The Second Silence (33 page)

‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Oh, honey…’ Doris reached out to grip her hand. Her skin felt loose under Mary’s fingers, like a glove that was too big. ‘At my age I’m past all that.’

For a moment Mary was too stunned to reply. When had this change of heart occurred? For that matter, when had her mother last called her
honey?
So long ago she could hardly remember. Once again she felt as if her bearings had been snatched away. Their old way of relating to each other hadn’t been good, but it
had
been familiar. What now?

‘I didn’t know it was that obvious,’ she ventured at last.

‘A person would have to be blind not to notice.’ Her mother gave a grunt that fell just short of a laugh. ‘Is it serious?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you tell me if it were?’

‘Probably not.’

An awkward silence fell. Then Doris surprised her again by confessing, ‘I wasn’t always easy on you and your sister, was I?’

Not my sister, just me,
Mary retorted silently. Her gaze shifted to the window, where a squirrel was skittering up the yew tree outside. She’d slept barely four hours the night before, begrudging even that much time away from Charlie’s embrace, and could dearly use a nap herself. She didn’t need this baring of conscience, which smacked of the confessional. Another of the myriad of ways by which her mother was made to feel that much more superior to everyone else.

‘We survived, didn’t we?’ was all she could trust herself to say.

‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. I just wish …’ Doris paused, wearing an expression Mary had never before seen. Regret? Was her mother capable of such an emotion? Then it was gone, and she said with her usual tartness, ‘Never mind. One way or another, I’m sure you and Charlie will figure it out.’ Her eyes drifted shut, and her head seemed to sink deeper into the faded pink pillowcase. Gradually she relaxed her grip on Mary’s hand.

Mary opened the Bible.
This is what grown-up daughters must do,
she thought.
Let go of the past. Forgive.
With a lump in her throat, she began to read, ‘“For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways….”

Within minutes Doris was fast asleep. Mary tiptoed from the room and followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee downstairs to the kitchen. A place had been set for her at the table, she saw, and she sank down gratefully in front of it.

Noelle plunked a steaming plate before her: two fried eggs neatly arranged alongside triangles of buttered wheat toast. ‘It looks delicious,’ Mary said, suddenly starving.

‘Nana asleep?’ Noelle poured mugs of coffee, then brought her own plate to the table and sat down.

Mary nodded, sipping her coffee. ‘I read the verse about Sodom and Gomorrah, just to make sure. Not a peep.’ She met her daughter’s eyes over the rim of her mug. ‘Now, tell me about yesterday. I want to hear
everything.’

Noelle sighed wearily. ‘It’s a long story. Can we save it for later?’ The light pouring in through the window fell over her curly dark head, igniting it with reddish sparks.

Mary sat back, faintly stung. ‘Of course.’

Noelle reached out to touch her hand. ‘What I meant was, can’t we just
be?’

Mary felt something warm slip from the clenched fist in her chest and float upward. She thought of what had just taken place upstairs and wondered what it would have been like, years ago, had she been able to do the same: simply relax with her mother.

‘I don’t see why not,’ she said lightly.

They talked of other things while they ate: Mrs Inklepaugh’s garden next door and the new curtains Noelle was planning to sew for the kitchen; Alice Henshaw’s litter of kittens and the sale on mulch down at Orchard Supply—ordinary things that demanded nothing in return. Before long the conversation turned to more important matters, and by the time they finished eating, Noelle
was
telling her about yesterday. Even the part about Judy Patterson.

Mary shook her head in disbelief. ‘You let her off easy, if you ask me. I’d have throttled her.’

‘It’s funny, but in a weird way Judy helped me see something. I realized that things have got to change.
I’ve
got to change. I can’t play the victim anymore.’ Even without Mary’s help, it was obvious Noelle had found the strength to cope.

‘So what happens now?’

‘We wait for Dr Hawkins to submit her report.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Lacey says it could be a couple of weeks, hopefully not more than that. Meanwhile, I’ll still see Emma. It’s something at least.’

Mary was struck once again by the subtle difference in her, a quiet resolve evident in every gesture and word.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven-thirty, yet a whole day seemed to have passed since she’d slipped from the warmth of Charlie’s bed.

