Olive Kitteridge (32 page)

“Your sister just called,” said Helen as she let Bob in through the grated door beneath the brownstone's stoop. “Wanted Jim and sounded grim.” Helen turned from hanging Bob's coat in the closet, adding, “I know. It's just the way she sounds. But I still say, Susan smiled at me once.” Helen sat on the couch, tucking her legs in their black tights beneath her. “I was trying to copy a Maine accent.”

Bob sat in the rocking chair. His knees pumped up and down.

“No one should try and copy a Maine accent to a Mainer,” Helen continued. “I don't know why the Southerners are so much nicer about it, but they are. If you say ‘Hi, y'all' to a Southerner, you don't feel like they're smirking at you. Bobby, you're all jumpy.” She leaned forward, patting the air. “It's all right. You can be jumpy as long as you're okay. Are you okay?”

All his life, kindness had weakened Bob, and he felt now the physicality of this, a sort of fluidity moving through his chest. “Not really,” he admitted. “But you're right about the accent stuff. When people say, ‘Hey, you're from Maine, you can't get they-ah from he-yah,' it's painful. Painful stuff.”

“I know that,” Helen said. “Now you tell me what happened.”

Bob said, “Adriana and Preppy Boy were fighting again.”

“Wait,” said Helen. “Oh, of course. The couple below you. They have that idiot little dog who yaps all the time.”

“That's right.”

“Go on,” Helen said, pleased she'd remembered this. “One second, Bob. I have to tell you what I saw on the news last night. This segment called ‘Real Men Like Small Dogs.' They interviewed these different, sort of—sorry—faggy-looking guys who were holding these tiny dogs that were dressed in plaid raincoats and rubber boots, and I thought: This is news? We've got a war going on in Iraq for almost four years now, and this is what they call news? It's because they don't have children. People who dress their dogs like that. Bob, I'm awfully sorry. Go on with your story.”

Helen picked up a pillow and stroked it. Her face had turned pink, and Bob thought she was having a hot flash, so he looked down at his hands to give her privacy, not realizing that Helen had blushed because she'd spoken of people who did not have children—as Bob did not.

“They fight,” Bob said. “And when they fight, Preppy Boy—husband, they're married—yells the same thing over and over. ‘Adriana, you're driving me fucking crazy.' Over and over again.”

Helen shook her head. “Imagine living like that. Do you want a drink?” She rose and went to the mahogany cupboard, where she poured whiskey into a crystal tumbler. She was a short, still shapely woman in her black skirt and beige sweater.

Bob drank half the whiskey in one swallow. “Anyways,” he continued, and saw a small tightening on Helen's face. She hated how he said “Anyways,” though he always forgot this, and he forgot it now, only felt the foreboding of failure. He wasn't going to be able to convey the sadness of what he had seen. “She comes home,” Bob said. “They start to fight. He does his yelling thing. Then he takes the dog out. But this time, while he's gone, she calls the police. She's never done that before. He comes back and they arrest him. I heard the cops tell him that his wife said he'd hit her. And thrown her clothes out the window. So they arrested him. And he was
amazed
.”

Helen's face looked as if she didn't know what to say.

“He's this good-looking guy, very cool in his zip-up sweater, and he stood there crying, ‘Baby, I never hit you, baby, seven years we've been married, what are you doing? Baby, pleeeease!' But they cuffed him and walked him across the street in broad daylight to the cruiser and he's spending the night in the pens.” Bob eased himself out of the rocking chair, went to the mahogany cupboard, and poured himself more whiskey.

“That's a very sad story,” said Helen, who was disappointed. She had hoped it would be more dramatic. “But he might have thought of that before he hit her.”

“I don't think he did hit her.” Bob returned to the rocking chair.

Helen said musingly, “I wonder if they'll stay married.”

“I don't think so.” Bob was tired now.

“What bothered you most, Bobby?” Helen asked. “The marriage falling apart, or the arrest?” She took it personally, his expression of not finding relief.

Bob rocked a few times. “Everything.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that, it happened. I mean, it was just an ordinary day, Helen.”

