Through the Heart Page 8

  Even with my disguise, getting out of the house proved to be tough. It was like my mother had radar for the times when it was most inconvenient for her to be difficult.

  She was sitting, watching TV, when I went downstairs.

  “I’m going out,” I told her.

  She turned to look at me, and I felt like she had X-ray vision, as if she could see right through the coat to the dress underneath.

  “Where?” she demanded.

  “Meeting Tammy.”

  “Tammy is more important to you than your own mother?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Good. Then stay in with me tonight. I’m feeling low. I’ve been alone in this house all day. I need some company.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.”

  “Why not? You see that girl all the time. Why do you need to see her tonight?”

  I spent practically every night with my mother, sitting on the couch watching TV. I couldn’t even count the number of nights she told me I should be going out instead of sitting around, that my life would be over before I knew it, and I’d still be sitting there on the couch alone because she wasn’t going to be there forever.

  “I promise I’ll stay in tomorrow night,” I told her.

  “I’m not talking about tomorrow night. I’m talking about tonight. Are you going to stay with me tonight? That’s all I’m asking you. I don’t think it’s so much.”

  I realized that if I had really been going out with Tammy, I would have given in and stayed in with my mother. I knew it and she knew it. So by saying no, it was as good as saying there was something I wasn’t telling her. The only thing for me to do was to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

  “Sorry. Not tonight, Mom,” I said, heading for the door. “I’ll probably be back a bit late. See you tomorrow.” And I hurried out, not waiting to hear what was sure to come. I could hear her through the door, but, mercifully, I couldn’t make out the words.

  I drove far enough away for it to be safe to pull over, wriggle out of my jeans, change my shoes, take off the bulky coat, and put on some lipstick. Then I drove back to town and pulled up behind the now familiar convertible. Tonight the top was up, and the rear window was so small, and it was so dark, I couldn’t see if he was inside.

  He wasn’t. He was standing underneath the Starbox awning. As soon as I turned off the car, he came over and opened the door for me.

  He smiled at me as he took in what I was wearing, but didn’t say anything. Most men will say something on the first date: “You look nice,” or even “I like that dress.” Something. But he didn’t say a word. He just escorted me over to the passenger side of his car and opened the door for me. Then he went around to his side and slid into the driver’s seat.

  I gave him directions for the few blocks we had to drive to get to Mike’s Italian.

  “Mike’s?” he said when he heard the name. “People like to name their restaurants after themselves here, don’t they?”

  “It works,” I said. “I bet Neil would be doing a lot better with his place if he named it Neil’s. People would feel more comfortable.”

  Mike’s was actually a fancier place than its name implied. Fancy for our town anyway. There were white tablecloths, linen napkins, candles, and fresh flowers on the tables.

  Well, usually it was one of the fancier places. I hadn’t been in ages, so I didn’t know that, to help business during the week, Mike had started up a Tuesday family night. Kids under five ate for free.

  I realized the change when we walked into the restaurant and, instead of the murmur of adult voices, two little boys were doing laps around the tables like it was a track meet. Rising above their yells was the ear-splitting shriek of a baby. What’s more, there was brown paper on the tables instead of white cotton, and crayons in shot glasses instead of fresh flowers and candles.

  Timothy looked over at me. “Is this another test like the pumpkin latte?” he asked me.

  “It’s not usually like this,” I said. “Why don’t we—”

  But before I could finish my sentence, Mike had discovered us at the door.

  “I have a very quiet table,” he said immediately, reading the looks on our faces. Then he herded us into the restaurant, arm outstretched, as if in welcome, but I swear it was more blocking tactics to keep us from making a break from the door.

  As he ushered us across the room, he said, “And the kids, they have early bedtimes. A lot of the families will be finishing up soon.”

  I looked around. Most of them didn’t even have food in front of them yet. But it was too late to escape easily.

  Timothy caught my eye. He was laughing, and he shrugged as if to say, “Why not?”

  We managed to make it across the dining room and into a little nook that was quieter and a little recessed from the rest of the restaurant.

  As we sat down, Mike pulled off the paper tablecloth and returned a minute later with a real tablecloth and two candles. He lit them both with a lighter from his pocket, winked, and disappeared.

  Timothy looked across the table at me.

  “You are full of surprises,” he said.

  “Believe me, this is as much of a surprise to me,” I told him.

  “It’s not just the restaurant. You also had this hidden.” And he reached out and lifted a lock of my hair from where it had fallen forward over my shoulder. He brushed it back, saying, “You attract a lot of attention with that hair.”

  “That’s why I usually wear it up,” I said. “But I think I’m safe from attention here.”

  “Do you?” he asked curiously.

  “In a room filled with families and screaming kids, yes.”

  “A man doesn’t stop being a man when he gets married and has kids,” Timothy said.

