The Guilty One (23 page)

George sat down next to her. “Unless you're really committed to watching Duchess's uncle blow his fingers off to entertain the kids, you should come with me.”

Maris looked at him, taking in his easy smile with just a hint of uncertainty at the edges. It had taken some courage for him to ask her, she thought.

“I'm ready.”

On the sidewalk in front of the house, he took her hand. It was warm, and big, enveloping. They didn't speak as they walked the two blocks to his truck, but when he let go of her hand and opened the passenger door for her, he touched the untamed mass of hair around her face, gave her a shy smile, and said, “Nothing out of line, I promise, Mary.”

The way he said her name, she forgot for a moment that it wasn't really hers. How long had it been since Jeff touched her that way . . . that carefully, that tenderly? A lump formed in Maris's throat when she realized that the answer was
never
. Their marriage had been an efficient one from the start, a companionable one for a long time . . . but bloodless. She must have known, back when they were starting out, what she was giving up. She must have chosen to make herself not care, pledged to pretend always that she didn't miss it. Two decades of marriage and Maris had never strayed so far as a cloakroom kiss, until, when Calla got to high school, a few regrettable clandestine encounters once she realized that nothing would ever ignite the spark between her and Jeff. And even those—none longer than a single night, all of them the result of too much wine and sexual convenience—felt more like minor highway collisions than romantic interludes.

And now, when it had been only a matter of weeks since Jeff left . . . now this.

George's truck was an old, boxy GMC, the vinyl seats crackling and cool, the suspension wrecked so that they seemed to hit every pothole as he drove out of the neighborhood, around Lake Merritt strung with twinkling lights, up into streets lined with little bungalows. The nicer part of Oakland, where lawns were mowed and flower beds tended, and drapes hung in windows rather than bedsheets.

The occasional firecracker sounded far away now. Light had disappeared completely from the sky. The dashboard clock read 8:44.

“Is that really the time?” Maris asked.

George gave her a sideways glance. “Um, yeah, more or less . . . is that all right?” he asked, and she realized that he was nervous, as nervous as she was.

“Oh, yes, sure. It's just . . . I guess I didn't realize how late it got, at the barbecue. You know. Time flies.”

Neither of them spoke again until he parked at the curb in front of a little square house with shuttered windows and overgrown grass.

“I don't live here,” he said, his hand on the gear shift. “I know the guy who owns it, though. He wouldn't mind. Are you . . . can you walk in those shoes?”

Maris lied and said they were comfortable. George held her hand as they went around the side of the house, along a broken asphalt sidewalk, overhung by drooping vines laden with tiny white blooms. The scent was cloying, overripe. Through an open window in the neighboring house, a woman's voice called “Potter? Clara?”

This was the sort of neighborhood Maris and Jeff hadn't been brave enough to move to: pretty old homes being remodeled by young families, private schools, and urban ballot measures. Instead they'd gone for the suburbs, four bedrooms and two and a half baths and a yard, granite countertops and a row of tiny staked crape myrtles. But as she followed George into the moonlit backyard, Maris thought:
Oh, what we missed
. Beyond a wooden fence, a vast dark rolling space unfurled, the Mountainview Cemetery with its marble gravestones and tombs reflecting the moonlight. She'd passed it before, driving home to Linden Creek, but it had never occurred to her to drive through the gates and explore.

“Best view in Oakland,” George said. “If you don't mind a little walk.”

He ended up carrying her through the thick brush beyond the gate. People weren't supposed to put gates in their fences; there was supposed to be only one way in, the iron gates locked every sundown. But who could resist? A footpath had been worn through the shrubs that clung to the hill above the lawns.

When they'd made it down the uneven slope, George set Maris down gently on a gravel path and dug in his pocket for a flashlight on a keychain. “Here, you take it,” he said. “I'm pretty steady on my feet. Low center of gravity.” He chuckled, and Maris looped her arm through his. They picked their way along the meandering path until they reached the row of large mausoleums that lined the road near the top of the cemetery.

“Millionaire's Row,” George said.

