Garden of Lies (61 page)

Then, as if he were a hypnotist and had clapped his hands, she blinked, losing that blank

zonked-out expression, and turned to face him.

“Hi,” she said.

Brian went over, dropped a kiss on her forehead. Her hair was damp, as if she’d just washed it.

“I didn’t think you were home. You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”

Gently, he plucked the smoldering filter from her limp hand, and carried it into the bathroom,

flushing it down the toilet. There were no ashtrays in here, only the ones in the living room that

they kept for company.

He came back, and sat down on the bed, covered by an Amish quilt they’d picked up in

Pennsylvania years ago. In the corner, by the foot of the bed, was an old Shaker cradle. Brian

tried to bring back the image of a sleeping baby he’d had when he bought it, that first summer

after they’d decided to start trying. But the image wouldn’t come. All he saw was the

accumulation of odds and ends piled inside it now—old magazines, books he’d started reading

but hadn’t finished, a pair of Rocksport hiking boots in need of resoling.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

She gave a thin, colorless smile. “Not really. If you don’t mind.”

He
did
mind. He felt anger knotting his gut, and his voice tightening as he said, “Okay. We’ll

skip over the ‘How was your day, honey?’ When did you start smoking again?”

[369] “I haven’t. I just felt like having a cigarette. Please, Bri, let’s not argue. I’m not up to it

tonight.”

She looked like hell, he thought. Okay, he wouldn’t press. She’d get around to telling him what

was wrong. Eventually.

He waited, letting the silence wash over him, listening to the soft whirr of the electric clock on

the nightstand, the distant sounds of traffic.

“My period started,” she said at last.

The words dropped like large flat stones into a still lake. He felt his hands curl into fists, a slow

anger seeping through him.

Not fair, he thought. Fourteen-year-olds get knocked up in the seats of Chevys their first time.

And look at Ma. Seven kids. So why not Rachel? Yeah, a blockage in her tubes. But all those

treatments, all that planning, rushing home to make love when her temperature rose. Propping her

hips up with a pillow to hold in the precious sperm.

And all for what?

Not Rachel’s fault. Not his. Just one of those things. So why did he feel this way? Bitter,

angry ...
cheated
somehow. It hurt to be with her, made him feel raw. He wanted to lash out at

her, blame her for other things, being so busy, so caught up in her work he hardly saw her until

they tumbled into bed, went through the mechanics of making love.

Right now he hated her for being so goddamn
stoic.
Why didn’t she cry, scream, knock a

bloody hole in the wall? At least it would be out in the open. Not this great, silent, brooding thing.

The Loch Ness monster lurking below the surface of their lives.

Brian stared at the cradle in the corner, tears burning his eyes. He couldn’t bear it any longer.

He would get rid of it in the morning. Just so he didn’t have to go on being reminded.

And then suddenly he felt guilty. Here I am feeling sorry for myself, resenting her. Rachel,

Jesus, this has to be much harder on her than it is on me.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Me too. This time, I really thought—” She bit her lip. “Never mind.”

Talk to me,
he willed.
Jesus, can’t you even
talk
about it.

[370] “Rachel,” he began, tentatively. “Have you thought any more about what we talked

about? About—”

“No,” she cut him off. “And I don’t want to think about it now.

I’m not ready to adopt, Bri.”

“We could put in our application. It takes years. In the meantime ...”

She stiffened, pushing the blanket from her lap, standing up.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not now. Maybe someday.”

He grabbed her shoulders, gripping her so tightly he could feel her bones beneath the thin

fabric of skin and muscle. “When? You won’t even
talk
about it, for Chrissakes!”

“Why does it have to be now? Why can’t it be next week, tomorrow even?”

His head was thudding now, a rushing sound in his ears.

“Because, don’t you see, our life is nothing
but
tomorrows. Tomorrow you’ll take some time

off from the clinic. Tomorrow we’ll talk. I’m sick of hearing about tomorrow. What happened to

today?”