  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. He spoke with such authority. Of course I’d already checked the ring finger and found it empty. Was he that guy—the one who refused to wear a wedding ring? Or, worse, the kind who took it off when he went away on business trips?

  My face must have showed something of what I was thinking because he said, “My brother is married and has two kids. That’s how I know.”

  I wasn’t used to being read so easily. I thought about whether I could get away with denying I’d been thinking that very thought. But I didn’t have a chance because he went on.

  “And, just so you know, I think every man in here watched you as you crossed the room. And there’s one over there to your right who is looking at me like he wants to kill me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said.

  Then I looked over.

  It was Dan.

  He was sitting at a table with Stacey and his two kids—and Timothy was right. If you could kill someone with a look, Timothy would have been dead at that moment. Dan was so intent on Timothy, he didn’t even notice me looking at him.

  “Is there something I should know about?” Timothy asked.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing.”

  “The wife doesn’t think it’s nothing,” he observed.

  I looked back over. Stacey was looking at Dan almost as ferociously as Dan was looking at Timothy. I had the thought that without the social veneer, in a more primitive time, I didn’t know what might have happened.

  “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Mmm,” he said. It was a sound of agreement, but it wasn’t agreement.

  He seemed to study me for a second. And the way he looked at me—how can I explain it? It felt like no one had ever actually looked at me before him. I thought they had, but in comparison it felt like they were looking through me or over me or around me. He looked right at me.

  His eyes narrowed a bit, considering. Then he said, “Is this false modesty? Or is this real? I have to admit, I can’t tell.”

  “It’s not modesty, false or otherwise. It’s reality.”

  He snorted as if he didn’t believe me.

  There was a reason for that—it turned o
ut I was wrong. Not about the modesty, but about the fight between Stacey and Dan being about me.

  Right after we ordered our drinks, I noticed Stacey talking heatedly to Dan. And a moment later she started furiously bundling the baby’s things into a bag. Then she scooped the baby up in her arms, and grabbing Dan Junior’s hand, she hustled them out the door, leaving Dan alone at the table full of barely touched plates of food.

  I still didn’t think it had anything to do with me, until I saw Dan get up—which I expected—but instead of following Stacey out the door, he stalked over to our table and stopped right in front of my chair.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Dan said to me.

  I pushed my chair back. I didn’t like the way he was standing over me.

  “Dan, I’m having dinner. Do you mind?”

  He seemed to take the question literally. “Yes, I do mind. Do you even know who this guy is?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “It should be yours,” Dan said. “What are you thinking, going out with a guy who’s already hit on half the women in this town?”

  Timothy spoke then. “What on earth are you talking about?” He sounded calm and reasonable.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Dan said, not even turning around.

  “No, but you’re talking about me,” Timothy said. “And, quite honestly, you’re talking nonsense. I’ve been in this town for a total of about thirty hours. So I have no idea when I might have been seducing all these women. Or who would have told you.”

  “You can’t hide things in a small town,” Dan said. “Even if you’re only here for a day. My wife’s good friend said you were all over her yesterday. And now you’re out with Nora tonight.”

  All of a sudden something clicked in my brain. I remembered that Jeanette and Stacey had been really good friends in high school.

  Timothy caught my eye and smiled.

  “Is he talking about who I think he’s talking about?” he asked me.

  “I think so.”

  “The lion’s cage?”

  “At feeding time,” I said.

  “Jeanette,” we both said at the same time.

  “You know about it, and you still agreed to go out with him?” Dan said, as if personally outraged.

  “Dan, he was flirting with her. Flirting isn’t a crime. It doesn’t mean you can’t take someone else out to dinner.”

  “He might have told you it was flirting, but it was a lot more than that—I can tell you.”

  I looked back over at Timothy.

  “After eating my hamburger and your apple pie, I got back in my car and drove to the highway and checked into a motel. I went to the Burger King next door for dinner, and I came to see you first thing this morning.”

  I looked back up at Dan. “Not that this is any of your business, but are you saying you heard something different?”

  “Well, not . . .” Dan floundered, then tried to recover by asserting angrily, “It was a whole lot more than just innocent flirting. He practically propositioned her.”

  The way he said it make it sound as if the crime were attempted murder. Had he forgotten that just last weekend he’d pretty much done exactly that to me in the aisle of the 7-Eleven? And if he hadn’t forgotten, how on earth could he be so righteous?

  “Dan, you’re being ridiculous.”

  He ignored my words. “I know what you’re doing,” he told me.

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re trying to make me jealous.”

  I tried again. “Dan, you’re married, and you have two kids. Go home to them, okay?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Suddenly this was familiar. I had totally forgotten that he was like this, but whenever he realized he was losing an argument, he started sounding like a five-year-old. It used to drive me crazy. I felt like I had a child instead of a boyfriend. I had spent a good part of the last three years thinking about him, but I never once remembered this. All the good times, all the wonderful things, yes. But this had been erased from my mind as if it never happened. Why is it that when you sit around thinking about your ex, you don’t remember these things? The things that drove you crazy and now you no longer have to deal with?

