The Innocent (7 page)

OLIVIA SAID, "Hi, hon, how was your day?"

Matt just held the phone.

"Matt?"

"I'm here," he said.

The police cruiser was gone now. Matt looked behind him. Marsha stood on the front step with her hands on her hips. Paul was chasing Ethan, both of them shrieking with laughter.

"So," Olivia said, as if it were just another day, "where are you?"

"At Marsha's."

"Everything okay?"

"I'm just taking the boys out to dinner."

"Not McDonald's again. Those fries are so unhealthy."

"Right."

Tentative steps. The ground giving way. Matt held the phone, thinking:
You don't just jump up and scream, "Aha, caught ya!"

"So anything going on?" Olivia asked.

"Not much," he said. Kyra was getting in her car. She gave him a big smile and waved good-bye. He gestured back with his chin. "I called you before," Matt said with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

"You did?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Around noon."

"Really?"

"No, I'm making it up. Yes, really."

"Well, that's weird."

"Why?"

"I didn't hear the phone ring."

"Maybe you were out of range," he tried, giving her an out.

"Maybe," she said slowly.

"I left a message."

"Hold on." There was a pause. "Wait, it says here 'three missed calls.' "

"That would be me."

"I'm sorry, honey. I know this sounds ridiculous but I still get confused about how to retrieve messages. My old phone's code was six-seven-six and then I hit a star, but I don't think that works on this one."

"It doesn't," Matt said. "Your new code is the last four digits of your phone number and then you hit the pound key."

"Oh, right. I usually just check the missed calls log."

Matt closed his eyes. He could not believe how inane and ordinary this all felt.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"What?"

"When I called. Where were you?"

"Oh, I was at a seminar."

"Where?"

"What do you mean, where? I'm in Boston."

"What was it on?"

"Some new surfing tool to guard against employees using the Web for personal use. You can't imagine the amount of work hours lost on the Internet."

"Uh huh."

"Listen, I have to run. I'm meeting some people for dinner."

"Anyone I know?"

"Nope, no one you know." Olivia sighed with a little too much flair. "Check that: No one you'd even
want
to know."

"Boring?"

"Very."

"What hotel are you staying at?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"No."

"The Ritz. But I'll be in and out. You're better off getting me on the cell phone."

"Olivia?"

"Oh," she said. "Hold up a second."

There was a long pause. Marsha crossed the lawn, approaching him. She signaled to her car, asking if it was okay if she took off. He waved that it was fine. Ethan and Paul, tired of running around in circles, headed toward him. Ethan grabbed his right leg, Paul his left. Matt made a face and pointed to the phone, as if they'd get the meaning that he was otherwise occupied. They didn't.

Olivia said, "There's a picture on my phone. Which button do I press again?"

"The one on the right side."

"Hold on. Here it comes." Then: "Hey, it's you. Dang, I married a handsome devil."

Matt couldn't help but smile- and that just made it hurt more. He loved her. He could try to soften the blow, but there was no way he could escape it. "It would be wrong for me to argue with you," he said.

"Not your best smile though. Heck, no smile at all. And next time, take your shirt off."

"You too," he said.

She laughed but it wasn't as let-go as usual.

"Better yet"- Matt added and then the next words: were they planned?-"why not wear a platinum-blonde wig?"

Silence.

This time he broke it. "Olivia?"

"I'm here."

"Before. When I called you."

"Yes?"

"I was calling you back."

As if sensing the tenseness, the boys let go of his legs. Paul tilted his head at Ethan.

"But I didn't call you," Olivia said.

"Yes, you did. I mean, I got a call from your phone."

"When?"

"Right before I called."

"I don't understand."

"There was a picture on the line. Of a man with dark hair. And then there was a video."

"A video?"

"You were in a room. At least it looked like you. Except you were wearing a platinum-blonde wig."

More silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."

Did he believe her? He so wanted to, so wanted to just drop it…

"Earlier today," he said, "right before I left you that message, I got a call from your cell phone. It was a camera call-"

"No, I understand that, but…"

"But what?"

"Oh, wait," Olivia said. "That might explain something."

Paul and Ethan had started running in dizzying circles again. They were out of control and a little too close to the street. Matt put his hand over the mouthpiece and called them back.

"Explain what?" he asked.

"I think… well, I don't really understand why I didn't get your first call. I'm in range. I looked on the missed calls log and you know what? Jamie called too. I never heard that one either."

"So?"

