JOSE. THAT WAS THE name of the boy Mike had shot. The teenager had been in trouble a few times before, for fighting and truancy. He’d also gone to church with his mother every Sunday and had sung in the choir. He’d possessed a rich tenor, the newspapers reported. He’d lived with his mother and younger brother in a transitional area of D.C.—not far from the million-dollar row homes or from the run-down ones with cardboard covering broken windows. He was an in-between in other ways, too. Not quite a man, but at five feet, eight inches tall, no longer a boy. The brushes with the law and the church choir were balancing on opposite ends of a scale, too. Eventually Jose would’ve tipped one way or the other.
The press conference was scheduled for noon today, and Jamie had no idea what Jose’s mother was planning to say.
The front page of the Metro section held a photograph of Jose looking off to one side and grinning, his eyes shaded by a sweep of long lashes. Jamie stared down at it, wondering if he had been smiling at his mom. She didn’t realize she’d released a whimper until Sam, who was lying across her lap, asked what was wrong. Sam had been extra clingy lately, trailing after her as she worked around the house and waking up in the middle of the night to climb into bed with her and Mike. “Nothing,” she said as she bent to kiss his head. Jamie caught a whiff of sweet shampoo and something else, a scent that was uniquely Sam. She wondered if Jose’s mother was kneeling in her son’s closet, breathing in, despairing at the thought that she might someday forget the sound of her boy’s voice. Jamie closed her eyes against the sharp prick of tears and held Sam tighter.
“Are you going to watch?” Jamie asked Mike a few hours later.
Mike shrugged. He was sitting at the little table in the kitchen, an untouched turkey-and-cheese sandwich on a plate in front of him. Three large electric fans had appeared and were blowing air around the house, giving them a little break from the stifling heat. Lou must’ve bought those, Jamie thought. She vaguely remembered hearing her sister go out last night.
By now the kids were in the living room, watching Frozen for the dozenth time. At this point they could probably recite all the dialogue. Jamie had started to set up the sprinkler on the front lawn, but then she’d spotted a guy with a big camera slung around his neck. She’d run back into the house and yanked the curtains shut, her rage swelling. They were trapped. How long were reporters going to be lurking? So far Eloise was mostly unaware of what was happening, but Jamie knew Sam and Emily had figured out some of the details. And Henry had probably read all of the news stories.
So had the neighbors, apparently. When Jamie had driven past an older woman who lived alone at the corner of their block, someone who’d always made a nice fuss over her kids, the woman had deliberately averted her head after Jamie called a hello out her van’s window. Jamie’s back had stiffened as she pressed harder on the gas.
At least most of their friends were being supportive. The family two doors down had put together a container of fried chicken and a green salad and dropped off the meal along with a kind note, and a number of other people had called or emailed, offering to help in any way possible. Sandy had brought by a giant box of brownies and she’d given Jamie a fast, hard hug.
“I know,” Sandy had murmured. But she couldn’t. Jamie had sensed Sandy wanted to come inside, but she made up an excuse about Mike being asleep on the couch. If Jamie sat down and looked into Sandy’s soft brown eyes and felt Sandy’s slim hand grip her own, she might fall apart, and then what would happen to her family?
“Reporters keep trying to interview me,” Sandy had said just before she’d left. “They’ve been leaving messages.”
Jamie’s heart had skipped a beat. “Please don’t talk to them!” she’d cried.
“Of course I won’t,” Sandy had said. “I deleted all the messages. I just wanted you to know.”
Jamie had held the box of still-warm brownies in her hands as she watched Sandy get into her car and drive off. The casualties kept mounting—Jose, Mike and his reputation, their family’s happiness . . . Maybe her friendship with Sandy would be another.
Ritchie had also left a message on the answering machine that morning in his new broken cadence: “Be strong, man . . . this is going to . . . blow over soon. I’ve still . . . got your back.” Jamie had watched Mike bend his head close to the machine. She wondered if he ever wanted to switch places with his best friend, to erase that quick, spontaneous nudge that had sent Ritchie walking through the doors of police headquarters, into the path of the shooter. She didn’t know how to ask him, though. The words that had always flowed steadily between them had dried up like a shallow riverbed in the summer heat. All she could think about was the possibility of the looming indictment, and she knew it was the same for Mike.
