Extracurricular Activities (13 page)

Maybe. “Yes.”

“I don't think it's them. I'm more interested in the Micelis right now.”

That's what I thought.

He put his hand on the back of my neck. “But you,” he said, kissing me, “are to do nothing on that front.” He kissed me again, a knee-weakening lip-lock that I was powerless against; I decided to go with the flow because I didn't know how long it would be until I got to kiss him like that again. “Understand?”

I nodded. I understood. Completely. But I couldn't promise that I wouldn't do anything with that information.

 

Crawford awoke to knocking. Confused at first, he couldn't tell if it was the banging in his head or someone actually at his front door. He stumbled out of bed and took stock—he had on boxer shorts and nothing else, his tuxedo was in a heap at the foot of his bed, and his head was pounding. He pulled on the tuxedo pants and buttoned the top button, half walking, half staggering toward the door of his apartment.

The knocking was unrelenting and matched the brass band playing John Philip Sousa in his head. “Hold on!” he called, making contact with the edge of the coffee table on his way to the door. “Shit!” he said under his breath and grabbed his knee. He narrowly missed falling over his dress shoes before crashing into a chair at the dining table. Finally, he made it to the door without further incident and opened it. His wife, Christine, stood on the landing, half turned toward the stairs like she was about to leave. In her hands were the set of keys that she had kept after moving out of the apartment with the girls a few years earlier. “Wait,” he said. “I'm here.”

She turned and took a look at him, an eyebrow raised. “Rough night?” she asked, looking over his shoulder to see if there was anyone else in the apartment. She had a bemused smile on her face as she took in his unzipped tuxedo pants, bare chest, and bloodshot eyes.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and stepped aside to let her in. “The wedding.” That was enough of an explanation. She had been to enough cop weddings to know what went on and how most of them felt the day after a night of celebrating. He left out the part about the four hundred beers and celebratory tequila shots; the odor emanating from his pores probably gave some indication of that.

“Right,” she said. She hooked a finger toward the door. “Is Bea going to church in a limousine these days?”

“What?”

“There's a limo parked outside your front door. Did Bea hook up with a millionaire?”

He shrugged. “This neighborhood's gotten fancy in the past couple of years.” He asked her to wait while he grabbed a shirt. He came back out a few seconds later, his pants zipped, wearing a plain white undershirt. He had taken a few seconds to brush his teeth and hair as well.

Christine was still standing close to the doorway, a paper bag in her hands. Sometimes, he forgot how small she was, a full foot shorter than his six and half feet, to be exact. And after all of the years since they had first met, he still found her beautiful, her short black hair, blue eyes, and pale skin exactly the same as when she had been a teenager. “I brought breakfast.” She walked to the round table that resided between the galley kitchen and the living room and spread out some bagels, coffee, and a couple of cheese Danish. “Plates still in the same place?”

“I'll get them,” he said, and went into the kitchen. Sleep finally released its hold on him and he realized that he had no idea why she was in his apartment. “Were we…” he asked, pointing between the two of them.

“Supposed to have breakfast?” She finished his sentence. “No. I needed to talk with you so I figured I would come down and drop off the girls. They're having breakfast in the coffee shop on Ninety-sixth. I told them that we'd meet them in about an hour.”

He put the plates on the table and held a chair out for her. He took a seat across from her and opened one of the bagels, wrapped in paper and slathered with cream cheese. “I need this. Thanks.”

She handed him a cup of coffee. “Here. Looks like you need this, too.” She opened the wrapper that held her bagel and took the lid off the other cup of coffee. “How was the wedding?”

He took a huge bite of bagel. “Great,” he mumbled.

“The girls said that Fred married your friend's…” She hesitated, blushing slightly. “Alison's friend. Max?”

He looked down and studied his bagel. “Right.”

“Do you like her?”

He thought for a moment. “Max? She's an acquired taste.”

She laughed. “That doesn't really tell me anything.”

“How do I describe her?” He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “She's smart, gorgeous, and adores Fred. That alone makes her suspect.”

She took a sip of coffee. “Give Fred my best.”

He nodded. “I will.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. He started to come back to life after half a cup of coffee and the bagel. He looked at her and smiled sadly, sensing a little distress beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I have to let you go,” she said quietly. She put her hands around her coffee cup and looked down at the table. “I can't do this anymore. I can't do this to you anymore.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. He felt tears pressing at the corners of his eyes. “What do you mean?”

She swallowed and choked back a sob. “I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm not going to stand in your way anymore. I've talked with Father Kevin and told him to forget about the annulment.”

He was stunned. “What? You don't want an annulment?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Only if you want it. It doesn't matter to me.”

He didn't understand her change of heart and didn't want to pry. He didn't know if she had met someone else and that precipitated her decision, and he didn't want to know. “Do the girls know?”

“I told them,” she said. “They'll be fine.” She took a sip of her coffee, more of a time killer than anything else. She wiped her eyes with a napkin and blew her nose.

“Christine, I don't know what to say,” he said.

