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Near the shallow containers of chemicals he used to develop the film was a stack of photographs that he'd taken on his date with Julie, and he reached for them.
He thumbed through the images, pausing every now and then to stare at her. She'd looked happy that weekend, he thought, as if she'd known her life had suddenly changed for the better. And lovely, too. In studying her expressions, he couldn't find anything to explain what had happened last night.
He shook his head. No, he wouldn't hold her mistake against her. Anyone who could move from anger to empathy as effortlessly as she had was a treasure, and he was lucky to have found her.
He knew quite a bit about Julie Barenson now. Her mother was a drunk with a preference for vodka who lived in a ramshackle trailer on the outskirts of Daytona. Her father was currently in Minnesota, living with another woman and surviving on a disability check for a mishap that had occurred while working construction. They'd been married two years before he'd left town suddenly; Julie was three years old at the time. Six different men had lived with Julie and her mother at one time or another, the shortest for a month, the longest for two years. Moved half a dozen times, always from one dump to the next.
A different school every other year until high school. First boyfriend at fourteen; he played football and basketball, and a picture of them together had made the yearbook. Appeared as a minor character in two school plays. Dropped out before graduation and vanished for a few months before coming here.
He had no idea what Jim had done to entice her to a place like Swansboro.
Happy marriage, bland husband. Nice, but bland.
He'd also learned about Mike from one of the locals after he'd met him at the Clipper. Amazing how buying a few drinks at a bar can accomplish so much.
Mike was in love with Julie, but Richard had already known that. He hadn't known about the demise of his previous relationship, however, and Sarah's infidelity had intrigued him. He remembered nodding as he'd considered the possibilities that had suddenly opened up.
He'd also learned that Mike had been best man at Julie's wedding, and their relationship began to make sense to him. Mike was comfortable, a link to her past, a link to Jim. He understood Julie's desire to hold on to that, to pull away from anything that might take that away. But it was a desire born of fear-fear of ending up like her mother, fear of losing everything for which she'd worked so hard, fear of the unknown. He wasn't surprised that Singer slept in the room with her, and he suspected that she'd locked her bedroom door as well.
So careful, he thought. It was probably something she'd been doing even as a child, considering the men her mother had brought home. But there was no reason to live that way. Not anymore. She could move forward, as he had.
Their childhoods probably weren't that different after all. The drinking. The beatings. The cockroach-infested kitchen. The smell of mold and rotting drywall. The soupy well water from the tap that made him sick to his stomach. His only escape had been through the photographs in books by Ansel Adams, photographs that seemed to whisper of other places, better places. He'd discovered the books in the school library, and he'd spent long hours studying them, losing himself in the surreally beautiful landscapes. His mother had noticed his interest, and though Christmas was usually a dismal affair, she'd somehow persuaded his father to spend money on a small camera and two boxes of film when Richard was ten years old. It was the only time in his life that he could remember shedding tears of happiness.
He spent hours photographing items in the house or birds in the backyard. He took pictures at dusk and dawn because he liked the light at those hours; he became adept at moving silently, obtaining close-ups that seemed impossible. When he finished a roll of film, he would run inside and beg his father to have them developed. When the photos were ready, he would stare at them in his bedroom, trying to assess what he'd done right or wrong.
In the beginning, his father seemed amused at his interest and even glanced through the first couple of rolls. Then the comments started. "Oh, look, another bird," he'd say sarcastically, and, "Gee, here's another one." Eventually he began to resent the money being spent on his son's new hobby. "You're just pissing it away, aren't you?" he'd snarl, but instead of suggesting that Richard do some chores around the neighborhood to pay for the developing himself, his father decided to teach him a lesson.
He'd been drinking again that night, and both Richard and his mother were trying to stay out of his way, doing their best not to be noticed. As Richard sat in the kitchen, he could hear his father ranting as he watched a football game on television. He'd bet on his favorite team-the Patriots-but had lost, and Richard heard his father's anger as he pounded down the hall. A moment later his father walked into the kitchen with the camera, and he set it on the table. In his other hand was a hammer. After making sure he had his son's attention, he smashed the camera with a single swing.
"I work all week to make a living and all you want to do is piss it away! Now we won't have this problem anymore!"
Later that year, his father died. The memories of that event were vivid as well: the cut of morning sunlight on the kitchen table, the vacant look on his mother's face, the steady drip of the faucet as the hours rolled toward afternoon. The officers spoke in hushed tones as they came and went; the coroner examined and removed the body.
