The Guilty One (30 page)

The second, late in the afternoon, was adorably self-conscious: “Just driving by your exit, thinking of you. Well, obviously, I haven't stopped thinking of you all day. And I thought if you picked up—but you're probably busy. So just ignore this. Unless you want to call me back or something.”

She'd been tempted. What would it hurt to spend one more night with him as Mary? The problem was that it was getting increasingly difficult to keep her identities straight. With Norris she didn't mind being vague, letting him fill in the gaps with his imagination. But George didn't seem to be holding anything back, and when she was with him, she felt more like herself—her
real
self—than she had in ages.

He deserved to know.

She spent most of the time driving around doing errands, trying to figure out the right way to tell him. She was worried he might feel used or tricked when he found out, or put off by the sheer weight of her past—and despite her promise to herself that it was nothing but a fling, it felt like something far more significant.

Her plan was to call him tonight, when he was at work and she would get his voice mail. Maybe she'd write it down first, just to make sure it came out right. Something like
Hey, I was hoping we could get together and talk. I really haven't told you much about myself, and there are a few things from my past that I didn't feel comfortable
 . . . No, no. That made it sound like she was on the run from something. She was starting to wish she'd blurted it all out over dinner at his place, but one thing had led to another, and . . .

That was another thing: her libido seemed to have been kick-started right into high gear. Which wasn't really convenient. In the days ahead, she would need to gird herself for the media circus, look for a job, and figure out what she was going to do about Jeff and the house. Not to mention coming clean to Alana and figuring out where she was going to live. Liaisons with a sweet, gruff carpenter/bartender didn't really fit into the picture.

First things first. Deliver Norris's receipt, plan out her phone call, heat up a Lean Cuisine, then maybe go browse the bookstore she'd seen on College Avenue until it got late enough that she was sure George would be too busy to pick up the phone.

When she parked in front of the house, there was a woman sitting on the top step. She had graying hair down to her waist, an embroidered peasant blouse over jeans, dirty sneakers. She was stabbing furiously at her phone, but when Maris got out of her car and started walking toward the house she jumped up.

“Have you seen Pet?”

Maris paused uncertainly. “Are you her mother?” There was a resemblance there, in the squarish forehead, the narrow nostrils, the Cupid's-bow upper lip, but the woman was nothing like what Maris had expected. She was restless and indifferently kept, her clothes wrinkled and something—a twig, a bit of lint—in her hair.

The woman narrowed her eyes, regarding Maris suspiciously. “Yeah. Who are you?”

“I rent the apartment in back. Mar . . . Mary Parker.”

“I'm Liz Urbanik. Do you know where Pet
is
? I've been sitting here for over an hour.”

“Was she expecting you?”

“Well,” Liz said, and scratched her elbow. She looked anxious and unhappy, her mouth twisted into a frown, her shoulders slumped. “I mean, I've been trying to call her all day.”

“She's probably at class,” Maris said, wondering if Pet was hiding again, and where she'd gone to avoid her mother. “And she's working tonight.”

“Fuck. Fuck!”

Maris took a step back in alarm. There was something obviously wrong. “Are you . . . is everything all right?”

“
No,
everything is not all right. My boyfriend—it's a domestic abuse situation. I can't be there right now.”

“What?” Maris said stupidly. Did Pet know? Was it even true? “Do you want me to call the police? Social services?”

“Oh, God no, not until I have somewhere to go. I mean, he's totally un
stable
. I just need, what I need is to maybe spend a night or two here. Give things time to settle down while I figure this out.”

Maris wasn't about to let on that she'd talked to Pet about her mother, that she'd already heard of the boyfriend, the disabled son. Something about the woman made Maris deeply uneasy; she wondered if Liz was on drugs.