"So I'm thinking. The guys at these seminars. They're all jokers. Maybe one of them played a prank."

"A prank."

"Okay, during this seminar? I fell asleep. It was boring as hell. When I woke up, my purse had been moved. Not a lot. But now that I think about it, it was definitely moved. I didn't think much about it at the time."

"And now you think…?"

"That, yeah, they took it and did something with it and then put it back. I don't know, I guess that's crazy too."

Matt didn't know what to make of this, but Olivia's tone did not ring true. "When are you coming home?"

"Friday."

He switched hands. "I'll come up."

"Don't you have work?"

"Nothing that can't keep."

"But," she said, and her voice dropped a little, "isn't tomorrow your, uh, Thursday at the museum?"

He had almost forgotten about it.

"You can't miss that."

In three years he never had. For a long time Matt had told no one about his every-other-Thursday rendezvous at the museum. People would never understand. There was a bond there, a draw built on necessity and secrecy. It was hard to say more. Those meetings were simply too important.

But he still said, "I can put it off."

"You shouldn't, Matt. You know that."

"I can fly up right now-"

"There's no need. I'll be home the day after tomorrow."

"I don't want to wait."

"I'm crazy busy with stuff here anyway. Look, I have to go. We'll talk about this later, okay?"

"Olivia?"

"Friday," she said. "I love you."

And then she hung up.

"UNCLE MATT?"

Paul and Ethan were safely ensconced in the backseat. It had taken Matt the better part of fifteen minutes to secure the car booster seats into place. Who the hell had designed these things- NASA?

"What's up, partner?"

"You know what McDonald's has right now?"

"I already told you. We're not going to McDonald's."

"Oh, I know. I'm just saying."

"Uh huh."

"You know what McDonald's has right now?"

"No," Matt said.

"You know the new
Shrek
movie?"

"Yes."

"They got
Shrek
toys," Paul said.

"He means McDonald's does," Ethan chipped in.

"Is that a fact?"

"And they're free."

"They're not free," Matt said.

"They are so. It's in the Happy Meal."

"Which are overpriced."

"Overwhat?"

"We're not going to McDonald's."

"Oh, we know."

"We were just saying."

"They got free toys, is all."

"From the new
Shrek
movie."

"Remember when we saw the first
Shrek
movie, Uncle Matt?"

"I remember," he said.

"I like Donkey," Ethan said.

"Me too," Matt agreed.

"Donkey is the toy this week."

"We're not going to McDonald's."

"I'm just saying."

" 'Cause Chinese is good too," Paul said.

"Even though they don't got toys."

"Yeah, I like spare ribs."

"And dim sum."

"Mom likes the string beans."

"Ugh. You don't like string beans, do you, Uncle Matt?"

"They're good for you," Matt said.

Ethan turned to his brother. "That means no."

Matt smiled, tried to push away the day. Paul and Ethan were good for that.

They arrived at Cathay, an old-fashioned Chinese restaurant with the retro classics like chow mein and egg foo young, cracked vinyl booths, and a grumpy old woman at the front counter who watched you eat as if fearing you'd pocket the utensils.

The food was greasy, but that was as it should be. The boys ate a ton. At McDonald's, they picked. They managed maybe half a burger and a dozen fries. Here they cleaned the plate. Chinese restaurants would be well served by handing out movie tie-in toys.

Ethan, as always, was animated. Paul was a bit more reserved. They had been raised in pretty much the exact manner, the same gene pool, and yet they couldn't be more different. Ethan was the cutup. He never sat still. He was messy and lively and shunned affection. When Paul colored, he always stayed in the lines. He got frustrated when he made a mistake. He was thoughtful, a good athlete, and liked to cuddle.

Nature waaay over nurture.

They stopped at Dairy Queen on the ride home. Ethan ended up wearing more soft vanilla than he consumed. When he pulled into the driveway Matt was surprised to see that Marsha wasn't back yet. He took them inside- he had a key- and gave them a bath. It was eight o'clock.

Matt put on an episode of
The Fairly OddParents,
which was pretty funny on an adult level, and then convinced the boys using negotiating skills picked up in legal pleadings across the state to get into bed. Ethan was afraid of the dark, so Matt turned on the SpongeBob night-light.

Matt checked his watch. Eight thirty. He didn't mind staying later, but he was getting a little worried.

He headed into the kitchen. The latest works of art by Paul and Ethan hung on the refrigerator by magnets. There were photographs, too, in acrylic frames that never seemed to hold the photos in place. Most were halfway slipping out. Matt carefully slid the images back where they belonged.