And then, the wailing of his mother, once they were finally alone. "What will we do without him?" she sobbed, shaking him by the shoulders. "How could this have happened?"
This was how: His father had been drinking at O'Brien's, a dingy bar in Boston not far from their home. According to people at the bar, he'd played one game of pool and lost, then sat at the bar the rest of the night, drinking boilermakers. He'd been laid off at the plant two months earlier and had been spending most nights there, an angry man looking for pity and solace in the company of alcoholics.
By that time, Vernon was beating both of them regularly, and the night before he'd been particularly brutal.
He left the bar a little past ten, stopped at the corner market for a pack of cigarettes, and drove past the houses in the blue-collar neighborhood where he lived. A neighbor who was walking his dog saw him as he was nearing home. The garage had been left open, and Vernon pulled the car into the small space. Boxes were piled against both walls.
This was where the speculation began, however. That he had closed the garage door, there was no doubt, evidenced by the high levels of carbon monoxide. But why, the coroner wondered, hadn't he turned the engine off first? And why did he get back into the car after closing the garage door? For all intents and purposes, it looked like a suicide, though his friends at O'Brien's insisted there wasn't a chance he would have done something like that. He was a fighter, not a quitter, they said. He wouldn't have killed himself.
The officers came back to the house two days later, asking open-ended questions and looking for answers. The mother wailed incoherently; the ten-year-old offered only his steady gaze. By then, the bruises on the faces of the mother and son had begun to green at the edges, giving them both a haunted appearance. The officers left with nothing.
In the end, it was ruled an accident, and the death was attributed to alcohol.
A dozen people attended the funeral. His mother wore black and cried into a white handkerchief as he stood beside her. Three people spoke at the graveside, offering kind words for a man who was momentarily down on his luck but was otherwise a good human being, a steady provider, a loving husband and father.
The son played his part well. He kept his eyes downcast; at times, he brought his finger to his cheek as if to swipe at a tear. He slipped his arm around his mother, and nodded grimly and said thank you when others came up to offer their condolences.
The next day, however, when the crowds were gone, he returned to the grave and stood in front of the freshly turned earth.
Then, he spat on it.
In the darkroom, Richard tacked one of the photographs to the wall, reminded that the past cast
s long shadows. It's easy to get confused, he thought. He knew she couldn't help it, and he understood. He forgave her for what she had done.
He stared at her image. How could he not forgive her?
Nineteen
Because she was already dressed by the time Richard left, Julie had enough time to stop and grab a newspaper before she went into work. She sat at a small table outside a bagel shop, sipping coffee and reading, while Singer lounged at her feet.
Putting aside the newspaper, she watched the quiet downtown come to life. One by one, signs in store windows were flipped, doors propped open to catch the early morning breeze. The sky was cloudless, and there was a hint of dew on the windshields of cars that had been parked on the street overnight.
Julie rose, offered the newspaper to a couple at the next table, tossed her empty cup into the garbage, and started up the street toward the salon. The garage had already been open for an hour, and thinking she still had a few minutes before she had to be at work, she decided, Why not? I'm sure he's not too busy yet. Besides, she wanted to drop in to make sure that what she'd been feeling the night before wasn't her imagination.
She didn't intend to tell Mike that Richard had ended up spending the night. Try as she might, she couldn't think of any way to tell him that wouldn't seem suspect, especially in light of what had happened with Sarah. He would always wonder about it, she felt, creating a stubborn splinter of doubt and hurt. Anyway, it wasn't important. It was over now, and that's all that mattered.
She crossed the street, Singer trotting ahead. By the time she walked past the cars waiting to be serviced, Mike was already making his way toward her, looking as though he'd just picked the winning ticket in the lottery.
"Hey, Julie," he said. "What a nice surprise."
Though he had a streak of grease on his cheek and his brow was already shiny with sweat, she couldn't help but think, You look pretty darn good. And I'm definitely not imagining it.
"Yeah, I'm happy to see you, too, big guy," Mike added, reaching toward Singer. It was while he was petting Singer that she noticed the Band-Aids.
"Hey, what happened to your fingers?"
Mike glanced at his hands. "Oh, it's nothing. They're just a little sore this morning."
"Why?"
"I guess I kind of scrubbed 'em too hard last night after I got home."
She frowned. "Because of what I said on the beach?"
"No," he said. Then, shrugging, he added, "Well, I guess that was part of the reason."
"I was just teasing."
"I know," he said. "But I got to wondering whether a new soap might work better."
"So what did you use? Ajax?"
"Ajax, 409, Lysol. I pretty much tried everything."