He was trembling, feeling himself almost dangerously out of control.

“
Talk
to me,” he pleaded, pulling her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Tell me what

you’re feeling. Tell me to go to hell. Anything. But please, Rachel, don’t shut me out.”

Once when he was young, a bird had flown into his room and knocked itself unconscious

against the window trying to escape. He had cupped it in his hands, felt it stir to life, warm,

quivering, unbearably fragile. That was how Rachel felt now, trembling in his arms.

He ached for her in her pain. But he felt his own frustration even more acutely. He wanted to

shake her.
Make
her answer.

Suddenly she tensed, wrenching away. She stared at him for a long moment, her face working,

struggling with an anguish that appeared too great for words.

“Brian ... there’s something I ...” She paused, her face working dreadfully. “Tonight after I left

the hospital ... a man ... he attacked me. ...”

Rachel hurt, oh God ... and all this time he’d been needling her. Brian felt a hot surge of rage.

The bastard. I’ll kill him, I’ll smash him if he hurt her, oh Christ on the cross. ...
He caught her in

his [371] arms, holding her tightly. “Christ, oh baby, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“He ...” She drew away, and brought a trembling hand to her cheek, as if to make sure she was

still there, all in one piece. Then in a strangled whisper, she said, “No ... not really. He knocked

me down, that’s all. I’m okay ... just kind of shook up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I first walked in? Jesus, Rachel, the things I said! Why didn’t

you stop me?”

“I don’t know ... God, I don’t know. I was so scared when it happened. He pushed me down,

but I got away. Then I just felt so relieved ... I didn’t want to talk about it ... or even
think
about

it.”

“Did you see him? Did you see his face?”

Rachel dropped her eyes, and he could feel a shudder pass through her. “It was ... dark,” she

muttered. “No, I didn’t see his face.”

“What about the police? Did you report it?”

“I didn’t call the police. Brian, I told you, there was nothing to report. He didn’t hurt me, and I

didn’t see his face. Please ... oh please ... can’t we just forget about it? I don’t want to talk about it

anymore.” Her voice cracked.

Brian saw the white desperation in her face, and felt something hard and frozen inside him give

way, like snow crumbling off a mountain ridge. She had never, not in all the years they’d been

together, pleaded with him this way. She always seemed so strong ... so capable. And now he was

seeing all those layers of steel stripped back; for the first time he was seeing her naked and

vulnerable.

Suddenly he wanted to protect her, heal her somehow. And he wanted to kill whoever had done

this.

He drew her gently down on the bed, and held her until her breathing grew quiet, and his arm

turned numb. And still he didn’t change his position, until he was certain she was fast asleep, and

wouldn’t wake if he moved. Then, lying on his back, he let his own tears come, sliding silent and

hot down his temples, into his hair.

Jesus, if anything had happened to her ... if she really
had
been hurt.
I
don’t know what I’d do

without her.

[372] “I love you, baby,” he whispered, turning his head so he could see her. In the purple glow

of the street light, her profile stood out against the pillow like a cameo’s. He watched a vein

throbbing in her smooth temple, and was filled with tenderness.

What had happened to them? Why had she found it so hard to tell him about this? In the

beginning, they had told each other everything. ... They had loved each other so much he had at

times wondered if it was possible to love
too
much. It was as if his passion for her had somehow

stripped away some necessary outer layer, a psychic skin he needed in order to survive. And so,

perhaps they had both withdrawn just a bit. That was okay, that was natural.

But now ...

Brian, smoothing his hand over the sweet curve of her cheek, thought,
We moved too far the

other way. ...

The irony was, he loved her as much as ever. Maybe more.

But you loved Rose, too,
a sly voice whispered in his head,
and still you lost her.

Rose ...

Is loving someone enough? he wondered. Or is God like Stromboli, making us think we’re in

control of our fate while turning us all into jackasses?

