Ink and Bone(62)

In another life, Wolf would have lingered after Blake went home. He’d have found a way to strike up a conversation with the pretty girl. If she’d been a certain type, he’d have wound up back at her place. But he liked to think that he was a different man now, someone who’d learned from his mistakes, made better choices.

So when Blake picked up the tab and gathered up his things to go home, Wolf left with him.


*

Back at the apartment, Wolf’s parents had gone to sleep in the master bedroom, and his mother had made up the bed for him on the couch. He looked in on Jackson, who was sweaty and fitful in sleep, his leg kicked out from beneath the covers, still wearing his glasses, his night light on. The scar on his thigh was a large but tidy keloid mark that looked like a star. A book on quantum physics lay spine up on the floor. Wolf touched his son’s head, took off his glasses, and turned out the light.

On the couch, he dialed Merri and was surprised when she answered.

“There’s a storm coming,” he said. “I think you should come home.”

“I can’t,” she said. He could tell she’d been crying.

“Then we’re going to come up,” he said.

“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not healthy for him.”

“Then I’ll leave him with my parents,” he said. “Just for a couple of days.”

She didn’t say anything, her breath filling the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Merri, I’m truly sorry. I’ve been a shit husband and a worse father.” How many times had he said it? Were there ever more pointless, impotent words in the English language than “I’m sorry.” The words uttered when all was lost, when nothing could alter outcomes.

“Let me try to do better,” he said. “Please.”

There was only silence on the other end. He thought that maybe she had hung up, as she sometimes did, without a word. Even when she wasn’t angry, she would every once in a while just absently end a call, her mind on to the next thing.

They were so different, always had been. He was a writer. She was an editor. He created; she corrected. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Wolf. Most grown-ups know that. Was it Ray Bradbury who said, Stay drunk on writing so that reality doesn’t destroy you? On the page, you could write the world. Off the page, the world would crush you, if you let it, with its harsh consequences and brutal outcomes, with all its banalities and dull day-to-day slog.

“Merri?”

“Okay,” she said. “Try to do better.”

And then she hung up.





NINETEEN


It was Abigail who wanted the rings. Patience said not to. And, of course, Sarah said nothing because she never had an opinion of her own. She swayed between the two of them, following whoever was stronger, not unlike Finley.

Finley had noticed the rings a few times, when she’d been up at the chalkboard, working through equations with Mrs. Frazier. Finley knew all about diamonds from her mother, who never tired of leafing through Tiffany catalogs, showing Finley the jewelry she liked, teaching her about cut, color, and clarity. And Amanda had plenty of gems of her own, a drawer full of glittering stones—some costume, some costly. Finley had grown to associate jewelry with apologies. When Phil screwed up, a little blue box appeared shortly after.

Mrs. Frazier’s engagement ring had a cushion-cut stone, more than a carat, but not quite two, with a neat row of smaller stones, alternating diamonds and blue sapphires around the band. It glittered and drew attention to itself, and Mrs. Frazier always had her nails done. And such pretty, soft hands. The wedding band was a simple matching ring of small diamonds.

Finley could tell how proud her teacher was of those rings. Leading up to her wedding, there had been a stack of wedding magazines in her drawer, along with a binder of all her plans. She was all business in the classroom; but Finley could see how happy she was, how excited. She’d slide the magazines out as soon as the classroom was empty; Finley would see them when she stayed after class for one thing or another. One afternoon, Mrs. Frazier had showed Finley a picture of her dress, her ring and manicured nails glittering as she pointed to the picture. So pretty. Finley wondered what it would be like to be so happy, to be in love. Had her mother been so in love with her father once upon a time? Amanda said, yes, she’d never loved anyone like she’d loved Phil. And she probably never would again and maybe that was a good thing.

Mrs. Frazier took her rings off sometimes, put them in a little ring dish on her desk.

Take them, whispered Abigail one day. Finley had been taking a make-up test, and Mrs. Frazier got up to go to the bathroom, an act of tremendous trust.

Finley knew better.

“No,” she whispered. “Go away.”

But wasn’t there, deep beneath what Finley knew was good and right, a throb of desire? Was it hers? Was it Abigail’s? The room was cold, smelled of chalk dust and mold, the fluorescents flickering their sickly blue-white light. Finley really liked Mrs. Frazier, formerly Miss Grant. Finley would never steal from her, or anyone. But those rings were so pretty. And what would it be like to have something like that?

He’ll buy her another one. No one would ever suspect you.

Sarah stood by the chalkboard looking uncertain, glancing at the door. Her dress was long and sky blue, in tatters around the hem. The girls all smelled faintly of smoke. Patience was by the window, staring at Finley with dark eyes. Her dress was black, buttoned high up the throat, her hair tightly pulled back. She looked the most like Faith, though Finley didn’t know that at the time. She never met Faith until she moved to The Hollows. There was anger etched deep around Faith’s eyes and into her brow, even around the corners of her mouth. It was righteous, the anger of a person who had been done wrong. Abigail, Faith’s most unruly daughter was angry, too. But she wanted to do harm. She wanted to hurt because she had been hurt. She didn’t give a damn about justice. Finley knew all of this without exactly having words for any of it.