Authors: Dave White
Daniels wished me luck. It sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
Tracy and I went to dinner a few times, but things weren’t working. She wanted to talk about the case. I didn’t. She still loved her uncle. I didn’t want to talk about the drug war. I didn’t want to tell her that he wasn’t the kindest man I knew. Or the loving man she was beginning to think he was. On a Thursday afternoon in May, she told me she was going back to Jesus.
The day she was supposed to leave, I asked her to take a ride in my new preowned Toyota Celica before we went back to Asbury. I had to share something with her. We drove to Anne Backes’s house.
“Where are we?” Tracy asked, as we waited for the old woman to answer the door.
“Visiting someone I think you should meet.” The door opened and Anne stared up at us.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked me. “Ms. Backes, you’ve heard about your husband?”
“I read the papers.”
The afternoon was warm, a contrast to the rainy, bipolar temperatures of April. The sun beat down and the air was still, constant. The weather that day had the feel of stability.
As if registering the name for the first time, I heard Tracy whisper to herself. “Backes?”
“Can we come in?” I asked. “I don’t think so.”
To my right, I could feel Tracy shaking. She put her hand on my arm as she put the information together.
“Ms. Backes, let me introduce you to Tracy.” I could have said the last name, but I wanted Anne Backes to figure it out on her own.
“Tracy?” She squinted.
“Aunt Anne?” Tracy said. “Oh my God. It’s been so long.”
Tracy reached in to hug and Anne fell into the embrace. The frail woman shook along with Tracy and they both had tears in their eyes.
“Come in, girl. Come in,” Anne said.
We followed Anne in through the house. There were pictures now on all the shelves. Most of them were pictures of Anne in black-and-white. Old pictures. In a few of them I recognized Gerry. In a few of them, there were two children posing, a boy and a girl.
Tracy walked around the room looking at the pictures. Sometimes she’d pick one up and stare at it for a while, tracing an outline with her finger. Anne watched her. They’d both smile at times, shed a few tears at others.
Picking up one of the pictures of the boy and girl playing, Tracy asked, “Is this me and Steven?”
Anne walked over and looked. She said, “Yes.”
“Who’s this girl?”
She hesitated. “One of Steven’s friends.”
“I don’t remember any of this. I can’t even remember you.”
“You were young when I left.”
“Why did you leave?”
Anne Backes looked at me and seemed to be turning things over in her head. We both knew it was too late to dance again. The truth was out in the papers; there wasn’t anything to hide anymore.
“Your uncle. He was a bad father. He’d go out, he’d party. He smoked weed, did drugs. Sold drugs. He was never around for Steven. He wasn’t around for me.”
“So you left the two of them?”
Anne looked at me again. “I never told anyone I was the smartest woman. I tried to force the issue. The last time I saw Gerry, he came home with a wad of dollars in his hand. Probably a thousand dollars cash from selling drugs. It had been a good week. Steven went to him and asked for a cookie. Gerry barely glanced at the kid. He was drunk. He tossed Steven a twenty and told him to go buy one.”
Anne wiped at her eyes. “I told Gerry he needed to shape up. To be a good father. I told him I was leaving him alone with Steven. He had to shape up, clean up. Then I’d come back. I promised him I would, but I promised myself it wouldn’t be until we could be a whole family. No more of the drug shit. By the time Gerry cleaned up his act, Steven had grown up. Mostly on his own, I think. Then he got sick and died.”
Tracy was crying now. “You never got to see your son?”
“I found ways.”
“But Steven, we kept in touch, even when I was out in Ohio. He said he hadn’t seen you. He couldn’t remember you.”
“I loved them both so much. Steven. Gerry. Why couldn’t he clean up? Why couldn’t we all be together?”
“Aunt Anne—”
“No. I miss him. He ruined my life, but I miss him. I couldn’t even go to the funeral. It wasn’t right for me to be there. I wanted to be. But I couldn’t go.”
Anne shook her head, buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and she didn’t say any more. Tracy sat next to her, put her arms around her shoulders.
I looked at the pictures some more, wondering why they weren’t out the last time I’d been here. Maybe Anne was about to dust that day and she put the pictures away before doing it.
All of the pictures were old. All were in black-and-white. Except for one. It was tucked away, around the corner nearly behind the TV, where people wouldn’t see it unless they looked carefully. I was trying to keep my eyes averted from Tracy and Anne’s moment, so I’d glanced around several times. I stepped closer and looked at the picture.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through my body. Anne Backes standing with another woman. It could have been taken yesterday.
There was a reason the pictures weren’t out a month ago. Anne Backes didn’t want me to see them.
***
Anne didn’t want anyone to know. So while I drove Tracy back to Asbury, I didn’t say anything. Maybe Tracy actually did know. Either way, it wasn’t my place to say.
I parked in front of the house and walked Tracy to the front door. We looked at each other. Tracy’s face was still red from crying.
“Thank you, Jackson,” she said.
She leaned in to kiss me. I let her. It was a light kiss; none of the earlier passion, a fire that was lit again for only an evening or two and burned out quickly after that. I can’t say I felt the same as she did. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to know her again.
And this time remember the entire relationship. “It’s too bad things didn’t work out for us,” she said.
I gave her a hug. “We both know they wouldn’t have,” I lied. “Give Jesus a hug.”
We stood for a moment watching each other. An awkward silence rested between us, as if we didn’t know the right way to end things. The right way to say good-bye.
