Laura Lippman - The Last Place

Or so Luisa O’Neal had told her at the time.

Was Jonathan’s death the catalyst that had changed her life? Tess could never decide. She had been a failure when he died, essentially jobless and loveless. Now she owned her own business and her own house-a house where the world’s best boyfriend was now sleeping. Her adventure with Mickey Pechter had put all those things at risk. She pulled the robe tighter around her shoulders.

“If you could see me now,” she whispered to the night sky. “I’m doing really good.”

Then she thought of her case, how she must report to the board before the end of the week and how little she had to tell them, how far she was from developing any information that would help them lobby for new funds.

“Well, pretty good,” she amended.

Tess could not leave bed for more than five minutes before Crow awoke as well. He said the temperature dropped when she slipped away, but she thought the real story was that the greyhound sneaked into her spot, and Esskay’s horrible fishy breath would rouse the soundest sleeper.

“You haven’t had insomnia for a long, long time,” he said, coming out on the porch. He was bare-chested, nothing but baggy sweats hanging on his long lean frame. She knew that men like Crow often fattened up in middle age, but it was impossible to imagine an extra pound on him. Impossible to imagine him in middle age.

“I had a bad dream.”

“The usual?”

Crow knew all about Jonathan Ross, but he begrudged her no memory, which was more than she could say for herself. For a young man inclined toward monogamy, Crow had been awfully generous with his charms before they hooked up.

Still, she didn’t want to tell him the truth, for fear he would want to talk about it. And talking about it was only going to make the nightmare recur.

“No, no,” she lied. “One of the flailing dreams.”

“Who was the target this time?”

The first lie had seemed acceptable, compounding it with a second did not. So she tried to get back on honest territory by remembering the last flailing dream she had had.

“My parents. Of course. It’s almost always my parents.”

“Never me?”

“Never.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

“Probably not.”

They laughed, Tess out of relief that she had come full circle, out of a lie and into the full truth. She had never had one of her flailing dreams with Crow. And if she did, she probably wouldn’t tell him. Those dreams were as disturbing, in some ways more disturbing, as the reruns of Jonathan’s death. In them, she windmilled her arms helplessly, crying hysterically, trying to get someone to listen to her. But her blows were puny, weak, ineffectual. And the object of her assault walked away, unimpressed. Clearly, it would make great material for Dr. Armistead. Clearly, she wasn’t going to talk about it with him.

“Hey,” she said, intent on changing the subject. “Did we make love tonight?”

“You can’t remember? Well, there’s a boost for my self-esteem.”

“My head is kind of fuzzed. Too much work, too much analysis.”

“I was at the club late, and you were asleep by the time I got home.”

“Right.” He was responsible for booking the musical acts that played at her father’s bar on Franklintown Road. This did not make their schedules very compatible, but Tess considered this a good thing. They were less likely to take each other for granted. And if they ever did, he had a scar on his abdomen to remind them how foolhardy that could be. She had almost lost him, too. She was a regular black widow, come to think of it.

“So let’s,” she said.

“Okay.” He stood up to go inside.

“No.” She took off her robe and spread it on the deck like a blanket. “Here.”

He looked at once surprised and amused. Crow was usually the one who pushed for innovation, while Tess was inclined toward a series of greatest hits.

“The neighbors might hear us,” he pointed out.

“Only if you do it right.”

He leaves when they start making love. He doesn’t need to see that or even hear it. Which isn’t to say he’s jealous. Quite the opposite. He feels sorry for her, sad that she has settled. Her boyfriend is just that, a boy. He knows, once he claims her, they will enjoy a closeness she has never experienced with anyone. Their lives are already intertwined, even if she doesn’t realize it. And she, better than most, respects destiny. She will welcome him, embrace him, be grateful for him. She understands so much-trajectories, physics, probabilities. What she doesn’t understand, he will teach her. Tides, toxins, the number of places that remain uncharted and unmapped in a world ruled by measurement.

No, he leaves because he has to go to work. Luckily, this job will take him down to Anne Arundel County, and he can go see his mother when he’s done.

The Western Shore was a compromise. She wanted someplace closer to home, which was totally impractical. They kept the house on the island, leaving it vacant, and he set her up here, near the Severn River. She complained about the lack of a view. She said he had promised her a water view, which he never did. She said he had told her she would get free premium cable, and that the stove would be gas, not electric. He doesn’t know where she gets these ideas.

Lately, however, she doesn’t complain at all, and he finds he misses her querulous laments. She is shrinking, becoming fearful and small. She isn’t even fifty-five, but she looks much older than her neighbors here. Then again, they had cushier lives. She hasn’t made friends, which is probably a good thing, but it makes him sad and angry for her. She’s a lovely woman, his mother, but her background makes her shy. She’s probably right to be shy around these snobs. Real rich people-and he knows something about real rich people now, has realized in hindsight how rich Becca’s father was-are much nicer than these folks, who made middle class by the skin of their teeth. Real rich people don’t worry about losing what they have.

His mother doesn’t have to worry about money, at least. He has made sure of that. But she worries anyway. She, who was so brave and calm, is anxious about everything.

She is sleeping when he lets himself into the house and enters her bedroom. Her hair is thinner but still brown. Does that mean his own hair will never turn white? He smooths it back from her forehead, says her name. Ma. Ma. Wake up, Ma. Ma. Ma.

She wakes with panicky eyes. “Who-what?”

“It’s me, Ma.”

“Oh.” She squints at him, as if to make sure. “What time is it?”

“Not quite seven. I had a job down this way.”

“Did it pay well?”

“They always do.”

“Don’t be afraid to ask for more.”

“I’m not.”

“I mean, just because you’re in business for yourself, doesn’t mean you don’t feel inflation too. And with gas going sky-high-”

“I do better than most, Ma. You don’t have to worry.”

“I saw something on the news last night.”

He sighs, knowing it could be something on the news last night, or a week ago, or a month ago. It’s possible it was never on the news at all.

“They found bones, in this forest. And they could tell who it was. A woman went out to buy milk on New Year’s Eve ten years ago and never came home. And all they had was bones, but they know she was shot and dumped there. Because there’s a nick, see, on one of the bones. It’s amazing, the things they can do.”

“Yes,” he says, wanting to be agreeable.

“No secret ever stays kept. Everything comes up. Nothing stays buried or lost, the way you might think.”

“Some things do.”

“But even in your work, you’ve said, sometimes-”