Before You Know Kindness (14 page)

She paused with her hands on her hips and stared at the house. She was torn between her belief that these girls needed a grown-up right now and her sense that her own two children were taking advantage of her—as, in truth, they did for weeks at a time with the Seton New England Boot Camp. She loved her grandchildren, she loved them very much. But she was a glorified babysitter, that’s what she was.

She could hear her breath steam from her nose, and she shook her head. Then, convinced that any second she would stop herself and turn around and herd the children inside, she started toward the front door. She did not stop herself, however, not this time. She went through the front hall and past the living room, up the stairs—pausing briefly on the second-floor landing where she heard John and Sara down the hall whispering as they arranged Patrick’s crib and started preparing the baby for bed, saw the shut bathroom door and understood that Catherine was inside there running a bath—and then to her own sanctum sanctorum on the third floor. She sat on her bed with her hands on the edge of the mattress, vexed by her children. When she would recall this moment in the coming days, she would wonder if that sensation of pique had in actuality been apprehension.

THE TWO GIRLS
collapsed into grass already damp with evening dew and gazed up at the stars.

“We don’t have stars like this in New York, you know,” Charlotte said.

“I do know,” Willow said. “How are you?”

“What do you mean, how am I?”

“You know.”

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

“I’m still pretty buzzed. I know that. But the giggles are gone.”

“Personally, I think you’re more drunk than buzzed. There’s a difference.”

“What about you?”

“Mellow. Mellow stoned.”

“How does your throat feel?”

“My throat feels fine.”

“Not sore?”

“It was at first. But then the buzz began and it went away. Poof.”

“I still can’t believe you did that.”

“I can’t believe
we
did that,” Charlotte said, and she chuckled.

“I mean your taking the pot in the first place.”

“It was no big deal.”

“I think it was: You took something that wasn’t yours.”

“Gwen wouldn’t have cared. I told you, I’ve smoked pot before—two times. If I’d asked, she would have shared some with me,” Charlotte said.

“No way. There is no way Gwen would have let a twelve-year-old kid smoke her pot.”

“Why does everyone keep saying I’m twelve—”

“Because you are!”

“No, I’m not! I’m almost thirteen. If people want to round my age, they should round it up to thirteen!”

“Fine, you’re thirteen. There is still no way that Gwen would have let a thirteen-year-old smoke her pot—or anyone’s pot!”

“She wouldn’t have had a choice,” Charlotte said, and she lowered her voice slightly. “Maybe I would have pointed out to her that I could tell the grown-ups there were kids at the bonfire with dope if she didn’t let me have some.”

“You would have done that to Gwen?”

The older girl shrugged her shoulders. In reality, Willow knew, Charlotte wouldn’t have dared. She wouldn’t have wanted to anger this young adult whose friendship she cherished or do something as decidedly uncool as rat on a teenager.

“I guess I wouldn’t have,” Charlotte said after a moment. “But I still don’t think Gwen would have minded all that much. I’m sure she would have given us a couple of puffs.”

Willow found herself nodding. Sometimes this was about as close to acquiescence as you got with Charlotte. “I think my mom had a good time,” she said, consciously changing the subject. “Sometimes she says she gets a little shy at parties. But I think she thought this one was fun.”

“My mom sure thought so,” Charlotte said, but she sounded annoyed.

“What? You don’t want your mom to have a good time?”

“I want her to have a good time with Dad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t. Your mom . . .”

“My mom what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me.”

Charlotte draped her arm over her eyes. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I think I have the munchies.”

“Tell me what you meant!”

She took a very deep breath, and when she exhaled it sounded a bit like the wind. “I was going to say that my mom is this really huge flirt—even though she’s married. It’s pathetic.”

Willow was stunned. She couldn’t imagine thinking such a thing of one’s mother, much less verbalizing the notion aloud. She told herself this was some idea that had popped into her cousin’s head because of the marijuana.

“And my dad doesn’t know it,” Charlotte continued. “He’s completely clueless.”

“They seem happy to me.”

“Yeah, right. You saw Mom with Gary at the club this morning, didn’t you? And then tonight at the party?”

“Your mom and Gary played tennis. What’s the big deal?”

“And she’s done this before,” Charlotte went on, ignoring her.

