The Last Secret (15 page)

“Drew's okay, but he's got a mild concussion. A black eye and contusions on his face. A cut. Here,” Robin says, touching her cheekbone. “The right side. And a broken tooth. Well, chipped anyway. This one.”
She points to her eyetooth. “He's already been X-rayed. They're just stitching him up. I wanted to stay, but he didn't want me to. Just as well, because then I could be here to tell you.”

Nora starts down the hall. Robin scoops up Lyra and hurries alongside Nora through two sets of double doors, down the harshly lit corridor into a treatment ward.

“Shh, Lyrrie, shh,” Robin whispers as Lyra complains about leaving crayons behind. She begins to cry. Her crumpled drawing hangs from her fist over Robin's shoulder. Way past her bedtime, poor little thing, Nora thinks, imagining the child being snatched up from a sound sleep: any opportunity to see Ken. “In there.” Robin points to one of the drawn blue curtains.

“Drew!” Nora gasps, seeing his battered face. He raises his hand and she holds it with both her own. On the other side of the bed, the doctor is still working on him. Almost done, she says.

“Won't hardly show,” she murmurs, snipping the black thread.

Nora's knees sag. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I'm okay,” Drew says in a gurgly-sounding voice.

“He's going to be fine,” the doctor says. She is peeling off her surgical gloves when Ken hurries into the room. As she writes out postcare instructions, she begins to explain them to Robin, who still has Lyra on her hip.

“That's his mother,” Robin says.

Nora nods, trying to listen, then hands the forms off to Ken. He is asking the doctor about the concussion.

Nora leans close to Drew who is shivering now. All she wants is to hold him and make everything better. “What happened?”

He shakes his head, and she asks again. “Later,” he says, teeth chattering.

“Tell me now,” she says, pulling the sheet to his chin.

“Please, Mom?”

“Drew.”

“I know,” the doctor says, turning back to Nora. “Quite a lot, don't you think, for just tripping in the driveway. Plus the bruised back and
the fractured rib.” She looks over her square glasses at them. “And the knuckles scraped raw.” The surgical tools in the steel tray she's holding rattle as she opens the curtain. “If it were my son, I'd file a police report. Somebody did that. Somebody who wanted to hurt him, and hurt him bad.” She closes the curtain behind her.

Robin buries her face in Lyra's hair.

“Who are you crying for?” Nora asks quietly.

“Don't. Please, don't,” Ken begs her.

“Tell me you're crying for him, for my son.”

“Mom,” Drew gasps.

“No, because you're not,” Nora says. This surge of bitter power is like inhaling pure oxygen. “It's all about you, Robin. As always.”

“Don't make Mommy cry again. Please, Auntie Nor. She loves you,” Lyra says, clutching her mother's neck with both arms.

Ken covers his mouth and looks away.

“Why don't you wait outside?” Nora says. “I'll help Drew with his things.” She can't bear to be near them, and she is ashamed. Ashamed of her rage and her fear, ashamed that it has come to this, their children's pain. They had been good and decent people, two good and decent families, and now look at them. Especially herself, wanting, more than anything else, to hurt them the way they've hurt her. She helps Drew put on his shirt. Neither one speaks. His sneakers smell rancid as she puts them on his feet. He needs new ones, she thinks, tying them. The only way he can get off the bed is to hold on to her. He gives a painful yelp as he tries to straighten up. Even in the wheelchair he hunches over.

“Maybe we should call the police,” she says, looking at his battered face.

“No! I hit him first.”

“Why?” Then shakes her head. She knows why.

“We were outside Bradley's house and Clay came up to me and he goes, #x2018;What, do you send your mommy out to fight your battles, Drewie?’ And he was drunk, really, really drunk, but I hit him.”

She feels sick to her stomach. It's over. The all-consuming anger
and suspicion, the blame and the bitterness, it's all too destructive. Which does she want more, punishment and revenge, or peace for her children?