She gave a sad laugh. “Just say that you'll help me put them through college and everything will be fine,” she said, smiling. “Meaghan's decided she wants to go to Stanford, so unless she gets a basketball scholarship, you and I will be living on peanut butter and canned soup for the next four years.” She turned the empty bagel wrapper into a ball and held it in her hand. “Just help me with that.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding. “That goes without saying.”

She nodded. “I know it does. You always do the right thing, Bobby.”

He let go of her hand and got up from the table. He went over to her and knelt beside her, putting his arms around her small body. She started crying, seemingly unable to stop. “I tried so hard to keep you, and you tried so hard to love me, but it just wasn't meant to be,” she said, her voice barely audible.

He put his head on her shoulder and began to cry. “I'm sorry.” He took a deep breath, a shudder. “You were always my best friend.”

They held each other for a long time. He had tried to love her and, in a way, he did love her, but he had never been in love with her. And now that he was in love with somebody, he knew what that felt like and was sure that he never felt it with her.

She stopped crying long enough to get up and clean off the table. After years of attending to her father's needs, both at home and in the bar, she was always in constant motion, always picking up, wiping tables, washing dishes. He told her to leave everything. She turned and laughed. “Old habits.” Christine had been a virtual scullery maid in her father's Upper West Side bar before marrying Bobby and escaping. Her nervous habits ran from obsessively wiping countertops until they gleamed, to washing the same stemware over and over. She came out of his kitchen. “You should take a shower. That will give me a chance to get myself together before we go get the girls.”

He stood for another minute, stuck in place. Now that he had a chance to move forward, he didn't know what to do.

I spent the night at Max's because it was closer to Chelsea Piers and I didn't want to face a drive home after a few martinis. I got out of bed and took a shower, using some kind of exotic shower gel and shampoo that came out of a dispenser shaped like a flower. When I was done, I got out and dried off, running into Max's bedroom naked and rooting through my overnight bag to find an outfit to wear home; I was determined to catch the 10:20 local to Dobbs Ferry and I had to rush to make it. I stood up suddenly and got a major headache—payback for last night's festivities. I went back into the bathroom and found some Excedrin, taking three and washing them down with good old New York City tap water.

Crawford and I had parted ways after the wedding with his vague promise to call me later in the week. A call was fine, but I knew that I couldn't see him again until his life was straightened out. I didn't think that bore repeating, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a little wave as I took off in a cab to downtown Manhattan.

I blew-dry my hair and put on a little makeup. I had dark circles under my eyes and my skin looked a little like parchment; I could practically feel the olives floating around in my stomach, vodka having replaced any stomach acid. I needed a strong cup of coffee and some food; a nap at home later would help round out the antihangover trifecta.

I put on a sweater, jeans, and a pair of boots. I packed up all of my things and left Max's apartment. Down on the street, the limousine idling in front of the building barely caught my attention as I wrestled with my bags and scoured the street for a cab to Grand Central.

When the back passenger door to the limo opened and I saw who was inside, I nearly collapsed on the street.

“Alison! Hi!” Peter called from the car. “Going somewhere? I'll give you a lift!” He waved me into the car with his little stubby fingers.

I stood on the street, a garment bag weighing me down. I thought about dropping it and running, but all thoughts of escape were thwarted when the driver of the limo got out, came around to the curb, and motioned me into the car. He took the garment bag and my small tote from my hands and waited while I got inside. I recognized him as the same guy who waited outside my house while Peter disconnected my phone line and force-fed me biscotti. Resigned, I got into the car.

I sat across from Peter in a stretch limo, my back to the driver's back. Peter took up a good deal of the bench seat, what with his wide ass and tree-trunk thighs, but I was compressed into as small a space as possible, afraid to move.

Peter guffawed. “You always look so scared when I see you, Alison.” He apparently found this very funny.

“You scare me, Peter. You didn't use to, but you do now,” I said as directly as I could.

He looked chagrined. “I hate to hear that.” He opened a small refrigerator next to his seat and waved a hand in front of it. “Orange juice? Iced coffee? Soda?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“How was Max's wedding?” he asked.

I had gotten over the shock of knowing that Peter Miceli knew everything I did and every place I had been; I was actually becoming bored by it. I sighed. “It was fine, Peter. What is it that you want?” I asked, out of patience.

“Why didn't you ever have children, Alison?”

That question did shock me. Not having children was something that I had made my peace with a long time ago, but hearing the question come from him made me feel sad and vulnerable all over again. I decided to keep the truth from him—that I wanted children desperately but had married a man who would go to great lengths not to have any—and offered a noncommittal shoulder shrug.

“Every woman wants children, don't they?” he asked, studying my face for some indication of the truth.

“Some do. Some don't. I'm one of the ones who don't.” Tears were pushing at the back of my eyes, but through sheer force of will, I kept them there. He had hit a nerve and, emotional terrorist that he was, he knew it.

He nodded slowly. “I see.”

I stared back at him, holding his gaze.

