52
The Head's wife, Maggie Heath, was afflicted with what his wife liked to call the “hostess with the mostest syndrome.” In her pert little Talbots ensemble, she led Joe and Candace into her office, ushering them into club chairs covered in Cowtan & Tout. She sat in her chair, a black Windsor reproduction affixed with a gold plaque from her alma mater, Amherst College, and smiled at the two of them, waiting to hear what they had to say to her.
“Is Jack around?” Joe asked.
“I'm afraid he's ill. He's home in bed.”
“Well, that's too bad. Somehow it doesn't surprise me.”
“What?”
“I said it doesn't surprise me that he's sick. There's been a lot of bad things going around lately, lots of germs and viruses.”
She frowned, confused, and pressed on. “Jack and I were so sorry to hear about Willa. I hope she's feeling better. It's really a shame, those awful drugs. They're highly addictive.”
“Yes,” he said, but he didn't want to hear it from her. “She's going to be fine. But we've come about another matter. I would have liked to discuss it with Jack too, but you'll have to pass along the information. ”
“I'll be happy to do that,” she said, ever courteous.
“We thought it was only right to let him know before we took any legal action.”
She looked confused. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean.”
Joe hesitated, the way he used to do in business meetings when he was in the presence of crooks, making them wait, building up their anxiety so that when he finally broke the news it had a certain visceral impact.
“It has to do with your husband, I'm afraid.”
“Yes?” He discerned a glimmer of fear in her eyes as her mind scrambled to process what he was about to tell her.
“It's about something he did to our daughter.”
“Something he did?”
“He molested her,” Candace said, matter-of-factly. “We're pressing charges.”
“What? What did you say?”
“You heard her,” Joe said. “In the meantime, as chairman of the board of trustees, I'm going to request that he resign, effective immediately.”
She sat there a moment, stunned. “You'll have to excuse me,” she said, and ran out of the office, covering her mouth as if to contain a scream.
Candace sat there with tears in her eyes. She was looking at the bulletin board behind Maggie's chair, covered with a collage of photos of students past and present, their babies, their pets.
“It's really such a shame,” she said. “This is a wonderful place.”
“It will be wonderful again,” he said. “We'll find a new Head.”
Wistfully, he glanced at the photographs of happy faces. It was then that he noticed a small snapshot, one that had been taken with an older type of camera, pinned in the lower right-hand corner. The picture had captured his attention because it was someone he recognized from his own past. Someone he never thought he'd see again.
He went over and took it down. He looked at it closely, like some priceless artifact. It had been taken on Fisherman's Wharf, he realized, observing the fish monger in the background, the tourists walking along the boardwalk. They were a little family, sitting on a bench, squinting up at the camera as though having their picture taken was the last thing they wanted. The man was tall, his hands stretching the width of the infant's torso. The infant was swaddled in a blanket, a newborn. The woman looked ill, caving into her lover's side. He turned it over and read the words:
Nate Gallagher, Fisherman's Wharf, 1989.
Joe handed the picture to Candace and walked out, the sound of rain screaming in his head.
Maybe he wasn't thinking straight, but he walked quickly into Walden House, just as the students were filing out. Gallagher was pushing a pile of papers into his knapsack when Joe came in and grabbed him. The only thing on Joe's mind was beating the hell out of the son of a bitch, and he summoned every ounce of repressed anguish into an efficient and powerful assault. Gallagher was taller, but he was no fighter (it was likely, Joe thought, that he was some sort of hippie-pacifist, someone who'd read Emma Goldman religiously and had gone limp during protests of the Trident submarine), and Joe had grown up in Queens, he'd learned the dirty injustices of street fighting at an early age and he relied on them now. With relish, he felt the crack and gush of Gallagher's nose under his fist, blood splashing on the pristine white walls, his opponent's sweat glazing his knuckles. He would have kept going, if it weren't for Lloyd Jernigan pulling him off and shuffling him out of the room into the courtyard, where a crowd had gathered. He searched their faces, the gloomy, relentless consternation of teenagers, and thankfully, did not find his daughter's among them.
53
Maggie had left campus and driven home and for several minutes stayed out in the car, wondering what to do next. What would she say to him?
How could he?
But when she walked into the house, no one was home. There was a white envelope on the table. She opened it and took out a piece of white paper upon which was written a single word.
Murderers.
It came to her that the handwriting was familiar. Of course it was. It was Ada's.
She felt a little sick. She went outside for some air. She walked down the incline, then into the meadow where Jack had buried the dog. The snow had melted, and the ground had begun to thaw. Jack was standing there, alone, looking down into the empty grave.
“Jack?”
He just stood there, unmoving.
“Where's Ada?”
“It's amazing how soft the ground gets after a good rain.”
Maggie stepped forward. She could see that someone had dug up the grave and taken the dog.
“All the snow's melted,” Jack said. “Just like that.”
“Who did it? Ada?”
He nodded. “Your daughter knows right from wrong. She has a conscience.”
“She couldn't possibly have done it herself.”
“Oh, no,” he said lightly. “She had help.”
He looked at her then, a cold look.
“The police?”
“We were so close, Maggie.” He smiled at her, apologetically.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She let herself go. She wept bitterly.
He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Dry your tears, my dear. Somehow, they don't become you.”
He started walking back up to the house.
“Jack?”
She followed him inside. The kitchen was dark and clean. He sat at the table, staring at nothing.
Methodically, she took two glasses out of the cupboard and set them on the table, then brought over the bottle of gin and poured them each a glass.
