While I was feeling pretty down, it was not a particularly good time for either Ellen or me. Ellen was in the thick of her dalliance with the bottle, and I was weighing the pros and cons of sticking my head in the oven.
I had found a note, about a month earlier, that Conrad Chase had written to my wife. Given that he was supposed to be some brilliant English professor—this was almost a couple of years before he managed to scale the New York Times bestseller list—I guess I was expecting something slightly more metaphorical than “I can’t wait to have you on my face again.”
He hadn’t actually signed it, but there were enough other things around the house in Conrad’s handwriting with which to make a comparison, and conclude that he was the author. And the fact that he hadn’t actually started it with “Dear Ellen” didn’t matter all that much, considering that I found the note in her purse.
I hadn’t gone searching for it. I’m not even sure I had any suspicions at that point. Some resentment, maybe. Ellen’s new job took up a lot of her time. She wanted to make a good impression with the Thackeray administration and was under a tremendous amount of pressure. She’d organized plenty of events at the Albany public relations firm, but she’d always had plenty of help with those. And nothing she’d done for them was as ambitious as what she was pulling together for the Promise Falls college.
I was just looking for a five-dollar bill. It was a school morning, Ellen was still upstairs getting ready for work. I was down in the kitchen with Derek, who was already running late and taking forever to eat his peanut butter toast. It wasn’t the easiest breakfast choice to chow down in a hurry, but if he didn’t get his seven-year-old butt out to the end of the lane in the next three minutes, the bus was going to go right on by and get to school without him.
“Come on, pardner, you gotta move it,” I said.
There was still half a piece of peanut butter–slathered toast on his plate, and he must have realized he didn’t have a chance of finishing it, so he said, “I gotta go brush my teeth.”
“There’s no time, man.”
“I gotta brush—”
“Where’s your backpack? Is everything in your backpack?”
“Where’s my lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Remember Mom asked you to make me a lunch?”
“Buy a lunch at school,” I said.
“Mom’s been making me a lunch so I won’t go to—”
“Derek, chill out. Tomorrow, we’ll all be a little better organized. Today, you can buy a lunch. Hang on.” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, but there was nothing in it but a twenty. There was no way I was giving him a twenty. The odds I’d ever see my change at the end of the day were too long to calculate.
Ellen’s purse was on the bench by the front door.
“Hang on,” I said, and grabbed the purse. She had her wallet in there, but you could find cash in it almost anyplace. In the wallet, any one of the three or four inside pouches, or loose in the bottom. I could feel change down there, but counting out nickels and dimes and quarters was going to take too long. I glanced in the wallet and saw that Ellen was well equipped with twenties, but nothing smaller. Welcome to the ATM world.
I reached into a pouch, felt something papery, and pulled out two pieces of paper. One of them was a ten, which I immediately handed to Derek and shoved him out the door.
The other piece of paper was a note.
One moment you’re trying to get a kid to eat his peanut butter toast, and the next you’re seeing your whole world fall apart.
It was like I was seeing everything around me for the first time. That house, the furniture, the lane out to the road. It was as if, suddenly, none of it existed. All this had been some sort of mirage, a dream. My life, as I’d thought I’d known it, was nothing more than a piece of performance art.
“Hey!” Ellen shouted from the upstairs bathroom. “Did Derek make the bus?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What?”
“I said yeah!”
As I heard Ellen’s footsteps at the top of the stairs I slipped the note into my pocket. For a moment, I thought of stuffing it back into the purse, pretending I’d never seen it. But that really wasn’t an option. I’d opened a door and had to know what was on the other side.
“Gotta go,” Ellen said, kissing me on the cheek. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You seem funny. You sick?”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Don’t you have to be going soon, too?”
“I don’t have to be in till ten today,” I told her.
“Okay, well, look, I’m off. I’ll figure out something for dinner tonight since I’m going to be home before you.”
“Sure,” I said, and saw her to the door. Once she was in her car, I went upstairs to the room she used as an office.
It didn’t take long to find a sample of Conrad Chase’s handwriting. There were notes from him all over Ellen’s desk, suggestions about who to get for the festival, phone numbers, a listing of public relations people for various publishing houses. I took the note from my pocket and compared it to the samples in front of me.
There was no doubt.
And then I got ready and went to work. What else do you do? Phone in, tell the boss you’re feeling too betrayed to come in today?
That night, Ellen had some lasagna ready when I came in the door.
“Hey,” she said. “How was your—”
I handed her Conrad’s note. Didn’t even take off my jacket. Ellen looked at it and burst into tears.
It was over, she told me between sobs. It was over before it really even started. They’d been working so closely together, she got carried away, she did a stupid thing, but she’d ended it herself. I had to believe her, she said. And I’d been so distant, she said, I—
So it was my fault.
No, she said. She slipped, she said. It was a slip. I had to know, she said, that she was telling the truth.
