The police station remained quiet. It somehow felt both eerie and drab, like a spook house with fluorescent lights. Jessie looked back at the clock. It was just after five.
“Want something to eat or drink?” said Frank. “I could go out and look for an open deli.”
“No. But if you want to go get something for yourself, go ahead,” said Jessie. “Or you can go home if you like. I’m fine. Really.”
“No, I’ll stay. I’m fine too.” He leaned back and folded his arms.
“I really liked your play tonight,” said Jessie. “I liked it a lot.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, but in a dry, automatic manner.
“I’m not just making small talk,” she said. “I do like it.”
He looked at her more closely. “Thank you very much then.” It didn’t sound terribly different from his first thank-you.
“Frank? Why’re we still angry with each other? We have so much in common. We should be real close. Especially now.”
His sleepy eyes opened a little wider in his round face. His face looked rounder than usual, the muscles slack with fatigue.
“This should be a lesson to us all,” he said, sounding lightly sarcastic. “There’s no telling when someone’s gonna pull out a gun and start shooting. So don’t sweat the small stuff.”
Jessie narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re not small stuff.”
“Not us.” The sarcasm vanished. “Our pride. Our egos.”
“Yours or mine?”
“I was thinking of mine. But you’re not innocent either.”
Jessie drew a deep breath, tempted to argue. Then she said, “No. I’m not. But you need some pride to get along in life. Some ego.”
“But our egos have gotten all tangled up in our affection.” He looked away for a moment. “We feel we don’t deserve to be loved unless we’re successful.”
“I told you back at the party. I’m a loser too. Remember?”
“You don’t really believe that.”
She hesitated. “No. Not really. I’m having a great time playing Octopus Lady. And I’m good at it. But I have no illusions about Henry needing me or keeping me. No, when he finishes here and heads off to Capri or wherever, he’s going to forget about all of us. Which is fine.” Was it? She hoped so. “Working for him will make a good story. But it’ll be small potatoes compared to this one.”
Frank was looking at her, surprised, concerned. “We said some really vicious things to each other the other night.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” His sorry sounded almost as dry as his thank you. He frowned. “But I am in love with you.”
“You love me like a pig loves mud,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a pretty phrase. “Which leaves me naked. I have a harder time forgiving you than you must have forgiving me. Because you’re not in love.”
“No,” she admitted. “Not like you.”
He did not look hurt. He wasn’t being manipulative, merely factual.
“But I don’t want to lose you,” she told him. “I don’t want us to have to be all or nothing.”
“Me neither. But I might have no choice. It’s hard to be friends with an unrequited love. It can make you crazy. It can make you act like a real shit.”
“It’s no picnic for the beloved either,” she argued. “Feeling guilty all the time. Getting sick of seeing puppy-dog eyes.”
They looked at each other, frowning, squinting, swallowing. They were nothing like puppy dogs now.
“Jessikins!” a gruff male voice called out. “My God. Will you look at you. Little Jessikins ain’t so little anymore.”
A stocky red-faced man in his sixties strode into the room, holding out his hand, necktie flapping against his belly.
“Remember your Uncle Jimmy? I’m Captain Murtagh now.”
“Oh my,” said Jessie. She jumped up and shook his hand. She did not remember him—he must be one of the cops who regularly visited them in Beacon when she was a toddler—but she played along. “I can’t believe you’re not retired yet.”
“Not dead, you mean. You and me both, sister. Good thing I was here tonight, though. No telling what might have happened to your dear old…”
Jessie saw her behind the captain: Mom, walking very slowly, uncertainly, looking somewhat miffed.
There was no other word for her expression. The face was pinched and proud, like that of someone who was embarrassed but refusing to show it. Jessie was confused. She had been so full of fear for her mother that she didn’t know what to think when she saw Mom looking so, well, like Mom. Nothing was changed. Her blouse and skirt were clean, her beige hair neatly waved, her purse still at her side.
“Now, Molly,” Captain Murtagh was saying. “You have to be at court on Monday. Like with a traffic violation. Except here there’s hell to pay if you don’t show. As of now you’re charged only with illegal possession and reckless endangerment. But a judge in a bad mood could change it all to attempted murder. So you better be nice.”
“Thank you. You’ve been a big help, Jimmy,” said Mom in a surprisingly perfunctory manner.
“I’m just glad I was here to pull a few strings. It’s the least I could do for Mrs. Bobby Doyle.”
Mom gave him a nod and a pained smile and hurried outside.
The captain turned to Jessie. “Don’t worry. She’s a cop’s widow. No judge in his right mind will throw the book at her. But right now she needs sleep. That’s why she’s a little wacky. Take her to your brother’s place and put her to bed. Oh, and don’t forget this.” He gave Jessie an official form, the summons or citation, like a doctor handing over a prescription for an elderly patient.
Jessie joined her mother outside. She stood on the sidewalk with Frank.
“Did you want me to get you a cab, Mrs. Doyle?”
“Not at all. I can walk,” she said crisply. “Where’re we going?” She stared at Frank. “Who are you?”
“This is Frank,” said Jessie. “My boyfriend.” It just slipped out, but nobody seemed to notice. “We can go back to Caleb’s and you can get some sleep. Before you go home to Beacon. You want to walk?”
“Yes, I’d like that. I need the air.” She started walking, Jessie and Frank joining her on either side.
