Ruined burgers and a cloud of flies.
He and Erin would have done it differently. He wouldn’t have pressed the burgers with the spatula and Erin would have placed the condiments and chips and pickles in the kitchen so people could serve up there, where it was clean. Flies were disgusting and the burgers were as hard as rocks and he wasn’t going to eat them because the thought made him nauseated.
He waited until the platter of burgers had been emptied before heading back outside. He wandered to the table, feigning disappointment.
“I warned you they’d go fast.” Bill beamed. “But Emily’s got another platter in the refrigerator, so it won’t be long until round two. Grab me a beer, would you, while I go get it?”
“Sure,” Kevin said.
When the next batch of burgers was done, Kevin loaded a plate of food and complimented Bill and told him it looked fantastic. Flies were swarming and the burgers were dry and when Bill turned away, Kevin tossed the food into the metal garbage can on the side of the house. He told Bill that the burger tasted fantastic.
He stayed at the barbecue for a couple of hours. He talked with Coffey and Ramirez. They were detectives like him, except they ate the burgers and didn’t care that the flies were swarming. Kevin didn’t want to be the first one to leave, or even the second one, because the captain wanted to pretend he was one of the guys and he didn’t want to offend the captain. He didn’t like Coffey or Ramirez. Sometimes, when Kevin was around, Coffey and Ramirez stopped talking, and Kevin knew they had been talking about him behind his back. Gossips.
But Kevin was a good detective and he knew it. Bill knew it, and so did Coffey and Ramirez. He worked homicide and knew how to talk to witnesses and suspects. He knew when to ask questions and when to listen; he knew when people were lying to him and he put murderers behind bars because the Bible says Thou shalt not kill and he believed in God and he was doing God’s work by putting the guilty in jail.
Back at home, Kevin walked through the living room. He resisted the urge to call for Erin. If Erin had been here, the mantel would have been dusted and the magazines would have fanned out on the end table and there wouldn’t have been an empty bottle of vodka on the couch. If Erin had been here, the drapes would have been opened, allowing the sunlight to stretch across the floorboards. If Erin had been here, the dishes would have been washed and put away and dinner would have been waiting on the table and she would have smiled at him and asked him how his day had gone. Later they would make love because he loved her and she loved him.
Upstairs in the bedroom, he stood at the closet door. He could still catch a whiff of the perfume she’d worn, the one he’d bought her for Christmas. He’d seen her lift a tab on an ad in one of her magazines and smile when she smelled the perfume sample. When she went to bed, he tore the page out of the magazine and tucked it into his wallet so he’d know exactly which perfume to buy. He remembered the tender way she’d dabbed a little behind each ear and on her wrists when he’d taken her out on New Year’s Eve, and how pretty she’d looked in the black cocktail dress she was wearing. In the restaurant, Kevin had noticed the way other men, even those with dates, had glanced in her direction as she passed by them on the way to the table. Afterward, when they’d returned home, they made love as the New Year rolled in.
The dress was still there, hanging in the same place, bringing back those memories. A week ago, he remembered removing it from the hanger and holding it as he’d sat on the edge of the bed and cried.
Outside, he could hear the steady sound of crickets but it did nothing to soothe him. Though it was supposed to have been a relaxing day, he was tired. He hadn’t wanted to go to the barbecue, hadn’t wanted to answer questions about Erin, hadn’t wanted to lie. Not because lying bothered him, but because it was hard to keep up the pretense that Erin hadn’t left him. He’d invented a story and had been sticking to it for months: that Erin called every night, that she’d been home the last few days but had gone back to New Hampshire, that the friend was undergoing chemotherapy and needed Erin’s help. He knew he couldn’t keep that up forever, that soon the helping-a-friend excuse would begin to sound hollow and people would begin to wonder why they never saw Erin in church or at the store or even around the neighborhood or how long she would continue to help her friend. They’d talk about him behind his back and say things like, Erin must have left him, and I guess their marriage wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was. The thought made his stomach clench, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten.
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator. Erin always had turkey and ham and Dijon mustard and fresh rye bread from the bakery, but his only choice now was whether to reheat the Mongolian beef he’d picked up from the Chinese restaurant a couple of days earlier. On the bottom shelf, he saw food stains and he felt like crying again, because it made him think about Erin’s screams and the way her head had sounded when it had hit the edge of the table after he’d thrown her across the kitchen. He’d been slapping and kicking her because there were food stains in the refrigerator and he wondered now why he’d become so angry about such a little thing.
Kevin went to the bed and lay down. Next thing he knew, it was midnight, and the neighborhood outside his window was still. Across the street, he saw a light on in the Feldmans’ house. He didn’t like the Feldmans. Unlike the other neighbors, Larry Feldman never waved at him if both of them happened to be in their yards, and if his wife, Gladys, happened to see him, she’d turn away and head back into the house. They were in their sixties, the kind of people who rushed outside to scold a kid who happened to walk across their grass to retrieve a Frisbee or baseball. And even though they were Jewish, they decorated their house with Christmas lights in addition to the menorah they put in the window at the holidays. They confounded him and he didn’t think they were good neighbors.