I had no idea what to believe, but I had some idea what might have drawn her to Conrad. I recalled the times she’d come home from work and talk about how creative he was, how inspiring it was to see someone so committed to harnessing the talents he’d been blessed with. He was everything I was not. He’d thrown himself into his art and I’d given up on mine, despite Ellen’s repeated encouragement.
I thought I’d be furious. But I felt too crushed to generate any anger. I left that night and didn’t come back for a couple of days. Stayed in a motel, still went in to my security job. One day, Derek phoned me at work and said, “I cleaned up my room, Daddy. Now will you come home?”
I did come back to pick up some more clothes, and Ellen was there, like she’d been waiting for me since the moment I’d left.
“I’ll do anything,” she said, but her words were slightly slurred. I could smell the booze on her breath. “Whatever it takes, just tell me.”
I decided to come back. Not so much because I was ready to move forward with this, to find a way through our problems, but if Ellen was starting to drink heavily, there needed to be someone else there to look after Derek.
I went through the next few weeks on autopilot. Went to work, came home, got Derek ready for bed, slept in the spare room, got up the next day and did it all over again, trying to keep my conversations with Ellen to an absolute minimum.
“Talk to me,” she said.
I felt myself falling into depression. That was my mood the day I chose to paint some windows. When Donna Langley walked over to ask if our power was out, too.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Let me go in and check.”
I went inside, flicked a light switch in the kitchen, came back out. “We’re okay,” I said. “We’re on the same line, so it must just be your house.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll call an electrician,” she said. Then, “Sorry for interrupting you there. That’s a lot of windows you’ve got to do.”
“Before yo
u call an electrician,” I said, “you might want to check the breakers.”
She was a good-looking woman. Not stunning, but attractive. Tall, with a generous bosom and rounded hips. Brown hair down to her shoulders. Every once in a while, I’d see her, in shorts and a top, jogging along the highway into Promise Falls. She’d do the odd fund-raising marathon, hit us up for a pledge.
“There’s a box on the wall in the basement,” she said. “I never even thought to look there. It’s probably just one of those switches. All you have to do is flip them back, right?”
“Unless it’s the main one, for the whole house,” I said. “But it’s more likely just a single switch.”
“I’ll try to figure it out,” she said, and laughed.
I was starting to come down the ladder. I’d put aside, for now, any thoughts of coming down headfirst. “I can check it out if you’d like,” I said.
She nodded. We walked back to her house. It was empty, of course. Albert was at work, Adam at school. He and Derek had the same teacher that year, Mrs. Fare, who, according to the kids, looked like a rabbit. “You should see the way she eats a sandwich,” Adam said one time when he was over.
Donna and I entered her house through the back door. “Are the lights out all over the house?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was in the kitchen, making something, when the Cuisinart died and the light went out. I thought I’d actually try to make something for dinner tonight. Most nights, we’re so busy, we end up ordering in or going out, you know?”
I didn’t. Ellen and I didn’t have enough in our budget to eat out every night. Subs once in a while, maybe a pizza. But I said, “Oh yeah.” I went to the kitchen and tried a light switch. Nothing. Then I went to the living room and tried a lamp on one of the sofa tables. It came on.
“Well, you’ve got power to the house,” I said. “Looks like it’s just the kitchen, so like I said, it’s probably just a breaker. Show me where the box is.”
She led me downstairs to the furnace room, pulled a chain to turn on a bare bulb. “Over there, I think,” she said, pointing to a gray metal box above a worktable. She followed me across the room. “That’s it, right?”
“Sure looks like it,” I said. I opened the panel door and looked at the two columns of black switches. The light was so poor in the room, I could barely make out the masking-tape labels by the switches that told what parts of the house they controlled.
I turned and said, “Have you got a flashlight or anything, Donna?” She was standing close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body.
We had socialized occasionally with the Langleys. A couple of barbecues. When they had a party that wasn’t strictly for the folks from his law firm, they’d invite us over, a neighborly thing. If you’re going to make some noise, invite the neighbors so they’re not pissed off. If we were the type to hold parties, we’d have returned the favor. They seemed like your typical professional couple. Reasonably happy, upwardly mobile, one kid.
She found a flashlight tucked in behind a toolbox on the worktable, and when she handed it to me she held on to it for half a second, and my hand overlapped with hers.
I clicked on the light. “There you go,” I said, finding the one switch that had flipped out of alignment with the others, labeled “Kitchen.” I forced it over. “I’ll bet things are back on now.”
“That didn’t take any time at all,” she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
She was standing so close that when I turned to hand her the flashlight, my thigh brushed up against hers. She didn’t move back at all, and as I continued to turn she put a hand on my side, just above my waist.
“Donna,” I said.
“I’ve noticed something about you,” she said. “The last few weeks. When I see you. Driving in and out, walking. Something’s different about you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“It’s like you’ve lost your spirit,” she said, slipping her thumb inside my belt. “I know what that’s like.”