The view was breathtaking: down, down at least a half mile to the entrance gates, over downtown Oakland with the Tribune tower and city hall rising up above the skyline, to the enormous shipping cranes looming over the port. Then the black water, the Bay Bridge lit brightly, the Golden Gate in the distance . . . and San Francisco beyond, a toy town, a sparkly glittering carpet. “This is . . . it's unbelievable.”

She didn't feel as apprehensive now; the fresh air, the walking, the feel of George's warm hand around hers had left her pleasantly breathless. They strolled past the mausoleums until George paused in front of a massive white one labeled Ghirardelli.

“The chocolate people?” Maris asked.

“More like the chocolate empire.” George laughed as he dusted bits of leaves and bugs off the top step. They sat down, Maris nestled in the crook of his arm. Over their heads, a carved stone angel stood sentry.

A burst of color and light erupted far below, over the water.

“Unbelievable timing,” George chuckled. “I wish I could take credit.”

They watched the fireworks, holding hands and exclaiming over the most spectacular. Maris was pretty sure George was going to kiss her any second. All evening long, she'd been playing chicken with herself, wondering how far she was going to allow this crazy thing to go. She had lied to George, not only about her name, but—implicitly, anyway—about her circumstances. Where she came from and who she was. What must he think of her—a woman who took a filthy apartment on a whim? Who had no one with whom to spend the holiday weekend other than virtual strangers?

The weight Maris dragged around with her—the
truth
—was so insurmountable, so damning, that it crushed most social opportunities before they could even germinate. Friendships were going to be difficult for the rest of her life; romance, practically unthinkable. Any second chances for a woman like her would have to be shaped and precipitated by what had happened to Calla. Maris might hope to meet someone in a grief group someday, maybe. A widower who had loved his wife so much that he'd allow himself only the facsimile of real love: Maris could imagine herself in that role, a polite alliance whose barriers neither would ever try to cross.

But someone like George—he was the opposite. Full of life. Emotions tumbling from his gestures, his words—he'd expressed more to her in the time they had spent together than Jeff had confided in years. George was Jeff's opposite: profane where Jeff was staid; impulsive where he was meticulous; sensual where he was cold.

And then George did kiss her, his lips soft and full and warm and wet, so unlike the perfunctory kisses Jeff gave her. Had Jeff ever kissed her like this? Had anyone?

George wrapped his arms more tightly around her, gathering her into his lap like she weighed nothing. He kissed the soft skin under her jaw, gently brushing her hair out of the way, twining it around his fingers. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and kissed her eyelids.

He pulled away from her so he could look at her face. “Hey,” he said. “Hey, what's this?” His fingertip traced across her cheek and only then did Maris realize she was crying. “Are you all right? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” Maris said, embarrassed, trying to wipe the tears away on her wrist, to discreetly wriggle out of his grasp so she could collect herself. But he held on.

“Look, Mary, if I . . . offended you in any way, if I—”

“No, no, it's not you,” Maris said, trying to smile. The nicest moment she'd had in ages, and she'd spoiled it. “You didn't do anything wrong. I thought—I was hoping you would kiss me.”

“Well, then, did I not do it right?” He smiled uncertainly, his brow creasing. “You can give me pointers, I'll take direction—Mary, I really like you. I
really
like you.”

Maris made a sound that was half protest and half sob, torn between pushing him away and asking for another chance. How was she supposed to tell him: that her daughter had been murdered, and everything Maris had ever known about herself was shattered? That she wasn't entirely sure she could go on; that she'd landed in Oakland like an exhausted bird alighting on a rock in the waves, too depleted to make it to shore; that she wasn't ever sure she'd even wake up again when she went to bed each night? That she was surprised that heartbreak hadn't already ended her?

“I'm not who you think I am,” she blurted, and then she did manage to wrench herself free of his arms.

“You . . . what?”

As she stumbled down the steps, she saw his expression go from confusion to hurt.

“I have a whole other life,” she protested when he caught up. “I shouldn't be here. I don't know what I was thinking.” She struggled along the path, but one of the painful shoes twisted and she nearly fell, her ankle wrenching.

