Simple (27 page)

They drove in silence for a while before she dug out her phone and called Christie to report what they had established.

“We're moving,” he said. “I already put in the paperwork to get the GPS on the calls. Take a break. Squad meeting Monday.”

Again they drove in silence for a while. Finally Potocki said, “We're very much together these days.”

“I know.”

“I'd like to have dinner together tonight and spend the night at one or the other of our places.”

“Stop at a market. I need to cook. I mean, I need to eat
in
for a change. I'll cook at your place. I'll spend the night. We won't talk about work. We'll just be normal.”

Potocki didn't look thrilled. She knew there was something she'd forgotten to say, but she didn't know what it was.

*   *   *

MONICA WAS NEVER
as
happy with caterers as she was with Elinor. But tonight the pressure was on, with important people coming, to surprise and delight. The only thing Monica ordered from the caterer's regular menu was stuffed endive. She herself was always happy with a plain steak or a piece of fish or a pizza, but her guests expected something extraordinary.

Monica searched the house for her husband. Michael was lying on their bed. He looked like a corpse, hands clasped just under his heart.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes. Resting my eyes.”

“Do you want to know what we're having?”

“Shoot.”

“It's not so hot out, so I think we'll be okay. I've been worried about the heavier courses. Okay, he talked me into crab puffs and a good tapenade with bread, not crackers, and stuffed endive for arrivals and schmoozing in the garden. We almost opted for outdoors for the dinner, but we decided indoors. First course is a salmon mousse. After that a fairly straightforward salad with Asiago and fresh shrimp. Then cold vichyssoise. I struggled over that—I really wanted to do the caskets of love dish, but it works better in fall or winter, don't you think?”

“I guess. Actually I don't remember what it is.”

“Caskets of love is that pasta dish—you liked it—where the outer pasta makes a basket and is filled with a thin spinach pasta, mushrooms, béchamel, and ham. They're like little bags tied with a pasta string.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You called them testicles.” They did kind of look like that. They had the same size and shape. She climbed up on the bed. He hadn't changed position. “So anyway, I can order them another time if you want. I chose the cold soup instead.”

“Okay.”

“Then a little sorbet. Then rack of lamb with some sides of tiny potatoes and asparagus.”

“I like rack of lamb.”

“I know you do. The caterers are prepared with a quick vegetable something, a soufflé I think, in case we have any hardcore vegetarians. Sliver of mousse cake for dessert and some homemade hazelnut ice cream and some of those signature dark candies.”

“Should be fine. Thank you for everything.”

“He's using some of our white wines, but he wanted control of the reds.”

“Now if I could only get some energy.”

“You're tired.”

“Yes. You need me for something?”

“Elinor sent two people to help with the setup, and she's coming back to join them later. She hasn't left anything unaccounted for. She went to see her son.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“You seem … very tired. We have that cookout tomorrow. Should I cancel it?”

“That's mostly family. I can be a zombie.”

She stroked the inside of his arm, tracing the veins. “I'm trying very hard.”

“I know.”

“I wish it were effortless.”

“Almost nothing is.”

“What's going to happen to us?”

“I'm so sorry I'm not what you want.”

“I never said that. I'm not sure it's true.”

“I'm trying to be realistic.”

Her heart tugged downward. She got energized when she thought of leaving him, but a deadening defeat hit her when the same idea was his. Talk or not, they couldn't do anything. They were puppets of the political system. An intact, loving family was the only card that had any value, and so tonight, as on so many occasions—like the one with the photographers—she would touch his arm, smile when he spoke, tease a little, and pay enough attention to her appearance that at least some would envy him and nobody would call her a joke.

It made her furious. She started crying.

“Don't cry. Please don't cry.”

“I can't help it.”

“I'm so knocked down, I can't do any lifting.”

He was. Very knocked down. Worse than ever. No room for her tears. The arena was his.

