that in a bad way. It was just allMat knew, what he had seen from his parents, and their parents. The wife stayshome, cooks, cleans, raises the child. Mat works and provides for them. Shecould sense the objection to the classes right away. Not an outright “No,” butactive discouragement. Why not join the PTA? he had suggested. A bridge club.Be a Girl Scout leader. But she did it, anyway, felt that she needed to do itfor herself, took college courses part-time, fit them around her daughter andhusband, and tingled with anticipation for her future.
Something glorious is going to happen.
She got a college degree in theater, performed in communityplays and had no inclination, whatsoever, of making it a career, had noillusions about becoming a star of the stage. In truth, she acted only forherself, not the audience, for the freedom it brought her. But soon she achedfor more, and found another way to perform theater. She attended law schoolpart-time, mostly at night. Got a job as a public defender. Wrote a novel andmade more money than he did. Their marriage moved farther downhill with eachstep. At the end Mat wanted to preserve things-she will never know what part ofthat was appearances and what part was a love for Allison-but even he had seenthat the end had come once Jessica moved out to go to college.
The way I am now, I’m no wife for you.
“Jessie’s thinking about studying abroad next year,” Mattells her. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He kicks at a stray weed inthe lawn. “Spain. Sevilla, probably.”
“Okay.” She is disarmed at her response, however appropriateit may be under the circumstances. She has little to say about her daughter’slife now, little right to inquire. Allison had always supported the idea ofstudying abroad. Jess had been noncommittal. It isn’t difficult to discern whatchange has prompted her daughter’s desire for new surroundings. Anywhere, atthis point, is better than here.
“I told her you and I would discuss it,” he adds, looking ather. The wind kicks a few strands of his thick hair up. He is wearing a lightyellow jacket that is probably insufficient for a cold spring day.
“Your call,” she says with no emotion. She feels a tug ather heart. She’s not sure what Jessica would think of her opinion, anyway. Oninstinct alone, she’d probably do the opposite of what Allison recommended.Allison hadn’t seen it coming, Jessica taking her father’s side in the divorce.But Jessica has always adored Mat. It puzzled Allison, always, how the fatherwho spent so little time with his daughter gained such an elevated stature inJessica’s mind. She could probably count on one hand the number of diapers Matchanged. The number of meals Mat cooked. The number of piano recitals and choirconcerts he attended. Everything Allison did, all those years, selflessly, yes,and she didn’t expect a gold medal for it, but how was it that Mat came awaythe shining parent?
Well, that wasn’t hard to figure. Mat spoiled her. Imposedno discipline. It was Allison who played the bad cop, Allison who pushed herdaughter to study and imposed a curfew after that incident with the high-schoolteacher. And really, she loved the fact that Jess and Mat got along so well.What mother-what wife-wouldn’t want that?
But she had expected more when she and Mat split. No, shedidn’t expect Jessica to accept the news with open arms. But Jess was twentyyears old, for God’s sake. She had been raised to keep an open mind, to thinkthings through. How could Jessica so easily find fault in one parent and notthe other? Allison doesn’t know the answer to that question. She doesn’t knowwhat Mat said to their daughter. She doesn’t know what methods of manipulationMat employed to subtly cast blame in Allison’s direction. All that she knows isthat Jessica would do anything for her father and would never blame him for athing.
Mat drops the subject, looks into the cool air, closes hiseyes momentarily.
“Let’s go inside,” Allison suggests.
Mat follows her into the living room, then heads to theadjacent kitchen. Allison closes the window in the living room, overlooking thebackyard.
“My attorney thinks the frame-up theory makes us lookdesperate,” she calls to Mat. She sees, through the window, her neighbor, Mr.Anderson, following his daughter out into his backyard for a game of catch. Sheremembers when Jennifer Anderson was born, can’t believe she’s now eight yearsold, jumping around with a baseball glove, eagerly awaiting warm-weathersports.
“I agree,” Mat says from the kitchen. “Who gives a damnabout hair and broken fingernails and earrings? You were there at some point,is all it proves.”
She looks away from the window toward the kitchen. Mat wasprobably glad to be in the next room when he said that. He’s right, but that’sbeside the point. He’s acknowledging her relationship with Sam, howeverfleetingly. Mat must be envisioning the spin that Ron McGaffrey will put onthis evidence. An earring fell out, a nail was broken, a hair was pulled outduring moments of passion. Wild sex on his couch. On the kitchen table. In hisswimming pool. On a trapeze over his bed. Men have the capacity to visualizethe most painful scenarios in their jealousy.
The truth is that it was incredibly awkward, initially.Allison had been with exactly one man her entire life. Everything had been oneway. The first time she and Sam made love and she watched him above her,Allison’s heart pounded like never before, one part excitement and three partsutter fear. It was more like her first time than her thousandth.
Sam was taller than Allison by several inches, unlike Mat,so she had to raise her chin to see his face as he rose above her. He had lesshair on his chest. A thinner frame. He liked to cup her head with his hand,play with her hair. He liked to kiss her more. Liked to watch her. Made lessnoise in his climax, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, little more than aguttural sound from his throat. Liked to stay inside her longer afterward. Hewas slow and steady.
She realizes that Mat is watching her, standing in theliving room with a bottle of wine. She wonders if he can guess what is goingthrough her mind.
Mat had been more like a jackhammer. Quick, powerful thrusts,not a gentle partner. He was a square- framed, strong man, a hunter-gatherer,and he liked to take the lead, needed to. Didn’t like it when Allisonimprovised. He wanted to initiate, wanted to choose the position. Liked to beon top, liked to lie above her, not on her, as if in the middle of a push-up,his triceps bulging, his chest muscles flexing. She often wondered whether hewas doing that for her or for himself.
“Forget the frame-up,” Mat finally says. “The best witnessis you. Say you didn’t do it.”
Allison looks away, toward the couch. “I can’t testify, Mat.You know that.”
“We’re talking about your life, here, Allison.”
“They’ll catch me in lies, Mat. I’ve lied to the police. Andthey can force me to talk about other things, too. It’s not an option.”
She walks over to the window again, wants to see theenthusiasm on her young neighbor’s face, wants to experience a moment ofvicarious joy. The girl flings the baseball over her father’s head, and itbangs off the back door.
“I’d rather die,” Allison says.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Allison finds Larry Evans in the coffee shop at the grocerystore. “I got you something,” Larry says to her. He slides a small packageacross the table.
She can tell it’s a paperback before she opens it. She canalso tell that a man wrapped the present. It’s a self-help book, one of thosepositive-mental-attitude guides she has never read.
“It’s about seeing the finish line,” he says, and laughs.“I’m guessing you’ll choose not to read it.”
Allison smiles. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do withoutyou, Mr. Evans. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only-well.” She looks at him.“Thank you.”
“You have a lot of people supporting you, Allison. You readthe websites?”
“Oh, God, not lately.” She has appreciated, on some level,the support she has received on her book website, Allison-pagone.com, as wellas several websites seeking to capitalize on the case, including herfavorite,freeallison.com. But she can’t help but feel some distance from thesepeople. They aren’t really saying that they believe her to be innocent. Theydon’t know her and they don’t know the facts, at least not all of them. Theyfeel a connection to her, presumably because of her novels, and they don’t wantto confront the real possibility that one of their favorite authors hascommitted murder.
