On the card was a number. Familiar, like something I’d seen in a dream.
Important, like the gestational age of a baby or a dosage of medicine, but more common: a phone number. It belonged to someone named Bruce Schoenbrod, who worked in the office of the United States Attorney.
YOU could argue that telling the truth once you’re pretty sure the jig is up is less virtuous than telling the truth because it’s the right thing to do. I didn’t really care about virtue that day. I just wanted to keep Richard out of federal prison.
I talked to Richard from the phone next to my bed in Labor & Delivery. I gave him the number and told him to call it and tell Bruce Schoenbrod everything. I told him that if he didn’t make the call, I would. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind; Madeeda had already given information to the U.S. Attorney. The U.S. Attorney had listened. Somdahl & Associates was going down, with or without my husband’s statement, but unless he came clean before the feds moved in, he’d go down, too.
I don’t know why I understood these things with such clarity. I don’t know why Richard listened to me. I don’t know why Bruce Schoenbrod had picked the week after to seek indictments, and not the week before.
I don’t know why a woman who’d known me for half an hour chose to save my husband, when six of Richard’s colleagues ended up on trial. Five, after Albert Werner put a bullet through his brain while out on bail. I could only guess.
Somdahl & Associates crashed, along with Clarien, the pharmaceutical company, and two others whose files turned up “irregularities.” A lot of people suffered financial loss, unemployment, near-devastation as a result. Including us. But through all of it I felt lucky. Blessed. And able to sleep nights, sleep deeply, from the moment Richard made that phone call. But only for three weeks.
Madeeda died the day after I saw her in the hospital. Twenty-one days later my daughter was born. We named her Grace.
House of Horrors by S. W. Hubbard
“That’ll be fifty-eight seventy-five with tax,” the greasy guy at the ticket window said. John winced as the clerk drew the credit card out of his reluctant fingers.
“You’re buying a happy family memory,” his wife murmured in his ear.
Happy my ass. Day one of the Harrigan family-togetherness weekend at the Jersey Shore: blistering sunburns for all.
Day two: jellyfish attack.
Day three: riptide warning.
So Miriam declared a boardwalk excursion. No problem. Give the kids fifty bucks and let them have at it. He and Miriam could walk on the beach and watch the pounding surf. But no, this was togetherness weekend. So each person had to choose one activity, and everyone else had to go along cheerfully. John swore if his wife didn’t stop reading these damn parenting advice books he was going to cut up her library card.
Christopher had chosen the bumper cars, Grace the spinning tea-cups, Miriam the Ferris wheel. But for a jaded teenager like Gordon, only one thing would do.
The House of Horrors.
Blood oozed from the house’s masonry. Hideous shrieks blared from its cracked windows. A vulture hovered over the spiked door. Before the clerk brought the credit card slip to be signed, John made one last bid to dodge the cheesy tourist trap. Crouching down so he could look their skinny little girl in the eye, he asked, “Grace, do you want to go into this haunted house? It’s just pretend scary, but if you’re afraid, I could take you somewhere else.”
“Dad!” Gordon protested. “That’s not fair! I did Grace’s lame tea-cups. She has to do this.”
John opened his mouth to scold, then closed it again at Miriam’s warning look. This beach weekend was their first significant outing since they’d gotten Grace. They were supposed to be celebrating the expansion of their family, not squabbling and sulking.
John studied the nine-year-old. There was a transparent quality to her, she was so slight. Could something scary possibly be good for her after all she’d been through? Her pale green-gold eyes stared at him unblinkingly as the wind whipped her fine hair into a staticky halo around her head. She conveyed neither anxiety nor eagerness, just a steady trust in him as a father.
A trust he’d done nothing, as yet, to earn.
Miriam had connected with the child from the moment she’d seen her picture on the website of foster children awaiting permanent homes. For John, the paternal attachment hadn’t formed quite so readily. He worried it never would.
Not that Grace was a difficult child. In fact, she was almost absurdly easy to take care of. She ate what she was served, went to bed without complaint, and did her homework with painstaking attention to detail. John found her compliance unnerving. On top of that, she was so damn quiet! She’d slip into a room so silently he never knew she was there. He’d look up to find her watching him. Last week he’d nearly sawed off his thumb when she appeared out of nowhere in his basement workshop.
“She does it because she craves your attention and doesn’t know how to get it,” Miriam explained. Insert knife and twist. He wanted to do right by this little girl, he really did. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel for her the visceral bond he felt for his two sons. “Don’t worry,” Miriam had assured him. “You’ll grow to love her. Give it time.”
The clerk slapped down the credit card slip and slid a pen across the ticket counter. John watched as Grace carefully studied each person in her new family. She would see annoyance on Gordon’s face, concern on Miriam’s, and finally, fear on Christopher’s. Only a year older than Grace, Christopher was a sensitive soul, upset by life’s smallest tragedies-signs for lost pets, roadkill, a stranger’s passing funeral procession. The haunted house had him looking decidedly queasy.
Grace turned back to John. “I want to go. If it gets too scary, I’ll grab on to Christopher. He’ll protect me.”
John and Miriam exchanged a smile. Grace had succeeded in bolstering Christopher and appeasing Gordon in one move. She’d learned quite a bit about managing brothers in just three weeks.
PURCHASE YOUR SOUVENIR PHOTO AS YOU EXIT. YOU’LL KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE WHEN YOU’VE SEEN A GHOST! The signs hung over a bank of computer monitors in the entranceway to the House of Horrors, each screen showing a different group of gullible tourists, their eyes opened wide, their mouths perfect Os of shock. John hustled the younger kids along, and they joined a line of teenagers waiting to pass through Purgatory’s Portal.
Rowdy and eager to call attention to themselves, the older kids swarmed around a lean boy with droopy jeans and a mop of blond hair that he repeatedly flicked out of his eyes. The biggest fish in this little school of minnows, he let his hand rest suggestively on one girl’s hip, while shoving the other boys around and insulting their manhood.
“Hey,” he called out to the ticket taker, “what should we do if my friend shits his pants in there?”
Miriam shot them a ferocious look, and the boy made a show of apologizing.
“Oh, pardon me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to use profanity in the presence of women and children.”
The gang of friends howled with laughter, as Gordon tried to disappear into the woodwork. Meanwhile, Christopher was busy reading the signs posted all around them. IF YOU’RE PARALYZED WITH FEAR, STAND STILL AND SCREAM. SOMETHING WILL COME AND GET YOU! BE ALERT FOR FLYING KNIVES. DON’T WORRY-THE BATS DON’T BITE.
“Dad.” Christopher tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Maybe we shouldn’t go in there. Bats can spread rabies.”
“Ooo, maybe we shouldn’t go in,” the blond kid said, imitating Christopher’s earnest, high-pitched voice. “Ya hear that?” He shoved one of his crew. “You might get rabies and start foaming at the mouth.”
Christopher flushed bright red, as Gordon tried to pretend he didn’t know his family. But Grace stared the teenager down, her pointy chin thrust forward, sixty pounds of defiance. While John weighed whether saying something to the teens would make matters better or worse, a green light flashed and a recorded voice intoned, “Next group-prepare to meet your doom!” The gang of kids stepped into the House of Horrors, their screams echoing back into the waiting area.