Driving home, they listen in silence as Drew tells them the rest. Friends of both boys tried to separate them, but not before Clay pounded Drew's head into the cement block patio.

“I shouldn't've hit him. I should've just walked away,” Drew says, and they both nod. Their unspoken agreement, always: as long as he is honest, it won't be brought up again. At least not to him. Listening now makes Nora realize how open he used to be with them. And how shut down he's become. The Gendrons arrived in two different cars, Drew says. Mr. Gendron brought Clay home but not before Clay yelled at his father and kept trying to hit him. “In front of everyone,” Drew says, then looks out the window at passing homes, most in darkness now. Families asleep. Safe.

Ken helps Drew up to his room. The only way he can climb the stairs is to place both feet on each step. Nora checks the phone messages. Five, she sees by the red light blinking on the answering machine. The first call is from Jean Greer, Bradley's mother, saying Drew is hurt, but he doesn't want her to call an ambulance or bring him to the hospital, and she doesn't know what to do. She says one of the boys has already called the Gendrons on his cell phone. She'll try and call Robin. Even in this, Nora's thoughts are a swirl of suspicions and fears clouding the moment. Had Jean mentioned the Gendrons because of the affair linking the two families or because of Clay? The next two calls are from Robin: Drew is hurt and she is on her way to the Greers'. Nora erases them both. She hits the button for the next call, annoyed to hear Chloe's little-girl voice, whispery and cute: Suzanna had asked her and some other girls to sleep over, so she was going to, if it was okay with them. Suzanna who? Nora wonders. Chloe left here, saying she was going to the movies with her friends Leah and Jen. Typical Chloe, no last name, no number. She dials Chloe's cell phone. “Damn,” she mutters, hearing it ring upstairs. And now it's too late to call Leah or Jen, and there's no number showing on the caller ID.
One more message. It's him. She keeps hitting the volume button to turn it down.

“Nora. It's me, Eddie. Sorry I haven't gotten back to you about our fair-housing conversation. Hate to leave you hanging like that, wondering where the hell's Eddie. Well, fret no more. Eddie's here, and he's near.” Her fists clench with his burst of laughter. “Seriously, though, we need to talk. I'll give you a buzz first thing Monday.”

“Ken?” She needs him, not to tell him about Eddie but to be nearby. He isn't in the house. She looks out the kitchen window, expecting to see him in the driveway, having a cigarette. A light snow has begun to fall. His car is running. He sits behind the wheel, smoking and talking on the phone.

Robin. Of course, she realizes with a bolt of foolish amazement. Every night he goes out there, and she's the last person he talks to. The last voice in his day, hers. Emotionally, they're still connected. The truth feels strangely calming. She finally understands. Her marriage is over.

She has just crawled under the covers when he comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. And to everything else that means betrayal, add now, the stench of cigarettes.

“I didn't know about you … going there. To their house,” he says with his back to her.

With her arms over her head, she lies perfectly still. He clears his throat, coughs. The bed creaks as he turns.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks.

“We have to do something.”

“I know.” Tears leak from the corners of her eyes into her hair.

“It can't keep on like this.”

Eyes shut, she holds out her arms. “Hold me, just hold me, please?”

He does. He lies down and holds her until they are both asleep and she is young again, and that song keeps playing, throbbing in her chest, and the harder she tries to wake up the deeper she sinks into the dream.

Nine in the morning.
The doorbell rings. Clay Gendron and his father. Clay wants to apologize, not just to Drew but to the entire family, his father says. Bleary-eyed and shaky, Bob Gendron is in almost as bad shape as his son. The smell of booze breath fouls the front hall. Clay keeps swallowing hard and touching his throat, as if he's afraid of vomiting. Taking deep breaths, he rocks back and forth on his heels.

Because Ken doesn't seem the least bit surprised to see them here, Nora realizes Robin told him on the phone last night that Clay would be over. Friends since third grade, Bob stands a head over Ken. An exceptional high school athlete, he was a starting linebacker in college. Varsity all four years. He stayed in great shape for a long time after that, with tennis and racquetball, until drinking consumed everything, his health, jobs, friendships, family.

