out of love, on her part. It was because she equated a man with stability, security, and happiness. She had raised two girls without any help, and her life had been hard, but her belief made my life harder. Practically every day when I got home from work, she would say to me, “How are you ever going to get a man when it looks like you’ve been digging ditches all day?” (The coffee grounds left black lines under my fingernails.)

  I hated the way she said “get a man.” It wasn’t “meet a man.” It was always “get a man.” Like you might go to the pound or the pet store and get a dog. But in the way my mother said it, it was clear that it wasn’t something that simple. It was more like a hunter getting the big game: hard to track, tough to bring down, requiring time and planning and patience and strategy. But then, of course, the hunter hangs the prize trophy on the wall. That’s how I imagined it. I would go out, “get” a man, and hang his head on the wall—because there was never any discussion about what my mother thought I should do with the man when I got him. Just the getting. That was of paramount importance. Without that one accomplishment, my mother always seemed to imply, life wasn’t really worth living.

  I had a feeling that Jeanette and my mother would be in perfect agreement. And I’m sure neither my mother or Jeanette would have walked out on Timothy. And when I walked out, I thought that would be it.

  But he walked right back in.

  THE INVESTIGATION

  STATISTICS

  “Who kills whom?” This question is posed in Martin Daly and Margo Wilson’s book Homicide.

  To
try to answer the question, Daly and Wilson did an analysis of the murder cases in Detroit in 1972. In that year 512 cases of homicide were solved: 243 were unrelated acquaintances of the murderers, 138 strangers, 127 “relatives,” and in 4 cases the relationship was unknown.

  The fact that 127 perpetrators out of 512 were “relatives” means that one of every four victims was related to the killer. Of the 127 victims who were related to their killers, 32 were blood relations, 10 were in-laws, 5 were step-relations, and 80 were spouses (36 women were killed by their husbands and 44 men were killed by their wives).

  Nora

  Nora Says Yes to a Date

  He walked back into Starbox first thing the next morning. No suit this time. He wore a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but both looked crisp and perfect in the way that clothes usually only look in the movies.

  I watched him come in, my face (I hoped) a blank.

  He didn’t smile either. He was very serious as he walked up to the counter and said, “I’d like a pumpkin-spice latte please.”

  I nodded. “To stay or to go?”

  “To stay?” When he said it, he made it a half question.

  I just nodded again.

  I took a mug, and even though Neil wasn’t in yet, I made the pumpkin latte as if he were standing there watching me: four full squirts of pumpkin syrup.

  When I was done, I brought it back to where Timothy stood waiting and put it down on the counter.

  He picked up the mug, and he drank the whole thing. What was even more impressive was that he didn’t even flinch. He put the cup down, took a napkin out of the dispenser, and wiped the edges of his mouth with it.

  Then he said, “You were right yesterday about me trying to prove something.”

  “You’re still trying to prove something,” I pointed out, flicking my finger at the cup.

  “You’re right again.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . do you think you could make me an espresso? I think I might need a palate cleanser.”

  I laughed. And then I made him a double. I brought it back over to him, and he picked it up and tossed it back expertly, like he did it every day of the week—which he probably did.

  “That’s better. Thank you.”

  He paused, running his finger around the rim of his empty espresso cup. Then he said, “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for how it went yesterday.”

  “Just saying sorry might have been easier,” I said. “You didn’t need to drink the pumpkin latte.”

  The wince he had suppressed while drinking showed itself then.

  “Now you tell me. I don’t remember you saying anything about that before you made it and put in down in front of me.”

  “You seemed very determined.”

  “I was. I am.”

  He let that sit out there for a minute.

  Then he said, “Can I take you out for another cup of coffee? Maybe a slice of apple pie loaded with shortening?”

  “You ate my apple pie, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” he said. “It was delicious.”

  “I know.”

  “It would have been even better if I could have eaten it in peace.”

  “Jeanette?” I guessed, though it wasn’t really a guess.

  “Good Lord,” he said, with feeling. “Like getting thrown into the lion’s cage before dinner.”

  “No one but yourself to blame for that,” I pointed out. “You encouraged her.”

  “Because I thought you would be there to protect me.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “I miscalculated,” he admitted.

  “And that doesn’t happen often,” I guessed.

  “Almost never.”

  “And the times someone has walked out on you?” I asked.

  He thought for a second. “Never.”

  “Well, it’s not a party trick. It was a first for me too,” I said.

  “I know,” he told me. “I can smell a strategy a mile away. You never expected to see me again, did you?”

  “No.”

  “But you don’t seem upset that I’m here.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not upset.”

  The understatement of the century.

  “So can I take you for a coffee?”

  Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to see him, but for some reason I was also glad to be able to turn him down. “I can’t. I’m here alone this morning. I can’t leave the store. And even if Neil were here, I couldn’t just leave like that again.”

  “Then can you come sit down with me at one of the tables?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, but I’m supposed to stay behind the counter, or if the store is empty, I can clean the tables or the windows.”

  “I’m not used to people telling me no,” he said, but he softened the remark by smiling as he said it.

  “You’re taking it well.”

  “I’m on my best behavior right now,” he admitted. “So is that no a real no or a no to coffee?”

  “It’s a no to coffee.”

  “What about dinner then?”

  “Yes.” I said it calmly, but if my insides were outside, I would have been doing backflips.

  “Good,” he said with obvious satisfaction, though not, I noticed, much surprise. “You’ll need to give me your address and tell me what time to pick you up.”

  “Why don’t we meet at the restaurant?” I suggested.

  “I like to pick my dates up.”

  “You might like it, but it’s not going to happen.”

  He didn’t like that. I could see it in his face. It’s not that he showed it exactly. But something went still.

  He took a moment, as if he were deciding which tack to go with. I think he chose honesty, but it’s so hard to tell. And if you chose honesty as a strategy, is it still honesty?

  “You’re going to make me suspicious. What are you hiding?” He said it lightly, but I could tell he wanted a real answer.

  But I wanted to hide everything for as long as I possibly could. If I could hide it all forever, maybe I could leave it behind as well.

  “If I told you, I wouldn’t be very good at hiding it,” I said.

  “Do you have a husband or boyfriend at home?”

  “Sadly, no. It’s much less interesting.”

  “I prefer less interesting. So no skeletons?”

  “No boyfriends or husbands anyway.” Maybe I should have dissembled more. Played the game. Been more mysterious. Pretended that there might be someone in the wings. But I couldn’t do it.

  “So you’re a woman who walks out, without other prospects. I was sure that you walked out on me because there was someone else.”

  “No, there’s no one else. But it can’t be so unusual for a woman to walk out without other prospects.”

  “Unless she’s just not interested . . . ?” he suggested in a half question.

  I just looked at him.

  “It’s unusual,” he assured me. “Most people don’t want to be alone. But it seems like you don’t mind.”

  That’s when I told him my first lie. “Not really,” I said.

  “Well, tonight I hope you won’t mind the company. But since I am a bit old-fashioned, and you won’t let me pick you up at your house, would you meet me here, and then we can drive together to whichever restaurant you choose? My one request is that it’s not Joe’s Diner.”

  “You’re afraid of Jeanette,” I said laughing.

  “Terrified,” he agreed.

  The rest of the day seemed very long. But finally the sun dropped in the west, and its rays slanted across the empty lot and through the windows into the store. The rays, as they reached the windows and then made their way across the floor of the café, told time like a sundial, and at this time of year, I noticed, when they reached the counter it was time to go home.

  I had a couple of hours before I had to be back at the store to meet Timothy, so I took the long way home, which is to say I drove past
our street and out into the plains. Just outside of town, there’s a turnoff from the main road onto a gravel road that goes out into the wheat fields and dead-ends at an old grain silo. I took that turnoff, drove to the end, parked the car, and walked out into the fields.

  The weather had changed drastically from the warm summery temperature of the day before. It had turned cold overnight, and out there, with no protection, the wind whipped through the stubble in the fields and through my jacket. I stayed out there as long as I could stand it.

  It’s only now that I can look back and see the truth—that those were my golden moments. It was out there that I found what I was looking for. And it was when I was most alone—the thing I was most afraid of. Will you believe me if I tell you that the thing we fear most is the thing we want most? No? Well, I wouldn’t have believed it either. I couldn’t see it, even with the evidence right there in front of me.

  I stayed out there, alone in the fields, longer than usual. I stayed until the sun went down and the temperature dropped even more. Then, when my nose and fingers were numb and I was almost shivering, I walked back to the car and drove home to my mother’s house.

  I went straight upstairs to take a hot shower, and then I took the time to blow-dry my hair, which I almost never do since it takes forever. I dug out the makeup that I hadn’t used for ages. It had been so long, in fact, that when I tried to use the mascara, I discovered it had dried to a solid inside the container. For the first time I realized how much I had let slip in the last three years.

  I put on the nicest dress I had, which was also the only dress I had. I’d bought it for the one date I went on in Chicago in the spring, and I hadn’t worn it since. Then I put a pair of heels in my bag and put on jeans underneath the dress and an overcoat on top of it. I knew if I went out in a dress and heels, and my mother saw me, there was no way I was going to get out of the house without an interrogation. And I wasn’t ready to be questioned—especially since I didn’t have any answers.