“Clarity,” he said. “It was Pound's greatest gift. To be clear, precise. I wanted to write too, like everyone else. I have,” he gestured, making circles in the air with his hand, “plots in my head.”
She sank into the chair. It was the end of something, she could feel it. It terrified her. She drank. The liquor burned her throat. She could never drink enough to temper the cold fear that had consumed her.
“My sister,” he said. “Poor little June. Everybody was so sorry. It was a terrible accident.” He drank his drink. “Lies,” he said. “All lies.”
Her heart began to beat very fast.
“They're handy little things, though, you have to admit. Parents do it, when they're desperate. My mother did. She couldn't bear to lose me too.” A cold look washed over him. “June was Snow White. I was the prince. I just wanted her to be still. It was a glass coffin, if you remember. I said,
âLay still, little June, lay still!'
The cleaning plastic made it look so real. It made her so quiet.” He looked out the window at the lake. The black clouds moving in.
“Jack.” She sighed. “Jack, please, listen to me.”
“You never get over something like that.”
She squeezed his hand. “We have to move on. We have to be strong.”
He shook his head. “I can't. I was never as strong as you, Maggie.”
It was then that she noticed the suitcase. He picked it up and walked out.
“Jack!” she shouted. “Don't you walk out on me, Jack!
Please, Jack!
”
But he did. He left her there. He just kept going.
54
Willa had told Regina that she wouldn't be coming to Sunrise House anymore for community service. Just going there reminded her of Pearl. To some degree, she felt responsible for her death. If she'd gone to Regina, for instance, two weeks before, and told her about the girl's drug addiction, that she'd complained about one of her regular clients threatening to kill herâif she had done that, Pearl might still be alive today. For her own selfish reasons, she hadn't done anything to help Pearl. She'd used her, like everyone else.
Regina had asked her to come one last time, to say good-bye to the children. They were going to have a little party for her, and she was looking forward to it. She was actually going to miss them. She'd been counting on Mr. Gallagher to drive her, but it was Mr. Heath who pulled up in his Volvo wagon. He leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door. “Regina's expecting you.”
She stood there, confused. She didn't feel comfortable going in the car with him, but then she saw Mr. Gallagher coming though the crowd with a bloody towel on his nose. “What happened to Mr. Gallagher? ” she asked.
“I don't really know,” Heath said. “Come on and get in. Regina's got something special planned. You don't want to be late.”
“Where are the others?”
“The others?” He thought for a minute. “The sophomores are in Boston today, at the museum.” He smiled. “Come on, Willa, I promised Regina you'd be punctual.”
Willa hesitated, watching Mr. Gallagher walk to his truck. She tried to catch his eye, but he seemed distracted by his nosebleed, holding the bloody towel over his nose.
She looked around for someone else to drive her, but the campus had swiftly emptied and there was no one else around.
Don't,
she thought, but she got in anyway.
On the drive, she concentrated on looking out the window, remembering the strange alleys and dark corners that Pearl had taken her to. The ballet studio where they'd spent the night. The strange house full of cats where they'd scored her drugs. “How've you been, Willa?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“I haven't seen you in a while.” He smiled at her. “I hear you're reading
The Scarlet Letter
. What do you think of it?”
“What do I think?” She hadn't done very well on the test. They'd been asked to write an essay and many of her ideas had been lifted from
Spark Notes
. “I don't think it was fair. What happened to her, I mean. The way she was treated.”
“No, it wasn't fair. Of course it wasn't. But isn't that the point?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I guess.”
“Love is a terrible thing.” He shook his head. “It brings out the worst in people.”
“Why are you crying?”
“I wasn't much of a student either,” he told her, swatting his tears. “It was my father's pull that got me into Amherst. That's the way life is, I'm afraid. Everything's fixed.”
“I don't understand.”
“They don't tell you that, of course, but it's true. They make you believe you actually have a fucking chance.”
“Chance at what?”
“It's all fixed,” he said again, his voice a ragged whisper.
She wished he'd speed up. He was driving slowly, and it was getting late. The sun was low in the sky, reflecting off the windows of the houses on Main Street, reflecting off the shiny places on the dash. Sunlight came sharply through the rear windows, glinting off the side mirrors. Her eyes moved around the dashboard, fixing on a compelling gold glimmer in the ashtray. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus, trying to ascertain what it was.
“My wife is much smarter than I am,” he went on. “She is
fastidious.
” He shook his head. “I can't do it anymore.”
“Do what?”
“This. Everything. The school. I'm done,” he said. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Why?”
“Because we have an understanding, you and I.” He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “She used to talk about you.”
Her body turned to stone. “Who did?”
“Pearl. Petra. She had a very high opinion of you.”
And then it hit her. It was a necklace, with a single white pearl on the end of it. It looked like it had a piece of hair stuck on it, and something else: blood.
“It was you?” she said.
“She was a prostitute,” he said flatly. “She was asking for it.”
“Let me out. Please.”
“Oh, I'll let you out all right. When I'm good and ready. And I'm a long way off from ready.”
He drove out of town, down long roads heaped with snow. The snow was black with dirt. It was getting cold and he was driving very fast. He'd taken out a flask and was drinking out of it. He pushed in a cassette, an old man speaking in a gravelley voice. “Pound,” he said. “The Cantos. The only thing that's ever made any sense.” The tape made a whirring sound as it played. It was somewhere in the middle, the man's grave voice reciting:
Palace in smoky light . . . Troy but a heap of smoldering boundary stones. ANAXIFORMINGES!
“Aurunculeia!” Heath shouted, spraying spit. “Hear me!”
It was then that she knew he was going to kill her.