Anything Is Possible(17)

“Not as long as he does it away from home and without the kids around.”

“I’d mind.”

Karen-Lucie said, “But if you really loved him—”

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Good night. I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

Linda glanced at her husband’s profile. She said, “She didn’t even shower, and she traveled all day.”

Jay put a finger to his lips and nodded. Linda rose then and left the room to sleep across the hall, as she always did. Ever since her daughter moved away, saying those awful things about her, Linda had slept away from her husband.



Seven years earlier a young woman in town had disappeared. She was a sophomore in high school and a cheerleader and also she babysat for the families of the Episcopalian church of which her family was a member. So there were many people to investigate and of course the town was in dreadful distress. A deep resentment of the media—which swarmed the town with an almost biblical descent of cameras and large furry microphones and trucks with huge satellite dishes that scooped at the air—the resentment of this united most people, but then strange alliances formed and ruptured according to what theory was popular that day, for example, when the Driver’s Ed teacher was thought to be a suspect—that really divided people. And then there were a few who said the girl had actually run away, that nobody knew the terrible things that took place in her home, and this added to the dismay and horror that her poor parents and siblings endured. For two years the town lived this way.

During this time Linda Peterson-Cornell existed with a confusing disc of darkness deep inside her chest, and as she watched her husband read the news reports, and follow the case on TV, she often broke out in a sweat. She thought she had to be crazy. She could not imagine why her body was reacting this way, why her mind itself could not stay calm. And then when it was over, finally, finally over, she forgot that she had felt this way. Only occasionally would she remember, but never with the visceral aspect of what she had actually gone through. And each time she remembered she thought: I’m a silly woman, I have nothing to complain about, not really, not like that, Jesus God.

—

The second night of the festival Linda sat reading in the living room with her husband, and Yvonne came through the front door and walked past them down the ramp to the lower floor. She flapped a hand as she went by. “G’night,” she called.

“But how are you?” Jay called back. “How’s the teaching going?”

“Fine!” This was said from downstairs. “Got an early class. Good night,” she called again. They could hear the very faint sound of the shower—not long—and they sat reading in the living room for another two hours.

In the middle of the night—through the shield of her sleeping pill—Linda was aware of her husband in the shower. It was not unusual, particularly, but it gave Linda a sense of unease; it always did, and tonight reminded her of what she had felt seven years before. Just the relief of that time now being over allowed her to fall back into sleep.



Each night Karen-Lucie and Yvonne went to the bar that played live music. Each night they asked Tomasina if he wanted to go with them, and each night Tomasina said no, he was going back to his room to call his wife and his kids and to read over the assignments for the next day. “He’s not a bad photographer,” Karen-Lucie told Yvonne. “If he loved it with his whole heart he might be really good. But he doesn’t love it with his whole heart. He just comes here because…”

They nodded simultaneously, picking at the corn chips in the basket on the table. “Bless his soul,” Karen-Lucie added.

“Totally. And his wife’s too.”

“Hell yeah.” Karen-Lucie put a hand to her mouth. “Yvie, I was betrayed. Bee-trayed. I want you to know that.”

Yvonne nodded.

“That’s all I’m going to say.”

Yvonne nodded again.

“My heart is broken,” Karen-Lucie said.

“I know that,” Yvonne said.

“Broken. He broke my heart.” Karen-Lucie flicked a corn chip and it flew across the table.

After a number of minutes went by, Yvonne asked, “Why do Joy’s eyes roll around when she’s talking to me?”

“Oh. ’Cause her son killed a girl here years ago and buried her in the backyard and then finally told his mama. Yes, darlin’, I am serious.” Karen-Lucie nodded. “He’s in prison now for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be. Joy and her husband got divorced and her husband got all the money—they were rich but he got all the money—and Joy lives in a trailer now, outside of town, and if you go there you will see a photograph she has on her mantel, taken of her standing right next to her son, and she has her hand on his chest in this gesture of affection, but it covers up the numbers on his uniform so the photograph looks like he’s just wearing a dark blue shirt.”

“God,” Yvonne said. “My God.”

“I know.”

“How old was he when he did this?”

“Fifteen, I think. Sixteen? They charged him as an adult because he didn’t tell anyone for almost two years. Just left her buried in their backyard. If he’d told, he wouldn’t have gotten life. But he got life. Without parole.”