‘Are you doing anything special this afternoon?’ she asked on impulse.

‘No, not really,’ Noelle said. ‘Why?’

‘There’s someone I want to visit. An old friend. I’d love for you to come along.’

‘Anyone I know?’

Mary shook her head, smiling sadly at the memories that rushed at her like wind-driven snow. ‘No, but you’d have liked her.’

The Lutheran cemetery where Corinne was buried was the oldest in Burns Lake, dating back to the late 1600s, when the earliest Dutch and German immigrants had first settled the region. The original church had long since washed away in a flood, replaced by a more modern one conveniently located in town. But the cemetery remained. It occupied a hill overlooking Schoharie Creek. Huge old trees fed by runoff grew so thick in places they formed a bower over the headstones below, headstones rounded with time and the elements, their inscriptions worn in places so as to be almost unreadable. To Mary, they had the look of old people huddled together in mutual comfort.

The rusted gate at the entrance gave a squeal of protest as they pushed their way inside. It was just after one, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Mary wondered if Corinne was the last person to be buried here. Even back then the cemetery had seemed ancient and unused. She remembered that Corinne’s parents had chosen it only because their family plot was there.

She looked about, at the sunlight spangling the unkempt grass, the granite headstones dulled by layers of dirt and moss. Some graves looked more neglected than others. But surprisingly a few were adorned with flowers. On one, which bore the inscription, ‘Beloved in Life, Mourned in Death,’ was a coffee can filled with wildflowers long since withered to stalks.

‘I can’t believe it’s been thirty years,’ Mary marveled softly as they strolled among the thicket of headstones. ‘I remember Corinne’s funeral like it was yesterday.’

‘I asked Robert about her once, back when we were first married,’ Noelle volunteered. ‘I remembered your telling me they used to date back in high school. But he claimed to barely remember her. I suppose it had something to do with his brother’s getting killed not long after.’ She turned to Mary. ‘Did you know that Buck was their mother’s favourite?’

Mary wasn’t surprised.
‘Everyone
liked him better,’ she said. ‘He was nicer than Robert, for one thing. Though I’ll admit I didn’t know him all that well.’

‘Gertrude has photos of him all over the house. It’s creepy, really. Sort of like a shrine.’ Noelle pushed aside a low-hanging branch. ‘I didn’t know her back then, of course, but I always got the feeling that something went out of her when he died.’

‘It’s a horrible way to lose a child.’

‘She still puts flowers on his grave every year on the anniversary of his death,’ Noelle said, hugging herself as she walked. ‘A dozen white roses, tied with a red ribbon. It must have some kind of significance, though I’m not sure what.’

‘I don’t think Corinne’s mother has been here since the funeral,’ Mary said. ‘From talking to her, I get the feeling she’d rather not be reminded of the
way
Corinne died.’

‘I thought about killing myself once.’ Noelle paused at a marker nearly hidden by thick clumps of grass. ‘Every day I’d promise myself I was going to stop drinking, but I
couldn’t.
Dying seemed the easy way out.’

‘Oh, honey…’ Mary felt as if she ought to have known somehow.

But when Noelle looked up, her expression was calm. ‘Everything changed when I had Emma,’ she said. ‘I’d gotten sober by then, sure, but from the very first moment I held her in my arms, I knew that nothing in my life was ever going to be as important.’

Mary thought of Corinne’s unborn baby and shuddered.

They resumed walking. ‘I think I see it over there.’ Mary pointed up ahead, where a nearly life-size statue of an angel with one wing broken off at the tip marked the grave next to Corinne’s.

But Noelle wasn’t looking at the angel. She was staring in bewilderment at the flowers just beginning to wither on Corinne’s grave: a vase of white roses adorned with a bright red ribbon.

CHAPTER 12

T
HAT SAME DAY,
an op-ed piece detailing the long-established ties between Robert Van Doren and Senator Larrabie appeared in the
Register.
As Mary and Noelle were making their way home from the cemetery, puzzling over the mysterious roses on Corinne’s grave, on the other side of town Charlie was juggling a slew of angry phone calls. Several more businesses, including a major auto dealership, Gideon Ford, yanked their ads. Dozens of irate Van Doren supporters weighed in. There was at least one death threat, as well as a stern warning from Larrabie’s attorney in Albany.