“At least he's not a violent drunk,” Ken used to say, as if that somehow made it better.

“No, just vicious,” Nora finally said after one miserable night out with Robin and Bob, who was finishing his third martini when their entrées arrived. Even though Robin quietly asked him not to, he ordered another one. Excusing herself to go to the ladies' room, she circled around into the bar and canceled the drink.

“Bitch!” Bob said when she returned.

“Stop it,” she whispered, head down, mortified, eyes bright with tears.

Bob kept it up. Who the hell did she think she was, fucking-miss-high-and-mighty counting his drinks when every night she couldn't get to the wine bottle fast enough.

Cut it out, Ken said quietly. Robin cared about him, that's why she canceled it. The only reason. Usually, that would be enough for Bob to sink into one of his wounded, sullen silences. But not that night.

“Who the fuck asked you?” he bellowed thickly, and everyone around them looked up. “Fucking piece of shit, think you're better than me, well think again, Kenny-boy You got nothing and you know
it, don't you? Because it's all Ollie, right? All Ollie, all the time. Well, you better hold on tight to big brother's fucking coattails—”

“Shut up, Bob,” Nora snapped, trying to keep her voice down. “Just shut up. You're pathetic. How can you say that to your best friend? And your wife? Can't you see what you're doing? To everyone!”

It would be their last night out together. From then on, Nora refused to go anywhere with them as long as Bob was still drinking.

After that she began to sense what an intruder she'd been in their friendship, the old intimacies always having to be explained to her. With her outburst, the chemistry had changed, the rupture drawing them even closer, the three of them, further from her, the threat.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Robin apologized her way out of the busy dining room that night.

And here now, the son, sent by his mother to do the same.

“Sorry.” Clay stares down at the floor. “I'm sorry. I really am.”

“It could've been a lot worse, Clay,” Ken says. “You could've done some serious damage, banging his head like that.”

“I know.” Clay's voice breaks. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Like a little boy, Nora can't help thinking, even though she's irritated with Ken for trying to downplay Drew's injuries. More than anything, though, she is disgusted with Bob Gendron, the sight of him repulsive, dark pouches under his eyes, the bloom of purplish veins in his unshaven cheeks, and the bloat of sagging belly. Look, she wants to say, look what you've done, your son, the spawn of your weakness.

Above them the stairs and railing creak as Drew hobbles down. He didn't want Clay sent up to his room. In the daylight he looks much worse than he did last night. The right side of his face is swollen, black with bruises and dried blood. His lips are split and puffed up.

“Oh,” Clay groans, seeing him.

“What.” Drew braces himself against the balustrade.

“Jesus.” Clay holds his mouth. “I'm … I'm gonna be sick!”

Opening the bathroom door, Nora flicks on the exhaust fan as he drops to his knees, gripping the pale green toilet bowl. She notes with pity and disgust his soiled bare feet in rubber sandals, his ripped
T-shirt. Probably the same clothes he wore pummeling Drew, then slept in.

“Been a rough night, I'm afraid,” Bob says, almost resignedly, over his son's retching.

“For everyone,” Nora says, and he nods meekly.

“Yeah. How ya doin'?” he asks Drew.

“Okay.” Drew winces with his quick and painful shrug.

“You don't look okay,” Bob says, peering at his face. “One hurtin' dude, aren't you?”

“Probably looks worse than it is,” Drew says, trying to stand straighter, and it's all Nora can do to keep from hugging him. He sounds as if he's talking through a mouthful of hot mush.

The toilet flushes a few more times before Clay finally emerges, wiping his mouth with a handful of tissues. He has more color in his cheeks now. His unscathed cheeks. Taller than Drew, he is broadchested, thick-necked like his father.

“I'm sorry.” He holds out his hand, and Drew looks at it. “You don't have to,” Clay says, dropping the hand to his side. “I don't blame you. I feel like such a jerk. I coulda really hurt you and I—”