“Hey. Please.” George put his hand on her arm to steady her. “Tell me who you really are then. Or—or don't. I don't—I'll just take you home, okay? You can't walk from here.”

“I can call a cab,” she said, letting her hair fall forward in her face. “I'll be fine.”

“You won't be fine. You can barely walk. At least let me help you get back to the gate.”

She accepted his hand reluctantly. He was right; she couldn't even tell which house they'd come from, where the path had brought them through the shrubs. Neither of them spoke as they clambered back up the hill, Maris holding on to his fingers tightly. As soon as they got to the gate—a tin star was nailed to it, gleaming dully—she let go and pushed through by herself.

George drove back down the hill, through the city, back to the house, without saying anything. As soon as he pulled over, she had the passenger door open. “I'm sorry,” she said, not looking at him. “So sorry.”

“Mary. Whoever you are. Please.”

But she slammed the door on his plea, and practically ran down the driveway while his car still idled there. Her feet hurt; she had twin blisters on her heels. She hobbled past Norris's car, the motion-sensor light illuminating the parched lawn, the broken flower pots piled along the shed. She had to pee, badly. There was a light on in Pet's apartment, but she desperately wanted to be alone.

Taped to the glass window of the apartment door was a scrap of paper. Maris had to open the door and turn on the light to see what it said.

Mary: I know who you are. —Pet

AFTER A RESTLESS
night, Maris awoke to the ting of a text and an accompanying sense of dread. She hadn't given her phone number to anyone she had met since leaving Linden Creek—not George, not Norris, not even Pet. And aside from a couple of “thinking of you” messages from Adrian and Jemma, the only people who texted her these days were people she didn't currently want to hear from.

Sure enough: Jeff, with news that made her sink back into the bed, staring at the little screen.

Thought you should know, Isherwoods' new lawyer talking about appeal in the paper this morning.

They'd known all along that an appeal was a possibility. The media speculation had been strong, following the reading of the verdict, but as the weeks passed, Maris had allowed herself to think it had faded from the realm of possibility or at least of likelihood. The Isherwoods, in the video clips that appeared over and over on the news, had leaned into each other as they left the courtroom that day, looking as broken as she felt. She'd almost been sorry for them. No: she'd been sorry only for Ron, because Deb was a cipher to her. Deb was only the sum of a half dozen meaningless polite encounters, pleasantries exchanged, compliments about each other's children, and shared amusement at their fledgling romance. It all seemed to have taken place years ago. But Ron was a different matter; Ron remained vivid in her mind and in her senses. Ron, even on the worst days, the days she wished the Isherwoods gone from the earth, was real to her.

She forced herself to get up and make the bed. It was almost nine o'clock; she'd tossed and turned for hours before finally, as dawn seeped into her window, falling into a dreamless sleep. She padded to the kitchen and drank tepid water from a glass, standing at the sink, while she thought about what an appeal would mean. Their names in the news again. Calla's picture in the papers. The website—she'd only seen it once; Jeff had asked their lawyer if he could force it to be removed, but it was impossible—proclaiming Karl's innocence. Her dream of disappearing would be shattered; it would be impossible to maintain this fragile distance she'd put between herself and the rubble of her broken life.

She thought of Karl, the last time she'd seen him, the day his sentence was read. He sat impassively staring at the table in front of him. He didn't flinch, didn't cry, didn't even show that he had heard. Shortly after that he was led from the courtroom, and he looked straight ahead, not even acknowledging his parents.

Alana asked her later if she was disappointed that he'd only gotten voluntary manslaughter, with its maximum sentence of eleven years. If she and Jeff would feel better knowing that Karl would never be set free, or at least so far in the future that they could think of him as having paid a crippling price. But Maris didn't see it that way. She—and Jeff for that matter—had little doubt that Karl was guilty. And if someone had offered her Calla back, she would have gladly traded Karl's life. But she also couldn't bring herself to believe that Karl was inherently evil: he had always struck her as an inherently unhappy boy, one who on the cusp of adulthood was not yet secure in who he was meant to be. It was not the same as forgiving him, and Maris had no desire or intention to forgive, but she also doubted whether his suffering in prison would ever make her feel any better.