Locust Lane(95)

Oliver arrived home. She was still in front of her computer. He came straight to the kitchen.

“Where is everybody?”

“A far cry from here.”

He tensed, aware that something was wrong.

“EZ Pass.”

He stared at her and then he understood.

“You’re checking up on me?”

She didn’t answer. His finger began to trace the scar. He wouldn’t meet her eye now.

“Celia, she was dead when I got there.”

“And so you just left her and drove back to Connecticut without telling anyone? Don’t lie to me, Oliver. Please. Give me that.”

He pulled out a chair and sat heavily in it. They waited through a silence that stretched the length of their marriage. Their lives.

“She wouldn’t listen. That’s what you have to understand. She would not listen. She was so angry. She’d taken leave of her … she used the word rape, Celia. Rape. Think about what that would have done to us if it got out. She kept on saying she was going to make us pay. Us. This family. I told her that was why I’d come. To pay. But she wouldn’t listen.”

“Maybe she didn’t mean money.”

“People always mean money. Whether they know it or not.” He shook his head. “She was pointing at me, spitting out foul language. It was really getting out of hand. The dog’s locked outside in the hallway, making a racket, scratching at the door. And then she hauls off and hits me. A real punch, right in the chest. Here, look.”

He loosened his tie and yanked it from his collar, then unbuttoned his shirt to expose his right breast. The bruise was the size and shape of the sand dollars she used to collect as a girl.

“She’s still coming at me, trying to grab my throat, scratch my face. And so I … lost control. For a split second. It was just a shove. I just wanted to get her off me.”

“Oliver…”

“She hit the coffee table. Just right. Or wrong. I mean, what are the odds? My instinct was to help, every bone in my body. But then there would have been no turning back. So I waited until she’d … settled.”

He closed his eyes. Worrying the scar again.

“Opening the door was a tricky moment, I thought the dog would attack me. But he went straight to her. He must not have liked what he saw, because by the time I left the house he was bolting past me. And then that drunken fool hit him and instead of just driving on he has to get out…”

“And sees you.”

“And sees me. After he left I put it inside before it caused more of a commotion. Plus…”

“What?”

“I didn’t really want her to be alone.”

His voice caught. There was an interval of silence and then he cleared his throat, cleared his mind of the weakness that had given him pause.

“And once they blamed Christopher, you never thought to stop it?”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, genuinely confused by the question. “That was the point of the exercise. But I’ve been pressuring people to go lightly on him. Very lightly.”

He met her eye.

“I had to carry my father’s shame my whole life, Celia. I couldn’t do that to you. Any of you. If it had just been me…”

“And Patrick?”

“The man entered our house,” he said matter-of-factly.

“But why did Jack even call you? Nobody would have believed her.”

“Because he always calls me.”

Always, Celia thought. Of course. It wouldn’t have only been once. Or twice.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“Nothing happens now, Celia. We go on.”

There were footsteps. Jack, coming downstairs. Oliver buttoned up his shirt. By the time their son reached the kitchen, Oliver and Celia had both put on the faces they’d always worn. Jack hardly glanced at them.

“Hey,” he said as he tore open the refrigerator. “What’s for dinner?”

“Nothing,” Celia said.

He looked at her. Oliver was watching her as well.

“We’re going out.”

Oliver chose a steakhouse where he knew the owner. They got a corner table, so no one would recognize them. But no one did. Eden and Christopher were the faces of this now. Victim and killer. Innocence and guilt. Good and evil. The world had divided along the usual lines and the Parrishes were about to have their dinner.

Oliver and Jack ordered steaks, Celia a salad. As she waited for their meals to arrive, Celia watched her husband. She thought about the self-discipline it would have taken him to get through Tuesday and the days beyond that. Figuring out how he could control this. Anticipating problems, tying up loose ends. Doing it for the family.

The food was served and the Parrish men dug in. Their strong jaws moving, sinew and tissue; their eyes unfocused, their breathing a little heavy. If not for the eyes and the lips, they really did look alike.

He glanced at her.

“Is something wrong with your salad?”

He would have sent it back. Got her another one, or anything else her heart desired. Anything to make her happy. To make sure they were all happy.

“Oh no,” she said. “It looks lovely.”

He was waiting for her. And so she picked up her fork and dug in.