He went back to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. In the morning, with sunlight streaming in, he knew that nothing had changed for anyone else. Only his life was different. His brother, Michael, and his wife, Nadine, would be getting the kids ready for school before heading out to their jobs at Boston College, and his mom and dad were probably reading the Globe as they had their morning coffee. Crimes had been committed, and witnesses would be in the precinct. Coffey and Ramirez would be gossiping about him.
He showered and had vodka and toast for breakfast. At the precinct, he was called out to investigate a murder. A woman in her twenties, most likely a prostitute, had been found stabbed to death, her body tossed in a Dumpster. He spent the morning talking to bystanders while the evidence was collected. When he finished with the interviews, he went to the precinct to start the report while the information was fresh in his mind. He was a good detective.
The precinct was busy. End of a holiday weekend. The world gone crazy. Detectives were speaking into phones and writing at their desks and talking to witnesses and listening as victims told detectives about their victimization. Noisy. Active. People coming and going. Phones ringing. Kevin walked toward his desk, one of four in the middle of the room. Through the open door, Bill waved but stayed in his office. Ramirez and Coffey were at their desks, sitting across from him.
“You okay?” Coffey asked. Coffey was in his forties, overweight and balding. “You look like hell.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” Kevin said.
“I don’t sleep well without Janet, either. When’s Erin coming back?”
Kevin kept his expression neutral.
“Next weekend. I’ve got a few days coming and we’ve decided to go to the Cape. We haven’t been there in years.”
“Yeah? My mom lives there. Where at the Cape?”
“Provincetown.”
“So does she. You’ll love it there. I go there all the time. Where are you staying?”
Kevin wondered why Coffey kept asking questions. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Erin’s making the arrangements.”
Kevin walked toward the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, even though he didn’t want any. He’d have to find the name of a bed-and-breakfast and a couple of restaurants, so if Coffey asked about it, he’d know what to say.
His days followed the same routine. He worked and talked to witnesses and finally went home. His work was stressful and he wanted to relax when he finished, but everything was different at home and the work stayed with him. He’d once believed that he would get used to the sight of murder victims, but their gray, lifeless faces were etched in his memory, and sometimes the victims visited him in his sleep.
He didn’t like going home. When he finished his shift, there was no beautiful wife to greet him at the door. Erin had been gone since January. Now, his house was messy and dirty and he had to do his own laundry. He hadn’t known how to work the washing machine, and the first time he ran it he added too much soap and the clothes came out looking dingy. There were no home-cooked meals or candles on the table. Instead, he grabbed food on the way home and ate on the couch. Sometimes, he put on the television. Erin liked to watch HGTV, the home and garden channel on cable, so he often watched that and when he did, the emptiness he felt inside was almost unbearable.
After work he no longer bothered to store his gun in the gun box he kept in his closet; in the box, he had a second Glock for his personal use. Erin had been afraid of guns, even before he’d placed the Glock to her head and threatened to kill her if she ever ran away again. She’d screamed and cried as he’d sworn that he’d kill any man she slept with, any man she cared about. She’d been so stupid and he’d been so angry with her for running away and he demanded the name of the man who had helped her so he could kill him. But Erin had screamed and cried and begged for her life and swore there wasn’t a man and he believed her because she was his wife. They’d made their vows in front of God and family and the Bible says Thou shalt not commit adultery. Even then, he hadn’t believed that Erin had been unfaithful. He’d never believed another man was involved. While they were married, he’d made sure of that. He made random calls to the house throughout the day and never let her go to the store or to the hair salon or to the library by herself. She didn’t have a car or even a license and he swung by their house whenever he was in the area, just to make sure she was at home. She hadn’t left because she wanted to commit adultery. She left because she was tired of getting kicked and punched and thrown down the cellar stairs and he knew he shouldn’t have done those things and he always felt guilty and apologized but it still hadn’t mattered.
She shouldn’t have run away. It broke his heart because he loved her more than life and he’d always taken care of her. He bought her a house and a refrigerator and a washer and dryer and new furniture. The house had always been clean, but now the sink was full of dishes and his hamper was overflowing.
He knew he should clean the house but he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer. There were four bottles left; a week ago, there’d been twelve. He knew he was drinking too much. He knew he should eat better and stop drinking but all he wanted to do was take the bottle and sit on the couch and drink. Vodka was good because it didn’t make your breath smell, and in the mornings, no one would know he was nursing a hangover.
He poured a glass of vodka, finished it, and poured another before walking through the empty house. His heart ached because Erin wasn’t here and if she suddenly showed up at the door, he knew he’d apologize for hitting her and they’d work things out and then they’d make love in the bedroom. He wanted to hold her and whisper how much he adored her, but he knew she wasn’t coming back, and even though he loved her, she made him so angry sometimes. A wife didn’t just leave. A wife didn’t just walk away from a marriage. He wanted to hit and kick and slap her and pull her hair for being so stupid. For being so damn selfish. He wanted to show her it was pointless to run away.
He drank a third and fourth glass of vodka.