*   *   *

CASSIE WOULD HAVE
killed
to be at a party like this. When she asked him what he ate at home, which she did fairly often, he saw her mind ticking, as if she mentally rehearsed cooking those things. “How long does that take?” she asked of something once.

“I don't know. It was catered.”

“Catered. Of course. No fuss, no bother.”

Once he saw her studying one of his shirts and then later looking at the labels in his sport jacket. She asked him if he got his clothes from Tom James on Strawberry Way. The local store was a client.

He said, “No, why did you think so?”

“I've been reading about them. Fine custom clothing. Then I went by the shop to look. It's all hidden back behind everything. I figured it was a secret treasure for those who knew about it.”

He said carefully, “It is. Just that. A lot of young up-and-comers use it. They pass the word, try to get a good fit. I mean they do get a good fit. They do fine. I have my own tailor,” he explained. “Same one my father has. I've had to push him not to be stodgy, but I think he's good with fabrics and fitting.” He didn't say his man was considerably more expensive than the tailors at Tom James, but he was sure she got it by the quiet that came over her.

“Things aren't important,” she said later. “People are.”

“I can't disagree with that. I'll take it as my slogan.”

“Don't condescend. I don't mind being middle class. I dress as well as the budget allows. I don't want to be dismissed if I don't know about fancy things.”

“Did you think I dismissed you?”

“No. But you sidestepped, condescended a little.”

“Look. I'm as comfortable with poor people as I am with rich people. Maybe more so. After all, I married a woman who didn't come from a lot of money—some, not a lot. She's not a snob in any sense.”

Cassie had looked miserable. “I don't want to hear good things about her. You shouldn't defend what she's doing to you.”

He was again sorry he'd said the thing about Monica being off with someone else. It was the crack that allowed a crowbar in. It was the loose tooth. She was going to wiggle it and work it forever. He always had to say something like, “This is a precious time. Let's not spend it on things we can't solve.”

But she got more and more distraught. It was awful to see. Only holding and kissing her calmed it. The funny thing is, it didn't disgust him or turn him away. It just was what it was, an unhappiness he'd caused and had no way of solving.

She was so lovely. And he could always work it so that she was teasing and playful again, so playful that she persuaded herself she was happy enough.

He can't bear it—his suspicion. Tonight he will be smiling and shaking hands as his father recommended. At midnight, when everyone is gone, he will imagine going to Christie and saying, “I think I might have caused it.”

Then of course the world as he knows it tears to shreds. He's dishonored. His father is crushed. His brother gloats. He has nothing—no prospects, no hopes, no friends, no reputation, only money in the bank. It's almost a joy to think it.

*   *   *

THERE IS HIS MOTHER
through the glass. Cal makes a funny little wave to lift her spirits. There are lines on her face that he never noticed before. She's fiftysomething years old and he's landed her here.

He lifts the phone. “Hi, Ma.”

“How you doing, honey?”

“I'm okay.”

“There's something going wrong with the money for the commissary. I put in a hundred and fifty dollars at the start. They had to show me how to use the machine, but they said it went through. Couldn't you get it? All the money is still there.”

“I don't need anything. I'm okay.”

“They said there's candy and stuff like that. You could get a radio thing, like a Walkman. Did they tell you?”

“The guys told me. I didn't use it. Things get stolen.”

“They do?”

He nods. He doesn't tell her about the watch. Levon had been downstairs in the pod yesterday, watching TV when Cal went to the shower. After a rapid soaping and shampooing, Cal returned to his cell to find the watch was gone. His first assumption was that Levon took it. He looked through his cellmate's things. Levon came back up and said, “Look, man, I know what happened, and I know the how, see, but it could get ugly to prove it.” Cal sat on the bed and looked away from Levon, who he still thought was lying. The simple fact was, the watch was gone and not among Levon's things.

“You look okay,” his mother is saying. “Are you okay? Eating?”

