But I recognize him. The thought came to her, and she blushed. She noticed Jamie watching, and she fiddled with the air vents, pretending it was the heat. "You know," he said slowly, "Graham's making a big deal about whether or not I thought killing Maggie was wrong."
Allie nodded, trying to follow the shift in conversation. "It's his defense, Jamie. You shouldn't take it personally."
"No, I don't. It's just that my answer now wouldn't be the same as it was back then."
Allie slammed her foot on the brakes. Remorse. She remembered Graham saying something once about this trial: Remorse was the one stipulation for mercy. An absence of regret was what sanctioned punishment. "Did you tell Graham that?"
Jamie shook his head. "I'm only just thinking it now, and I * don't believe it would have quite the same effect for him as it will for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Having been through it, I'd think twice about killing what's between you and Cam. You don't get it back, you know."
Allie pulled over to the curb and put her hand on Jamie's arm. "This is an entirely different situation. What you and Maggie had was being ruined by something out of your power. What Cam and I had was ruined by something he did."
Jamie drew up one knee and braced it against the glove compartment. "I'll tell you something else I haven't told my attorney," he said. "You know why I'm not sleeping? Because I'm dreaming about Maggie. Not about the dying, not like it was at first. I've been thinking what would happen--what will happen--when I see her again. Forget all the shit about her being sick, and her being the one who asked to die--what it boils down to, and any member of the jury can tell you this, is that 7 did it. I killed her. And I can't help but wonder if she's going to forgive me for that."
He turned to Allie and laced his fingers through her own, squeezing nearly to the point of pain. "Three months ago, if you asked me, I would have told you that if you really loved someone, you'd let them go. But now I look at you, and I dream about Maggie, and I see that I've been wrong. If you really love someone, Allie, I think you have to take them back."
She dropped Jamie off at Angus's house and then drove through the tangled streets of Wheelock, past her house, past the police station, to Glory in the Flower.
Allie left the Closed sign prominently displayed on the door and went to the cooler, where most of the flowers she'd bought were wilting and in various stages of dying. She hadn't come, however, to clean house. With a cursory glance she took some of the dead lily stalks from their buckets and dropped them into the trash. Then she pulled the thirty-three-gallon bag from the big metal drum and knotted it; set it outside the back door.
She knew she was going to panic the neighbors, so she opened all the windows, letting in the bite of winter and the fresh, unsuspecting air. She rummaged through her dried floral collection, pulling every strand of laurel leaves she could find. She tugged a few out of arrangements that already hung on the walls for purchase. She sifted through the rotting greens in the cooler and found the fresh laurel, the thick, ropy vines twisting around her wrists. She dropped all of these into the metal drum, added a few crumpled sheets of newspaper, and created a fire.
Legend had it that maidens who wanted to win back the attentions of errant lovers would burn laurel leaves.
The smoke rose high around her face as she leaned over the drum, making her choke and leaving a sweet, ashy scent in her hair and her coat that would not disappear for several weeks.
Allie closed her eyes, which is why she did not see the prickled vine of morning glory that had caught on her sleeve, its bell-shaped flowers closing as they fell into the flames. And it was only a long shot to think she would have remembered that morning glory, too, was part of a myth about burning; that the sputtering greens had once been a forewarning that somebody close was going to die.
When Allie went back to the house, she found Cam sitting in the living room watching the six o'clock news. He had heated up a can of soup; he had left at least half for her.
She shrugged out of her coat and left it draped over a dining room chair, so that the sleeve trailed over Cam's gun belt. "Hi," he said. "How was the trial?"
"Postponed," she answered. She picked up the mail Cam had left on the table and sifted through the bills and catalogs. "The judge's daughter broke her leg."
Cam glanced at Allie. "Well, that was lucky."
She lifted a shoulder. "Jamie seems to think so. Graham isn't saying anything."
"Did you see the soup?"
Allie nodded. She sank down on the couch and slipped off her shoes, tucking her stockinged feet into the crack between two cushions.
"You want me to get you some?"
She shook her head.
