Deep Down True (34 page)

“Bound to happen,” said Connie. “He finally sank to his rightful level.”

A companionable silence fell between them. After a moment Connie said, “Okay, can we talk about my kid now, or did you have any other assholes to tell me about?”

Dana hesitated.

“Christ,” said Connie. “How bad is it?”

“Well . . . it was bad, but I think she’s doing better now. Connie, you have to promise you won’t flip out. She’s handling it, but she has to heal at her own pace.” When Dana finished recounting Ethan’s cruel abuse of Alder’s friendship, Connie let out a string of expletives that was almost poetic in its lush, descriptive imagery.

“True,” said Dana. “But, honestly, I think she’s turning the corner. She’s made some friends, and she’s been incredible with Morgan and Grady.” The thought of Alder’s kindness toward her beleaguered cousins lifted Dana. “You’ve got quite a girl there, Con. She’s something special.”

Dana could hear the pride in Connie’s response. “You have no idea,” she murmured.

“Yes,” said Dana, “I actually do.”

“
P
LEASE,”
BEGGED MORGAN AT THE CURB OF COTters Rock Middle School the next morning. A bell rang, and kids moved into the building, some scurrying with their backpacks thumping against their backs, some trudging as if on a forced march.

“Morgan, honey, you can’t miss any more school. I know it’s going to be tough, but if you need me, I’m just a phone call away, I promise.” She tried to sound positive, but it was all she could do not to pull away with Morgan still in the car, sparing her from the imminent nastiness.

Finally Morgan zipped up her jacket, her face rising pale as an iceberg from a fleecy sea. Dana smoothed her hair. “You’re seeing the therapist tonight. I think that’ll help.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I am such a freak,” she muttered, and got out of the car.

Tears rolled down Dana’s cheeks all the way to work. Dabbing her face with a napkin she found in the glove box, she ordered herself to pull it together. She’d worked hard the day before—there was a lot of catching up to do, and it had been a welcome relief to think of nothing other than claim forms and billing statements.
Work,
she told herself now.
Just focus on that.

She was so focused that by eleven-thirty she had done everything but vacuum the reception area and rearrange the posters on teeth whitening. Her cell phone rang “Ode to Joy
.
”

“It’s lunch,” whispered Morgan. Cell phone use was strictly prohibited at school.

“How’s it going?” asked Dana anxiously.

“No one would sit with me,” she muttered. “No one. Then a couple of boys—Kimmi worshippers—started fake-puking, so I left.”

“Oh, honey.” Dana sighed. “Where are you now?”

“The back stairs by the gym.”

“Can you hang in there till the end of school?”

Morgan’s voice trembled. “I have to go to science now.”

“I love you, sweetie.”

But Morgan was already gone.

When Tony’s vegetarian sub and iced tea arrived, he came out to pay the deliveryman. He gave Dana a quick glance. “Coming?” he asked.

With no projects left to complete, she gathered up her yogurt and carrot sticks and walked back toward the little kitchen. Marie passed in her running gear. She had a new tattoo on her wrist, a little blackbird carrying a pentagram in its feet. “Have a nice run,” said Dana.

“Have a nice lunch,” Marie replied with a quick smile, which, while not exactly friendly, seemed to bear no malice.

Tony and Dana sat at the small round table, their conversation mild and impersonal. At first this was exactly what Dana wanted, to steer clear of anything that would trip off her hair-trigger emotions. But after a while it seemed shallow—heartless, even—to be talking about fresh snowfall in Vermont with so many more relevant topics pulsing beneath the surface of their conversation. “How’s your daughter?” Dana asked suddenly. “The one in med school.”

Tony’s tan cheeks rounded into a grin. “Much better!” he said, apparently just as relieved as she was to stop talking about distant weather patterns. “She got a day or two off, and she—”

“Hello?” called a man’s voice from the reception area. “Anyone home?”

“I’ll go,” said Tony, laying his sub down on the butcher paper.

“No, I will,” Dana insisted, as they both walked toward the front of the office. “I forgot to throw the bolt after Marie left.”

Tony was a step ahead of her and told the man, “I’m sorry, we’re closed for lunch.”

