Long Bright River(99)

I swallow. I think of Paula. Of my betrayal of Paula’s response, when I asked her to make a report. No fucking way, she said. Get on every cop’s shit list in this godforsaken city.

—No, I say. Kacey, I don’t know what they’re talking about.

She nods, assessing me. For a long time, we’re quiet. On the street, a pack of kids goes streaking by on dirt bikes, popping wheelies, and Kacey doesn’t speak again until the noise of them is gone.

—I trust you, she says.





Kacey declines a ride.

—I took Dad’s car, she says. He’s expecting me home.

So I walk her to his car, and then I say goodbye, on the side of the road, feeling so racked with guilt that my stomach hurts.



* * *



— It’s time to pick up Thomas at Lauren Spright’s house in Northern Liberties. She invites me in. The house itself is big and modern, across from a park that bad kids used to frequent when I was small. Back when this neighborhood was still ours.

The kitchen, which looks like it was built for a show on the Food Network, is on the ground floor, in a big open room with a sliding glass door that leads out to a patio. There’s a Christmas tree out there, a real one, covered in white lights. I’ve never seen this before: a Christmas tree on someone’s back patio. I like it.

—The kids are upstairs, says Lauren. What can I get you to drink? Do you want some coffee?

—Sure, I say. I’m still shaken from what happened at Paula’s mass. Holding something small and warm in my hands would be nice.

—How was the funeral? says Lauren.

I pause.

—Strange, actually, I say.

—How come?

Lauren is pouring hot water directly onto ground coffee in a tall glass cylinder. She puts a lid on it that has a kind of stem at the top, and lets it sit there. I’ve never seen coffee made this way before. I don’t ask questions.

—It’s a long story, I say.

—I’ve got time, says Lauren.

From upstairs, the sound of a crash, and then a pause, and then smothered giggles.

—Maybe, says Lauren.

I consider her. It is tempting, actually, to unburden everything I know to Lauren, who’s a good listener, who seems to have an organized and happy life. Lauren Spright and her people seem to have everything figured out. There is a part of me that thinks, looking at her, I could have had this. I could have had a different career, a different house, a different life. When we first became involved, Simon and I used to talk about making a life together, after his son Gabriel was grown. I want to tell Lauren about all the plans I had. I want Lauren to know that I did well in school. I want to pour out the facts of my life into the open, friendly vessel of Lauren Spright, whose broad, pretty face is turned toward me welcomingly, whose very name sounds like something innocent and charmed.

I don’t. I hear Gee’s voice in my ear, telling me, You can’t trust them. She never said who they were, but I’m certain that Lauren Spright qualifies. As wrong as Gee was about everything else, there is a large part of me, maybe all of me, that still agrees with her on this point.





That night, after I put Thomas to bed, my phone rings.

I look at it.

Dan Fitzpatrick cell, it says. When my father gave his number to me, I couldn’t bring myself to save it under Dad. Nothing so chummy as that.

I answer.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and then I hear soft breathing that I recognize as someone else’s.

—Kacey? I say.

—Hi, she says.

—You okay?

—Listen, says Kacey, after another pause. I’m going to tell you something important. And it’s up to you to decide whether or not to believe me.

—All right, I say.

—I know you haven’t always believed me in the past, says Kacey.

I close my eyes.

—I asked around today, says Kacey. I called some friends. Tried to figure out what people are saying about you.

—All right, I say again.

Waiting.

—Are you with Truman Dawes? she says.

—What do you mean? I say.

Hearing his name like this, so suddenly, is jarring. I haven’t heard from him since I clumsily tried to kiss him. Out of guilt and embarrassment, I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about him.

—I mean right now, says Kacey. Is he with you. In the same car. In the same room.

—No, I say. I’m at home.

Kacey goes quiet.

—Why? I say. Kacey?

—They think he’s the one, says my sister. They think he killed Paula and all the rest of them. And they think you know about it.





Every part of me rebels.

No, I think.

This can’t be true. It isn’t possible. My fundamental understanding of Truman does not permit me to believe what I’ve just heard.

I open and close my mouth. I breathe.

On the other end of the phone, I hear Kacey breathing too. Waiting for me to respond. Measuring, in my long pause, my trust in her.

I think of the last time I doubted her: how I took Simon’s word over hers; how profoundly incorrect I was. The ways in which that one word, No, affected the course of our lives.

And so instead I say to her, Thank you.