Three months ago, the guys had been competing in one-armed push-up contests—Ritchie was the record holder with eight, but Mike had been gaining on him fast—and cruising the streets and giving talks at schools. Their lives had stretched out in two smooth, parallel lines. Now both men were deeply scarred in different ways. But at least Ritchie had a chance of getting better. Hope hadn’t deserted him, the way it had Mike.
“Do you want to call Ritchie back?” Jamie had asked when Mike continued to stare at the machine after the message ended.
Mike had shaken his head. “I’ll go visit him tomorrow,” he’d said. “Drop off a freaking tofu dog.” He’d tried for a light tone but couldn’t pull it off.
“Good,” Jamie had said. She’d reached for him at the same moment he’d turned to walk away. He never even saw her outstretched arms. After he left, she’d stood still for a long moment, feeling so hollow she ached to collapse to the floor.
The previous night she and Mike had been in bed, lying on top of the covers in their underwear because it was so hot, and Mike had suddenly rolled onto his side, kissing her deeply. She’d kissed him back, glad for the connection, and then he’d climbed on top of her and yanked down her underpants and abruptly plunged into her, before she was ready. She’d gasped, but had put her arms around his back, feeling his body grow slick with sweat, grateful for the contact.
But it didn’t feel like lovemaking. It felt like he needed to release something and she was a handy receptacle.
The sad memory fell away as Jamie looked at the clock. The news conference was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour. It would be held at a park near Jose’s mother’s apartment, where Jose had learned to ride a bike, a reporter had said. Jamie tried to focus on the image of Jose attacking another boy, punching him repeatedly, but the image of him as a little kid, a smile wreathing his face as he learned to pedal, kept intruding.
Jamie could hear the treadmill squeaking in the basement, and the sound of ESPN, and she hoped Mike would keep running and watching baseball instead of tuning in to the press conference. It wouldn’t be good for Mike to see the boy’s mother on television, to bear witness to her anger and pain.
Jamie went into the kitchen and saw the plate with Mike’s sandwich still on the table. He hadn’t eaten a single bite.
“I’m bored,” Emily called from the living room, drawing the word out to three syllables. “And Eloise spilled her apple juice.”
Jamie rushed to clean it up, grateful to have something to do, some small task with a clearly defined outcome. Jamie was just wiping up the last drops when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t a reporter, sighed, and answered it.
“Honey?” It was Mike’s mother. His parents still lived in New Jersey, in the house where Mike had grown up. Jamie liked them well enough, even though their conversations always circled the same familiar ground. Mike’s mother talked about weight—who among her friends had gained or lost a few pounds, who was trying Paleo and who was cheating on the Zone—and Mike’s father was obsessed with the weather. He’d spend ten minutes telling you about a storm front gathering over Ohio, then hand the phone to his wife as if you’d had an emotional conversation that had left him drained and unable to carry on.
“Hi, Gloria,” Jamie said.
Gloria’s voice was always high and anxious, but even more so now. Jamie pictured her pacing around her small living room. Gloria always tried to burn calories while she talked on the phone.
In the week since the shooting, Mike had been checking in frequently with his parents. He’d wanted them to hear about it from him rather than on television, since the story had made the national news, but Jamie worried about how the conversations were affecting him. When he was a kid, his mother had tried to make Mike wear a knitted cap whenever the temperature dropped below sixty. A cold portended pneumonia in her mind, and a stomachache always meant appendicitis. Mike downplayed his job to her, saying he spent a lot of time at his desk doing paperwork and that he always wore a bulletproof vest. Sometimes Gloria’s fretting annoyed Jamie. Other times, it made her mourn her own mother, and what might have been.
“I was thinking we should come down there and help,” Mike’s mother said.
“Oh, no,” Jamie said without thinking. “I mean,” she quickly qualified, “things are going just fine here, really. I bet this is all going to be cleared up in another couple weeks.”
“Are you sure?” Gloria asked. “I’ve just been so worried.”
“I know,” Jamie said. She kept her voice light and steady. She had to dissuade Gloria. If she were here, fluttering around Mike and insisting he eat and ferreting out the problems in every situation, like a woodpecker boring into a tree to pull out insects, Mike might snap. He seemed so close to it anyway.