Helen plumped the pillow against the back of the couch. “I don't know what's ordinary about a day when you have your husband arrested.”

Turning his head, Bob saw through the grated windows his brother walking up the sidewalk, and a small rush of anxiety came to him at the sight of this: his older brother's quick gait, his long coat, the thick leather briefcase. There was the sound of the key in the door.

“Hi, sweetheart,” said Helen. “Your brother's here.”

“I see that.” Jim shrugged off his coat and hung it in the hall closet. Bob had never learned to hang up his coat. What is it with you?, his wife, Pam, used to ask, What is it, what is it, what is it? And what was it? He could not say. But whenever he walked through a door, unless someone took his coat for him, the act of hanging it up seemed needless and … well, too difficult.

“I'll go.” Bob said. “I have a brief to work on.” Bob worked in the appellate division of Legal Aid, reading case records at the trial level. There was always an appeal that required a brief, always a brief to be worked on.

“Don't be silly,” said Helen. “I said we'd go across the street for supper.”

“Out of my chair, knucklehead.” Jim waved a hand in Bob's direction. “Glad to see you. It's been what, four days?”

“Stop it, Jim. Your brother saw that downstairs neighbor of his taken away in handcuffs this afternoon.”

“Trouble in the graduate dorm?”

“Jim, stop.”

“He's just being my brother,” Bob said. He moved to the couch, and Jim sat down in the rocking chair.

“Let's hear it.” Jim crossed his arms. He was a large man, and muscular, so that crossing his arms, which he did often, seemed to make him boxy, confrontational. He listened without moving. Then he bent to untie his shoes. “Did he throw her clothes out the window?” he asked.

“I didn't see anything,” Bob said.

“Families,” Jim said. “Criminal law would lose half its business without them. Do you realize, Helen, you could call the police right now and accuse me of hitting you and they'd take me away for the night?”

“I'm not going to call the police on you.” Helen said this conversationally. She stood and straightened the waistband of her skirt. “But if you want to change your clothes, go. I'm hungry.”

Bob leaned forward. “Jimmy, it kind of shook me up. Seeing him arrested. I don't know why. But it did.”

“Grow up,” Jim said. “Sheesh. What do you want me to do?” He slipped off a shoe, rubbed his foot. He added, “If you want, I'll call down there tonight and make sure he's all right. Pretty white boy in the pens.”

In the next room, the telephone rang just as Bob said, “Would you, Jim?”

“That'll be your sister,” said Helen. “She called before.”

“Tell her I'm not home, Hellie.” Jim tossed his sock onto on the parquet floor. “When was the last time you spoke to Susan?” he asked Bob, slipping off his other shoe.

“Months ago,” said Bob. “I told you. We argued about the Somalis.”

“Why are there Somalian people in Maine anyway?” Helen asked as she walked through the door to the next room. Calling over her shoulder, “Why would
any
one go to Shirley Falls except in shackles?”

It always surprised Bob when Helen talked like this, as though her dislike of where the Burgesses came from required no shred of discretion. But Jim called back to her, “They are in shackles. Poverty's a shackle.” He tossed the second sock in the direction of the first; it landed on the coffee table, hanging from its corner.

“Susan told me the Somalis were invading the town,” Bob continued. “Arriving in droves. She said three years ago just a few families were there and now there's two thousand, that every time she turns around a Greyhound bus unloads forty more. I said she was being hysterical, and she said women were always accused of being hysterical and regarding the Somalis I didn't know what I was talking about since I hadn't been up there in ages.”

“Jim.” Helen returned to the living room. “She really wants to speak with you. She's all upset. I couldn't lie. I said you'd just come home. I'm sorry, honey.”

Jim touched Helen's shoulder on his way by. “It's okay.”

Helen bent to pick up Jim's socks, and this made Bob wonder whether, if he had hung up his coat like Jim did, Pam might not have been so mad about his socks.

After a long silence they heard Jim quietly asking questions. They could not make out the words. There was another long silence, more quiet questions, remarks. Still, they could not hear the words.