“Any help you need,” I said. “I can get you into a rehab.” Tracy said, “Good luck, Jackson.”
“Good-bye, Tracy.”
I kissed her on the cheek, and turned back to my car. That seemed as good a way to leave as any.
Things were looking up.
At first, his superiors were pissed that Bill Martin went over their heads and out of district on the case. They told him it wasn’t a movie, he wasn’t Dirty Harry. That if he wanted to be a trusted member of the police, he had to be a team player.
Then the press got hold of the story and ran with it. Martin was a hero, saving a woman from certain death. Running through a hail of bullets, shoving two innocent people into a car, and driving off. Having a hand in taking down the biggest drug dealer in the state. And his superiors had no choice. They promoted him to detective first grade.
Not being able to get the assault charges on Donne to trial was somewhat a disappointment. Though once Martin was considered a hero, there was no way Donne was getting his private investigator license back. No way was Martin going to let that happen. So he fought Daniels and Blanchett and showed all the evidence and he won.
He sat in his office and felt empty. He kept the picture of Jeanne with him all the time now. And he often stared at it. As he did today.
***
Three weeks after she stopped calling, Jeanne came to visit him in his office. He didn’t speak until she did. He stared at her. Tears streaked her face.
“I’m sorry, Bill,” she said. Martin refused to speak.
“Jackson called,” she continued. “He went into rehab. He sobered up.”
“And you went back to him?” Martin forced the words out.
She nodded and cried, digging through her purse for a tissue. Every instinct in his body screamed for Martin to go to her. To wrap her in his arms and hold her. But he sat at his desk, folded his hands together, and waited.
“I had to, Bill,” she said. “I love him. I’ve always loved him. He just fucked up, that’s all. And now—”
“Now what?” He slammed his fists on the desk, and rage filled him. For the first time the rage was directed at her.
She shuddered at the sound. But she wiped her eyes, didn’t leave.
“Now he’s working as a private investigator. He’s making something of himself. I need to be there for him.” Tears streamed down her face. She no longer tried to stop them.
“Then why are you here?”
“I had to talk to you.”
Something in her voice softened. There wasn’t sadness. Martin let instinct take him. He got out of his chair, went around his desk, and put his arms around her. The floral fragrance of her perfume overtook him. He had to fight back his own tears.
“I went to the doctor today,” she said. “There was something wrong with me. I was late.”
“What?”
“Bill, I had to talk to you.” She fiddled through her purse, but didn’t come out with anything. “Because the doctor told me I’m pregnant.”
“Oh my God.” He could no longer fight off the tears. He pulled her closer to him.
“The baby is yours, Bill. Jackson and I, we haven’t slept together. Not since I went back.”
“Does he know?”
“No. I haven’t told him. I don’t know that I will. I have to talk to him tonight. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
Doesn’t know what she’s going to do? He pulled her close, felt her hands on his back.
“You’re going to tell him you love me,” Martin said. “I can’t do that, Bill. I don’t know what to do.”
“I love you, Jeanne.”
“I know.”
“And you love me.”
She said, “Let me have tonight. I want to talk to Jackson when he gets back from his case. I will call you tomorrow.”
Jeanne Baker pushed herself away from Martin. She kissed him gently on his cheek, turned his back on him, and walked out the door.
***
Bill Martin never saw Jeanne again. Hours later a drunk driver collided with her car and killed her.
There was no investigation. There wasn’t an autopsy.
Jackson Donne never knew. And Bill Martin never told him. He put the picture back in his desk. He hadn’t thought of that moment in years. He had put it away, hidden it, like he’d hidden the picture.
Maybe it was a mistake to tell Donne about their affair. Because now Martin remembered everything.
And he couldn’t put it away.
Saturday I sat in Scott Hall and took a six-hour test. I hadn’t filled in that many circles since my first and only semester at Villanova. I had to write an essay, do complicated math, and answer questions about a Spanish short story. It was a very mundane and mind-numbing way to pass the time. But without a job, and needing to earn some scholarships, I had to deal with it.
When I finished, I took my newly acquired carpal tunnel syndrome and hopped on Route 287. The leaves were fully bloomed now; the sides of the road looked like thick forests. I exited in Morristown and drove to Jen Hanover’s house. It had been weeks since I’d seen her, the news vans had since exited, and her story was old news. I, however, had one last piece of business with her.
She let me in wordlessly, as if she’d expected me. We sat in the living room, and I had the familiar sensation of smelling steam. I thought of my mother, and how my father had left her, my sister, and me alone.
Jen looked as if she’d lost about ten pounds. There were dark bags under her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken.
“Have you been sleeping?” I asked without much sympathy.
“It was a mistake to hire you,” she said. “But you’ve been paid what you were owed. Why are you here?”
“I’d like to sort a few things out.”
“There’s nothing to sort out. If I hadn’t hired you, my husband would still be alive.”
The living room was a mess. There were dust bunnies floating around the room. Old newspapers and empty coffee cups were left on the kitchen table. A few scraps of paper were strewn across the floor.
“Why did you hire me?”
“To find my husband and bring him back to me before the police got to him,” she said evenly.
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would you hire me to find the man who killed your father?”
“What?”
I was very slow in answering, letting my words process in my head. Like a lawyer, I wanted to make everything very clear.
“Anne Backes is your mother, isn’t she?”
“What? I—no.”
“I was at her home two days ago. There were many pictures of Steven and his cousin. There was one color picture. It was of you and Anne sitting in a park.”
“You’re lying.”