  “Okay, don’t go home,” I said. “I really don’t care. But let me have my dinner in peace.”

  Dan just stood there, glaring at me.

  “I believe Nora asked you to leave,” Timothy said. The words were mild, but his tone was not.

  Dan finally pivoted to face Timothy, but at that moment Timothy picked up the menu and started reading it. He didn’t even look up at Dan. It’s hard to fight with someone who’s not even looking at you.

  Dan stood there for a moment, looking increasingly awkward. Then he turned back to me.

  I was expecting . . . I don’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t what he did.

  He looked at me intently, and he said, “You look beautiful.” Then he turned around and walked away.

  I didn’t know what to do with that. I really didn’t.

  I also didn’t want to look around the restaurant, because I was afraid to find that everyone was watching. I looked anyway. There were a couple of people who were so intently not looking at us that I knew they’d been trying to follow the little scene, but the rest were busy with their children, trying to get them to sit down, to eat, to stop hitting each other, that they had no time for someone else’s drama.

  Then I looked over at Timothy. I was expecting to share a smile over the ridiculousness of what had just happened. But he wasn’t looking at me either. He was still studying the menu—in a way that let me know he was angry.

  I waited a moment, and he still didn’t look up.

  “Are you okay?” I finally asked.

  He shut the menu and finally looked up at me. Suddenly I felt the reverse of what I felt with Dan. Not that I was with a child, but that I was the child.

  “You told me no husband, no boyfriend, but you should have mentioned that you had a lover.”

  “Okay, how about this—I have no husband, no boyfriend, and no lover,” I told him.

  “Someone doesn’t act like that unless you’re sleeping with them.”

  He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. It was as if he were erecting a barrier between us.

  “Not only am I not sleeping with him, before Saturday night I hadn’t even spoken to him in three years.”

  There was no hint in his face that he was softening.

  He said, “I don’t know if I believe that. And even if it’s true, he wants you back.”

  I leaned forward across the table, trying to make him believe me when I said, “I don’t care what he wants.”

  “You’re not going to go back to him?”

  “Not tonight anyway.” I was too used to being sarcastic with Tammy and getting her to laugh. It didn’t work with Timothy at all.

  He gave me a withering look, and it was all downhill from there.

  I think the way he acted during our dinner was his version of my leaving the day before. The only difference is that he didn’t get up and walk away from the table. At least not in body. I tried asking him questions, but he gave me yes or no answers, or ignored the questions altogether. Eventually, I gave up, and we finished the meal in silence.

  We were done faster than some of the families who had been there when we arrived. At the end of it, he paid. I tried to offer, but he just made a little brushing motion with his hand, like he was sweeping crumbs from the tablecloth. Then he drove me back to the store, walked me back to my car, opened the door for me, and said good night.

  I didn’t ask him if I would see him again. He didn’t ask to see me either. There wasn’t even a kiss on the cheek.

  I think it might have been the worst date I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had that many, but it was still a doozy—even without many others to compare it with. So you’d think I would be relieved that I wouldn’t have to suff
er through another date like that. But “relieved” is not the word I’d use to describe what I felt.

  It was barely past ten when I got home, but the lights were all out in the house. Just to be safe, I pulled on my jeans, changed my shoes, and then put on my jacket and went inside.

  I shut the door softly behind me and leaned against it for a second. Back here. Again.

  Always back in this house.

  It was just a house. Dark. Quiet. So why did I feel like I couldn’t breathe in it?

  After a moment I turned on the lights—and discovered that my mother was sitting there on the couch. She had been sitting there in the dark, no TV, no music. Just sitting there.

  “Mom, what are you doing? Are you okay?” I asked her.

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken. I know she heard me because she shifted on the sofa, but she didn’t even turn her head to look at me.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

  Still nothing.

  “Do you want the light on or off?”

  No answer. But I knew what she wanted all the same.

  I turned the light off and left her sitting there in the dark.

  THE INVESTIGATION

  ASSUMPTIONS

  In piecing together the story, the investigator needs to beware of assumptions. The same event can be seen from another perspective in a completely different way.

  The FBI has a saying: “Any assumption is the death of a good investigation.”

  Timothy

  What Timothy Thought During the Date

  I was stunned when she got out of her car.

  Really.

  I had no idea. She’d looked like an average pretty girl in her uniform in the coffee place. And she’d acted like an average pretty girl, and I mean that in a good way. Really beautiful women have a self-consciousness about them: they’re always aware of the effect they have on people. It’s not their fault—they really do have an effect on people. So it’s just something they learn to expect, to defend against, to use, to deflect. Sometimes they get savvy, and they try to cover the fact that they’re aware of your reaction to them, but I can always spot it. It takes one to know one, after all.