He hadn’t liked going to see her at first. But she hadn’t pulled at him or pressured or claimed to understand. She’d just talked. When he stopped drinking, she gave him a calendar, what she had called a perpetual calendar that he could use forever.
“You have something to be proud of today, Joey. And every day when you get up in the morning, you’ll have something to be proud of.”
Sometimes, he’d believed her.
She never gave him that quick, sharp look when he walked into the room. His mother still did. Dr. Court had given him the calendar and believed in him. His mother still waited for him to disappoint her. That’s why she’d taken him out of his school. That’s why she wouldn’t let him hang around with his friends.
You’ll make new friends, Joey. I only want the best for you.
She only wanted him not to be like his father.
But he was.
And when he grew up he might have a son, and his son would be like him. It would never stop. It was like a curse. He’d read about curses. They could be passed from generation to generation. Sometimes they could be exorcised. One of the books he kept under his mattress explained the ceremony for exorcizing evil. He’d followed it point by point one night when his mother and stepfather had been at a business dinner. When he was finished, he didn’t feel any different. It proved to him that the evil, the no good inside of him, was stronger than the good.
That’s when he’d begun to dream of the bridge.
Dr. Court wanted to send him to a place where people understood dreams about death. He’d found the brochures his mother had thrown away. It looked like a nice place, quiet. Joey had saved the brochures, thinking it might be a better place than the school he hated. He’d nearly worked up the nerve to talk to Dr. Court about it when his mother said he didn’t need to see the doctor anymore.
He’d wanted to see Dr. Court, but his mother had that bright, nervous smile on.
Now they were home arguing about it, about him. It was always about him.
His mother was going to have a new baby. She was already picking out colors for the nursery and talking about names. Joey thought it might be nice to have a new baby in the house. He’d been glad when Donald asked him to help paint the nursery.
Then one night he’d dreamed that the baby had been dead.
He wanted to talk to Dr. Court about it, but his mother said he didn’t need to see her anymore.
The surface of the bridge was slippery with its coating of snow. Joey’s footprints were long, sliding marks. He could hear the rush of traffic below, but walked on the side that overlooked the creek and the trees. It was a high, exhilarating feeling to walk up here, above the tops of the trees, with the sky so dark above his head. The wind was frigid, but the walk had kept his muscles warm.
He wondered about his father. The night, this last Thanksgiving night, had been a test. If his father had come, if he’d been sober and had come to take Joey with him for dinner, Joey would have tried one more time. But he hadn’t come because it was too late for both of them.
Besides, he was tired of trying, tired of seeing those sharp, uncertain looks on his mother’s face, of seeing the anxious concern on Donald’s. He couldn’t stand being to blame anymore, for any of it. When he was finished, there wouldn’t be any reason for Donald and his mother to fight about him. He wouldn’t have any reason to worry that Donald would leave his mother and the new baby because he couldn’t tolerate Joey any longer.
His father wouldn’t have to make child-support payments.
The rail of the Calvert Street Bridge was slick, but he got a good purchase with his gloves.
All he wanted was peace. Dying was peaceful. He’d read all about reincarnation, about the chance of coming back to something better, as someone better. He was looking forward to it.
He could feel the wind tossing snow, cold, almost sharp snow, against his face. He could see his breath puff out slow and steady in the dark. Below him now were the white-tipped trees and the icy flow of Rock Creek.
He’d decided quite calmly against other forms of suicide. If he slashed his wrists, the sight of his own blood might make him too weak to finish. He’d read where people who tried to overdose on pills often vomited them up and just got sick.
Besides, the bridge was right. It was clean. For a moment, for one long moment, it would feel like flying.
He balanced himself a moment and prayed. He wanted God to understand. He knew that God didn’t like people to make a choice to die. He wanted them to wait until He was ready.
Well, Joey couldn’t wait, and he hoped God and everyone else would understand.
He thought of Dr. Court and was sorry that she was going to be disappointed. Joey knew his mother would be upset, but she had Donald and the new baby. It wouldn’t take her long to see that it was all for the best. And his father. His father would just get drunk again.
Joey kept his eyes open. He wanted to see the trees rush up at him. He took a long breath, held it, and dove.
“Miss bette has outdone herself again.” Tess sampled the rich dark meat her grandfather had carved. “Everything’s spectacular, as always.”
“Nothing the woman likes better than to fuss with a meal.” The senator added steaming gravy to a mound of creamy white potatoes. “I’ve been barred from my own kitchen for two days.”
“Did she catch you sneaking in for samples again?”
“Threatened to make me peel potatoes.” He swallowed a healthy forkful, then grinned. “Miss Bette has never subscribed to the notion that a man’s home is his castle. Have some more dressing, Detective. It’s not every day a man gets to indulge himself.”
“Thanks.” Because the senator held the bowl over his plate, Ben had little choice but to take it. He’d already had two helpings, but it was difficult to resist the senator’s cheerful insistence. After an hour in the company of Senator Writemore, Ben had discovered the old man was vibrant, both in looks and speech. His opinions were hard as granite, his patience slim, and his heart undeniably lay in his granddaughter’s hands.
What relieved Ben was that after that hour he wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he’d been prepared to be.
Initially the house had made him uneasy. From the outside it had merely been quietly elegant, distinguished. Inside it had been like a trip around the world in a first-class cabin. Turkish rugs faded just enough to show their age and durability, were spread over black-and-white checkerboard tile on the hall floor. An ebony cabinet, high as a man’s shoulders and magnificently painted with peacocks, stood under a long curve of stairs.
In the parlor, where a silent Oriental had served before-dinner drinks, two Louis Quinze chairs flanked a long rococo table. A cabinet fronted with etched glass held a treasure trove. Venetian glass almost thin enough to read through was stained with color. A glass bird caught and reflected the light from the fire. Guarding the white marble hearth was a porcelain elephant the size of a terrier.
It was a room that reflected the senator’s background and, Ben realized, Tess’s. Comfortable wealth, a knowledge of art and style. She’d sat on the dark green brocade of the sofa in a pale lavender dress that had made her skin glow. The pearl choker lay against her throat, its glinting center stone pulsing with light and the heat from her body.
To Ben she’d never looked more beautiful.
There was a fire in the dining room as well. This one had been banked to simmer and pop through the meal. Light came from the prisms of the tiered chandelier above the table. Wedgwood plates, delicately tinted, Georgian silver, heavy and gleaming, Baccarat crystal waiting to be filled with cool white wine and sparkling water, Irish linen soft enough to sleep on. Bowls and platters were heaped. Oysters Rockefeller, roast turkey, buttered asparagus, fresh crescent rolls, and more; their scents mixed into a delightful potpourri with candles and flowers.
As the senator carved the turkey, Ben had thought back on the Thanksgivings he’d experienced as a child.
Because they had always eaten at midday rather than evening, he’d woken to the enticing smells of roasting fowl, sage, cinnamon, and the sausage his mother had browned and crumbled into the stuffing. The television had stayed on through the Macy’s parade and football. It was one of the few days of the year when he or his brother hadn’t been drafted to set the table. That was his mother’s pleasure.
She’d take out her best dishes, the ones used only when his Aunt Jo visited from Chicago or his father’s boss
