Before She Knew Him(88)
Matthew wasn’t interviewed again that evening. He was officially charged by Detective Shaheen, told he could have a lawyer again; then he was allowed to clean up under supervision in the station bathroom. They took his clothes and gave him a green prison uniform that smelled of bleach, a pair of clean socks, and a used pair of sneakers without laces. In his holding cell in the basement level of the precinct, they brought him dinner—a microwaved hamburger with a side of mixed vegetables. He didn’t feel hungry, but after he took one bite of the rubbery burger, he found himself devouring the rest, almost like a dog bolting down its food. Afterward he felt nauseated and decided to lie down on the thin cot. He kicked his sneakers off and fell asleep without having to tell himself any stories.
After breakfast the following morning, a uniformed officer told him he had a visitor. He recognized Mira’s footsteps, the clack of her nice shoes, as she was brought down the short linoleum hallway. She turned and looked at him, her eyes puffy from crying, and the police officer took two steps backward but stayed in the hall.
“Oh, Bear,” she said, stepping toward the bars.
And then he was Bear, and he was crying.
Chapter 42
After two weeks at her parents’, and then three quick days back in Boston for Lloyd’s memorial service, then another two weeks at her best friend Charlotte’s house in Burlington, Vermont, Hen returned to West Dartford for the first time since Lloyd had been killed by Matthew Dolamore.
It was late November, the days now getting dark before five o’clock. All the bright colors of fall had coalesced into a hue that could only be described as rust. Dull, dead leaves were piled and strewn everywhere, and the few leaves that were still attached to trees had died as well, just waiting to be liberated by the next burst of cold wind. Hen pulled the Golf into her driveway at noon on a Thursday. The front yards of both her house and the Dolamores’ were covered in a thick mat of orange-brown needles. There was a For Sale sign in front of the Dolamore house. She was surprised, not that Mira was selling the house, but that it was already on the market. Maybe she needed money fast.
Walking from the car to her front door, carrying a mewling Vinegar in his carrier, she could smell chimney smoke in the air. There was an uncarved pumpkin on her front step, rotten and collapsing. She didn’t remember it being there—had Lloyd bought it?—but she didn’t entirely trust all of her memories from that surreal period during which she’d gotten to know Matthew. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, the door jamming briefly on the pile of mail that had accumulated in the foyer. She put the carrier on the floor and unlatched the top. Vinegar sprung out and raced toward the cat door that led to the basement. The house was cold inside, and Hen went immediately to the thermostat, raising the temperature till she heard water starting to move through the pipes. Not knowing what else to do, she gathered up all the mail—mostly catalogs and credit card solicitations—and brought the pile into the kitchen. On the counter was a bowl of apples that had sat untouched for the last month. They were still bright red, and she plucked one from the bowl, its flesh fairly firm. It’s been no time at all, she thought, and allowed herself to cry, briefly, before touring the rest of the house.
That night she crawled into the bed she’d shared with Lloyd and lay on her back. The full weight of his death, the enormity of his absence, pressed down on her. She didn’t really know whether the marriage could have been saved had he lived, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. His affair seemed quaint now, unimportant. What was so painful was that she could never speak to him again, that they would never relive what they had gone through together. He was gone, and when she really comprehended that fact her whole body hurt. Yes, she was depressed—a feeling she easily recognized—but she also thought that the depression was mostly the result of grief and trauma, and that her brain was working okay. She’d need to find a therapist—she knew that—but she wasn’t too worried that the recent events would trigger a depressive episode or a suicidal one. She felt sane.
She slept through the night, much deeper than she thought she would, and when light flooded in through the bedroom window, she pulled herself up out of a complicated dream that involved Matthew. She never dreamed these days about Lloyd, but she dreamed constantly of Matthew. In the dreams he was always coming to find her, and she was always asking him if they’d released him from the hospital. No, he’d say. That’s my brother in the hospital. You have us confused.
Maybe because of the dream, or maybe because of waking up in her old house, Hen called Detective Martinez and asked him if there was anything new in the case.
“He’s not going anywhere,” he said. “He’s going to be hospitalized for a very long time, and there’s never going to be a trial. You won’t have to testify.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked. “Maybe I want to testify.”
“You really don’t, Hen. Matthew Dolamore is where he should be right now.”
“I know he is.”
“Where are you calling from?” he asked.
“Home,” Hen said. “I’m back in the house on Sycamore Street. Spent my first night here last night.”
“How’d it go?”
“Not bad. Had a couple of nightmares, but I have those anywhere I sleep.”