“Your mom?”

“Uh-huh. I get it from her. I’ve seen how she is with men at parties at our apartment and at school, and I’ve heard her on the phone. I’ve even picked up the phone and listened. One time—”

“You’ve listened in on her phone conversations?”

“Twice. One time she was talking to a teacher and another time it was this headmaster, but I could tell there was more going on than just school stuff.”

Willow realized this disclosure was not merely making her uncomfortable, it was scaring her. She felt cold suddenly and wanted to go inside, but—as if she were watching a desperately frightening movie—she couldn’t bring herself to leave. “Are they going to get a divorce?” she asked, and her voice sounded tiny to her.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did someday. You know that one out of every two marriages ends in divorce. So it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Yes it would.”

“You don’t understand because your mom doesn’t drool over other men, and your father isn’t so caught up in all the other stuff he does—cows or monkeys or something—that he doesn’t even notice.”

“Charlotte, divorce would be horrible.”

“You just think that because you live in Vermont. Divorce is a lot more normal—”

“Divorce is never normal!”

“It happens, Cousin. You deal. Anyway, the thing that really gets me is the way she doesn’t take Dad seriously. Like this garden. Dad really wanted it to work, but Mom just didn’t care. I mean, if my boyfriend—”

“Husband—”

“You know what I mean. If my boyfriend or husband really cared about something, I’d take it seriously. Wouldn’t you? I’m only his daughter, but I still wish I could do something to save the garden—and not because I love radishes or beets.”

“No one loves radishes.”

“Sometimes I get pissed at both of them. I don’t think Mom would be the way she is if Dad wasn’t this public whacko. You want to know something? You’ve been to the Bronx Zoo more times than I have.”

“I think I’ve been once.”

“Well, that’s one more time than me. FERAL doesn’t approve of zoos.”

High overhead Willow saw the blinking lights of an airplane, but it was so far away that she couldn’t hear it. If she squinted, it looked a bit like a slow-motion shooting star. She decided right then that she wished Charlotte hadn’t told her any of this, because it was information she didn’t need, and then she decided she would never drink beer or smoke pot again—and, if she could, she would prevent her cousin from dabbling with either. She blamed this whole conversation—and, especially, Charlotte’s revelations—on the beer and the dope.

Over her shoulder she heard a noise from the house, and when she turned around she saw her father in the lit frame of the window of the bedroom that her parents and Patrick were sharing. His hands were on the sill and he had pulled up the screen so he could lean outside. He looked around, and she realized he couldn’t pinpoint them in the dark. He was already wearing the blue T-shirt in which he slept, and she could see the check plaid of his summer pajamas around his waist.

“Willow?” he called in a stage whisper, his voice carrying well through the tranquil night air. “Willow?”

“We’re out here, Dad,” she yelled back, trying to make her voice project without shouting. She guessed Patrick was either asleep in his crib or settling down with one of Mom’s breasts in his mouth.

“There’s an unopened packet of diapers in the trunk of the Volvo,” he told her from the window. “Could you get it, please? There are none left in the diaper bag.”

“Sure.”

He nodded, closed the screen, and disappeared back into the room.

“Babies are very high maintenance,” Charlotte said.

“They are,” Willow agreed, relieved that her father had already gotten into his pajamas and hadn’t felt like going outside for the diapers. It had taken Charlotte’s mind off her own mother and father and given the two of them an excuse to get away from this conversation about divorce. Together they stood up, the two of them still wobbly, and when Charlotte nearly toppled over like a toddler Willow grabbed her around the waist and suddenly they were both laughing hysterically once again. They walked across the yard to the car after they had caught their breath, moving gingerly because it was dark and because their feet seemed strangely detached from their legs. There Willow managed to pop open the trunk, though it seemed considerably more difficult than usual to find the button and press it.

At first Willow didn’t think anything of the contents. She saw the diapers and she saw the jack, and she saw a moldy towel and an empty plastic bottle that once had held mineral water. But then, at the exact moment that Charlotte was opening her mouth and asking what that thing was that was shaped a lot like a rifle, she saw her dad’s lambskin gun bag. Before she could stop Charlotte—her own hands were too busy hoisting the plastic-wrapped cube of diapers as big as a television set—her cousin was reaching into the trunk and lifting Dad’s Adirondack into the air, feeling its shape through the leather and the fleece and the long metal zipper.