Cam set his bowl on the floor and sat down across from her on the opposite end of the couch. He glanced wistfully at the spot where his armchair had been. "Who bought the leather wing chair?"
"Darby Mac. For his wife."
"You think he'll sell it back?"
Allie tilted her head, as if she could still see it in its previous spot. "I don't know." She glanced at Cam. "You should have thought of that."
They sat for a moment in silence. "What did you do all day?" Cam asked.
Allie stared at him. She could not remember the last time Cam had asked her that question. She had always asked it of him. "Tell me something. What did we used to talk about before?"
"Before what?"
Allie gestured with her hand. "Before."
Cam leaned his head back. "Well, I think the difference was that you actually participated in the conversations."
Allie dug her feet deeper in the sofa. She could feel something with her toes: a dime? a pretzel? "You don't want me to talk," she said. "Believe me."
Cam stared at her. "Let's get it over with, Allie. Just say what you have to say and then let's start again."
"There isn't anything I can say," Allie muttered. "I haven't read up on Miss Manners for this." She turned away, feeling tears burn the back of her eyes, and she cursed herself. She didn't want weakness; she didn't need weakness, not now. She watched the chandelier hanging over the dining room table waver as she refused to blink. It was made of wrought iron; a bunch of running, wiry Keith Haring--style stick figures reaching to the center to hold a fat sconce which housed the light. When Mia had come home with her, that very first day, she had said that she liked it.
"Do you think about her?" Allie whispered, her voice so low Cam had to ask her to repeat her question. "Do you think about her," she said flatly.
He didn't answer. At first, the day Mia had left, he could think of nothing else, to the point where he had left his B & E seminar early to find out what had happened. Then he had come home, and found all his possessions missing, and he had been so wrapped up in thinking about Mia that he wasn't able to focus on getting anything back until the following morning.
But now, it had been several days. He'd been in close proximity to Allie. He'd bumped into her when they misjudged distance, and had rubbed against the raw edge of her pain. And he started to think a little less about what he had lost, and to concentrate instead on what could be salvaged.
He reached out until his hand was an inch away from Allies ankle. "I still think about her," he said. "Not as much, but I do."
Allie turned away and tucked her legs beneath her.
"Why didn't you sell the stained-glass?" Cam asked.
"Because I'm an idiot. I should have." Allie glanced up at Cam. "Did she pick it out with you? Did she help you wrap it?"
"Stop," Cam said, reaching for her.
But Allie was already running up the stairs. He made it to the bedroom just as she'd pulled the panel from its hook on the wall. "You told me to be careful when you gave it to me," Allie said, her voice shrill. "You said it couldn't take pressure."
She let it drop to the floor.
Angus had not gone to Pittsfield that day because he'd awakened blind. Of course, he hadn't told this to Jamie, who'd come into his bedroo
m in the morning and then again when Allie dropped him off. He only said that he had one of his wee migraine headaches, and he thought it best he didn't make that long a drive.
Jamie had understood, he was a good lad. He'd asked if Angus wanted something--aspirin, a cold cloth for his forehead, soup-- but Angus waved him away. A good night's rest, he told him. We both will be better in the morning.
If you wanted to split hairs about it, Angus wasn't exactly blind. He just wasn't seeing anything the way it was supposed to look. He'd been in that bedroom for eight years now and knew the exact location of the door, the placement of the bureau to the left of the bed, the window and the hang of the curtains. But when Angus had opened his eyes that morning, all he could see was the Great Hall at Carrymuir.
It was disconcerting, to say the least, to watch Jamie come to the door and lean against a crested shield that was over three hundred years old, and to see at the foot of what had once been his bed the scarred wooden table that could seat thirty. Several times during the day Angus tried to close his eyes and rub them clear, or put some Visine drops in to bring back his house, but his efforts were to no avail.
That night, Angus dreamed. The walls of his room fell away and his house became as round as the world and he saw three globes of light coming down from where the moon should be. The street rolled back and the asphalt gave way and below all this was a moor. He watched two armies assemble themselves on his left and his right. One wore blue and stood beneath a Scottish flag. The other, in winking red, held fast to a Union Jack. The red army charged at the blue two times, and two times the blue pushed them back. The third time the Scots ran the English through with their swords, scattering those who did not fall.