It was all so confusing. The house was a wreck. There was an empty pizza box on the floor of the living room and the casing around the bathroom door was splintered and cracked. The door would no longer close all the way. He’d kicked it in after she’d locked it, trying to get away from him. He’d been holding her by the hair as he punched her in the kitchen and she’d run to the bathroom and he’d chased her through the house and kicked the door in. But now he couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting about.
He couldn’t remember much about that night. He couldn’t remember breaking two of her fingers, even though it was obvious that he had. But he wouldn’t let her go to the hospital for a week, not until the bruises on her face could be covered by makeup, and she’d had to cook and clean one-handed. He bought her flowers and apologized and told her that he loved her and promised it would never happen again, and after she got the cast off, he’d taken her into Boston for a dinner at Petroni’s. It was expensive and he’d smiled across the table at her. Afterward, they’d gone to a movie and on the way home he remembered thinking about how much he loved her and how lucky he was to have someone like her as his wife.
Alex had stayed with Katie until after midnight, listening as she’d told the story of her prior life. When she was too spent and exhausted to talk anymore, he put his arms around her and kissed her good night. On his drive home, he thought that he had never met anyone braver or stronger or more resourceful.
They spent much of the next couple of weeks together — or as much as they could, anyway. Between the hours he worked at the store and her shifts at Ivan’s, it wasn’t usually more than a few hours a day, but he anticipated his visits to her place with a sense of excitement he hadn’t felt in years. Sometimes, Kristen and Josh went with him. Other times, Joyce would shoo him out the door with a wink, urging him to have himself a good time before he headed over.
They seldom spent time at his house and when they did, it was only for short periods. In his mind, he wanted to believe it was because of the kids, that he wanted to take things slowly, but part of him realized it also had to do with Carly. Though he knew he loved Katie — and he grew more certain with every passing day — he wasn’t sure he was ready for that just yet. Katie seemed to understand his reluctance and didn’t seem to mind, if only because it was easier to be alone at her place.
Even so, they’d yet to make love. Though he often found himself imagining how wonderful it would be, especially in those moments before sleep, he knew Katie wasn’t ready for that. They both seemed to realize it would signal a change in their relationship, a hopeful permanence of sorts. For now, it was enough to kiss her, to feel her arms wrapped around him. He loved the scent of jasmine shampoo in her hair and the way her hand nestled so perfectly in his; the way their every touch was charged with delicious anticipation, as if they were somehow saving themselves for each other. He hadn’t slept with anyone since his wife had died, and now he felt that in some way he had unknowingly been waiting for Katie.
He took pleasure in showing her around the area. They walked the waterfront and past the historic homes, examining the architecture, and one weekend he took her to the Orton Plantation Gardens, where they wandered among a thousand blooming rosebushes. Afterward, they went to lunch at a small oceanfront bistro at Caswell Beach, where they held hands across the table like teenagers.
Since their dinner at her house, she hadn’t broached her past again, and he didn’t bring it up. He knew she was still working things out in her mind: how much she’d told him already and how much there still was to tell, whether or not she could trust him, how much it mattered that she was still married, and what would happen if Kevin somehow found her here. When he sensed she was brooding over such things, he would remind her gently that no matter what happened, her secret would always be safe with him. He would never tell anyone.
Watching her, he would sometimes be overcome with an overwhelming rage at Kevin Tierney. Such men’s instincts to victimize and torture were as foreign to him as the ability to breathe underwater or fly; more than anything, he wanted revenge. He wanted justice. He wanted Kevin to experience Katie’s anguish and terror, the unending bouts of brutal physical pain. During his time in the army, he’d killed one man, a soldier strung out on methamphetamines who was threatening a hostage with a gun. The man was dangerous and out of control and when the opportunity arose, Alex had pulled the trigger without hesitation. The death had given his job a sobering new meaning, but in his heart he knew that there were moments in life when violence was necessary to save lives. He knew that if Kevin ever showed up, Alex would protect Katie, no matter what. In the army, he’d slowly come to the realization that there were people who added goodness to the world and people who lived to destroy it. In his mind, the decision to protect an innocent woman like Katie from a psychopath like Kevin was as clear as black and white — a simple choice.
On most days, the specter of Katie’s past life didn’t intrude, and they spent each day together in a state of relaxed and growing intimacy. The afternoons with the kids were particularly special for him. Katie was a natural with children — whether helping Kristen feed the ducks at the pond or playing catch with Josh, she always seemed to fall effortlessly into rhythm with them, by turns playful, comforting, rowdy, or quiet. In this way she was much like Carly, and he somehow felt certain that Katie was the kind of woman Carly had once spoken about.
In the final weeks of Carly’s life, he had maintained a vigil beside her bed. Even though she slept most of the time, he was afraid of missing those times when she was conscious, no matter how short they might be. By then, the left side of her body was almost paralyzed, and speech was difficult for her. But one night, during a brief lucid period in the hour just before dawn, she’d reached for him.
“I want you to do something for me,” she said with effort, licking her cracked lips. Her voice was hoarse from disuse.
“Anything.”
“I want you to be… happy.” At this, he saw the ghost of her old smile, the confident, self-possessed smile that had captivated him at their first meeting.
“I am happy.”