The Forgotten Hours(40)

Q. Why would Mr. Gregory be angry?

A. Because we had been gone for, like, a while, Katie and me. We weren’t supposed to be alone together, you know? I think he saw us earlier, kissing.

Q. You’d broken the rules, you’d been drinking, and then you went to see if everything was all right, and you say you saw Mr. Gregory through the window with Lulu Henderson, but it was dark, and you couldn’t really see what was happening.

A. No.

Q. No, you couldn’t see? Or no, you didn’t look through the window?

A. I couldn’t really see what was happening.

Q. It would be correct to say, then, that you are testifying that you did not see Mr. Gregory and the plaintiff engaged in sexual activity?

A. Um, I don’t know. Can you repeat the question?

Q. Are you saying that you did not witness any sexual activity between the defendant and the plaintiff?

A. What I’m saying is, when I looked, I saw them—I thought it was weird— Q. We’ve established that you saw them. But were they engaged in sexual activity?

A. Honestly, I don’t know. I couldn’t see what they were doing— Q. No further—

A. —but it was weird—

Q. Thank you, no further questions.

Katie put a hand on her chest, feeling the urgent beat of her heart under her fingers. A tangle of unanswered questions remained. The lawyers didn’t seem to have proven anything with this line of questioning. Jack had testified, but he hadn’t known exactly what he had seen when he’d looked through that window in the den, and it was established that he was unreliable because he’d been drinking. The prosecutor had overreached.

But at the same time there was no denying the fact that Jack had seen something that made him acutely uncomfortable, that hinted at transgression.

A terrible thought occurred to her. Was it possible that Jack chose not to remember exactly what he saw? That he lied or obfuscated on the stand to protect her father—and therefore, by extension, to protect her too? Was that why he had tried to write to her about his trouble with telling “the truth”? Christ.

Just then, a woman poked her head around the doorframe, causing Katie to start. “We’re closing up here,” she said.

Katie checked her watch. “But it’s . . . it’s . . .” and she realized it was already a few minutes past five o’clock in the evening. “Damn. You’re not open tomorrow, right?”

“Weekend, hon. We don’t work weekends.”

She stood, shaky, stretching her legs one after another. Her entire body was numb except for her damn chest, where a battle was raging. The rest of the transcript would have to wait. She thought about Jack’s letters to her, his attempt to make peace when he thought she knew he was a witness. How could her parents have denied her those two letters? All these years, Katie had thought she was alone in her particular brand of pain and confusion, when in reality it hadn’t been like that—Jack had felt it too. He had had questions.

The bad news was this: He had seen things, things that didn’t seem right. And she was leaving the courthouse with more questions than answers.

When Katie got back to the cabin, the sun had dropped behind the wall of black pines, and a chill set in. Being alone in the country was a discomfiting experience, and she wished David had been willing to stay over. She had her laptop and another bottle of wine, but when she tried to sit still, the sounds from the woods seemed to amplify around her, and the cold seeped into her fingertips and her toes. If only Jack would call her back, but her phone was silent.

Breaking out the cleaning supplies, she started in on the kitchen. The radio was tuned to a jazz station, and after a while she switched to Oldies 90.3. Tidying up wasn’t so bad, really. It took her three passes with a mop to get the old linoleum floor to shine again. The kitchen table was scratched up and dusty, but once she’d scrubbed it and applied some Old English, it shone in the lamplight, warm and friendly. She picked some ferns to display on the counter in a small vase. Sometimes she sang out loud, and sometimes she worked in silence, the songs bringing up waves of memories as she worked. When Shania Twain came on, Katie stopped in her tracks, one arm raised above the refrigerator, where she was clearing away years of mouse droppings. Shit, she thought. Shania Twain is not a goddamn oldie!





18

John Gregory is a horrible singer. He stands in the West Mills kitchen, “You’re Still the One,” by Shania Twain, playing on the radio. Each time it reaches the chorus, he stops what he’s doing and waves whichever utensil he’s holding high in the air, arching his back and singing in high falsetto, “Looks like we made it; look how far we’ve come, baby!” David and Katie burst into giggles.

It is her parents’ wedding anniversary, January 14, 2008. Outside it has been snowing lightly for hours, and summer seems so long ago. Charlie’s Union Jack apron is strapped across John’s torso, and he is on his second or third rum and tonic. They are making a surprise dinner for Charlie of beef tenderloin wrapped in phyllo pastry, with sides of carrots and a big salad. John has thrown Charlie off the scent by claiming he has a town basketball game to coach and sending her to a spa. The vent above the oven rattles, and the kitchen windows are steaming up with moisture.

He plans on glazing carrots in apricot jam and cinnamon, which will take at least twenty minutes. Katie grabs the peeler from David. “Go help Dad,” she orders. “I’ll do this.”