I swallowed. It was like that moment when I found the note in Ellen’s purse, how everything could change at once. One minute you’re up on a ladder, painting windows, wondering about the most efficient way to kill yourself, and the next you’re in a basement with a woman holding on to your belt.
I found myself putting a hand on her shoulder and she turned her head toward it, as though inviting it to touch her face. Softly, I caressed her cheek.
“Donna,” I said again. “I’m . . . I . . .”
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I just wanted you to know that if you’re sad, you’re not alone.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m married.” It seemed a dumb, obvious thing to say.
“So am I.” She paused. “If your marriage is perfect, then I apologize for my forwardness, and you can leave right now.”
That was when I should have walked, but that would have been akin to speaking a lie, because things between Ellen and me, at that time, were far from perfect.
“What about you?” I asked. “And Albert?”
“Why don’t you just kiss me?”
So I did. Her arms slipped around me, and there seemed to be only one way this was going to end. And not there, in the basement, next to the breaker panel, but upstairs in her and Albert’s bed.
She led me upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her husband. We were sitting on the edge of the bed. I was about to do something I felt entitled to do. I’d been wronged. Wasn’t I allowed to get even?
But I pulled back and said to Donna, “I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can,” she said, reaching up to touch my face. I gently took hold of her wrist and brought it down.
“No,” I said. “I can’t.” Her eyes were moist with tears about to spill onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”
As I got up she said, “This never happened.”
I nodded. “That’s because nothing did happen,” I said.
It’s even possible that things actually got better between me and Ellen from that day forward. I didn’t get even, but I’d had my opportunity. And I knew just how close I’d come. Maybe when Ellen had come that close to the edge, she had tried to stop, but teetered in the wrong direction.
And even though nothing happened, I guessed Donna felt we’d come close enough that it was worth telling someone about. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know who.
NINETEEN
HER SISTER,” Barry said as we drove into Promise Falls, past car dealerships, the town’s Wal-Mart, a KFC, a doughnut joint.
“Heather,” I said. “From Iowa.”
“Sisters tell each other everything,” Barry said. “Had a chance to talk to her before the funeral. She and her husband came in last night.”
“We saw them at the service,” I said. “And she’s wrong.”
Barry ignored that. “We talked for a bit, and she couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to do harm to her sister, or her brother-in-law for that matter, or their son. But she did mention to me that her sister had told her that she’d slept with the neighbor, that it had been the wrong thing to do, but it happened.”
“If Donna really told her sister that, she was exaggerating.”
“Why would her sister lie about something like that?”
“Barry,” I said patiently, “I’m not particularly interested in discussing this, but I’m telling you this much. It didn’t happen. I didn’t have an affair with Donna Langley. I didn’t sleep with her. I had an opportunity, but I didn’t take it. I know you’re doing your job, but for the life of me I don’t know what this has to do with anything, even if I had slept with her, which, I repeat, I did not. And, if the rumor mill is to be believed, your investigation into this whole thing must be about over.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Barry asked.
“It’s all anyone was talking about after the service. Colin McKindrick. The one who made threats against
Albert after the kid who killed his son was acquitted.”
“What’d you hear?”
“That when you went to talk to him about this, he blew his brains out.”
“Well, that part’s certainly true,” Barry said. “Happened early this morning. Hell of a thing.”
“And that doesn’t tell you something?”
“What, suddenly you’re a psychiatrist, Jim?”
“Is it a stretch to think Colin McKindrick was feeling guilty about something? That he’d kill himself when you came asking about the Langleys?”
“Yeah, well, he might just have been depressed, Jim.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
Barry bristled. “You seem to think you know everything. Well, wise one, here’s what I do know. I went to see him, identified myself through the intercom thing at the door, said I was with the police, looking into the Langley thing, and he told me to get the hell off his property or he’d start shooting right through the door. So I put in a call for backup, but before you could say ‘Bob’s your uncle’ the bastard shot himself. Front door was locked but I found my way in through the garage, found him in the hall, but some of his brains found their way to the kitchen.”
“Barry,” I said, not impressed by his attempt to shock me.
“But here’s what you don’t know,” Barry said. “Colin McKindrick spent from Friday night to Saturday morning in the drunk tank.”
I just looked at him.
“He was in the Promise Falls lockup. He’d been drinking downtown at Casey’s, apparently he’d been doing a lot of that since his son died, and even more since Albert got the guy off who did it. Got in his car, went weaving down Charlton Street, cop pulled him over, he blew off the scale, he got hauled in. His car, too.”
“He was in jail,” I said, more to myself than Barry. “When the Langleys were murdered.”
“The whole time. As alibis go, being in jail’s one of the better ones.”
I shook my head slowly. “Maybe he hired someone. McKindrick hired somebody to kill Albert Langley, ended up killing the bunch of them.”
Barry Duckworth made a face. “Hired killers. In Promise Falls. What do you think this is, Jim, Fargo?”