By the following day, the furor had died down somewhat, or so it seemed. Friday morning at half past five Charlie was woken by a call from his janitor, who’d arrived at the
Register
to find every single ground floor window smashed. By the time he arrived on the scene, a suspect was already in custody: a young man with a prior misdemeanor by the name of Dante Lo Presti.

When Bronwyn heard the news her initial reaction was one of outrage. Dante would never do such a thing! She was as certain of his innocence as she was that her rotten brother-in-law was the
real
culprit behind all this. But it wasn’t long before doubts began to creep in. Dante
had
talked about quitting his job and moving out of town, she recalled. For that he’d need money. Also, she had to admit there was an air of danger to Dante. Wasn’t that what made him so attractive? That feeling when she was with him of always being on the verge of something thrilling.

And then there were the odd jobs he’d done for Robert, many of them questionable, if not downright illegal.

Either way, she wouldn’t rest until she’d gotten to the bottom of this.

By two o’clock of the same day, within an hour of learning he’d been released on bail, Bronwyn was bicycling over to his apartment on Sashmill Road, across the street from the wrecking yard.

Dante appeared at the door looking weary and disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and his jaw shadowed with beard growth. For the longest moment he just stood there staring at her, until she began to grow nervous. She hadn’t seen him since that day at the cemetery. They’d spoken on the phone a few times, but neither was willing to admit being wrong—Bronwyn for trying to rope him into her scheme, and Dante for not telling her earlier about his connection to Robert. Each time she’d hung up feeling angry and confused and hurt all at once. Yet one thing stood clear in her mind: she wasn’t going to condemn him on hearsay alone.

‘You heard, I guess.’ Dante stepped back to let her in. He was barefoot, wearing a rumpled gray tank top and navy sweat pants.

‘Yeah, I heard.’

Bronwyn flicked a glance about the dimly lit living room, its curtains still drawn from last night. It was a mess, as usual. Magazines scattered everywhere, beer cans and an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. The rubber tree by the phone adorned with messages on Post-Its.

Dante walked straight past her, not kissing her, not even looking at her. A lump formed in her throat, as if she’d just dry-swallowed an aspirin.

‘Want a beer?’ he called from the kitchen.

‘No, thanks. I don’t drink, remember?’

He emerged holding a Coors in one hand, a Coke in the other. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the old man, would you? It’s bad enough you’re sneaking around behind his back with the scum of the earth.’ There was a sneering edge to his voice that she didn’t like.

She bristled. ‘That’s not fair. I’m not the one who called the cops on you. My father had nothing to do with it either.’ Bronwyn marched over to snatch the Coke from his hand.

‘Yeah? So it’s nothing more than a coincidence that the lowlife Daddy’s little girl is hanging out with just happens to get busted?’ In the grainy gray light Dante’s eyes looked almost black. His forehead gleamed with sweat. From the wrecking yard across the way came the jarring sound of steel being crushed, a sound like a herd of dinosaurs munching on tinfoil.

‘Look, don’t beat me up. I’m on
your side,
remember?’ She popped the Coke’s tab, sinking down on the arm of the sofa. ‘If you say you didn’t do it, I’ll take your word for it.’

‘I didn’t do it.’ His tone was surly.

Bronwyn eyed him closely. Even with all the evidence against him, a voice in her head whispered,
He’s telling the truth.
She didn’t know how she knew; she just did. She sipped her Coke, slowly, so she wouldn’t spoil the moment by burping.

‘Okay, let’s back up. You work for Robert, so you must have some idea of who
is
responsible.’

‘I don’t know shit. All I know is, I’m minding my own business and that asshole Wade Jewett picks me up for questioning. Then wham, I’m booked, fingerprinted, the whole nine yards.’ Dante tipped his beer back with the violence of someone being punched in the mouth.

‘Who put up bail?’

‘My boss. Do you believe it? The little prick actually came through.’

‘That was decent of him.’

‘Like hell. I’ll be kissing his ass for the next ten years at least. With Stan the Man, there ain’t no such thing as free lunches.’