All Is Not Forgotten (32 page)

When we got home, my wife was in the kitchen, having a glass of wine. It was just early afternoon, but she had been a ball of nerves.

“Sweetheart, I could have given you something. Now you'll have a headache.”

She ignored me, rushing to our son and pulling him into her arms.
Are you all right? Oh, my poor boy!

Jason let her squeeze him for a moment before pulling away.
I'm fine. Can I go?

We let him leave. The new TV went on. Then the violent video game. I didn't care.

Julie looked at me with the questions bleeding from her skin. I did not make her suffer.

“It's fine,” I said.

She fell into my arms.
Promise?

“Yes. I promise.” And I meant it more than I have ever meant anything.

If we can't protect our own children, we are wretched.

 

Chapter Thirty-one

Can you imagine
what was going through the mind of Bob Sullivan when he saw the fear in full bloom on Charlotte's face?

They met at the house on the outskirts of Cranston five days after I saw Charlotte. She had been remembering Bob's hand on her shoulder, the other one in her hair, sometimes pressing against the back of her head as his hips pushed into her thighs. The deep penetration, the moans he made each time. And sometimes when she did this, she imagined Jenny in his grasp instead. She did not tell me this. I think it would have been far too personal. But I knew just the same.

I couldn't even look at him. I felt like I was in an alternate universe, where everything was the same, but not the way I thought. Does that make sense? I imagine it happens all the time, right? When people learn their spouse is having an affair or stole money? God—I just realized that Tom will look at me like that one day, won't he? If he finds out about what I've done? When he has to accept that good Charlotte doesn't exist.

“Let's not dwell on good Charlotte today. Let's focus on what happened with Bob. This is very important. Very traumatic, even though you may not realize it yet. You loved Bob, or at least the man you thought he was. And you believed he loved you as well, that he really loved you, all of you with all the secrets of the past.”

I don't even know how I feel, Alan. Truly. So, let me just tell you what happened. Tell me what you think, all right?

I nodded. “Of course.”

I did not bring up the wine dinner again. He had been so insistent that I was wrong the last time, and I really wanted to know how I would feel being with him. If I could live with the lie and all the uncertainty or not.

“Charlotte,” I said. “You haven't started to wonder if Bob was the one, you know, who did those things to Jenny. Have you? Or is this about wondering where he was that night, and whether it was another woman?”

No! I mean, I could never believe that about Bob.
She lied well.
But I knew he remembered where he was that night. That was the problem. Why wouldn't he tell me?

“All right. Continue, then.”

So he poured me a drink, which I sometimes accept if it's not too early. He poured one for himself as well. It was good to have things in our hands, since neither of us seemed eager to touch the other. I asked if everything had been resolved. And he said it had not—that the issue with the wine dinner had gotten out of control. He said he'd had to hire a lawyer, and that they, he and his lawyer, were refusing to answer any more questions. I guess he doesn't have to, right?

“That's right. He doesn't. It sounds as though he's calling their bluff.”

Yeah. That's what he said as well. That the only thing they could do next would be to get a warrant, and that would require going public. His lawyer made it clear that he would immediately sue them. The loss to his business, to the election, his reputation, and his family … Well, they're betting the higher-ups won't go for it. I mean, really—what do they have? An ancient college record. And a misunderstanding over a dinner that happened over a year ago? They won't get a warrant, right?

“I don't know, Charlotte. But it sounds as though he was still worried. Or did he seem confident?”

No—he was not confident at all. He was angry. He said things like, “How can this be happening? To me, of all people? How could anyone think that I would rape a young girl? I'm worth over twenty million dollars! I'm about to become a state representative! I've met the fucking president!” Then he said he felt like his head was going to explode, or something like that, something very dramatic. All of this was just one huge insult to his ego.

“That's not very attractive, I have to say. Could he not understand their position? That they did have an obligation to follow through?”

I told you—it made me see him in a different way. I couldn't just put it out of my mind, have sex, go home.… I just couldn't this time. I said what I was thinking, which was what you said just now. That they had to cover their bases and make sure. I told him he needed to tell them where he was that night and then it would all just go away. I told him I didn't understand why he wouldn't do that.

“How did he take that?”

Not well. He got furious with me. He threw his glass across the room, and his face got very hot, you know, red and wide-eyed, frantic. He got very close to me, and he took my arms, and he looked at me, studying me. And he asked me straight out if I thought he had raped my daughter.

Charlotte gasped then, her hand drawing up to her mouth. She shook her head slowly, her eyes on that sticker.

I said I did not. I said I knew he would never do anything like that. But then why, why would he not say where he was? And then there was Jenny and the voice in her head. I don't know. I think he just didn't believe me.

She was lost then, in her memories of that meeting. I let her stay there for a moment, long enough for the memories to mix with more of the doubt. You know why, don't you? So they would return to their files just slightly altered, decorated perhaps with the doubts about Bob.

“Charlotte, how did it end? How did you leave things?”

Ohhh. Well, it wasn't good. He said “fuck you,” and then he left.

“‘Fuck you'? That's all he said?”

Uh-huh. After three years together, after all those professions of love and tender moments making love. After all those times he looked lovingly into my eyes—how is that possible? How is it we can do those things, things that feel permanent, like even if the relationship ended, those feelings would still be there? It makes me not believe in anything, in any feeling, in any profession, in any love at all. It's all just bullshit. Just hormones and lust and needs and filling people's gaps, the holes in their souls. We all just use each other, don't we? Nothing is what it seems.

