The Most Dangerous Thing

she told Tim. She has always known that the guitar stood for something very bad. But how bad could a little boy be, especially Go-Go, who didn’t have a mean bone in his body? Yet it wasn’t long after the discovery of the guitar that the bed-wetting started. Then he showed up with that hockey stuff, also expensive. She pretended to Tim Senior that she bought it, told him she used money from a birthday check from one of her aunts, withstood his criticism for being wasteful when the household needed every dime.

Something bad . The truly bad thing was when Doris told Go-Go about his father, what he had done for him. Her intention wasn’t only to raise Tim Senior up in his son’s memory. She also-oh, what parent feels like this?-yearned to tear Go-Go down a little, let him know of the sacrifices made for him. She was tired of his brooding, his “poor me, poor me, poor me” routine. He had a house nicer than any Doris had ever known, two beautiful little girls, and a good-enough wife.

All she wanted him to say was thank you, or words to that effect. To say that Tim and Doris did right by him, the best they could. To tell her that it wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t get his life together. Was that wrong? She tried to explain herself to Father Andrew yesterday, without telling him all the details. But Father Andrew isn’t as satisfactory a confidant, now that he’s not a priest. She isn’t sure why that should be, and maybe it’s just her own prejudice, but he seems less wise to her now, and much less sympathetic. He’s of the world now. He has lost his perspective. He wears a turquoise ring.

Tim goes out to his car, carrying the guitar. Good. She should have gotten rid of it long ago.

“Are you going to throw it in Leakin Park?” she asks him.

“Throw it-?” He shakes his head. “Sure. Why not? It’s where all Baltimore’s best dead bodies go.”

“Will you be here for lunch tomorrow?”

“It’s Easter. We’re always here for Easter lunch.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

He could be a little quicker in his reply, but when he does answer, he seems sincere. “No, Mom. I don’t hate you. I know you always had Go-Go’s best interests at heart.”

“When I told him about your father-I thought it would make him happy. Well, not happy, but proud. Loved.”

“I know, Mom.” He kisses her on the forehead. “You meant well. You always meant well.”

“You called me the enemy of fun.”

“What?”

Even Doris is surprised by how this old grievance bubbles up. “Your father, but all of you agreed, behind my back. You didn’t know that I knew, but I knew. You thought I wasn’t fun.”

“Being fun isn’t the most important thing in the world.”

“We’ll have fun tomorrow,” she says. “With the girls and Easter lunch. I have all the usual things. Ham and sweet potatoes.”

“We’ll have fun tomorrow.” Although he’s only echoing her words, and with less conviction than she would like, it has the weight of a promise. They’ll have fun tomorrow. Whatever is happening is happening only now, and it will be forgotten by tomorrow. A person can forget a lot, if she’s willing to try. Doris has always been willing.

Chapter Forty-one

G wen finds herself almost laughing-almost-when Tim tells her the guitar is in the trunk of his car.

“Exhibit A, prosecutor?”

“I know,” he says. “It’s ridiculous. But I wanted it out of my mother’s house. She thinks I should throw it into Leakin Park, and maybe I will.”

“So why bring it?”

“Because it’s concrete. Real. Nothing else is. Real, that is. We have our memories, but Mickey is the only person left who can tell us what really happened that night, why she covered for Go-Go.”

“And my father.” She has to ask. “Tim-can he be prosecuted?”

“Legally? Yes. Your father says he witnessed a homicide and didn’t report it. At the same time, he also says he didn’t believe it, not until my mother visited him a few weeks ago. He managed to persuade himself that he couldn’t know, in fact, that my father killed Chicken George. But my dad’s dying declaration changed that.”

“As an officer of the court-are you obligated to tell someone? Someone official?”

“Yes.”

She wants to cry, she wants to pummel him, she wants to throw herself out of the car. It’s unfair, this mess that his father has left behind for hers. Before she can do any of these things, Tim says: “But I’m not going to. We didn’t do anything, Gwen. You, me, and Sean. We agreed not to tell the grown-ups that Mickey pushed Chicken George, or that we had an ongoing relationship with him. But we believed everything we said. My father believed us. Your father, too.”

“What about Rick? He was there as well.”

“He died a year ago. I found his obituary online. I think this is a case where all the lucky ones are dead.”

“You can’t call Go-Go lucky.”

“No-no, that’s true.”

“I wish we could find Sean,” Gwen says. They have both tried him repeatedly, but his cell phone goes straight to voice mail, and they have been reluctant to leave any message beyond “Call me.” Gwen is actually a little hurt by Sean’s inattention.

Tim gives a laugh that’s a good imitation of the sound she made when she heard about the guitar. “I have a hunch he’ll meet us there.”

M cKey’s apartment has a security system that requires visitors to call up. But when Gwen reaches for the receiver, Tim grabs her and sweeps her up in an embrace, pressing her against the wall and pretending to kiss her, although he has his hand over her mouth. Frightened by his odd behavior, Gwen is getting ready to kick him in the shins, then stops when she realizes his intent. He is counting on the person entering the vestibule to be embarrassed and not protest when Tim grabs the open door and hustles in behind them.

“It’s not much of a security system, especially if the apartment number is next to the name,” he says. “They should use random codes, so people can’t find someone if they sneak in as we did.”

“It was a neat trick.”

“Thanks. I stole it from a movie.”

He pounds on McKey’s door even as he presses a button on his phone, sighing when he hears a distinctive ring tone from the other side, a burst of classical music.

“You have McKey’s number in your phone?” Gwen asks, mystified.

“No,” Tim says. He pounds again, speaks in a firm voice. “It’s Gwen and Tim. You have to let us in.” There is no sound on the other side of the door. Tim presses a button on his phone again, the same ring tone sounds from the other side of the door. But what does this prove, Gwen thinks. McKey clearly is not here. She just happened to leave her phone behind.

Tim speaks into the door. “I’ve got Vivian’s number in my phone, too. I’m dialing that one next.”

Vivian?

“It’s a three-one-seven number, right? Is that the cell or the home phone?”

McKey answers the door, wearing a floor-length robe, a bit of floaty lavender far too pretty to be useful. Gwen cannot begin to read the look on her face. Triumphant? Smug? Angry?

“Why did you bring Gwen? Do you think it makes you look less pathetic?”

“I don’t think I’m the pathetic one in this situation. I mean, I’m not the one who had to make up a lie about a golf date so I could cheat on my wife.” He walks over to her coffee table. Gwen sees a bottle of wine, two glasses, both with some dregs.