Jesus, he wished he knew. He wished ... he wished he could make it all turn out all right

between them.

If only she could have a baby,
our
baby.
He felt a stab of loss. He remembered each baby

brother his mother had brought home from the hospital; how he and his brothers would all crowd

at the window, looking down, watching Pop help Ma out of the cab, a fleecy blue bundle in her

arms. Then the miracle of those tiny fingers and toes, and the sweet baby smell filling the whole

apartment like the aroma of baking bread.

Brian wished he could talk about it with Rachel. But each time, she turned away, grew silent.

Was it so hard for her?

Or—the bitter thought sneaked in—maybe she didn’t want a baby as much as he did. Maybe

that was the reason she clammed up. Did she care more about that damn clinic than having a

family? Or maybe even than about him ... ?

[373] Brian pushed that thought away, suddenly afraid. If that was true, then what?

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he rose from the bed, and covered Rachel with the afghan.

Yes, let her sleep. She needed it badly. And tomorrow, they would start over. They would talk ...

yes, they would talk.

Chapter 24

Rose yawned, staring at the papers spread out on her kitchen table. The paragraphs from the

affidavit and from the Memorandum of Law were all blurred together. She was so tired she

couldn’t think anymore, her mind soggy as that mess of coffee grounds in the sink. She would

finish tomorrow, set her alarm, get up at the crack of dawn.

She glanced at the electric clock over the refrigerator. Two A.M. It
was
tomorrow. Mother of

God. That left her four hours to sleep. An hour to shower, get dressed, gulp instant coffee, then

lay out her argument before she was due in court.

Who are you kidding?
a sharp voice cut through her drowsiness.
You wouldn’t have slept

anyway. You’d have lain in bed, staring up, thinking about Brian. Wondering when ... or if ... you

were going to see him again. Praying it would be soon.

The phone rang, piercing the stillness.

Rose jumped, thinking automatically,
Something bad.
Marie? Did Pete put her in the hospital

this time? Hurt one of the kids? Or is it Nonnie? Clare calling again to say Nonnie was sick?

Then a sweet flash of hope.
Brian? Oh please, God.

She lunged for the phone on the wall over the butcher-block counter.

“Rose?” a voice asked the instant she picked up. Familiar. Weary.

“Max!” she cried. An instant of disappointment, followed by alarm. Max had never called her

this late before. “What’s wrong? Art you okay?”

A brief pause, then, “I’m okay. Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. Did I wake you?”

“Not a chance. I was working on the Metcalf case. Anyway, it [375] wouldn’t matter even if

you had. Something’s wrong. Or you wouldn’t be calling at this hour.”

“This is crazy, I know ... but can I come up? I’m at a phone booth on the corner.”

“Of course,” she said, not hesitating for even an instant. Max had never asked her for anything.

After all he’d done for her.

She knew she wouldn’t get to bed at all tonight, that she’d be dead tomorrow in court, and

probably look it, too. But so what?

She hung up, noting with dismay that she was wearing her oldest, rattiest terry robe. Oh well,

Max had seen her worse than this. Anyway, he wasn’t coming up here for a tryst.

But the apartment—dear God—the first time Max would be seeing it, and it looked like

Armageddon. She dashed out into the living room, scooping up old coffee mugs, scattered

newspapers, clothes tossed over the backs of chairs. When was the last time she’d vacuumed?

God knows. Weeks. Since the party Patsy threw when she got the part of Malka in the bus and

truck crew of
Fiddler on the Roof
. Now Patsy was in Lexington, Kentucky, or was it Louisville?

Either way, Rose had no one to blame but herself.

She remembered how she’d fallen in love with this place, clutter and all, the first time she’d

walked in. The top floor of a brownstone on Twenty-first and Tenth. And so sunny, like a

greenhouse, all that light pouring in the tall windows, plants everywhere—hanging from curtain

rods, sprouting in mayonnaise jars on windowsills, sitting in huge Mexican clay pots on the floor.