“Gloria, I promise you we’re all doing fine,” Jamie said. “How about we plan a trip up there later on this summer? We’d love to go to the shore with you.”
“I’ll make cannoli,” Gloria said immediately.
“That sounds wonderful,” Jamie said, reaching around with her free hand to rub the back of her neck, where knots seemed to have taken up permanent residence. It was exhausting to have to provide comfort and reassurance to someone when you so badly needed it yourself. Her father had called a few times, and had also offered to come stay with them, which she appreciated, but she knew he wouldn’t be much help with the kids—and having more people crowding into the house would add to the stress level.
She eased off the phone a few minutes before the news conference was to begin. She could still hear the sound of the treadmill and Mike’s heavy, rhythmic footsteps. She went upstairs, to their bedroom, shutting the door in case one of the kids tried to come in and she had to change the channel quickly.
The news channel was already broadcasting footage of the scene. Dozens of people crowded onto a patch of concrete encircling the park. The playground equipment behind them was outdated—metal monkey bars and swings and a few slides. One lone, scraggly-looking tree decorated a corner.
In a hushed voice, a reporter holding a microphone was narrating what was about to happen: “In just a few minutes Lucia Torres, mother of the teenager shot to death by D.C. Police Officer Michael Anderson, will hold a press conference here at the park where her son loved to play. Gathered together are family, friends, fellow church members, and neighbors of the Torres family, including Roberto Sanchez, who lives next door.”
The camera panned back to reveal a fiftyish man wearing dark glasses and a red T-shirt. He was holding a handmade sign that said: JUSTICE FOR JOSE.
“Mr. Sanchez, can you tell us a little bit about Jose?” the reporter asked.
“He was a good kid,” Mr. Sanchez said.
“A good kid,” the reporter repeatedly somberly.
Wasn’t there going to be any mention of the fact that Jose was fighting? Jamie wondered if anyone had thought to check how bad the other boy’s injuries were. Could they get a doctor to testify that the kid might’ve been killed in the assault? Would that justify Mike’s using deadly force? She’d have to mention it to the lawyer.
“Ms. Lucia Torres is approaching the podium,” the reporter said, and Jamie leaned forward to get a better look at the woman. She was tall and slim, and wore a simple black dress and sensible black heels. She walked quickly, with determination, flanked by several other women—maybe sisters, or friends. Ms. Torres’s head was held high and her expression was restrained, but Jamie could tell turmoil raged within her. In a strange flash of recognition, Jamie saw something of herself in the woman.
Ms. Torres stood at the podium, her large brown eyes passing over the crowd. She nodded a few times to people, then leaned forward and began to speak. Her voice was strong and clear.
“When will it stop?” she asked.
She let the silence gather for a long moment. “Too many of our boys have been killed because of the color of their skin. I ask you this: If my son had been white, would the police officer have drawn his gun so quickly?”
A few people in the crowd shouted, “No!”
“My son liked to watch cartoons,” she said. “Jose’s favorite foods were pizza and chicken burritos with molé sauce. He went to the grocery store for me every week, because he didn’t want me to have to carry the bags home. He watched after his younger brother when I had to work. He was a good boy. I love him.”
Her voice broke on the second to last word of her speech, but she kept staring straight into the news camera.
“None of us mothers expect to be here, before news crews, talking about our kids whose only crime was to be brown or black,” she said.
It’s not like that! Jamie wanted to cry. Where was the mention of Mike’s clean record of nearly two decades on the force, his award, the respect he had in the community? Mike had never discharged his weapon in the line of duty before. Mike had once given a boy a ride home late at night after he’d discovered the kid alone in an unsafe area.
“No one can bring my son back,” Ms. Torres said, her voice swelling. It seemed to leap out of the television and fill the room. “So now all I can ask is for justice for Jose.”
She stepped back from the podium and reporters began shouting questions.
A voice soared above the chorus: “Ms. Torres, the longtime partner of Michael Anderson was shot in front of police headquarters just a few months ago, an attack Anderson witnessed. Do you think emotional trauma could have played a part in the shooting of your son?”
Ms. Torres reached for the microphone. “Perhaps,” she said. “But that won’t bring back Jose.”
Another reporter shouted: “Will you be filing a civil lawsuit?”
A woman who’d been standing just behind Ms. Torres leaned forward and gripped the microphone: “We have no announcement at this time about a civil suit.”