Near the top of the fridge, too high for the children to reach (if not see?) there were two photographs of Bernie. Matt stopped and stared at his brother. After a while he turned away and picked up the kitchen phone. He dialed Marsha's cell.

Marsha had caller ID and answered, "Matt? I was just about to call you."

"Hey."

"Are you at the house?"

"We are. And the boys are bathed and in bed."

"Wow, you're good."

"I thank you."

"No, I thank you."

No one spoke for a moment.

Matt asked, "Do you need me to stay awhile?"

"If it's okay."

"No problem. Olivia's still in Boston."

"Thank you," she said, and there was something in her voice.

He switched ears. "Uh, what time do you think you'll be getting-"

"Matt?"

"Yes."

"I lied to you before."

He said nothing.

"I didn't have a school meeting."

He waited.

"I'm out on a date."

Not sure what to say to that, Matt went with the reliable "Oh."

"I should have told you before." She lowered her voice. "It's not a first date either."

His eyes found his brother's in the photograph on the refrigerator. "Uh huh."

"I've been seeing someone. It's been almost two months now. The boys don't know anything about it, of course."

"You don't have to explain to me."

"Yeah, Matt. Yeah, I do."

He said nothing.

"Matt?"

"I'm here."

"Would you mind spending the night?"

He closed his eyes. "No," he said. "I don't mind at all."

"I'll be home before the boys wake up."

"Okay."

He heard a sniffle then. She was crying.

"It's okay, Marsha."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

"I love you, Matt."

"I love you too."

He hung up the phone. It was a good thing, Marsha going out. It was a very good thing. But his eyes drifted back toward his brother. Unfair and wrong as it was, Matt couldn't help but think that his brother had never seemed more gone.

EVERYONE SEEMS TO HAVE this terrifying dream where you are suddenly about to take the final exam in a class you haven't attended all semester. Matt did not. Instead, in a strangely similar vein, he dreamed that he was back in prison. He had no idea what he'd done to get back there. There was no memory of a crime or a trial, just the sense that he had somehow messed up and that this time he would never get out.

He'd wake up with a start. He'd be sweating. There'd be tears in his eyes. His body would quake.

Olivia had grown used to it. She would wrap her arms around him and whisper that it was okay, that nothing could hurt him anymore. She had bad dreams of her own, his lovely wife, but she never seemed to need or want that sort of comfort.

He slept on the couch in the den. The upstairs guest room had a pullout queen-size bed that somehow felt too big when he was sleeping alone. Now, as he stared up in the dark, feeling more alone than he had since Olivia walked into his office, Matt actually feared sleep. He kept his eyes open. At four in the morning Marsha's car pulled into the driveway.

When he heard the key in the door, Matt closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep on the couch. Marsha tiptoed over and kissed him on the forehead. The smell of shampoo and soap wafted from her. She had showered, wherever she had been. He wondered if she had showered alone. He wondered why he cared.

She moved into the kitchen. Still feigning sleep, Matt slowly opened one eye. Marsha was making lunch for the boys. She spread jelly with a too-practiced hand. There were tears on her cheek. Matt kept still. He let her finish in peace and listened to her gentle footsteps pad up the stairs.

At 7 A.M., Cingle called him.

"I tried your home number," she said. "You weren't there."

"I'm at my sister-in-law's."

"Oh."

"Just babysitting my nephews."

"Did I ask?"

He rubbed his face. "So what's up?"

"You coming into the office?"

"Yeah, a little later. Why?"

"I found your follower, Charles Talley."

He sat all the way up. "Where?"

"Let's talk about this in person, okay?"

"Why?"

"I need to do a little more research."

"On what?"

"On Charles Talley. I'll meet you at your office at noon, okay?"

He had his Thursday rendezvous at the museum anyway. "Yeah, okay."

"And Matt?"

"What?"

"You said this was personal? Whatever it is with Talley?"

"Yes."

"Then you're in deep doo-doo."

Matt was a member of the Newark Museum. He flashed his membership card but there was no need. The guards at the door knew him by now. He nodded and entered. Very few people roamed the hall this time of the morning. Matt headed to the art gallery in the west wing. He passed the museum's newest piece, a colorful canvas by Wosene Worke Kosrof, and took the steps to the second floor.

She was the only one there.

