All Is Not Forgotten(75)

Questions were asked. Answers were given.

What time did you arrive at the party? What time did you leave? Were you with anyone? Did you exit the house at any time? Was anyone with you? Did you see Jenny Kramer? Was anyone with her? Et cetera, et cetera … Do you own a blue sweatshirt with red symbols or letters?

Jason held up well. His guilt came across as teenage fear. He reminded me of a boy meeting a girl’s father for the first time on prom night. Was he a good kid? Yes. Did he want to have sex with the man’s daughter? Yes. Would he? Probably not. It’s an accepted deception. It has been many words since I told you what I think about honesty, about the need for lying in the human relationship. If that boy told that father that he had pictured his daughter naked, imagined her breasts in his palms, his tongue in her mouth, his hands reaching up her dress, and that he imagined all of this while masturbating just an hour before this civilized introduction—well, you can imagine how many kids would show up at the prom. I have been crude. But I wanted my point to be made.

I don’t think so, Jason said about the sweatshirt, squirming a bit. I mean, I don’t have one now. I don’t remember having one before.

This was the brilliant part. He executed it perfectly.

Did you leave the party at any time to go outside?

Jason paused before answering. He looked at his lawyer, who nodded and patted his hand. He looked at me. I did the same. I may even have said, “Go ahead, son. Tell the truth.”

Jason sighed. Now, mind you, none of this was acting on his part. He is not a good liar. He is a good boy. A wonderful boy. My boy.

I went out for a few minutes. I was looking for that man. The one in the blue Honda.

The cops got a little more interested then, but their interest was, of course, being misdirected. No one else had admitted to doing anything wrong, because nothing could be proved. Cruz Demarco made over a grand that night, and yet, somehow, only John Vincent had admitted to buying anything. This interview was like finding a small nugget of gold in the pan.

I see. One of the cops said, So you were going to buy drugs?

Jason nodded sheepishly.

And did you?

No. I saw the car and I got scared so I walked right by it and then turned around and walked on the other side back to the house so he wouldn’t see me.

What time was this?

I don’t know. It was before nine thirty. After eight. I’m not sure.

Did you see anyone else?

No. But people were coming in and out from the street all night, looking for that guy. Everyone was talking about it. I think he came to the house, to the back, also.

Attorney Brandino jumped in. Are we done? As you can see, my client has been very forthcoming and honest. It was not in his interest to tell you of his intention to buy drugs. I hope you can give him some credit for that.

Yes. Credit. But it was done not for any “credit,” whatever the hell that meant, but to explain his nervous disposition, his squirming in his seat when he was asked about the sweatshirt. You see?

There was more to the interview. But it was of no consequence. The lie about the sweatshirt and my son’s poor performance in telling it had been perfectly deflected.

When we got home, my wife was in the kitchen, having a glass of wine. It was just early afternoon, but she had been a ball of nerves.

“Sweetheart, I could have given you something. Now you’ll have a headache.”

She ignored me, rushing to our son and pulling him into her arms. Are you all right? Oh, my poor boy!

Jason let her squeeze him for a moment before pulling away. I’m fine. Can I go?

We let him leave. The new TV went on. Then the violent video game. I didn’t care.

Julie looked at me with the questions bleeding from her skin. I did not make her suffer.

“It’s fine,” I said.

She fell into my arms. Promise?

“Yes. I promise.” And I meant it more than I have ever meant anything.

If we can’t protect our own children, we are wretched.





Chapter Thirty-one

Can you imagine what was going through the mind of Bob Sullivan when he saw the fear in full bloom on Charlotte’s face?

They met at the house on the outskirts of Cranston five days after I saw Charlotte. She had been remembering Bob’s hand on her shoulder, the other one in her hair, sometimes pressing against the back of her head as his hips pushed into her thighs. The deep penetration, the moans he made each time. And sometimes when she did this, she imagined Jenny in his grasp instead. She did not tell me this. I think it would have been far too personal. But I knew just the same.

I couldn’t even look at him. I felt like I was in an alternate universe, where everything was the same, but not the way I thought. Does that make sense? I imagine it happens all the time, right? When people learn their spouse is having an affair or stole money? God—I just realized that Tom will look at me like that one day, won’t he? If he finds out about what I’ve done? When he has to accept that good Charlotte doesn’t exist.

“Let’s not dwell on good Charlotte today. Let’s focus on what happened with Bob. This is very important. Very traumatic, even though you may not realize it yet. You loved Bob, or at least the man you thought he was. And you believed he loved you as well, that he really loved you, all of you with all the secrets of the past.”

I don’t even know how I feel, Alan. Truly. So, let me just tell you what happened. Tell me what you think, all right?