The sun was not yet up, but the street was full of light, a soft wash of color. The birds were singing, always a nice surprise in the city. The sweetness of the sound made Jessie feel sadder, more tender. She took her mother’s arm.
“Don’t be silly.” Mom tugged her arm back. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. You don’t have to fuss over me. I just thank my lucky stars I don’t live here and nobody knows me. Because God knows what they’d think seeing me being let out of jail at the crack of dawn.”
Frank gave Jessie a worried look, as if this were strange behavior, but Mom was only being herself.
Sooner than expected, they were crossing Seventh Avenue to Sheridan Square. Caleb’s building was closer to the police station in daylight than it had been at night. Jessie used her keys to get in the front door. There was no answer upstairs when she knocked. She went ahead and opened the door, dreading the mess inside.
But the apartment was neat and orderly, the rooms full of early-morning shadow, nothing more. You would never know there had been a party here last night, much less a shooting.
“Mom? Why don’t you go lie down in Caleb’s room. Get a little sleep. You’ll feel better.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Caleb at the hospital. Frank walked Mom over to the bedroom while Jessie talked to Caleb.
“Only a flesh wound,” he reported. “Prager’s fine. The shot ripped his arm like a knife, but nothing was permanently damaged.”
Jessie told him her good news.
“You’re kidding. They just let her out? No bail or nothing? Jimmy Murtagh? I remember him. He was Dad’s partner in Pelham Bay, a bachelor cop who lived with his mother. All right, I better call Irene and tell her we won’t need a lawyer today. I’ll be home in an hour or so. Henry? Oh yeah, he’s still here. See you shortly. Bye.”
Frank returned from the bedroom and she relayed the news.
“Good,” he said. “One less thing to worry about.”
“I should tell Mom too, before she falls asleep.”
But she found Mom just sitting on the bed, feet on the floor, hands balled in her lap. “I can’t sleep in a strange bed,” she said. “And I don’t have any pajamas.”
“Oh, Mom. It’s Caleb’s bed. A family bed. Here. I’ll find you something to sleep in.” She knelt at his dresser and began to open drawers. “That was Caleb on the phone. He said Prager is fine. The bullet wound is no worse than a nasty cut.”
“Thank God for that.” She remained seated upright on the bed, as rigid as an Egyptian statue.
“Mom? Are you okay? How are you feeling?” Jessie sat beside her. She took her hand. The skin was cold but the pulse clear.
“I’m fine!” Again she pulled away, yanking her hand back. “Why shouldn’t I be fine? It was an accident, for chrissake. Everybody carries on like I did it deliberately. Which is ridiculous. Which is such malarkey when nobody—”
She twisted around and seized Jessie’s shoulders with both hands. She buried her face in Jessie’s neck.
“I almost killed him!” she cried. “I could have killed him!”
Jessie was too stunned to speak or move. A hot, wet oven of tears pressed against her collar.
“I can’t do anything right! I either love you too much or love you too little! You and your brother get so unhappy. I’m a terrible mother. There’s nothing I can do to show my love except try to protect you. So I almost killed a man!”
Jessie timidly lifted a hand. She petted her mother’s shoulder, she stroked her mother’s hair.
“This city scares me. But I’m the one who’s scary. I’m dangerous. I’m crazy. I should be terrified of me, not the city.”
“You’re not crazy,” whispered Jessie. She felt tears prick her eyes, then fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She wrapped both arms around her mother and held her tight. “You’re not crazy,” she repeated. She wanted to say something wise and tender in response to her mother’s need. But all she could offer was, “You’re not crazy.”
When her sobbing passed, Jessie released her. And she saw Molly’s face, wet and twisted. She was terrified that her mother would be furious with her for seeing her like this. But if your daughter can’t see you in pain, who can?
“Here,” said Jessie. “You can wear this.” She handed her the T-shirt she’d found in the drawer and had held in her lap all this time, a shirt from Venus in Furs with the cartoon Claire Wade face/logo.
“Thank you,” said Molly, spreading the shirt on the bed. “Very much.” She pretended to thank her for the shirt, but Jessie understood she was thanking her for not making too much of her confusion and panic and tears.
Jessie wiped away her own tears with the heel of her hand. She got up and drew the calico curtain over the casement window. “So you can sleep,” she said. “We’ll all feel better after a little sleep.”
Molly nodded and Jessie gave her mother a motherly kiss on the cheek. A wet glaze remained on both their faces.
Frank was not in the living room. Jessie was grateful that he’d kept away when she was with Mom, but now she was afraid he’d gone home.
She found him in the office, stretched on the daybed under the bookcase, looking at Caleb’s copy of Chaos by James Gleick.
“Do you understand that science crap?” she said.
“No. But the pictures are pretty.” He held open the book on a computer-generated photo of manic paisley patterns, like a gorgeous mess of clockwork gears. “Here,” he said and put the book down and scooted over to make room for her.
“Sure,” she said and kicked off her shoes and lay beside him.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Wigged out. I can’t guess half of what she’s feeling right now. But I wonder if she knows everything she’s feeling.” Jessie idly tugged at one of Frank’s fingers. “Poor Mom. I’m always afraid I need her more than she needs me. But now? She needs me more.”
She lifted Frank’s arm so she could snuggle into his armpit and get more room on the narrow bed. She liked having him beside her, a solid weight like half a hug.
“Or not more,” she corrected herself. “As much. She needs me as much. Maybe.”