that time they were bombing down the beach and I knew. I ran along after them it seemed like all night, crying and screaming to stupefy the dead. I yelled, “Lucy, watch out,” but the wind took it. Forgive me I ran screaming and forgive her she didn’t hear and then I lost sight of them.’ She is swallowing tears. ‘There was sand in my eyes and in my mouth and in my hair and my God, I cried and cried.’
Ashamed, she meets his eyes; it’s what honest people do. ‘I should have called the beach police, I should have brought the Air Force down on them, I should have taken their guns and shot him dead or howled to break glass and kept on howling until she heard me and took warning, Watch out for Brad . . .’
‘Brad. Kalen, you mean.’ Click.
‘. . . but I was so drunk I was puking sand, and . . .’ She breaks off. The kid is sitting across from her with his mouth cracked open, not drop-jawed, just trying to hear more than she is willing to say.
‘And what?’ He drops a warm hand on her wrist, squeezing until she flinches and pulls away. ‘And what?’
Now they arrive at the heart of her pain and, OK, Jessie thinks, it’s time to admit it, her bitter, bitter jealousy. She tells him, ‘Thank God Walker saw them go.’
‘Who?’
Jessie Vukovich loves Walker Pike, she always will and they both know it but that’s as far as it goes; Walker is a very private person. Never mind that she knows without having to look that he’s parked out front on Central Avenue right now, that he’s sitting out there in the dusk waiting for the kid to come out so he can follow him, and never mind that Jessie isn’t sure why Walker is tailing him, but she has her suspicions.
She says lightly, ‘Just a boy I used to know,’ and the kid’s irises explode. Then because she can’t just drop it and leave it lying there she says, ‘But he got there in time. Walker caught up with the son of a bitch, which is why the ugly fucker graduated missing three teeth. I guess he beat her pretty bad. Walker had to clean her up before he took her home, and Walker . . .’ She is rolling into a little threnody when Dan Carteret lunges up like a shark, all teeth. ‘Wait! Your food!’
‘I can’t.’ Choked with anger, he wheels. ‘I have to go.’
‘Not yet. This is important. You might as well know . . .’ The details pile in on Jessie and she is surprised that even though she will never outlive her own misery and humiliation, what became of perfect Lucy after Walker saved her from Brad Kalen is a source of greater pain than anything Brad did to her. ‘Wait,’ she cries. ‘Wait for the rest!’
Too late. He’s out the door. Running for his car so hard and fast that he won’t see Walker parked there.
She says anyway, ‘If you’re looking for your father, Kalen’s the wrong guy. You got born a lot later. A whole year later, at the very least.’
43
Bobby
The sun is over the yardarm, always a bad time for Bob Chaplin, Goldman Sachs. There will be no drinking, but his hands shake and his mouth waters every evening just about this time. His brother and sister are no help. Margaret’s trotting around upstairs, pray God she isn’t planning another of her Sunday night suppers, and Al is off at his favorite bar, leaving Bobby alone to replay tapes in his head – all those lost conversations, old and recent – with no way to rewrite them and nothing to take his mind off it. He won’t call friends. He found out last night that it really has been too long. He loves Von Harten and Coleman but they have their own problems, and after seeing his designated best friend up close last night he remembers what he always knew. Bellinger was never his friend, not really.
No problem. He’s used to being alone. He’ll be fine.
He is surprised and grateful when the doorbell rings. ‘Nenna! This is nice.’
‘Are you busy?’ She’s holding a basket covered by a checkered dishtowel with that freshly washed look, as if it just came out of the drier. She looks pretty in the creeping dusk, maybe a little shaky but hopeful. ‘I made too many corn muffins this morning, I hope you