At this time. Jamie felt nausea rise in her gut. She thought about their meager assets. The house, the old minivan, a tiny retirement account . . . Could they be held personally liable?
Her stomach heaved. She ran to the bathroom just in time to retch into the toilet.
By the time she made it back into the bedroom, the news conference was over, replaced by a daytime talk show. Fortunately the hosts had moved on to another subject: Fourth of July crafts. Jamie sat there dully, watching a woman demonstrate how to put a candle in a glass vase and layer red, white, and blue sand around it for a festive centerpiece.
At least their children were safe, she thought. She could endure anything, as long as she had Mike and the kids. She thought of Ms. Torres, walking through the park with her head held high, images of her son riding his bike swirling around her like ghosts, and she wiped away tears. No matter what pain she was in, no matter what she would have to endure, it shrank in comparison to Ms. Torres’s.
Jamie had to hug her children, to hold them close and feel their soft little hands, to kiss their chubby cheeks. She opened the bedroom door and almost screamed. Mike was standing there.
“Did you see it?” he asked.
She put a hand over her racing heart and nodded. “It wasn’t . . . that bad,” she lied.
“Oh, come on,” he said.
She reared back her head. “You watched?”
“I turned it on in the basement,” he said. Their basement wasn’t finished, but Mike kept a small television and old sofa down there along with his exercise equipment.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was sorry for lying, sorry for not urging Mike to see that police psychologist after all. Sorry for not recognizing her husband hadn’t been ready to go back to work.
He shrugged, a small, defeated gesture. “I need to take a shower,” he said.
The doorbell rang, and Jamie felt her pulse quicken. What now? She had the sudden, wild thought that Mike’s parents had driven down from New Jersey. But no—it would be impossible for them to get here so quickly. Maybe it was a reporter, or someone serving a subpoena, or a friend of Ms. Torres’s who’d been at the press conference today . . .
“I get it!” Eloise shouted, and Jamie began to run down the stairs.
“No! Eloise, please let me—”
It was too late. Eloise had pulled open the door, giving Jamie a clear view of their front stoop from her vantage point midway down the stairs.
Jamie sank down onto a step as men began filing into their house. Five of them, in total. All Mike’s good friends from the police force. They weren’t wearing their blue uniforms, which meant they’d all arranged to take the day off, which must’ve been quite a feat. Arun Brahma was with them, holding a huge bag from KFC. Another man carried a few liters of soda.
“Is Mike around?” asked a guy named Shawn. He and Mike had joined the force at the same time. Along with their partners, they sometimes met up for coffee in the morning on slow days. He’d had dinner at their house before.
Jamie nodded, as a tightness filled her chest. She heard Mike coming down the stairs, and she shifted aside to give him room to pass.
“Hey, man,” Mike said. He reached out and slapped Shawn’s palm, then Shawn pulled him in for a hug. Suddenly Mike was surrounded, swallowed up by the men.
It was, Jamie thought as she bent her head to hide her tears, as if Mike’s fellow officers had heard a silent signal. An officer-needs-assistance call that they’d all rushed to answer.
•••
“Ma’am? Excuse me? Are you deaf?”
Lou blinked and looked up at the guy standing on the other side of the counter. He was young, with a goatee and a Bluetooth phone bud in his ear. Those always confused Lou; she never knew if customers were talking to her or to someone on the line, and sometimes, like today, she guessed wrong.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“A skinny double latte, extra foam,” he said.
When did the word please begin to disappear from our vocabulary? Lou wondered. Only about one in every ten people even bothered to thank her for making their coffee. She swallowed a yawn and decided to treat herself to a latte, too. Usually smelling coffee for so many hours put her off it, but today, she desperately needed a jolt. Jamie’s house was so hot she hadn’t caught more than a few hours’ rest. She’d taken to dozing on the living room couch, next to one of the fans she’d bought at Home Depot, but even with the windows open, the air was stifling.
“Hello, miss?” Was the customer actually snapping his fingers at her? Maybe she was moving a little slowly, but come on, she thought.
“Your latte’s coming right up, sir,” the barista working next to Lou said. He took the cup out of her hand and poured in two shots of espresso before adding milk. “Let me get you a free scone to make up for the wait.”
