“Yeah, actually, I can.”
“They’re still going ahead with the fireworks.”
“I’ve always hated fireworks,” I said.
She became very still. “Alan, do you really think Bernard may have been involved in these killings?”
I stood there idiotically, the holstered 9mm in my hands. “I don’t know.”
“So you’re no longer convinced then that—”
“No,” I said. I didn’t want her involved, didn’t want her to know what I knew, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I still loved her, still felt the need to protect her in some antiquated, intrinsically male way. Beneath the older and wiser exterior, beyond all the disappointments and complexities, this was still the girl I had held in my arms as a teenager, still the girl I had whispered silly and melodramatic love snippets to while gently sprinkling her face with kisses. I remembered the taste and texture of her then—her eyes and nose and cheeks and lips and chin, so certain I could prevent pain from ever again reaching her simply by willing it to be so, by holding her in my arms and loving her so desperately. “I don’t… I don’t know anymore, probably not, I—no, I was wrong, I guess. He probably had nothing to do with it, I was just—I thought he did but not anymore.” I smiled self-consciously.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right.” I wanted to scream it but didn’t. It came out uncertain and hushed instead. “I just need to work some things out.”
“I wish you’d talk to someone, Alan.”
“I’m talking to you right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I do.” Truth was, we’d talked more since our troubles began than we had in years. Despite the familiarity of our relationship, much of our time together had been spent in silence. Some days that silence was a testament to the potency of our bond—we hadn’t required small talk, we were beyond all that and could be together quietly, without the chatter—but it also shone light on that which festered beneath.
Toni held the bag up again. “Well, just wanted to grab a few things.”
“You mean I should talk to someone like Gene,” I said.
The mention of his name didn’t sting her as I’d intended. If anything, her expression softened. “Are you still taking your pills?”
“No.”
“They’ll help you sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” I said.
“And you think that’s a healthy way to feel?”
I wondered what the two of them did together, besides the obvious. What did they talk about? Did she settle trustingly against him in the night the way she had with me? Did they laugh like we had? Did she tell him the things she told me? Did any of that even matter anymore? I wondered if she ever thought about me when she was with him. “I just need a little time to get things together,” I said. It sounded lame the moment it left my lips, but it was all I had.
She nodded at me, like everything suddenly made perfect sense.
“I miss you,” I said, and without thinking, reached for her. She shrunk a bit—a subtle reaction, but an honest one. I dropped my hand to my side.
Her eyes filled. “Do you think we’ll ever be all right again?”
“You’re the one who left,” I said. “You’re the one who had to think.”
She looked at me with an expression that said: And you’re the one who went crazy.
I let her go, watched as she walked into the bedroom with a spring in her step I hadn’t seen in years. Her body was out of sync with her emotions, one spry and the other pensive. It seemed a clever deception, like an illusionist’s use of misdirection, and I found myself resentful suddenly of her attempt at a healthy, lively veneer. Yet deep down I could hardly blame her, and was glad she’d again be leaving soon, distancing herself from me, if only for now. Bernard was a disease, and he had infected me. I didn’t want the same for her, and until I could rid myself of him, she was at risk. I felt particularly contagious of late.
In the kitchen, I put my gun down on the counter and had a quick shot of whiskey. It left a warming path as it slid through my body, and I embraced it, allowing my nerves to calm. By the time I’d had another and put the shot glass in the sink, I heard Toni rummaging about in the bathroom.
I met her near the front door, careful not to get too close.
“All set,” she said softly. The bag was now bulging in places with items removed from the medicine cabinet and bathroom shelves. I had also heard her bureau drawers closing earlier, so I knew she’d taken more clothing as well. She smiled, though it was solely for my benefit. “I hope you have a nice fourth. We’ll talk soon, OK?”
I had run out of chitchat. The whiskey was seeping through my pores and mixing with the sheen of perspiration already painted across my skin. The goddamn humidity was swallowing everything whole. I nodded but said nothing.
With head slightly bowed, Toni slipped past me through the door.
From some black corner of Hell, Bernard whispered to me, and as my wife moved down the stairs and blended into the blurred heat below, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever see her again.
CHAPTER 28
Go back to the beginning, Claudia had said. And that’s exactly what I did.
After Toni left, I drove across town to the neighborhood where I’d grown up, and parked in front of the house Bernard and his mother had called home for years. I experienced the same waves of nostalgia I had the last time I’d revisited these hallowed stomping grounds of my youth, and although most were of the pleasant variety, once I focused on Bernard’s old house—still empty and slowly rotting away—all the thoughts and memories turned to black. The house looked about the same as it had in winter, but for a realtor’s sign stabbed into the front lawn. Apparently the bank had decided to sell the property after all, but had yet to do anything to dress it up, which led me to believe this was a recent development. A few feet from the realtor sign was a No Trespassing sign with a warning to any who vandalized the property that they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
I checked my rearview mirror. It was late afternoon but the humidity was still lethal. The other houses on the street sported window fans and air-conditioners, and but for two young boys riding their bikes, no one was on the street. With all that was happening in town, with all the police everywhere, the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself as someone sitting in a parked car in a neighborhood where I no longer lived, so I grabbed a pen from my visor and pretended to jot the number on the sign down as the two boys pedaled past, laughing and shouting to each other. I watched them until they disappeared around the bend at the end of the road. Shirtless and in cut-off denim shorts, hair buzzed down for summer, bodies tanned brown from hours spent playing outdoors and at the beach, they might as easily been ghosts of Bernard and me; trouble-free versions of us in less complicated times.