The Lifeguards(6)
Thanks to his next-door neighbor, Peach, an elderly woman always happy enough (or lonely enough) to come sleep in the guest room when he needed to burn the midnight oil, Salvatore was able to arrive at the crime scene at the same time as Katrina, the medical examiner.
When he arrived, he tried to slide into the place where he could silence all the noise around him and really see. He tried to get into this tunnel before even entering a crime scene, standing very still, his mind laser-focused, asking himself, What is wrong here?
Clothes too hastily strewn, a necklace in a kitchen, bloodstain patterns, a child’s stuffed toy where it should not be, a broken window. Each item out of place was an essential clue, a way to unlock the mystery of what had happened to bring Salvatore and his team to the scene. In the tunnel, Salvatore could try to interpret how a night had gone wrong, how an ordinary evening had led to one less soul alive.
His team surveyed and photographed the street where the body was found and Katrina determined the time of death, signing off so she could arrange transport to the morgue for autopsy. Near dawn, Salvatore collapsed into bed, only to be woken up an hour or two later by Allie shrieking about Dress Up Day.
Salvatore rubbed his face. He knew that opening his wife’s makeup drawer was something he’d get reprimanded for at family therapy on Wednesday. Ditto for saying nothing (even getting choked up) when Joe went into Jacquie’s closet and pulled out the neon-pink T-shirt she’d used for yoga class, slipping it over Allie’s head and cinching it at the waist with the gold belt Jacquie had worn to ’80s Night at the kids’ elementary school.
(And afterward, they had made love, Jacquie in only that belt, her hair in a side ponytail…but he would not think about Jacquie. Even remembering good things was hellish.)
“I look awesome,” whispered Allie, admiring herself in Jacquie’s full-length mirror.
Joe had already fetched rhinestone clip-ons that had once belonged to Jacquie’s mom, Valerie, who was still alive and judgmental in Tarrytown, New York.
(Valerie called every Sunday, telling him he should move to Tarrytown, making him feel like a failure, incapable of raising his own kids…but he would not think about Valerie.)
“Daddy, look!” cried Allie, who somehow knew how to apply eye shadow and lipstick. She spritzed herself with Jacquie’s Burberry perfume—unbearable, smelling it, and also wonderful, so wonderful. He’d stopped into Macy’s once after beers with his friends and had thrown down his Visa for the $102 giant-sized eau de parfum.
(He breathed through his mouth. He would not think about Jacquie, how she’d loved to spray Burberry and then step through the cloud of perfume.)
Joe cued up “Welcome to New York” on the iPhone he’d fished from the recycle bin at the Slaughter Lane Target. He and his sister danced to Taylor Swift, singing aloud to a song beloved by their mother, a brilliant and serious woman from New York who had also happened to adore teen pop.
Had.
Who had.
“OK, let’s get a move on,” said Salvatore. He’d been dressed since dawn, uniform pressed, tattooed arms covered (Austin Police Department shield on his right bicep; “Jacquie Forever” on his left—oh, the irony), face shaven and dark hair clean and combed. His gruff voice did not break. He did not fall to the ground and give in to the tumble of unbearable and beautiful emotions that rushed over him watching his daughter dance to her dead mother’s favorite song.
“I said, get in the car!” said Salvatore, too loudly. The strain it took to stay functional came out as anger, he knew. The kids looked stricken, Joe cutting the music and Allie looking down as she passed him, grabbing her light-up Keds to put on en route to school.
Salvatore felt ashamed as he drove up Lamar Boulevard, past Target, Valero, and the sketchy 7-Eleven that served as a destination for both the rich white people who lived in the Barton Hills neighborhood just beyond (kombucha, $5.99) and the poorer saps who stopped for gas or breakfast on their way to manual labor, often in Barton Hills yards or neighborhood construction sites (two hot dogs for a dollar). From the backseat, Salvatore heard his son speak to his sister in a low voice. “Your kicks are just like the ones in the video.”
“Which video?” said Allie, tapping the toes of her sneakers together to make them light up.
“I can’t remember. Maybe ‘Bad Blood’? Or ‘You Belong with Me’?”
“I love those songs,” whispered Allie.
“I know,” Joe answered.
Salvatore looked into the rearview mirror. The sadness on his kids’ faces almost made him sob, so he averted his eyes.
If you look away, it will go away. Salvatore’s own mother had taught him that.
At a stoplight, Salvatore cued up “You Belong with Me” on his phone. If he was caught texting while driving, it would be some scandal, but he didn’t care. He rolled down the windows and turned up the volume, hit play.
At the first notes, Allie brightened. She scrunched her eyes closed, began twitching her head back and forth, imitating a teen at Austin City Limits music festival. (The busiest weekend of the year for Salvatore and every other cop on the beat, not to mention Uber drivers, restaurant owners, and oh my God the bars.) Allie opened her lipsticked mouth and Salvatore could hear her voice, sweet and pure. She knew every word. Who didn’t?
Rolling up Lamar, turning on Mary, all the way to Zilker Elementary (they’d won the lottery and transferred in…and signed up for the full-summer day camp), Salvatore and his children sang their fucking hearts out about high heels and sneakers and bleachers.