“No carbs,” the man said.
“Our apologies, then,” the barista said. “Enjoy!”
The customer walked out, and Lou turned to her colleague, a middle-aged guy who’d lost his job in finance a few years earlier and, after six months of filling out applications and with one kid on the cusp of college, had found himself on the other side of the counter. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m moving a little slowly today.”
“No worries,” he said. He winked at Lou. “I gave him decaf and full-fat milk. Do you want to take your break now?”
Lou laughed. “Sure.” Normally she walked around the block to soak in the fresh air, but today she felt too exhausted to do anything more than take her latte to a corner table. Unlike restaurants, where there was a clear ebb and flow of customers based around mealtimes, the coffee shop always seemed busy. It wasn’t until Lou sat down heavily, releasing an involuntary sigh, that she realized the depth of her sleep deprivation. Her vision was actually a little blurry. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could put down her head to steal a catnap.
“Excuse me.” The woman standing in front of her was holding an iced tea and smiling. “I just wanted to say I thought that guy was really rude. You handled him well.”
“Oh,” Lou responded. “Thanks.”
The table next to Lou’s was empty, and the woman plopped down. “Is it really only five o’clock?” she asked, unwrapping the cellophane from a package of cookies. “I feel like it should already be tomorrow. Want one?”
Lou hadn’t realized it, but a cookie was exactly what she wanted. Normally she didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but today she craved sugar.
“Thanks,” she said again, reaching for the sweet in the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Long day for you, too?” the woman asked. She smiled brightly at Lou and didn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, are they hiring here?”
“I’m not sure,” Lou said. She took a bite of cookie, tasting lemons and sugar. “I could check with the manager.”
“Oh, don’t get up. I know you probably don’t get many breaks. This place is a madhouse,” the woman said. “I can ask for myself. Do you mind, though . . . is the job okay?”
“Yeah, usually,” Lou said. “The hours are flexible.”
The woman nodded. “Oh, I’m Kaitlin by the way.”
“Lou.”
“Nice to meet you. Here, have another.” She passed a second cookie to Lou. “I’m an artist,” Kaitlin said. Lou blinked at the sudden turn in conversation, but Kaitlin didn’t seem to need any encouragement to keep talking. “But not a real one, I guess. No one pays me for my paintings. I don’t know, my older sister keeps nagging me to get a steady job. That’s why I asked about this place.”
Lou wasn’t sure why the woman was revealing all of this, but she nodded to be polite.
“Do you have a sister?” Kaitlin asked.
“Yes,” Lou said. She took a sip of her latte.
“Older or younger?”
“She’s older,” Lou said.
“Ah, so you know what I mean.”
Actually, Lou wasn’t quite sure. But she was so sleepy, and the woman seemed so certain, that it seemed easier to just sip her latte and nod again.
“Do you get along well with your sister?” Kaitlin asked.
“Sure,” Lou said.
“You’re lucky,” Kaitlin said. “I used to see mine all the time, but she married this jerk of a guy.” Kaitlin was ripping open a sugar packet and pouring its contents into her tea and swirling her straw around in her plastic cup, creating a mini-tornado. “He’s got a real temper.”
“That’s too bad,” Lou said.
“Is your sister married?” Kaitlin asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” Lou said as she covered up another yawn. She only had fifteen minutes off, and she needed every one of them, but she couldn’t be rude to a customer. The woman was only trying to be friendly. Besides, she’d given Lou half of her cookies.
“What’s her husband like?” Kaitlin said.
“Whose?” Lou asked.
“Your sister’s,” Kaitlin said, laughing. But not in a mean way, like she thought Lou was dumb. It was more like they were in on the joke together.
“He’s great,” Lou said.
“You’re so lucky,” Kaitlin said. “So he’s not a yeller, like Joey? That’s my brother-in-law’s name.”
“What? No. I mean, sure, he can get mad sometimes. Once he threw a beer can at the TV when someone messed up a football play.”