“What the heck is this?” Charlotte said, and though Willow dropped the diapers onto the grass and ripped the gun bag from her cousin’s hands, she knew it was too late.

“It’s nothing,” Willow said, the words useless.

“It’s a gun is what it is. Why does Uncle John have a gun?”

“Maybe it’s evidence in some case.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“Then why did you grab it out of my hands like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Like you knew what it was.”

“It’s Dad’s. Leave it alone.” She dropped it back into the trunk and slammed the trunk shut. She wished she had a key so she could lock it.

“Seriously, tell me: Why does your dad have a gun? Is he, like, in trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is some criminal after him? I know he represents some real scary characters.”

“No!”

“Then why?”

She rubbed her eyes, and then reached down for the diapers. She picked the plush cube up, cradling it against her chest as if it were a massive stuffed animal, and said, “If you must know—and before I tell you this, you have to swear on your life you won’t tell your mom and dad, okay?”

“Fine. Whatever you want.”

“You swear?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “I am way too old for this sort of thing. But sure: I swear.”

“Since you must know, Dad sometimes go hunting. Deer hunting. He’s not superserious about it, but he started last fall.”

“Has he killed anything?”

“Not yet.”

“But he hunts,” she said, her voice an odd combination of incredulity and wonder.

“Yes. He hunts,” Willow said, and she took the diapers and started toward the house. Before she had gone inside, however, a thought crossed her mind and she called out to her cousin, “I’ll be right back, you know. So just leave my dad’s stuff alone, okay?”

WHEN THE SINGLE GUNSHOT
blistered the night quiet, Catherine’s ears were under the water in the bath and she was only vaguely aware of the sound. She imagined something had fallen over in the kitchen, and she guessed her mother’s dog had toppled the metal trash can in the corner near the sink. She didn’t even pull the back of her head up from underneath the bubbles and the foam, and she continued to breathe in slowly through her nose, which was barely a fraction of an inch above the surface of the water. She was wondering which of her divorced friends she should call to get the name of a marriage counselor and then whether a divorcée was really the best route to a person who might actually be capable of preserving her and Spencer’s marriage. It was only when she heard footsteps pounding down the stairs and her nephew’s shrill cries a moment later that she pulled herself from the water, listened carefully, and then threw her nightgown over her damp body and ran to investigate.

Two rooms away young Patrick heard the blast loud and clear, and he started with his mother’s nipple in his mouth, biting down so hard with his lips and small, sharp teeth that Sara yelped—an echo, almost, of the gunshot’s lingering ping, the higher, less angry sound following the initial, concussive explosion—and she pulled her baby away from her breast. Then he let loose with a yowl. John knew instantly what the bang was, and he turned from his wife and his son, dimly aware of the milk and a tiny bit of blood puddling across Sara’s reddish brown areola, and raced to the window with the cube of diapers still in his hands. For a split second his heart had stopped, but now it was pounding so hard and fast in his chest that each thump sounded as loud in his head as the rifle’s discharge.

Upstairs on the third floor Nan heard it, too, though her first reaction was that a large vehicle had backfired. It was as if she were back in Manhattan and it was, say, early May, and a bus or a garbage truck had just passed by her apartment and she had heard the bang through an open window. But then she realized that this had nothing to do with a bus or a truck, because she was in Sugar Hill and the house was too far from the road for the sound of a vehicle backfiring to have been so disconcerting and brutish.

And, of course, Spencer heard it, as he wandered out from the lupine that bordered the remnants of the vegetable garden, but he had no time to understand what the sound was because the bullet—the Menzer Premium that John, so new and green, had been unable to remove from the chamber back in November—slammed into his upper body and sent him flying into the air in much the same way as his daughter when she was doing an inward dive (hips thrown back high and hard, arms spread wide to the sides). He landed with his legs in the lupine and his chest and his arms and his head atop the ruined tangles of peas, and though he had heard the gunshot he did not hear the scream of the child, even though the scream—then a shriek, then a wail that sounded to anyone who was listening carefully like the word
No!
—followed the blast by no more than a second or a second and a half.