A second later, when Dana came into view, the man said, “There’s my girl!”

It was Jack, filling up the waiting area with his oversize shoulders and loud voice. He was wearing a maroon tie with a dizzying pattern of little brown footballs. He saw Dana catch sight of it and said, “Like it? My team gave it to me last year. Excellent conversation piece with car buyers. Unless they’re women or foreign, or whatever.”

Dana hoped her cringe wasn’t visible as she introduced him to Tony.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Sakimoto.” Jack pronounced it “Sackymoe-toe,” as if he were a cast member from
McHale’s Navy
and Tony were Fuji, the diminutive cook. He gave Tony’s hand a perfunctory pump and turned to Dana. “Let’s go!” He grinned.

“Go?”

“I’m kidnapping you for lunch. There’s
no way
I’m waiting a week to see you.”

“That’s so thoughtful,” she said quickly. “But my break’s almost over. Tony and I were just about to get back to work.” She looked at Tony, and he nodded convincingly. “Let’s talk tonight, okay?” She took Jack’s arm and started to walk him toward the door.

But Jack was not ready to admit defeat. He turned to Tony. “Hey, Dr. Sakimoto, my friend. Can’t you let this pretty lady off the hook for an hour? I’m sure she’ll work extra hard when she gets back.” And then he actually winked.

Tony put on a look of pleasant bafflement. “Well, she works pretty hard as it is there, Jack.”

“And I’m sure she does, but at the moment she needs some lunch.” He swiveled back to Dana. “Dontcha, honey?”

Dana was mortified. Who did Jack think he was, showing up at her workplace and trying to steamroll her employer like that? “I really can’t go, Jack,” she said. “I already had to take time off this week, and I’m swamped with the catch-up.”

“Aw, come on.” He fake-pouted. “I came all the way over here and everything.”

“I know, and I’m so flattered, but unfortunately I just can’t.”

The boyish pout faded, and she saw a flash of anger behind his eyes. “I was just trying to be, you know, romantic,” he muttered. He shot Tony an annoyed look and let Dana steer him to the door.

She walked him to his muscular black truck and let him kiss her deeply and with too much gyrating, making her worry that early patients might see them. Wiping her mouth as she went back inside, she thought,
He’s not really the world’s best kisser. My standards are just low.

It was so embarrassing to face Tony, who was still in the reception area, plucking the older magazines out of the pile fanned out across a side table. “All set?” he asked innocently as he tossed the armload into her recycle bin behind the counter.

“Tony. I can’t apologize enough.”

He gave a shrugging head shake, as if to say it was nothing.

“No, really, I don’t know what he was thinking!” Dana followed him back to the kitchenette. “He can’t just come in here and . . . and just assume I would . . .”

Tony sat down and took up his sub. “You could have gone if you wanted to. You’re not a hostage here.”

“After the way he talked to you? He was so”—Dana swatted her hand around, as if the word were a fly she could catch—“ just
embarrassing
. He mispronounced your name! On purpose!”

Tony sat back, tapped a paper napkin to his lips. He stretched his short legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his middle. “Some guys are like that.”

“Like
what,
for goodness’ sake?”

“Like they have to—if you’ll pardon the language—piss in a circle around everything they think is theirs. He was just making the point that he has a claim on you.”

“A
claim
on me! We’ve only been dating for a few weeks!”

Tony shrugged. She could tell he was thinking things he wasn’t saying. “Some women like that,” he said after a moment. “A guy who calls the shots. They like that caveman stuff.”

“Well,
I
don’t.” She gave her yogurt a vigorous stir. “I don’t appreciate it at all.”

Tony scratched his chin. “How come you told him your lunch hour was over? And your work is already organized within an inch of its life, so I’m not sure what you meant about ‘catch-up.’”

She gave the spoon a few more turns. “I just . . . I just didn’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and sat forward to work on his sub again.

The motor of the half-size fridge cycled on, and its low, whining hum filled the kitchenette. The phone rang at the front desk but then stopped when the answering service picked up.

“He’s not much of a talker,” said Dana.

“No?” Tony took a swig of his iced tea. “He seems pretty outgoing.”