He can't help but smile at this. Eating is about all there is to rely on. Three times a day. He has not skipped meals since the beginning. “I eat,” he says. “Unfortunately it isn't home cooking.” She watches him as he pauses to think what to tell her next. “They have an exercise court. It's mostly basketball hoops.”

“Like teams?” she asks, surprised.

“I don't think I'd get chosen if they were doing teams. I never was great at that kind of thing…”

She says, “Don't put yourself down. You can do anything.”

That's when he starts to cry—when he's reminded how much she loves him. He chokes it back. His tears have triggered hers. “But I take my turn down there. I go down there and I shoot baskets.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes brimming. “Exercise is good.”

“I know … For me, it was working on houses that gave me the movement.” He flexes his body to illustrate.

She says, “Yes.”

He looks around to see who might overhear him. He says, “You think I did it. I don't think I did.”

She is stuck and doesn't know what to say, but then she's weeping openly—tears streaming. “I'll do anything for you. Tell me what to do.”

“Believe me. That's all.”

She listens, alert.

“Believe in me.”

“Oh, Cal, you know I always…”

“I mean … on this. Believe in me on this. Other people do.”

She is stunned. “I thought you told them—”

“Erase that.”

“Okay.”

“Put that away and start fresh.”

“Okay.”

They both take a moment to pull themselves together.

“Tell me something else. Anything.”

“Big party at work today. You wouldn't believe the food they're having. People can't possibly eat that much—I don't think they can. It's moderate portions, the way they do it, but there are so many courses. And then they waste. I hate to see how much food comes back not even touched. I wish I could bring it to you. Of course, it's not allowed.”

“Nothing's allowed. Almost nothing.”

“Is your bed okay?”

It's pretty terrible, he thinks, but if he tells her it's a plastic-covered hard futon, she will cry again. “I manage to sleep,” he says. “My body just tells me to sleep.”

A guard nods to him. He replaces the phone. She leaves weeping again, and turns back to wave.

Cal hates that the guard and one other inmate have seen him crying. A quick swab to his eyes with his forearm, and he is headed back to his cell. Levon is sitting there inside, trying to read the Bible. “I'm getting religion,” Levon says, smiling. “It seems to go far here.”

Cal lies down, facedown. After a while he says, “I want my watch back.”

“Oh man, he is the worse. I don want you beat up. He do this. It's what he do.”

Levon explained yesterday that when Cal went to the shower, Sid had Boreski and one other guy bug the hell out of the corrections officer at the control station, asking every which way about their commissary funds and distracting him. Then Boreski pushed the button for Cal's cell and Sidney went up. Levon said the officer saw but it would be too messy to do anything about it—to admit he didn't have control of his station. He said Sidney also took Levon's two candy bars. At first Cal didn't believe the story. But last night after dinner, almost everybody was downstairs watching baseball. That's the way it was—sports. Tonight they will watch football. In the whole jail, if football was on,
everybody
watched and nobody said
anything
except to cheer or boo in four-letter words.

Baseball—sometimes people muttered other things.

Sidney had a thing he did—insisting somebody play him chess
during
a game—when he knew they all wanted to watch TV.

At one point last night, Sidney lifted his pant leg. In the momentary glimpse, Cal saw his watch, the band stretched around Sidney's calf. Then Sidney let down the pant leg.

“I'm going to get it back.”

*   *   *

ERASE AND START
over. Can she?

Elinor stands at the mirror in the visitor restroom on the first floor. She dressed to cheer him, not her bright colors, but nice black pants, a patterned black and white top, sandals with a small heel, black-and-white button earrings. She brushes away tears and dabs a little makeup on.

She doesn't have to wear a uniform at the Connolly house. They allow her to come and go, to be independent, but she tries to respect them by wearing something uniformlike. Today, she has two people from her church coming to help with the setup and the cleanup. They asked what to wear. She told them black pants and black top. She will change out of her top to a white shirt and a feminine white vest; there will be no doubt who are the guests and who are the workers.