Maybe she could pretend she'd forgotten something, leave and go to the bookstore. Except then, whenever Pet
did
show up, she would know: that Maris had abandoned her to her mother, had left her waiting on the porch. For a moment she wondered if maybe Pet didn't know that her mother was in trouble, and then the pieces fell into place:

Of course Pet knew. This probably wasn't the first time her mother had done this. Who knew if the abuse claim was true? If Pet said there was a boyfriend, then Maris believed her; there was no reason for Pet to lie about that. If she said he was a psychologist, then he was probably that as well. But clearly there was a lot more going on than just a couple of people cohabitating. Pet hadn't wanted Maris to know the rest, that was all. And maybe part of the reason she'd hidden out in Maris's place was to prevent Maris from having to see.

Maris felt a surge of hot shame that she had been about to run off and leave Pet to deal with her mother alone. Pet had cared enough for Maris to try to shield her from the mess of her own family. At the same time, she'd accepted Maris's own story without a glimmer of judgment.

“Listen,” Maris said, clutching her purse a little tighter, “why don't you come and wait for Pet in my apartment.”

AT FOUR O'CLOCK,
after Liz had drunk the last Diet Sprite and fallen asleep on the couch, Maris heard Norris come home. She gave him a couple of minutes and then let herself quietly out of her apartment and went around the building and rang his bell.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs, looking surprisingly happy to see her. “Hey, Mary, I just got home, but I see you finished up in there. Way to go.”

“Oh, thanks,” Mary said. “I've got some paperwork for you, I'll go get it. But the thing is that Pet's mom showed up a little while ago and she seemed . . . well, kind of unstable. She's at my place, asleep and I wasn't sure what to do.”

“Oh, Lord, here we go again,” Norris said. “Tell you what, come on up. If she's out, she's likely to be out for a while. We can keep an eye out for Pet. She'll probably be home before she has to go to work. If she's not back soon I'll call her, but I prefer to tell her in person. I kind of hate to do anything without checking with her first.”

“Do . . . like what would we do?”

“Call the cops,” Norris said without hesitation. “This is the third time that woman's done this. Last time she showed up after midnight and started banging on the windows.”

Maris's heart sank; this wasn't going to be easy, then. “She said . . . there was domestic violence.”

“Hah,” Norris said morosely. “Maybe those two fools will just kill each other, that would solve a few problems. Just kidding. Liz was actually clean for a while last spring, and Pet got her hopes all up again. That's what I hate the most.”

“Oh,” Maris said in a small voice. She was such an easy mark. “What . . . is she on?”

“What isn't she on? Heroin, mostly likely; that's what got her last time. I don't even want her in my house, you know? But man, poor Pet. Look, come on up. Best you be up here when Pet comes.”

Maris didn't know what else to do but follow him. He opened a bottle of seltzer water and poured them each a glass without asking, and they carried their drinks to the living room. Maris took the sofa and Norris settled into a big wing chair. She took a sip, the bubbles going into her nose. Unexpectedly, tears came to her eyes. Norris looked at her in alarm.

“Hey . . . hey, Mary, you okay?”

“Yes, I feel stupid, I just—” She wiped at her eyes in frustration. “God, I've become such a
crier
. I never used to be like this.” It was true once. “Anyway, I don't know why I'm . . . just a lot going on.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. “Well, now,” Norris said carefully. “Seems maybe you've seen quite a few changes in your life recently.”

“Oh.” Maris blinked, nodding. “Yes. That's true.”

“New place to live, new work, new man . . .” He peeked up cautiously from under his eyelashes. “Not that I'm prying,” he added primly. “But George, well, he's quality.”

If things were different, Maris might have been amused and touched by this comment. Men were just so
bad
at showing their emotions. Except, come to think of it, for George, who in the short span of their relationship didn't appear to have any trouble saying exactly what he was feeling.

But this line of talk was going to lead places she didn't want to go. “Not that you're prying,” she said, trying for a lighthearted smile.