Kaitlin laughed again, as if it was one of the funniest things she’d ever heard, and Lou found herself sitting up a bit straighter. The sugar and caffeine were coursing through her body now, and her exhaustion was receding. Lou knew she didn’t always make a great first impression. She could tell you ten different routes to the Washington Monument and she could multiply double-digit numbers in her head. But people, and the strange, subtle signals they gave off, could be confounding. They cried when they were happy. They smiled when they were angry, or spoke in especially calm voices instead of yelling. They mixed together their feelings in such a busy way—Lou always thought of it as an emotional stew because it was like walking into a kitchen and inhaling the scent of a stew and being asked to list the ingredients. Who could puzzle out exactly what was cooking, when there were so many different things mingling together?
She looked more closely at Kaitlin, who wore expensive designer jeans and high-heeled shoes with openings at the toes revealing pink-painted nails. She had on a silky tank top and her hair was long and flowing. Her face looked open and friendly. Not the sort of woman who usually tried to befriend Lou, but maybe she was new to town, or lonely.
“Does your sister live nearby?” Lou asked Kaitlin. She was rewarded with a huge smile, as if Kaitlin had been worried Lou would end the conversation.
“Yeah, she’s in Virginia,” Kaitlin said.
“Mine, too!” Lou said.
“So we’ve both got older sisters who live in Virginia,” Kaitlin said. “But you like your brother-in-law and I don’t. Did you like him right away? Because my sister’s been married only a year, so I’m thinking maybe it’ll get better.”
Lou sipped her coffee, thinking back. “The first time I met him it was kind of weird, because his ex was supposed to have his son that day, and she didn’t show up. My sister thought it was because she and Mike—that’s her husband’s name—had tickets to a concert and the ex was trying to mess things up for them.”
“Wow!” Kaitlin said. She pulled her chair a bit closer to Lou’s, grimacing when it made a screeching noise against the floor. “So Mike was angry?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Lou said. “My sister sure was! But then they called me to come over and babysit Henry, and that’s how I met Mike.”
“So they went to the concert after all,” Kaitlin said.
“Yep,” Lou said.
“So your sister and Mike’s ex don’t get along,” Kaitlin said. “I guess that’s normal, though.”
Lou could almost hear Jamie’s voice in her ear, telling her to ask Kaitlin something about herself. People like it when you show interest in them, Jamie had told Lou countless times. If you can’t think of a question, try to compliment them.
“So what kind of art do you do?” Lou asked.
“Hmm? Oh, watercolors,” Kaitlin said. Lou waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.
“Sounds nice,” Lou offered.
“Yeah,” Kaitlin said flatly.
Lou wondered if she’d done something wrong. Maybe Kaitlin felt her art was private—but then, she’d been the one to bring it up. Her break was over, so Lou finished her latte and stood up. “I need to get back to work,” she said.
“Oh, sure,” Kaitlin said. She stood up, too.
“Thanks for the cookies,” Lou said.
“Anytime,” Kaitlin said.
“The manager’s here, if you want to talk to him about a job,” Lou said.
“What?” Kaitlin said. “Oh, maybe next time. But thanks.”
Lou walked behind the counter and began filling a blender with ice to make Frappuccinos. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Lou glanced toward the glass doors that she spotted Kaitlin, still outside but now talking on her phone.
It was strange. Kaitlin was staring straight at her, but once Kaitlin caught Lou’s eye, she spun around, as if she hadn’t been looking at all.
•••
Christie sat in the driver’s seat of a sweet red Mercedes with a tobacco-colored interior and a Bose sound system. She reached for a lever and the sunroof rolled back soundlessly. Classic rock blared from the stereo and the smell of rich leather filled her nose.
It was as if this car had been custom-made for her. Even the seat seemed molded around her body, a perfect fit.
She turned the key in the ignition, feeling the vehicle leap to life. She could turn right and head toward the Eastern Shore, or drive straight and head to New York . . . this car could take her anywhere in style.
“Have fun on your test drive. See you in a week?” the salesman joked.
Christie just revved the engine and drove off, feeling the warm rush of wind through her open window. There wasn’t any comparison between this vehicle and her Miata. She loved her sporty little convertible, but the Mercedes was a woman’s car, and Christie was turning over a new leaf. For the first time in her life, she had a real job, a sense of direction. She’d been thinking about buying an actual business suit to wear to her meetings with Elroy. Nothing boxy or in navy blue—she hadn’t completely gone over to the dark side—but something that represented her new role. Maybe down the line she’d even purchase her own home.