He could see her way down at the end of the corridor. She was standing where she always stood- in front of the painting by Edward Hopper. Her head was tilted ever so slightly to the left. She was a very attractive woman, nearing sixty, almost six feet tall, high cheekbones, the kind of blonde hair only the wealthy seem to possess. As always she looked smart and tailored and polished.

Her name was Sonya McGrath. She was the mother of Stephen McGrath, the boy Matt had killed.

Sonya always waited by the Hopper. The painting was called
Sheridan Theater
and managed to catch pure desolation and despair in a picture of a movie theater. It was amazing. There were famous images depicting the ravages of war, of death, of destruction, but there was something in this seemingly simple Hopper, something in this near-empty theater balcony that spoke to both of them in ways no other image ever had.

Sonya McGrath heard him approach but she didn't turn away from the picture. Matt passed Stan, the security guard who always worked this floor on Thursday mornings. They exchanged a quick smile and nod. Matt wondered what Stan must think of his quiet trysts with this attractive older woman.

He stood next to her and looked at the Hopper. It worked like a bizarre mirror. He saw them as the two isolated figures- he Hopper's usher, she the lone patron. For a long time they didn't speak. Matt glanced at Sonya McGrath's profile. He had seen a photograph of her in the paper once, the Sunday
New York Times
Style section. Sonya McGrath was something of a socialite. In the photograph, her smile dazzled. He had never seen that smile in person- wondered, in fact, if it could exist anywhere but on film.

"You don't look so good," Sonya said.

She was not looking at him- had not, as far as he could tell, yet glanced his way- but he nodded anyway. Sonya faced him full.

Their relationship- though the term "relationship" didn't seem to capture it- began a few years after Matt got out of prison. His phone would ring, he would pick it up, and there would be no one there. No hang-up. No words. Matt thought that maybe he could hear breathing, but mostly there was pure silence.

Somehow Matt knew who was on the other end.

The fifth time she called, Matt took several deep breaths before working up the courage to speak. "I'm sorry," he said.

There was a long silence. Then Sonya replied, "Tell me what really happened."

"I did. In court."

"Tell me again. Everything."

He tried. He took a long time. She stayed silent. When he finished she hung up.

The next day she called again. "I want to tell you about my son," she said without preamble.

And she did.

Matt now knew more than he really wanted to know about Stephen McGrath. He was no longer merely a kid who stepped into a fight, the log jammed onto the track that sent Matt Hunter's life off the rails. McGrath had two younger sisters who adored him. He loved playing guitar. He was a little hippy-ish- he got that, Sonya said with a trace of a laugh, from his mother. He was a great listener, that was what his friends always said. If they had a problem, they went to Stephen. He never needed to be the center of attention. He was content on the sidelines. He would laugh at your joke. He had gotten in trouble only once in his life- the police caught him and some buddies drinking behind the high school- but he had never gotten into a fight, not even as a kid, and seemed deathly afraid of physical violence.

During that same phone call, Sonya asked him, "Did you know that Stephen didn't know any of the boys in the fight?"

"Yes."

She started to cry then. "So why did he step in?"

"I don't know."

They first met in person here at the Newark Museum three years ago. They had coffee and barely spoke. A few months later, they stayed for lunch. It became a steady thing, every other Thursday morning in front of the Hopper. Neither of them had ever missed one.

At first they told no one. Sonya's husband and daughters would never understand. Of course neither of them understood it either. Matt could never explain why these meetings meant so much to him. Most would assume that he did it purely out of guilt, that he did it for her or for redemption or something like that. But that wasn't the case at all.

For two hours- that's how long their meetings lasted- Matt felt strangely free because he ached and hurt and felt. He didn't know what she got out of it, but he assumed that it was something similar. They talked about that night. They talked about their lives. They talked about the tentative steps, the feeling that the ground could give way at any time. Sonya never said, "I forgive you." She never said that it wasn't his fault, that it was an accident, that he served his time.

Sonya started down the corridor. Matt stared at the painting another second or two and then followed. They moved back downstairs and into the museum's atrium. They grabbed coffee and sat at their usual table.

"So," she said. "Tell me what's going on."

She didn't say this to be polite or as an icebreaker. This was not about how-are-you-fine-and-you? Matt told her everything. He told this woman, Sonya McGrath, things he told no one else. He never lied to her, never fudged or edited.

When he was done, Sonya asked, "Do you think Olivia is having an affair?"

"The evidence seems pretty clear."

"But?"

"But I've learned that evidence rarely gives you the full picture."