Helen fingered her small earring and sighed. “Have another drink. It looks like we may be here awhile.” But they could not relax. Bob sat back on the couch and peered through the window at the people walking home from work. He lived only six blocks from here, on the other side of Seventh Avenue, but no one would joke about a graduate dorm on this block. On this block, people were grown-ups. On this block, they were bankers and doctors and reporters, and they carried briefcases and an amazing variety of black bags, especially the women. On this block, the sidewalks were clean, and shrubs were planted in the little front gardens.

Helen and Bob turned their heads as they heard Jim hang up.

Jim stood in the doorway, his red tie loosened. He said, “We can't go away.” Helen sat forward. Jim took his tie off with a furious pull and said to Bob, “Our nephew's about to be arrested.” Jim's face was pale, his eyes had become small. He sat on the couch and pressed his hands to his head. “Oh, man. This could be all over the papers. The nephew of Jim Burgess has been charged—”

“Did he kill someone?” Bob asked.

Jim looked up. “What's wrong with you?” he asked, just as Helen was saying cautiously, “Like a prostitute?”

Jim shook his head sharply, as though he had water in his ear. He looked at Bob and said, “No, he didn't kill someone.” He looked at Helen and said, “No, the person he didn't kill was not a prostitute.” Then he gazed up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and said, “Our nephew, Zachary Olson, has thrown a frozen pig's head through the front door of a mosque. During prayer. During
Ramadan
. Susan says Zach doesn't even know what Ramadan is, which is completely believable—Susan didn't know what it was until she read about this in the paper. The pig's head was bloody, starting to melt, it's stained their carpet, and they don't have the money to buy a new one. They have to clean it seven times because of holy law.
That's
the story, you guys.”

Helen looked at Bob. Puzzlement came to her face. “Why would that be all over the papers, Jim?” she finally asked, softly.

“Do you get it?” Jim asked, just as quietly, turning to her. “It's a hate crime, Helen. It's like if you went over to Borough Park, found an Orthodox Jewish temple, and forced everyone in there to eat ice cream and bacon before they could leave.”

“Okay,” said Helen. “I just didn't know. I didn't know that about Muslims.”

“They're prosecuting it as a hate crime?” Bob asked.

“They're talking about going after it every way they can. The FBI's already involved. The attorney general's office might go in for a civil rights violation. Susan says it's on national news, but she's so nuts right now it's hard to know if that's true. Apparently some reporter from CNN happened to be in town, heard it reported locally, loved the story, sent it out nationally. What person
happens
to be in Shirley Falls?” Jim picked up the remote control for the television, aimed it, then dropped it onto the couch next to him. “I don't want this right now. Oh, man, I do not want this.” He ran both hands over his face, his hair.

“Are they holding him?” Bob asked.

“They haven't arrested him. They don't know Zach did it. They're out looking for some punk, and it's just idiot little nineteen-year-old Zach. Zach, Son of Susan.”

“When did this happen?” Bob asked.

“Two nights ago. According to Zach, which means according to Susan, he did this alone as a ‘joke.'”

“A joke?”

“A joke. No, sorry, a ‘dumb joke.' I'm just reporting, Bob. He bolts, no one sees him. Ostensibly. Then he hears it all over the news today, gets scared, and tells Susan when she comes home from work. She's flipped
out
, of course. I told her to take him in right now, he doesn't have to make a statement, but she's too scared. She's afraid they'll lock him up for the night. She says she won't do anything till I get there.” Jim slumped back into the couch, then sat forward again immediately. “Oh, man. Oh,
shit
.” He stood up quickly and walked back and forth in front of the grated windows. “The police chief is Gerry O'Hare. Never heard of him. Susan says they dated in high school.”

“He dumped her after two dates,” Bob said.

“Good. Maybe he'll be nice to her. She did say she might call him in the morning and tell him she'll bring Zach in as soon as I get there.” Jim reached out to hit the arm of the couch as he walked past it. He sat back down in his rocking chair.

“Does she have him a lawyer?” Bob asked.

“I have to find one.”

“Don't you know someone in the AG's office?” Helen asked. She picked a piece of lint from her black tights. “I can't think there'd be a lot of turnover up there.”