Back in high school, no one had ever expected her to amount to much more than homecoming princess or head cheerleader. She could dance, draw on eyeliner without a single smudge, and expertly forge her mother’s handwriting on notes to get her out of school—talents that didn’t hold their value during the transition to the real world.
But now things were turning around. She’d pick up her first paycheck from Elroy this week, and she already knew what she wanted to do with some of it. She was going to add to the college account Mike had created for Henry. She didn’t want Henry to end up saddled with debt, to have to work the kinds of crap jobs she’d started at sixteen. She imagined popping by Mike’s house, a generous check in hand. Jamie would look like she’d swallowed a lemon.
The sleek, purring Mercedes would be her good-luck charm, she decided. She wondered what Simon would think if he saw her pull up to a nice restaurant in this number. Simon would probably be dining with a woman named Beatrice or Kip who had a braying laugh and talked about nothing but dressage. He’d remember what it felt like to be with a real woman when he saw Christie. She’d regard him coolly, thinking of how he’d reacted when she tied his wrists to her bedposts with silk scarves and tickled his bare chest with her hair. The wrist tying wasn’t so much a sexual move as it was one born of desperation—Simon had no technique and he pressed her clitoris like he was a teenager and it was a handheld gaming device. The next day a box containing four Hermès scarves had been delivered to her home. She’d never felt such glorious fabric.
She reluctantly turned back down the street to the car dealership. The salesman saw her pull in and was on her the moment she turned off the engine.
“So, do you love it, or do you love it?” he asked. His smile showed all his teeth.
“Not bad,” she said.
“Why don’t you come in and I’ll get you a bottle of water or some coffee?” he offered.
“I have an appointment,” she said.
She left quickly, without a backward glance. She’d never before noticed how loud her Miata sounded when it started up, or how low to the ground she felt. Her cell phone rang and she glanced down at the caller ID. Henry.
“Hey, baby,” she said.
“Mom?”
ABBA was blaring “Dancing Queen” over the radio so she didn’t catch the quaver in his voice until he said, “Can you come pick me up?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At Josh’s,” he said, naming one of his best friends. “I left a message for Dad but he wasn’t there.”
“Sure,” Christie said. “Be there in fifteen.”
She wondered if he and Josh had had a fight. Unlikely, since they’d been best friends forever, and Henry was the most even-tempered person on the planet. He didn’t get that from her, she thought as an idiot in a Honda tried to cut in front of her and Christie laid on her horn. Still, she pressed her foot a little harder on the gas and made it to Josh’s street in just over ten minutes.
She started to turn down the block, then she noticed a tall, thin figure standing on the corner, a good distance away from Josh’s house. She pulled over. “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “Need a ride?”
She was trying to make Henry smile. But he just climbed into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Just drive, okay?” he snapped.
She almost gave him a lecture about respecting one’s parents—which was pretty funny, considering that by the time she was Henry’s age she was sneaking out to meet boyfriends and smoking cigarettes and cursing back at her mother—but the look on his face stopped her.
“Do you want to go home?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I want to see Dad,” he said.
“I don’t know where he is,” Christie said. “Didn’t you say you tried to call him?”
“Let’s go to his house. I’ll wait.”
Christie felt the sting of rejection. She wondered why he could talk to Mike but not her. But Henry was acting so uncharacteristically that she decided not to press it. Jamie’s minivan was missing when they arrived at the house, but the red ball of sun was sinking low in the sky, pulling some of the heat of the day away with it, so Christie and Henry sat on the front steps. Henry didn’t check his phone, like he usually did during life’s lulls. When Christie asked if he wanted to use his key to go inside, he shook his head. “Stupid AC’s broken,” he said. “It’s too hot in there.”
For some reason, he looked especially like Mike tonight, Christie thought. She’d always been able to see bits of herself in her son—they had the same light skin tone, and his dimples were echoes of her own—but now she could see Mike’s features were the ones that would shape his adult face.
Mike had been the one to handle talking to Henry about sex, wet dreams, and drugs. Who better than a cop to drive home the dangers of marijuana use, or drunk driving? Christie had added to the conversation a bit—downplaying her own past flirtation with pot and mushrooms—but Mike was the one who took the reins when it came to hard conversations. She wasn’t good at this stuff. Still, she should try.
“Is this about a girl?” she asked.
“Can we just sit here?” Henry snapped.