He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “Well, as hard as it is for me to admit this, Alison, Kathy was pregnant when she died.”

I knew exactly where he was headed with this.

“Cut to the chase, Peter.” I lurched slightly to the right as the limo took a corner at a sharp angle.

He shot me a look, unhappy at being instructed as to what to do. “And as hard as it is for me to say this, Alison, I have become convinced that your ex-husband, Dr. Stark, was the father of Kathy's baby.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “Oh, no, Peter, you've got that all wrong,” I said. “That's not possible.”

In his expression was the apparent surprise that someone had questioned his judgment. Apparently, nobody ever told him that he was wrong. “I don't think so, Alison.”

“Peter, Ray had a vasectomy while we were married.”

He looked confused. “Why would he do that?”

“Because we didn't want children,” I lied. Ray was the one who didn't want children.

It was Peter's turn to laugh. “Alison, nice try, but that's a ridiculous story. You don't strike me as the career woman type.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know, career woman, all job, no kids. Not you, Alison. No way.”

This guy was good. He could see right through my lame story. But how could I make him believe the truth: that Ray had waited until I left for a teaching position overseas, had a vasectomy, and never told me?

Peter leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, staring at me. “You're a terrible liar, Alison.” He put a hand on my knee and gave me a little squeeze. “Now why don't you own up to the fact that your ex-husband was a sleaze and got a nineteen-year-old girl pregnant?”

I got a little panicky; we were treading in very dangerous waters. I looked out the window and saw that we were indeed heading toward my destination, but I knew that one false move, one transparent lie, and I would end up in the South Bronx with no way home again. Or worse.

Peter looked at me, his black eyes glistening slightly at the corners. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, his voice getting hoarse.

“Here's the deal, Peter,” I said, knowing that nothing was worse than an angry Peter Miceli. I decided to tell him the truth. “Ray didn't want kids, but I did. He knew that from the day we got married. I went to Ireland one summer to teach and he had a vasectomy. He never told me until we were getting divorced.” I was babbling. Even I didn't believe the story despite the fact that it was the truth. “It was a horrible betrayal. I'll never forgive him. For years, I thought I was infertile.” I finished but wondered, at this point, did it really matter what Peter Miceli thought? Ray was dead and one of Peter's minions had probably killed him.

Peter watched me, his eyes narrow and dark. He took his hand from my knee and leaned back on his seat. He interlaced his fingers and let his hands hang down between his knees. Looking out the window, he suddenly exclaimed, “That's the most ridiculous story I ever heard!”

He was right. It was a ridiculous story, the kind that fell into the “truth is stranger than fiction” category. I let the tears behind my eyes slip out. It was almost as if Peter wanted someone to blame, and Ray was the most convenient person around.

“Is that the best you can come up with?” he bellowed. He threw his hands up. “That your husband had a vasectomy and didn't tell you?” He looked at me directly. “That is ridiculous!”

“It's not ridiculous, Peter. It's the truth,” I said. I asked the next question, born of a courage I didn't know I had. “Is that why you killed him, Peter?”

He looked at me with a pained expression, but didn't answer me. He hit a buzzer on a panel next to his seat. “Where the fuck are we, Franco?”

Franco's disembodied voice flowed through the speaker with such clarity it was almost as if he were sitting beside me and not behind four inches of Plexiglas. “Thirty-second and Madison, Mr. Miceli.”

He looked at me. “Where are you going?”

“I can get out here.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“Grand Central,” I whispered.

“Grand Central, Franco,” he yelled into the speaker. He took his finger off the button and looked at me. “I have to go back home to go to church. Do you go to church, Alison?”

“Sometimes.” Hardly ever.

He pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

“They talk a lot about life after death at church. Do you believe in that?” he asked, pulling out a lighter and taking a few long drags on the cigar to get it lit.

“I'd like to.” It would make the thought of my departed parents that much easier to accept.

“You should,” he said quietly, puffing on the cigar. He took it out of his mouth and blew on the glowing tip to make it light. “Believing that makes things a lot easier.” He looked out the window as we approached the Forty-second Street entrance to Grand Central, the beautifully etched doors beckoning to me, the inside of the building a sanctuary. If I could just get out of the car.

I wiped my hands over my eyes to clear my vision. I looked at him as we sat, idling, in front of Grand Central. He looked at me sadly, his eyes conveying some kind of conflict.

“If you just tell me that you killed him, Peter, we can all move on,” I said. “Just tell me.”

“I didn't kill him,” he said softly.

“Okay, then, one of your people—”

“I didn't kill him!” His rage in full view, I concluded that this conversation should end and wisely didn't say anything else.

He pushed a button and the door locks popped up. I put my hand on the handle.

“Wait,” he said, and leaned over again. He was calmer than just moments before. He grabbed me and embraced me, putting his lips to my neck. “It's okay that he's gone, you know,” he whispered into my hair.

I didn't want to know what that meant, but I felt more confident than ever that I had stared into the face of Ray's murderer.