Jan Burke - Eighteen

“No,” she said. “Her father was driving.” She hesitated, then added, “We were separated at the time. He asked if he could take her for a ride in the car. Cars were just coming into their own then, you know.”

“You mean you rode horses?” I asked.

“Sometimes. Mostly I rode in a carriage or a buggy. My parents were well-to-do, and I was living with them at the time. I don’t think they trusted automobiles much. Cars were becoming more and more popular, though. My husband bought one.”

“I thought you were divorced.”

“No, not divorced, separated. We were both Catholics. We weren’t even legally separated. In fact, the day they died, I thought we might be reconciling.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting back together. I thought he had changed, you see. He stopped drinking, got a job, spoke to me sweetly. He pulled up in a shiny new motor car, and offered to take Mary Theresa for a ride. They never came back. He abducted her-kidnapped her, you might say. She was his daughter, there was no divorce, and nothing legally barring him from doing exactly what he did.”

“How did the accident happen?”

“My husband tried to put a great distance between us by driving all night. He fell asleep at the wheel. The car went off the road and down an embankment. They were both killed instantly, I was told. I’ve always prayed that was true.”

I didn’t say anything. She was crying again. I pulled out a couple of tissues I had in my pocket and held them out to her, figuring that lace hankie was probably soaked already.

She thanked me and took one of them from me. After a minute, she said, “I should have known! I should have known that a leopard doesn’t change his spots! I entrusted the safety of my child to a man whom I knew to be unworthy of that trust.”

I started to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself, but before the words were out of my mouth, I knew I had no business saying anything like that to her. I knew how she was feeling. It bothered me to see her so upset. Without really thinking much about what I was doing, I started telling her about the day my father died.

Since I’m being completely honest here, I’ve got to tell you that I had to use that other tissue. She waited for me to blow my nose, then said, “Have you ever talked to your mother about how you feel?”

I shook my head. “She wanted me to, but since the accident-we aren’t as close as we used to be, I guess. I think that’s why she got together with Harvey. I think she got lonely.”

About then, my mother came into the church, and called up to me. I told her I’d be right down. She said they’d be waiting in the car.

As I got up, the old lady put a hand on me. “Promise me that you will talk to your mother tonight.”

“About what?”

“Anything. A boy should be able to talk to his mother about anything. Tell her what we talked about, if you like. I won’t mind.”

“Okay, I will,” I said, “but who will you talk to when you start feeling bad about Mary Theresa?”

She didn’t answer. She just looked sad again. Just before I left, I told her which steps to watch out for. I also told her to carry an umbrella if she went out that evening, because it was going to rain. I don’t know if she took any of my good advice.

In the car, I got worried again. I was expecting Harvey to be mad because I kept them waiting. But he didn’t say anything to me, and when he talked to my mom, he was sweet as pie. I don’t talk when I’m in a car anymore, or I might have said something about that.

Harvey went out not long after we got home. My mother said we’d be eating Sunday dinner by ourselves, that Harvey had a business meeting he had to go to. I don’t think she really believed he had a business meeting on a Sunday afternoon. I sure didn’t believe it. My mom and I don’t get to be by ourselves too much, though, so I was too happy about that to complain about Harvey.

My promise to Mary Theresa’s mother was on my mind, so when my mother asked me what I was doing up there in the choir loft, I took it as a sign. I told her the whole story, about the window and Mary Theresa and even about the accident. It was the second time I had told it in one day, so it wasn’t so rough on me, but I think it was hard on her. She didn’t seem to mind, and I even let her hug me.

It rained that night, just like my knee said it would. My mom came in to check on me, saying she knew that the rain sometimes bothered me. I was feeling all right, though, and I told her I thought I would sleep fine. We smiled at each other, like we had a secret, a good secret. It was the first time in a few years that we had been happy at the same time.

I woke up when Harvey came home. When I heard him put the Imperial in the garage, I got out of bed and peeked from behind my bedroom door. I knew he had lied to my mom, and if he was drunk or started to get mean with her, I decided I was gonna bash him with one of my crutches.

He came in the front door. He was wet. I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing, because I realized that he had gone out without his umbrella. He looked silly. The rain and wind had messed up his hair, so that his long side-the side he tries to comb over his bald spot-was hanging straight down. He closed the front door really carefully, then he went into the bathroom near my bedroom, instead of the one off his room. At first I thought he was just sneaking in and trying not to wake up my mom, but he was in there a long time. When he came out, he was in his underwear. I almost busted a gut trying not to laugh. He tiptoed past me and went to bed. The clock was striking three.

I waited until I thought he might be asleep, then I went into the bathroom. There was water all over the place. He hadn’t mopped up after himself, so I took a towel and dried the floor and counter. It was while I was drying the floor that I saw the book of matches. It had a red cover on it, and it came from a place called Topper’s, an all-night restaurant down on South Street. I picked up the matchbook. A few of the matches had been used. The name “Mackie” was written on the inside, and just below that, “1417 A- 3.” I closed the cover and looked at the address for Topper’s. 1400 South Street. I knew Harvey ’s handwriting well enough to know that he had written that name and address.

What was he doing with matches? Harvey didn’t smoke. He hated smoke. I knew, because he made a big speech about it on the day he threw away my dad’s pipes. I had gone into the trash and taken them back out. I put them in a little wooden box, the same one where I kept a photo of my dad. I never looked at the photo or the pipes, but I kept them anyway. I thought my mom might have found the place I hid them, but so far, she hadn’t ratted on me.

I opened the laundry hamper. Harvey ’s wet clothes were in there. I reached in and pulled out his shirt. No lipstick stains, and even without lifting it close to my nose, I could tell it didn’t have perfume on it. It could have used some. It smelled like smoke, a real strong kind of smoke. Not like a fire or anything, but stronger than a cigarette. A cigar, maybe. I had just put the shirt back in the hamper when the door flew open.

“What are you doing?” Harvey asked.

I should have said something like, “Ever heard of knocking?” or made some wisecrack, but I was too scared. I could feel the matchbook in my hand, hot as if I had lit all the matches in it at once.

Luckily, my mom woke up. “ Harvey?” I heard her call. It sounded like she was standing in the hall.

“Oh, did I wake you up, sweetheart?” he said.

My jaw dropped open. Harvey never talked to her like that after they got married.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.