“No.” He returned the smile. He was trying, and Maris was touched. Again she was struck by how virtual strangers had come to mean so much to her in such a short time. “Look. I owe you an apology, Mary. I came down hard on you last week. When you got into Mother's things. I know you were just trying to help. I didn't . . . well, there's parts of the past I'd just as soon like to keep buried. You see what I'm saying?”

“Like Keyna and Kayla?”

Maris wasn't sure why she'd said it. Why she was bringing up the girls when he was trying to be conciliatory, provoking him when he'd been kind. Especially because she herself was hiding behind a fake identity; she had no right to expect anyone else to do better in the self-examination department.

Except . . . Norris had been given a chance to be a father and squandered it. Oh, Maris was sure there were mitigating circumstances, that others were just as much to blame as he, that youth and impetuousness hadn't helped. But she would never again get to be a mother, and that knowledge burned in a way that she had not allowed it to burn for a long time.

Norris scratched his neck and looked at her with resignation. “That box of theirs was up in there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Damn. You didn't throw it out, did you?”

“Of course not!” Maris didn't tell him that she'd left it practically on display. “They're beautiful girls.”

Norris nodded. He looked out the window, his face tight and gloomy. “They're turning twenty-four this year.”

“Are they still in Bakersfield? It was on the return address of one of the letters,” Maris added hastily.

“Yes . . . Keyna's studying to be a medical assistant. Kayla's got a little one of her own.”

“You're in touch with them?”

His scowl deepened. “Wouldn't call it that, exactly. I just . . . their mother sends me a note now and then. Once I caught up on back support, anyway.”

“When . . .”

“Was the last time I saw them? You sound just like Duchess.” But he didn't sound angry so much as frustrated. “You women, you know you're all the same.”

They both heard the footsteps on the porch below, both jumped up from their seats.

“Pet,” Norris said, instantly concerned.

But when they got downstairs, it was Liz who was standing on the front porch, trying to peer into Pet's window. She looked at Maris with no trace of recognition.

“Liz,” Norris boomed disapprovingly. “What are you doing coming around here again?”

“To see my daughter,” Liz said haughtily. Her face bore the imprint of the scratchy couch cushion. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“Well, now, you made it my business, didn't you? Last time you were here, when you tried to break that window?”

“Fuck off,” Liz said, and started pounding on the door.

“She isn't here,” Maris said, but as she looked past Liz into the street, she saw a figure walking toward them, her backpack slung over her shoulder, still half a block away.

She caught Norris's eye and pointed, mouthing “I'll go.” Norris nodded fractionally and took Liz's arm, giving Maris a chance to escape unseen. She hurried down the street as the sound of Liz's voice escalated, shouting curses at Norris.

Pet was standing uncertainly next to a parked van, half hiding. “That's her, isn't it,” she said softly when Maris got to her. “My mom.”

“Um, yes,” Maris said carefully.

“Oh.”

There was so much resignation and shame in that one syllable that it was worse than the anger that Maris had been anticipating.

“She . . . uh, well, she relapses. Obviously.”

“Pet—”

“Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Or warn you or whatever. I was just hoping . . .”

“Pet, please, you don't have anything to apologize for. I mean, we already determined that I'm the asshole here, lying to everyone.” The word
asshole
felt foreign to say, but not in a bad way. She put her hands gently on Pet's shoulders. “What can I do?”

“Well . . .”

“Norris seems to know what he's doing.”

“Yes, he took care of it last time. Which is probably why she's giving him shit. He'll call the cops and maybe they'll get her into treatment like they're supposed to this time. Of course, she'll probably just turn around and leave the minute the hold is over.”

She sounded so miserable, so helpless, that Maris wished she could just take Pet with her, make her see that none of this was her fault. That she didn't have to apologize for her mother's behavior. There were other parts of the story that didn't match up. Like the money, for instance . . . Liz didn't look like a woman with resources to spare. No wonder Pet was working two jobs and living in a place like this.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said softly, pulling Pet into a hug. “You've got a tough road, don't you?”