Angus watched the belch of the cannons and the gleam of the singing swords, he saw the standards snapping in the sleet, but he did not hear a single sound. That is, not until a man dressed in blue came toward him. He held out his hand. The man was as tall as Angus had once been and his hair was brighter than fire. Angus reached out and realized he was handing the man a sword, hilt first; and at this gesture, he realized how very tired he was of fighting. He smiled and sat up, feeling the ache and knot in his bones melt away and the sluggish set of his muscles firm and tone. "Come," the man said, as Angus fell into step beside him. "You're with us."
TWENTY
Audra Campbell stared at the empty defense table and wondered what Graham MacPhee had up his sleeve. No defendant, no attorney, and the row behind their table that was usually packed with supportive MacDonalds was conspicuously empty.
She narrowed her eyes and tapped her pen against her legal pad. Graham came dashing down the central aisle of the courtroom as the jury was filing in. He remained standing, straightening his tie, while the judge entered the room.
"Your Honor," he said immediately. "Permission to approach the bench."
Roarke waved both Audra and Graham forward. "The defense requests a temporary adjournment," Graham said quietly. "Angus MacDonald, Jamie's great-uncle, died in his sleep last night. Jamie had been living with Angus as per the conditions of his bail."
Roarke nodded. Even Audra remained silent. "How long will you need, Mr. MacPhee?"
"Till Monday? That's just after the funeral."
Roarke banged his gavel. "Court is temporarily adjourned until Monday morning at nine."
Audra leaned close to Graham as they stepped from the bench and made their way back to their respective tables. "If I didn't know better--"
"Don't even say it," Graham interrupted. Then he smiled. "But I'll admit that Angus's timing might be yet another act of mercy."
The jury liked Bud Spitlick. He sat all around the witness stand, shifting his chair and hemming and hawing his way through Graham's questions. He was wearing gray slacks and a white dress shirt over a decaled T-shirt, whose message could easily be read through the thin fabric of the button-down: GOD BLESS AMERICA. Graham couldn't have picked out anything more fitting. "Have you lived in Cummington long, sir?" "Oh, I'd say." Bud smiled, showing his gold fillings. "Me and the missus have been there since we were born. We're sort of an institution in Cummington. Used to run the general store--" He turned to the jury, drumming up business. "Some of you may have heard of it? Spitlick's? We were done up in a special article in the Globe once, '89 I think. Anyhow, we got to the point where we wanted to retire, but not really, you know, so's now we sell our merchandise from our very own home."
"Your own home? Can you elaborate?" Graham knew damn well it had nothing to do with the case. But even the most cynical juror would believe this man. A little more couldn't hurt.
Bud flushed, which made his nose stand out in relief. "Well, we got the bolts of fabric in the living room, with the dry goods. And we stock a fair selection of children's hockey skates; we'll even do trade-ins on used ones, so we get a lot of parents coming in. We got penny candy for the little ones, and some best-seller paperbacks, and a few board games. I guess we got a little of everything and a lot of nothing." "How do you know Jamie, Mr. Spitlick?" Bud glanced at Jamie and gave him a big, honest smile. Graham hoped everyone on the jury had seen that. It was the first time Bud had seen Jamie since Maggie's death, and he wasn't going to be allowed to talk to him until after his testimony, so this was the only way to make a connection. "Jamie bought the house next to mine twelve or so years back."
"And you knew his wife Maggie, too?"
"Sure. Cutest little thing. He married her about ten years ago. My wife and I went to the wedding."
Graham leaned against the witness stand. "Can you tell us about Jamie and Maggie?"
Bud whistled through his teeth. "If a neighbor don't know you, you tell me who does. Jamie and Maggie, as I recall, went off on a honeymoon after they were married and just never stopped. They weren't the kind who'd be throwing pots and pans and yelling at each other about the checkbook every night. More often we'd hear 'em chasing each other around the house and laughing."