Sonya nodded. "You should call her again," she said.

"I did."

"Try the hotel."

"I did."

"Not there?"

"She wasn't registered."

"There are two Ritz-Carltons in Boston."

"I tried them both."

"Ah." She sat back and put her hand on her chin. "So you know that, in some way, Olivia is not being truthful."

"Yes."

Sonya considered that. She had never met Olivia, but she knew more about Matt's relationship with her than anyone. She looked off.

"What?" he said.

"I'm just trying to find a plausible reason for her behavior."

"And?"

"And so far I've come up with nothing." She shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. "I've always found your relationship with Olivia an oddity."

"How so?"

"The way you hooked up ten years after a one-night stand."

"It wasn't a one-night stand. We didn't sleep together."

"Which may be the point."

"I don't get what you mean."

"If you slept together, well, the spell might have been broken. People claim that making love is the most intimate thing in the world. In truth, it's probably the opposite."

He waited.

"Well, this is an odd coincidence," she said.

"Why's that?"

"Clark is having an affair."

Matt didn't ask her if she was sure or how she knew. He simply said, "I'm sorry."

"It's not what you think."

He said nothing.

"It has nothing to do with what happened to our son."

Matt tried to nod.

"We like to blame Stephen's death for all our problems. He's become our big life's-not-fair card. But the reason behind Clark's affair is far more basic."

"That being?"

"He's horny."

She smiled. Matt tried to smile back.

"Oh, did I mention that she's young? The girl Clark is sleeping with?"

"No."

"Thirty-two. We have a daughter that age."

"I'm sorry," Matt said again.

"Don't be. It's the flip side of what we said before. About intimacy and sex."

"How so?"

"The truth is, like most women my age, I have very little interest in sex. Yes, I know
Cosmo
and the like will tell you differently, what with all that nonsense about men peaking at nineteen and women in their thirties. But in reality, men are always hornier. Period. To me sex no longer has anything to do with intimacy. Clark, on the other hand, needs it. So that's all she is to him, this young girl. Sex. A release. A physical need."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"It's not about me."

Matt said nothing.

"When you think about it, it's simple: Clark needs something that I have no interest in providing. So he goes elsewhere." Sonya saw the look on his face. She sighed, put her hands on her thighs. "Let me give you an example. If Clark loved, say, poker and I didn't want to play…"

"Come on, Sonya. That's not the same thing."

"Oh, but isn't it?"

"Sex and poker?"

"Okay, fine, let's keep it on the physically pleasing. A professional massage. Clark gets rubdowns at his club every week from a masseur named Gary-"

"That's not the same thing either."

"But don't you see? It is. Sex with this girl isn't about intimacy. It's just a physical thing. Like a back rub or a handshake. So shouldn't it be okay with me?"

Sonya looked up at him and waited.

"It wouldn't be okay with me," Matt said.

There was a small smile on her lips. Sonya liked mind games. She liked a challenge. He wondered if she meant what she said or if she was merely testing him. "So what are you going to do?" she asked him.

"Olivia comes home tomorrow."

"You think you can wait till then?"

"I'm going to try."

Her eyes stayed on him.

"What?" he asked.

"We can't escape it, can we? I thought…" She stopped.

"You thought what?"

Their eyes locked. "I know it's a terrible cliché, but it all felt like a nightmare. The news about Stephen. The trial. I kept expecting to wake up and find it was all some cruel joke, that everything was okay."

He'd felt the same way. He was stuck in a bad dream, waiting for the
Candid Camera
climax when Stephen would show up unharmed and smiling.

"But now the world feels like the opposite, doesn't it, Matt?"

He nodded.

"Instead of believing the bad is a nightmare from which you'll awaken," she went on, "you think it's the good that's an illusion. And that's what this call on your camera phone did. It woke you from the good dream."

He could not speak.

"I know that I'll never get past what happened," Sonya McGrath said. "It's simply not possible. But I thought… I hoped maybe you could."

Matt waited for her to say more. She did not. She rose suddenly, as if she had said too much. They headed together for the exit. Sonya kissed him on the cheek and when they hugged, they both held on longer than usual. He could, as always, feel the devastation emanating from her. Stephen's death was there, in every moment, in every gesture. He sat with them, their forever companion.

"If you need me," she whispered, "you call. Anytime."

"I will."

He watched her walk away. He thought about what she had said, about the fine line between the good dreams and the bad, and then, when she finally disappeared around the corner, he turned away.