“Well, that is a lot to discuss, Charlotte. You are right. People do that to each other. But sometimes it becomes more than that. Sometimes the weaker loves, the lust-driven loves, the filling holes, turn into more. And sometimes those momentary connections, the ones that catch us off guard like a cold wind coming around the corner of a building, sometimes those stay put and then become an anchor for a more permanent connection. That is what most people in stable relationships describe. It's the connection, and the need for that connection. And from there, like anything we need, we take care of it with kindness and caretaking—acts of love. But that is really too much for one day, isn't it? Tell me how you feel now, after Bob said ‘fuck you' and left?”

I feel disoriented. I feel like I'm lost in my own life.

“That's perfect, Charlotte.”

Perfect? It's miserable.

“Let me ask you this: If Bob called you and said he was sorry, would you go to him? Would you make love to him again?”

I would want to. But I couldn't. How could I possibly do that after all of this? After I saw the person he is, the lying, the cruelty, the way he dances in and out of affection and aggression. But I would want to. It feels very hard to know that it's gone. It was the thing that made my life possible.

“I know. It will be hard to quit Bob. Just do one thing for me? Don't find a replacement. Just sit with the discomfort. Be lost for a while and see how long you can stand the pain. It's my guess that it will pass. Like when you stub your toe on the edge of the sofa.”

Charlotte agreed. She had given up her one cigarette, at least for now. And I was so very proud of her! Yes, I had been monomaniacal about saving my son. And yes, I had also wanted to finish my work with Jenny. I had not considered Tom or Charlotte. There was no room for them. But that does not mean I no longer cared. I was deeply invested in both of them. As Jenny would say, they were a math problem I knew I could solve, and solve easily. How could I not want to do that? I am a doctor. It is my calling to heal and to cure.

I had not considered the possible synergies embedded within my plan, but I could see them now. It might have taken years for Charlotte to quit Bob. Years! And by then, it may have been too late. I felt deeply satisfied for Charlotte, and at the risk of sounding egotistical, I was very pleased with myself. Charlotte was going to be all right. I could see it. The quitting was the hardest part.

Bob would not fare quite so well.

 

Chapter Thirty-two

Fran Sullivan
is a woman after my own heart. That is such an odd expression, but we all understand its meaning, don't we? She was not a good person. Nor was she a kind person. But she took care of her own.

Fran and Bob had met in high school. She was one of those people who likes to indulge, and so she does not exercise or watch her diet or inhibit her cravings in any way. She wears what she likes. Sleeveless dresses in the summer that highlight the flesh under her arms. They swing like elephant tusks as she marches down the street with her brood of men—her three sons and her rich husband. In the winter, she pulls out her furs, coats made of dead baby animals, which repulse most people these days. Her hair is big, her makeup bold. You can smell her perfume blocks away. I imagine she was no more attractive when they met as she was now, but I can also see why Bob married her. She was a valuable member of the team.

I have never met Fran Sullivan in person. Our paths do not cross socially. But she is a large personality in a small town. It is impossible not to notice her.

It is said by many that Fran Sullivan made her husband what he is today. I believe this to be true. I believe that she saw in him a large ego with a huge appetite and that she knew she could use this hunger to her advantage. They had grown up together in Cranston. Lower middle class. Sick of the struggle. Sick of the wealth just miles down the road that was out of their reach. Fran did not attend college. Fran worked as a secretary, helping Bob pay for Skidmore. Bob got a job in a car dealership. He came home every night with his stories about stolen commissions, ass-kissing, backstabbing—they were gladiators in the Colosseum, these salesmen. They are notorious, aren't they? Car salesmen? Fran had a brilliant mind, a cunning mind, and no conscience whatsoever. In every battle, Bob Sullivan was the last man standing.

Of course, this is all speculation on my part. But I cannot be far off.

Fran also knew that with a large, hungry ego came the need for other women. Younger women, prettier women, more successful women. Think famous sports celebrity with low-life strippers. Why does a man risk everything just to have one more woman tell him how much she loves his big, hard cock? Fran understood men and their egos.

And so when she decided it was time for Bob to run for office—the first office in a line of offices she dreamed would march them right into Washington one day—she hired the private investigator to document his dalliances.

This is how she explained it to Charlotte:

She said it was worth the risk. Having those tapes and photos. She knew she could pay the PI as much as he would be offered by any media outlet. She had already bought his loyalty with years of solid income. She kept them all. Each tape, each photo of her husband with other women. She said they were her insurance policy for two possible storms. The first against any allegations of force. I guess she didn't want a repeat of what happened when he was on spring break. Can you imagine? She was home working her ass off, and he went on spring break in Florida. Anyway, the second storm was if he ever tried to leave her.

Bob had affairs with dozens of women over the years. There were tapes and photos of them. Some were one-night stands. Some were strippers. Others were staples, like Charlotte. The investigator planted recording devices in the locations where Bob was a regular. The showrooms. Lovers' bedrooms. The friend's place in Cranston. The Kramers' pool house. He also kept a device in Bob's briefcase. Most of them were voice activated. Some he could get only when he was in radio range, and so he followed Bob any evening he was working late or attending a sales dinner. He gave the recordings and hard copies of the photos to Fran, who kept them in a safe deposit box. A spare key was held by her sister in Hartford.

Fran followed Charlotte to the grocery store two days after Bob said “fuck you” and left. She waited in her car until Charlotte came out with her bags.

I was putting the bags into the trunk when I heard her say my name. I turned around, and my heart nearly stooped. She had this big smile on her face. It was so big and sweet that it was terrifying. I said hello, how are you, what a surprise, and all of that. I've known her for years. Obviously, we've had many social functions and work parties. We even played golf at the company's annual outing. She helped me with the bags, and then she just walked to the passenger side of my car and got in.