Laura Lippman - The Most Dangerous Thing

But her last chance of a fresh start was sixteen years and two kids ago. She met Mickey’s father, Paul, and got knocked up. Talk about wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. She couldn’t afford an abortion, and even if she could, she didn’t trust the guy that Paul said he knew. Then Paul had to go and get himself killed before his daughter was even born. At least she could claim they were married, pretend to respectability, not that her own father bought it. He only let her stay at home because her mother was wild for the baby. They moved out as soon as Mickey was in school and Rita got the lunch shift at Hot Shoppe Juniors. She moved on to Connolly’s when Mickey turned nine. Then she met Rick. Then she met Joey’s dad-to-be, not even a month later. That was a complicated time. But fun . She smiles, remembering, two new romances at the same time, both fulfilling in their own way. There was Rick, handsome and steady, ready to take care of her, so sweet with Mickey. Rita loved her daughter a little more, seeing her with Rick. Not that she didn’t love her like crazy, but part of being a single mom was never getting to step back and take in the view. Rick made that possible.

Then there was Joey’s dad, Larry. He was bad, in the best sense of the word. Drove a hot car, usually had a little toot on him, liked to have sex anywhere but a bed. He had come into the restaurant one night, sat at the bar, watching her, making sure she saw him watching her. He was waiting outside when she got off at ten, leaning against his Monte Carlo. “Need a lift home?” “I need to make a phone call first.” He gave her the dime for the pay phone. She liked that. She went back inside, called Mickey. “Mommy’s got to stay late,” she said. “We’re doing inventory.” The girl was nine, there was no harm in leaving her alone. Within an hour, Larry had her bent over a picnic table in a kids’ park and she was all but baying at the moon. Maybe it was the cocaine, maybe it was cheating on Rick, maybe Larry really did know some things that other men didn’t. All she knew was that the sex was better than it was with Rick, and it shouldn’t be. Larry wasn’t even as good-looking as Rick. Bad skin, too thin. She assumed part of the reason he liked sex in odd places was because he never had to get all the way naked, he could conceal his caved-in, almost hairless chest, his pin-thin arms and legs. Didn’t matter. He was thick where it counted.

Then Rita got pregnant. She couldn’t be sure who the dad was, so she figured she’d tell them both, see what each one offered, kind of like making two employers compete for her. Rick said they should get engaged, move in together. Larry said he would help her out however he could-and promptly disappeared. So that sealed it. She had the right guy, and who cared who the actual sperm donor was. Rick was solid, reliable. She could have given up working, but she was reluctant for reasons even she didn’t understand. She told Rick she would keep working so they could put more aside to buy a house, yet she never put anything aside, except for the tip money she hid in a little metal box in the kitchen. Rick worked days and she stayed home with the kids, keeping her evening shifts. By afternoon, she looked forward to getting out of the house, although she knew enough to complain now and then about her job. Sometimes, heading out the door, she all but did a little jig.

Then last December, Larry came into Connolly’s. Sat at the bar, eyed her the whole time. Sure enough, he was waiting for her, leaning against a new car. Still thin, still pockmarked. Still sexy.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Been too long.”

She had worked out what she would say if she ever saw him again. It was good, too. She was going to flash her engagement ring, say that some men knew how to treat a woman. Those plans evaporated. She still wanted him. It was even more exciting than the last time around. Now she was really cheating. But she was cheating with the father of her child. And there was no doubt in her mind that he was the father. Joey was almost five now, and people kept commenting on how he didn’t resemble anyone in the family, except maybe Mickey a little. Only Rita knows that he looks just like his father.

She was up in the air, incapable of making a decision, wanting Larry, scared to leave Rick. It turned out not to be her decision after all. Rick caught wind of what she was doing. How, she’s still not sure, but it didn’t matter. They were over.

She tosses her cigarette in the water, goes back inside. She has gauged her tables well: the young lovers tip fairly, the man tips generously, the doctors-to-be can’t even make 10 percent among the three of them. She tries not to watch the clock, but she’s aware of it over her head, its hand creeping toward nine, sending her home.

He walks in at eight forty-five, making the bartender sigh. Rita sighs, too, only happily. She hasn’t told Larry yet that Rick moved out and she has to start over. Rick is her ace in the hole. She’ll be smart this time, play it right. The magazines she reads at the beauty parlor, the women she knows-you can’t call them friends, but they gab sometimes-all these so-called authorities would argue that it’s not smart to want this man, that he’s already proven he can’t be trusted. But a person can change in a few years. He came back for her. When he sees Joey, everything will fall into place.

They make love parked outside her town house. This has been their pattern since Rick moved out two weeks ago, Larry digging what he thinks is the big risk, getting caught. Larry follows her home, she runs inside, tells Mickey she’s going out for a pack of cigarettes or a carton of milk, please keep the door locked and listen for Joey. Then she gets in Larry’s car, which has these divine seats that go all the way flat. Tonight, the two of them are extra quick, but not in that efficient I-know-you-let’s-get-it-done way. They’re quick because they can’t hold back. After, she smokes a cigarette, helps herself to the bottle under his front seat, laughing about nothing. God, did she and Rick ever laugh about anything? If so, she can’t remember. He was always so superdutiful, and then he started getting superparanoid about her and the kids, accounting for everyone’s whereabouts. Glancing back at the house, she thinks she sees the curtain twitch in the window. But Mickey knows better. Rita will snatch that girl bald-headed if she’s spying on her. She pulls Larry’s head to her breasts, thinks about the dinner she’ll cook in her new apartment the first time she has him over. Something good, but not too fancy. Candles on the table? No candles, she decides. Very casual, maybe even take-out pizza. She has the man she wants, not the one she’s supposed to want. It was trying to be good that made her bad, leading with her brain instead of her heart. If she lets herself have what she really wants, it will be easier to be good this time.

T he last student on Clem’s schedule this morning is very young, very pretty-and destined for failure. These things are not related, not directly. But her youth and her beauty have protected her for much of her life, and this girl-Clem sneaks a look at his appointment calendar, Amanda something, he can’t read his own handwriting, he’s the ultimate doctor cliché-cannot quite believe that these attributes will not get her through medical school as well. She got in, didn’t she? Besides, based on what Clem has gleaned, she was a legitimate admission, not an affirmative action reach or a legacy. She had good grades and MCATs. She is earnest and hardworking.

But she’s not meant to be a doctor, not unless she chooses a field like pathology, where her ineptness with people won’t matter. Oh, doctors can be cold, brusque, high-handed. Many are. But they at least need to understand people on some level, which this girl does not. Inevitably, she wants to be a pediatrician. She thinks children like her. No one likes her. Clem tries to imagine a child wretched enough to deserve her “care,” and his mind slides across an image of little Go-Go Halloran, which shocks him. He doesn’t harbor any ill feelings toward the boy. He pities him.