Graham looked at Jamie. For the first time during the trial, he was smiling.
"Crazy in love," Bud Spitlick said. "I cared for them like my own son and daughter." Then he cleared his throat. " 'Course, when Maggie got sick, it was just awful. I think it was easier for Maggie to handle than Jamie, since he was watching her hurt and knew he couldn't do anything about it."
"Can you give us an example?"
"Well, last spring--real early, I'd say March--something happened to Maggie in the middle of the night. She was on some new kind of medicine; she was always trying some new kind of medicine; and I guess her lungs stopped working. The siren from the ambulance woke me up. It woke up near everyone on the street, I figure, and most of us were outside in our bathrobes watching the paramedics run up the front stairs and bring Maggie back down on a stretcher. And there comes Jamie, naked as a jaybird, huddled over the stretcher, his mouth over Maggie's doing that artificial restoration. The paramedics pulled him away, told him to put on some clothes, but he just stood there like he was in shock. I don't think I'll ever forget the way Jamie looked, with those flashy red lights all over his skin, watching the ambulance take Maggie away."
Graham nodded, giving the jury a minute to let down their sympathy. "Can you tell us a little bit more about Maggie?"
"Objection," Audra said. "The deceased is not on trial."
"I'd like a little leeway, Your Honor," Graham countered.
Roarke nodded. He looked moved by the ambulance story too. "I'll advise counsel not to go too far with this." He turned to Bud Spitlick. "You may proceed."
Bud shook his head. He was becoming visibly choked up, so Graham handed him a box of Kleenex from the railing of the witness stand. "Well," Bud said, pausing to blow his nose. "Maggie was real sick. She wasn't getting any better, and we all knew it."
Graham waited for Bud to continue, then realized he was lost in his own memories. "Did Maggie ever speak to you about the right to die?"
"Objection!" Audra yelled. "This is absolutely irrelevant."
"This is
completely relevant," Graham said, moving closer to Judge Roarke in tandem with Audra. "It goes to Jamie's state of mind, and the nature and quality of his act."
Roarke glanced from Audra to Graham and back again, as if he was trying to make a decision about which fool lawyer to throw out on his ass first. "Objection sustained," he said. "Watch yourself, Counselor."
Graham turned away, smiling inside. He hadn't expected Audra to be overruled, but now he'd managed to plant the idea of euthanasia in the jury's collective mind. Without mentioning the word mercy.
"Mr. Spitlick, what were your conversations with Maggie regarding her health?"
Bud was beginning to sweat; big patches stood out against the armpits of his white shirt. He tugged at his tie. "She was very concerned," he said. "She was nervous in general around people who were sick."
"And how do you know this?"
"Some time ago, I guess about five years back, my own sister had a stroke. Maggie was an angel; she ran the store while we were at the hospital and she brought us dinner at home or up at County General. My sister was pronounced brain-dead, you see, but she was living on those fancy machines, and this went on for a while. From time to time Maggie would come to the hospital to pick my wife up and give her a ride home, or to leave us sandwiches. Still, Maggie wouldn't much come past the doorway. She said people who were that sick scared her to death.
"One night, she came all the way into the room and looked down at my sister. She said that wasn't a way to live."
"What did you say?"
Bud had started to cry. "I told her," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "that God would take Frances when he was ready. And Maggie said that if it was her, she'd want someone to tap God on the shoulder and wake Him up." He wiped his nose with a ball of Kleenex. "I'm sorry. I'm real sorry about this."
"That's all right, Mr. Spitlick." Graham looked at Jamie, who was staring at his neighbor with obvious pain in his eyes. "Take your time." He waited until Bud glanced up at Jamie and received a short nod and a genuine smile. Then he turned to Audra. "Your witness."
Audra knew better than to antagonize a witness the jury not only liked but felt sorry for. Bud Spitlick was the real thing; he was too rough around the edges to have put on so fine a performance. She smiled at him and walked close to the witness stand. "Mr. Spitlick, I've got a hypothetical question for you. Thirty years ago, would you have guessed you'd be running a general store right out of your living room?"