He passed billboards and exit ramps, and in Delaware the rain started to fall. He rolled up the window and felt the wind begin to push the car sideways. A truck ahead of him was swerving, the trailer wheels riding the lines. He turned on the wipers and the windshield cleared. But the rain began to fall even harder and he leaned over the wheel, squinting into the fuzzy orbs of oncoming headlights. His breath began to fog the glass and he turned on the defroster. He would drive all night and find Erin tomorrow. He'd bring her home and they'd start over again. Man and wife, living together, the way it was supposed to be. Happy.
They used to be happy. Used to do fun things together. Early on in the marriage, he remembered, he and Erin would visit open houses on the weekends. She was excited about buying a house and he would listen as she talked to the Realtors, her voice trilling like music in the empty homes. She liked to take her time as she walked through the rooms, and he knew she was imagining where to put furniture. When they found the house in Dorchester, he'd known she wanted it by the way her eyes were sparkling. That night, lying in bed, she traced small circles on his chest as she pleaded with him to make an offer and he could remember thinking that he would do anything she wanted because he loved her.
Except have children. She'd told him that she wanted kids, wanted to start a family. In the first year of marriage, she'd talked about it all the time. He tried to ignore her, didn't want to tell her that he didn't want her to get fat and puffy, that pregnant women were ugly, that he didn't want to hear her whining about how tired she was or how her feet were swollen. He didn't want to hear a baby fussing and crying when he got home from work, didn't want toys scattered around the house. He didn't want her to get frumpy and saggy or hear her ask him whether he thought her butt was getting fat. He married her because he wanted a wife, not a mother. But she kept bringing it up, kept harping day after day until he finally slapped her and told her to shut up. After that, she never talked about it again, but now he wondered whether he should have given her what she wanted. She wouldn't have left if she had a child, wouldn't have been able to run away in the first place. By the same token, she could never run away again.
They would have a child, he decided, and the three of them would live in Dorchester and he would work as a detective. In the evenings, he'd come home to his pretty wife and when people saw them in the grocery store, they would marvel and say, They look like the all-American family.
He wondered whether her hair was blond again. Hoped it was long and blond and that he could run his fingers through it. She liked when he did that, always whispering to him, saying the words he liked, turning him on. But it hadn't been real, not if she'd been planning to leave him, not if she hadn't come back. She'd lied to him, been lying all along. For weeks. Months, even. Stealing from the Feldmans, the cell phone, taking money from his wallet. Scheming and plotting and he'd had no idea at all and now another man was sharing her bed. Running his fingers through her hair, listening to her moans, feeling her hands on him. Kevin bit his lip and tasted blood, hating her, wanting to kick and punch her, wanting to throw her down the stairs. He took another sip from the bottle next to him, rinsing the metallic taste from his mouth.
She'd fooled him because she was beautiful. Everything about her was pretty. Her breasts, her lips, even the small of her back. At the casino, in Atlantic City, when he'd first met her, he'd thought she was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen, and in their four years of marriage, nothing had changed. She knew he desired her, and she used it to her advantage. Dressing sexy. Getting her hair done. Wearing lacy underwear. It made him lower his guard, made him think she loved him.
But she didn't love him. She didn't even care about him. She didn't care about the broken flowerpots and smashed-up china, didn't care that he'd been suspended from his job, didn't care that he'd cried himself to sleep for months. Didn't care that his life was falling apart. All that mattered was what she wanted, but she'd always been selfish and now she was laughing at him. Laughing for months and thinking only about herself. He loved her and hated her and he couldn't make sense of it. He felt tears beginning to form and he blinked them back.
Delaware. Maryland. The outskirts of Washington DC. Virginia. Hours lost to the never-ending night. Raining hard at first, then gradually the rain dissipated. He stopped near Richmond at dawn and ate breakfast. Two eggs, four pieces of bacon, wheat toast. He drank three cups of coffee. He put more gas in the car and went back to the interstate. He crossed into North Carolina under blue skies. Bugs were cemented against the windshield and his back had begun to ache. He had to wear sunglasses to keep from squinting and his whiskers had begun to itch.
I'm coming, Erin, he thought. I'll be there soon.
33
Katie awoke exhausted. She had tossed and turned for hours during the night, replaying the horrible things she'd said to Alex. She didn't know what had come over her. Yes, she was upset about the Feldmans, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember how the argument had started in the first place. Or rather, she did remember, but it didn't make sense. She'd known he hadn't been pressuring her or trying to force her to do anything she wasn't ready for. She knew he wasn't remotely like Kevin, but what had she said to him?
What are you going to do? Hit me? Go ahead.
Why would she have said something like that?
She eventually dozed off sometime after two a.m., when the wind and rain were beginning to taper off. By dawn, the sky was clear and birdsong was drifting from the trees. From the porch, she noticed the effects of the storm: broken branches strewn out front, a carpet of pinecones littered across the yard and drive. The air was already thick with humidity. It was going to be a scorcher, maybe the hottest day of the summer yet. She made a note to herself to remind Alex not to keep the kids out in the sun too long before she realized that he might not want her with them. That maybe he was still mad at her.
Not maybe, she corrected herself. He was almost certainly mad at her. And hurt as well. He hadn't even let the kids say good-bye last night.
She took a seat on the steps and turned toward Jo's, wondering if she was up and about. It was early, probably too early to knock on her door. She didn't know what she would say to her or what good it would do. She wouldn't tell her what she'd said to Alex-that was a memory she'd rather erase in its entirety-but maybe Jo could help her understand the anxiety she'd been feeling. Even after Alex left, she noted the tension in her shoulders, and last night, for the first time in weeks, she'd wanted the light on.
Her intuition told her that something was wrong but she couldn't pinpoint what it was, other than that her thoughts kept returning to the Feldmans. To Gladys. To the inevitable changes in the house. What would happen if someone realized Katie's information was missing? Simply imagining it made her sick to her stomach.
"It's going to be okay," she suddenly heard. Whirling around, she saw Jo standing off to the side in her running shoes, cheeks flushed and perspiration staining her shirt.
"Where did you come from?"
"I went for a jog," Jo said. "I was trying to beat the heat, but obviously, it didn't work. It's so steamy I could barely breathe and I thought I was going to die of heatstroke. Even so, I think I'm doing better than you. You seem downright glum." She motioned to the steps and Katie scooted over. Jo took a seat beside her.
"Alex and I had a fight last night."
"And?"
"I said something terrible to him."
"Did you apologize?"
"No," Katie answered. "He left before I could. I should have, but I didn't. And now … "
"What? You think it's too late?" She squeezed Katie's knee. "It's never too late to do the right thing. Go over there and talk to him."
Katie hesitated, her anxiety plain. "What if he won't forgive me?"
"Then he's not who you thought he was."
Katie drew her knees up, propping her chin on them. Jo peeled her shirt away from her skin, trying to fan herself before going on. "He'll forgive you, though. You know that, right? He might be angry and you might have hurt his feelings, but he's a good man." She smiled. "Besides, every couple needs to argue now and then. Just to prove that the relationship is strong enough to survive it."
"That sounds like the counselor talking."
"It is, but it's also true. Long-term relationships-the ones that matter-are all about weathering the peaks and the valleys. And you are still thinking long-term, right?"