We Are Not Ourselves(164)

“You have a good child. And a good husband. This battle of his has nothing to do with how he feels about you. In this life, you have helped his soul.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”





83


On a slow afternoon in early August, Mr. Marku snapped his fingers as he passed and motioned for Connell to follow him downstairs. They entered the office, and Connell sat on the worn leather couch as Mr. Marku yelled at a contractor on the phone. He watched clown fish and angelfish chase each other through the coral in the saltwater aquarium and had one of those crystallizing insights into the order of things that always seemed less profound a few hours later. The guy wanted weekend access so his workers could finish sooner, and Mr. Marku wouldn’t give it up. The doormen and porters took it for granted that Mr. Marku let his palm get greased for things like this, but as Connell listened to Mr. Marku standing this man down, he considered the radical idea that sometimes there wasn’t a cynical story to uncover, that Mr. Marku was probably just a man of principle.

He thought of his mother and the phone conversations he’d been eavesdropping on. He felt guilty listening in, but he couldn’t help it, because when he was around, his mother was so squirrelly about not talking to whoever this lady was, this friend of Bethany’s. His guilt turned to anger that his mother was getting taken for a ride.

Because Mr. Marku knew everybody, he probably knew the kind of people who could strike some fear in the heart of this lady, make her leave his mother alone. A couple of men would show up at her door, and they wouldn’t have to say much.

Mr. Marku hung up and leaned back in his chair. He lit a cigarette and gave Connell a long look that betrayed no malice, which made it more intimidating. He never prefaced anything with pleasantries; it was always speeches.

“You don’t shave, I give you a razor and tell you to shave,” he said. “You take long lunches, I say he’s a growing boy. You talk too much to the shareholders, I say I’m glad he speaks such good English. But when you don’t wear the hat; when you don’t wear the hat, and you’re standing in front of me . . .”

“Are you letting me go?”

“Not yet, I’m not,” Mr. Marku said. “I told your teacher I’d keep an eye on you, whip you into shape. You’re coming back down here to work.”





84


She added a weekly phone call to the Tuesday night groups and the Thursday night solo session. The rate was cheaper for the telephone session, one twenty-five an hour.

One day Connell sat at the table giving her dirty looks while she was talking to Rachelle. She tried to shoo him away, because she felt too self-conscious with him there, but he wouldn’t leave, and she told Rachelle she’d call back.

“What’s going on?” he asked when she hung up.

“What?”

“What’s up with Bethany?”

“Nothing, why?”

“I saw a show about this the other day. They’ll take you for everything you have. People end up homeless.”

“Look at this kitchen,” she said. “Look at that countertop. Does it look to you like I’m going to be homeless?”

The next time Bethany came to pick her up to go to Rachelle’s, a strange mood hung in the air. Connell came into the kitchen, followed by Sergei, and then the two of them went down to the basement. When she called down to say she was leaving, she got no reply. As Bethany backed out of the driveway, Eileen saw the garage door rising and Connell pulling out with Sergei in the passenger seat. It was something she hadn’t seen before, the two of them in the car together, and she spent the whole trip wondering where they could have been going. She usually enjoyed these rides to Rachelle’s, singing along with Bethany to pop radio, but she was distracted by the thought of Ed in that house alone, even if he was already asleep when she left.

The bell rang as she was settling into the floor. When Bethany opened the door, Eileen saw Connell and Sergei there. Connell started to enter. “Excuse me, young man,” Bethany said as she tried to stop his advance, but Sergei moved her aside with an effortless sweep of the arm and followed him in.

“What are you doing here?” Eileen asked.

“I wanted to see where you went.”

“You followed me?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, “but I don’t like it.”

She was oddly comforted to see him there. She felt, for a moment, as if she wasn’t on her own.

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s home. In bed.”

“You need to get back there,” she said.

“You need to get back there,” he answered. There was an unexpected authority in his voice; he seemed to have matured by ten years in an instant. She found herself on the point of heading for the door.

Rachelle walked into the room with a natural, confident air and placed a hand on her shoulder. “This must be your son,” she said. “I’m so glad to meet you.” Her voice was full of disarming warmth. “I’ve been hoping for this chance.”

She put her hand out. Connell took it automatically.

“You’re every bit as spirited as I understood you to be.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He turned from Rachelle. “Come on, Mom. We have to go.”