“Sure,” Christie said. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face. She knew teenagers could be rough on their parents, but this was the first time it had happened with Henry.
A half hour later, Jamie’s minivan came down the street and pulled into the driveway. The side doors slid open, and kids piled out.
“Henry!” Eloise shouted, launching herself at her half brother. Henry picked her up and gave her a hug as the other kids swarmed around him. He was like Harry Styles in this house, Christie thought.
Jamie and Mike got out of the van and went around to the back to get bags of groceries out of the trunk. “Thanks for coming by,” Mike said to Henry as he passed by. “Grab a bag on your way in.”
Henry didn’t respond. Mike didn’t seem to notice the tension emanating from his son, but Christie watched as Jamie’s eyes flitted between Henry and Mike before landing on Christie. Christie shrugged. “He said he wanted to talk to his dad.”
“Okay,” Jamie said.
Henry reached out and took the groceries from Jamie’s arms and carried them inside without a word.
“What’s up?” Jamie asked.
“I have no idea,” Christie said. “But he’s really upset.”
“Is it something about the news conference?”
“What news conference?” Christie asked.
Jamie closed her eyes—actually shut her eyes, like she was dealing with an idiot and gathering her patience—before she spoke.
“How could you have missed it?” Jamie said, like everyone in the world was glued to the news constantly.
“If you’d told me, I would’ve watched it,” Christie said.
“I had a few other things going on,” Jamie said. She swallowed and continued in a softer voice. “The mother of the—the teenager held a news conference. She basically called Mike a racist. She said he shot Jose because her son was dark-skinned.”
“Are you serious?” Christie asked. “I mean, isn’t this all going to be dropped soon? Maybe she’s just trying to keep it in the news.”
She heard loud voices from inside the house. Jamie must’ve heard them, too, because she rushed inside. After a moment’s hesitation, Christie followed.
Henry was standing in the middle of the living room, his posture rigid. The house was steaming hot, and Henry’s face was red and sweaty.
“I didn’t know what she was going to say, okay?” Mike was saying. He wasn’t yelling, but just barely.
“She said you shot him on purpose!” Henry shouted. “Josh played it back on YouTube.”
Mike and Jamie had really screwed up, Christie thought. Henry shouldn’t have heard about this secondhand. She knew the anger on her face reflected her son’s.
“You think I did it on purpose? Because he was Hispanic?” Mike roared. He had a look on his face that Christie had never before seen.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Henry had never spoken that way before—to anyone.
Mike’s face was a mottled red now, just like Henry’s. For the first time, Christie wondered if Mike was going to hit their son. But before she could scream at them to stop, Jamie stepped forward. Christie thought Jamie would yell, or shove the guys apart. But instead Jamie put a gentle hand on Henry’s shoulder and she looked up at Mike.
“I’m so sorry we didn’t warn you, Henry,” she said, her voice as soft as a caress. “It must’ve been horrible for you to learn about this from your friends.”
“It was!” Henry’s voice was still loud, but Jamie’s words had drained away the venom from it.
“Your dad has been under so much stress, honey,” Jamie said. She was blinking hard now, seeming on the verge of tears. “We all have. You, too. We should have dealt with this better as a family. I’m so sorry you found out this way.”
Henry began to cry. “How could she say those things about you, Dad? And then people were writing stuff in the comments, saying they’d like to blow your head off.” Henry had morphed into a young boy again, his lips trembling and his shoulders shaking. He’d been scared, not angry, Christie realized belatedly. Just like his dad.
Mike moved closer and folded Henry into his arms. “Don’t read that stuff. Look, maybe you should stay at your mom’s for a while. Until all this is resolved.”
“I don’t want to!” Henry said. “I want to be with you!” Christie felt herself flinch.
“They can’t just say that stuff about you!” Henry continued. “It’s so unfair! I want to just . . . hit them and make them stop.”
“Trust me, I know,” Mike said.
Jamie moved closer and stroked Henry’s hair. “It’s going to be okay, honey,” she said.
They were a circle of three, linked together physically and emotionally, and they’d all forgotten she was here. They were a family, like snooty Simon surrounded by his mother and brother at the birthday lunch, and she was on the outside again.
Christie didn’t even realize she’d walked out of the house until she’d pulled the door shut behind her.