"Thank you, Alex," she said, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward, spoke to Maggie. "I can't tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father. But I'm sure he's innocent. I heard you hired some hotshot woman lawyer. She'll get him off, won't she? Because I'm sure he didn't—well, I suppose you're sure, too, huh?"
"Thanks, Lisa," Maggie said, pouring herself a cup of coffee, and then lifting the pot and looking at Saint Just, who shook his head, declining her offer to pour a cup for him as well. "I think you're the first person we've talked to who believes Daddy didn't do it."
"I am?" She sat back quickly, almost as if she'd been slapped. Or said too much? If so, she wasn't done speaking. "Maybe that's because I remember your father from the Laundromat where I work on weekends. It's right next to Barry's shop, so it works out fine for us. He's so sweet, your dad, coming in with his laundry the last two months or so. He had absolutely no idea how to work the washers. In fact, he tried to put his clothes in one of the extractors we use for the really big loads, if you can believe that. Thought it was a washing machine. Anyway, I'm sure the police will realize they made a mistake and let Evan go."
Lisa had just called him Evan? Maggie blinked. A woman her own age had just referred to her father as Evan, not Mr. Kelly? Said it just as though they were friends? Wow.
"He's not in jail, Lisa," Maggie corrected. "He's free on bail."
"Oh. Well, good. That's good, isn't it? He's out on bail, and soon they'll drop the charges. They have to."
"Again, thank you, that's really sweet of you. Lisa—what the hell happened?"
Saint Just shot a look at Maggie, gave her a slight, warning shake of the head, not that he expected Maggie to be anything more than Maggie—inquisitive, caring, and sadly lacking in finesse.
Lisa laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "You always said what was on your mind, didn't you, Maggie? What the hell happened? I don't know. But it sure did happen, didn't it? To both of us. I'm the dreary housewife, and you're the famous author. I always envied you, you know, back in high school."
"Me?" Maggie said, sipping her coffee. "I didn't think you even knew who I was. Well, not until the day that I—that was stupid of me, Lisa. Juvenile. I'm sorry I did it."
"I wasn't. I stayed out of a lot of backseats in those days, so that no guy would find out what I was doing. The stuffing, you know? False advertising? Oh, sure, some kids laughed at me when they found out, but that didn't last long. I was the head cheerleader, lead choir soloist, vice president of the senior class, and all sorts of other stuff, after all. And, hey," she said, shrugging, "I finally made it to the backseat and let a guy get to second base, found out what I'd been missing—sorry, Alex. Are we embarrassing you?"
"The word mortified comes to mind, yes," he told her with a smile. "But carry on, please. I am nothing if not adaptable, and I understand the modern American woman is often frank in discussions of such things."
"And he watches television, Lisa," Maggie said, holding her cup to her lips. "Even cable movies. Don't you, Alex?"
"Yes, thank you for sharing that, Maggie," Saint Just said, taking up his place at the mantel, lifting down the photograph of a large and smiling and happily filthy young man dressed in a football uniform, the number five on the muddied jersey, his helmet tucked under his forearm. "I noticed this photograph beside yours, earlier. And this would be Mr. Butts? Mr. Barry Butts?"
"Yeah, that's Barry, right after we won the state title our senior year. That was his big moment. The high point of his life."
Saint Just replaced the photograph. "Surely not," he said, looking at Lisa. "After all, his wedding day must have ranked much higher."
"See any pictures of the happy couple sitting around in here, Alex?" Lisa said, her voice bitter. "I know I don't."
Maggie and Saint Just exchanged looks, and he could see the pain in her eyes. This time he didn't bother to try to warn her off as, still looking at him, she asked Lisa, "When did you and Barry get married, anyway? I guess I'd already left for the city, huh?"
"Yes, you left town. You left, and you didn't come back, did you? That's why I envy you, Maggie. You did it. You got out. You had a dream, to be a writer, and you went after it. That's the one thing I could never do—write. Sing, dance, yell loud, but not write. Not the way you did, for the high school newspaper and yearbook. You were really good."
"I ... um, well, I—you had a dream, Lisa?"
Lisa pushed her hair out of her eyes, smiled. "Sure, didn't all of us have dreams? I was going to be on Broadway. Singing, dancing. But Barry came first, you know? Just like Brenda's Frankie came first, and Jeanette's Bruce came first, and—marriage seemed so much ... so much safer, you know? Easier?"
Saint Just stepped away from the mantel. "And is it, Lisa?" he asked her. "Easier, that is."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Maggie strapped herself into the seat belt as Alex closed the door on the passenger side. "And you say I'm too blunt? I ask too many questions? I push too hard? Is it, Lisa? Is it easier? Cripes, talk about pushing the button and turning on the waterworks. What the hell happened to her, Alex?"
"I would say that her husband happened to her. The man should be horsewhipped."
"Well, I agree on that one. All that crap she told us? How she can't leave the house unless he's with her? Not even to go pick up a carton of milk at the grocery store? Not even to work at that Laundromat unless he's right next store at his bike shop? That's abuse, Alex. Barry Butts is one sick ticket."
"Overly possessive, I agree. One has to wonder how such a cowed and frightened woman was able to sneak away, have an affair with our late, unlamented Mr. Bodkin."
Maggie put the car in gear and headed for the corner, turned left onto Wesley. "Good point, Alex. If Barry watches her every move, controls the purse strings, all her comings and goings, what she wears, what she eats—can you believe he tells her what she can eat?—then how could she possibly have an affair behind his back?"
"Yet she belongs to W.B.B."
"Lisa belongs to that select club, yes," she said, chewing on her bottom lip, her brain on percolate. "But Lisa belonged to everything. You name the club, the activity, and Lisa belonged to it. Maybe she thought she had to belong to W.B.B, too. Without, you know, really belonging? Her friends do, Brenda and Joyce, at least. I mean, it might be one way to get out of the house without Barry throwing a fit, since she was only meeting with other women?"
"An interesting if unappealing thought."
"Agreed. I remember Barry. Tall, pretty muscular, too. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of that guy. Do you think he hits her? Oh, cripes, Alex, that would be awful. Why doesn't she just leave him? Get up, get out, you know?"
They pulled in to the curb in front of her father's bachelor apartment and Maggie turned off the ignition.
"I mean, I know he could come after her, stalk her, maybe try to hurt her. But there are shelters for abused women now, even if he doesn't hit her. It's still abuse. Lisa is an abused woman."
"I agree, Maggie. But I think it might be more than that. She's a frightened woman."
"Well, sure. She let a man in the house. From the way she says he watches her, distrusts her, she had to be scared spitless he'd find out she had a man—you —in the house."
"Again, I think it's more than that," Alex said as he helped her from the car. "Think about this, Maggie, if you will. What did you say to Lisa when she put forth her belief that your father is innocent?"