“No, he is. He just . . . Well, we talk about things that are . . . lighter, I guess.”

Tony nodded. “Like . . . ?”

“Oh, you know.”
Like what?
And why was she getting into this with Tony? “Fun stuff,” she said, with a lighthearted shrug. “Sports, because he coached Grady’s team. He was so good with them.” She nibbled at a pretzel.
What the heck else did they talk about?
“Also, he’s a really hard worker—he sets up challenges with the other guys about who can sell the most cars.”

Tony inhaled and held it for a second, then let the air out.

“What?” she said.

“Hmm?”

“You were about to say something.” Dana felt a ping of aggravation.

He wadded up the butcher paper and tossed it in the trash. “Just that it seems he’s more of a talker than a listener. I mean, all that with the sports and the cars—that’s
his
subject matter, right?”

The pings of irritation came faster now, like someone hitting a stone with a flint. “We talk about things I’m interested in, too.” She hated the indignant sound of her voice and tried to dial it back. “But we can’t talk about dental appointments all the time, now, can we?” she said with a thin little laugh. “That would just be boring.”

His eyebrows went up. “Definitely.” He nodded. “A real buzzkill.”

Dana let out a huff of frustration. “I’m not trying to insult you. But I don’t know why you have to pick at things.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes. You do. You ask these probing questions, and I end up feeling like an idiot.” She shut her eyes and gave her head a quick shake.
Now I’m angry, and I don’t even know why.

He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. “Hey,” he murmured. “You are
not
an idiot, by any stretch. And if I made you feel that way, then
I’m
the idiot.”

She exhaled. The sparking inside her chest dissipated. Speechless, she offered a silent apology. He accepted, a hint of a smile deepening the crow’s-feet around his eyes. “You know,” he said slyly, “you’re gonna think I’m nuts, but the way you get mad at me—I’m honored. Like when I offered you this job, remember? I’m guessing you don’t let your anger out too often.” His grin widened. “Makes me feel kind of special.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I get pretty mad at my ex-husband these days.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t score points for that.”

“Why not?”

“Because
he
deserves it.”

B
ETHANY SWEET’S OFFICE WAS ON A SIDE STREET near East Hartford Center, in an old Victorian house with a mansard roof. “Great,” muttered Morgan as they trudged up the walk. “My therapist lives with the Addams Family.”

“It’s just an old house converted to office space, sweetie,” said Dana. “Try to keep positive.”

“Right . . .”

They waited in what was originally the foyer of the house, now lined with wooden chairs and a love seat upholstered in faded blue toile. A metal box the shape of an oversize doughnut sat on the floor emitting a shushing hum that sounded like distant highway traffic. “For privacy,” murmured Dana. “So no one has to worry about anyone else hearing them.”

A door opened. Out stepped a short, young-looking woman with bobbed brown hair corralled by a headband. Below her stretchy leaf-print shirt, a black skirt belled out around her ample hips. She made a beeline for Morgan. “I’m Bethany Sweet,” she chirped, smiling professionally. “You must be Morgan.” When she offered her hand to shake, her shirt crept up above the skirt’s waist, revealing a narrow shoreline of pale flesh.

Morgan sat up as if she’d been cold-called in class. “Uh . . . hi,” she muttered, glancing quickly to her mother for the correct answer. Dana shot a pointed look to Bethany’s extended hand, and Morgan reached out and rested her own in it briefly before withdrawing.

“And you’re Mrs. Stellgarten,” said Bethany, the childlike voice distracting Dana, making her wonder momentarily if she should have brought goldfish crackers and juice boxes. They followed Bethany into her office. The room seemed purposely nondescript, with a beige couch and a matching chair. Dana noticed a photo taken inside Fenway Park looking down to a swarm of players coalesced into a red-and-white amoeba against the bright green infield.

“Game Five of the 2004 playoffs against the Yankees,” said Bethany proudly. “I was so glad I brought my camera. Do you follow any sports teams?” she asked Morgan.

Morgan glanced to her mother again, as if this were a trick question on a substitute teacher’s quiz. Dana gave her a micro-nod, urging her to answer. “Um . . . not really . . .” Morgan’s voice went up at the end, making it sound like a question.