Artie and Marisol packed the girls and the puppy in the back of the car and drove to Wednesday night dinner at his mom’s place. It was a family tradition he remembered from childhood, all the cousins, aunts, and uncles would gather at his grandmother’s house in Broadmoor. There were fifteen cousins in his generation and everybody lived nearby. Now the whole family was scattered, it was just his older sister still in town with her two kids. And his father’s absence left everything diminished.
They parked and the girls started to squabble about which one of them would hold the dog’s leash on the way to the door. Marisol unbuckled Pearl from her car seat and lifted her out.
“I’m walking Boudin. It’s my turn,” she said.
Pearl had always been a quiet baby, none of that baby talk and babble that Colette had done. They had worried about her hearing, her development, but then she’d started speaking in complete grammatical sentences suddenly, a few weeks ago. It still startled them to hear her confident little voice.
“No,” Colette said, “I said it first.”
Marisol glanced at Art. It was essential to avoid a meltdown in front of his mom. They worried about her. Since Bertrand’s death she seemed like she could splinter at any moment.
“Hey, how about we all hold the leash,” Artie said.
“No,” the girls said.
“I wonder what Boudin would like,” Artie said. “Did anyone ask him?”
Pearl grabbed at the puppy’s face, managed to brush an ear. “Daddy, he won’t talk to me,” she said.
Artie lifted the dog in his arms and said, “Boudin, what do you think if we all walk you to the door?” He put his ear to the dog’s snout. Boudin licked the side of his face happily. “Really?” Artie said to the dog. “You sure? You got it, bud.”
He set the dog down. “He told me he’s very into this idea. Girls, what do you say?”
“Okay,” Colette said.
Pearl had already stationed herself next to the dog, her chubby fist around the leash near his collar. “Daddy, he wants us to,” she explained. “He told me, too.”
“Okay, Mari, get over here,” he said.
The adults had to hunch over to reach the leash, and the four of them shuffled along, forced to go at Pearl’s two-year-old pace. The girls were both giggling and talking to the dog. At the door Artie straightened up and opened it. Inside he let the dog off the leash. The girls bounced after him into the house. Artie returned to the car to get the wine and salad they had brought. Back inside he found his mom alone in the kitchen.
“There you are, baby,” his mother said.
She had made her butter beans with shrimp, and the smell pervaded the kitchen.
“Hi, Mama,” he said. “What can I do?”
“Check on that rice cooker for me, will you? I think it’s done.”
He lifted the lid. “Yeah, it’s done.”
“Let’s set the table.”
Artie opened the silverware drawer. “How many are we tonight?”
“Nine, Joanie couldn’t come. She’s got play practice or something.” His mother took the forks and knives from her son. “How you holding up, babe?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Yeah? You can talk to me, you know. Campaigns are hard. Especially the first one. Even if they go well, it’s draining for everybody.”
“Did Mari say something to you?” he said. Maybe he hadn’t been hiding his stress as well as he thought.
“No, no, she hasn’t. And she seems great. The girls, too. Such little munchkins. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me? Don’t worry about me. I’m doing well in the polls.”
“Yes, you’ll win this one,” she said. “I’m not concerned about that. I know how dirty it can get out there, that’s all.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Honey, I’ve been through it. Those jackals will dig up anything they can.”
“There’s nothing to dig up,” he said.
She studied his face a moment, the spoon in her hand dripping gravy to the floor. She nodded.
“Good. But if you ever need somebody to help navigate it, you can ask me. I learned a lot from watching your father, you know.”
“Mom. I’m not running that kind of campaign,” Artie said.
“Oh, honey. I’ve heard your talking points. But there’s how you run, and there’s how things work. There has to be some overlap.”
“I’m fine,” Artie said.
She patted her son’s cheek. “Remember, you don’t have to be perfect. Voters like it when you loosen up.”
“Yeah, Mom,” he said. “I know.”
“You do look tired,” she said. “You sleeping enough?”
“Sure,” he said. “Almost.”
She handed him the stack of plates. “Go set the table.”
All through dinner Artie wondered what his mother knew, what she suspected. Neither he nor his dad had ever said a word to her about that night two decades ago. His father could not tell her what really happened, because to reveal it would put her at risk. That’s what Bertrand had explained at the time, the promise he’d extracted from his son. We have to protect your mother and your brother and sisters, he said. They can never know. Later Artie understood that the woman who helped him that night also had to be kept secret from his mother. If he told her, in a moment of weakness, it would destroy his parents’ marriage.
There was no reason for his mom to worry. Hadn’t he handled the blackmail situation perfectly well by himself? And if they came back at him, he could figure that out, too. He’d be prepared. He’d taken steps already. Shifted some money around. He’d even bought a gun. Not that he planned to use it, but to need one and not have it—well, now he had it.
It’s true he’d had trouble sleeping, had added miles to his morning runs to wear his body out, keep himself calm. He’d done the same thing during those first months at boarding school. He had been a different person then, a child. He hadn’t yet learned to reinvent himself. When he figured out how to do that, his new life closed around that night and contained it, compressed it, until it took up no space in him at all. It was like the whole thing had happened to someone else and Artie had only heard about it secondhand.
But since that letter came, the past kept creeping around. It showed up in his dreams, the smell of blood and urine and burned rubber, flashes of that night—out of nowhere, a man in the street. The thump, the squeal of the tires as Artie’s leg pushes down the pedal. The wrong one, he tries to brake, and in his alarm pushes the accelerator instead. Outside of the car, sitting on the pavement, cradling the man’s head in his lap, Artie’s arms and legs wet with blood, his face wet with tears. That scene replaying, waking him. He could never get back to sleep after that, even if it was three or four in the morning.
But he would be fine. He took a second helping of beans and bounced Pearl on his lap, making her giggle while he ate.