Fragile

Mom, I need some money! Mom, I can’t find my Ramones T-shirt! Jones liked to refer to it as the shrink zone. There was some resentment there, she knew, even though he had suggested that they build the addition rather than lease office space somewhere. Dr. Willough thought that she should have an off-site office, that a simple doorway wasn’t enough to protect patient privacy, to achieve the crucial separation of family and professional life. But, especially when Ricky was small, Maggie found the convenience of being steps away from her home and family very comforting-between patients she could do a load of laundry, run a quick errand, read her son a story, and give the part-time babysitter a break.

“Hello?” she called, walking into the kitchen.

She’d expected to hear the television on, or the pumping bass from the stereo in Ricky’s upstairs bedroom. She’d even thought she might see Jones sitting out by the pool, their bottle of wine already open, her glass waiting. But no. The sun had already dipped below the horizon and there had been no one home to turn on the lamps against the evening. She felt a low-grade anxiety, a nagging loneliness.

She moved through the rooms, flipping switches, filling the house with the light and warmth she needed, turning on the small, new flat-screen on the kitchen counter just to hear the sound of the local news. When the house seemed more alive, she felt better.

She peered into the refrigerator and fooled herself for a moment, thinking she might actually get creative and cook something. But since she hadn’t been shopping and Jones had polished off all the leftovers-not just the lasagna but also the black bean soup she’d made earlier in the week-she gave up the idea quickly. The refrigerator offered only some wilting carrots and a bag of prewashed organic lettuce, a package of cheddar cheese, some tubs of Greek yogurt, and half a bottle of pomegranate juice. Of course, there were always the staples-milk, eggs, bread, butter, all varieties of condiments. She’d never allow the refrigerator to be completely empty. Her mother had never run out of these things, not once in Maggie’s childhood. Always be prepared to make an omelet or a grilled cheese sandwich. And always buy a roll of toilet paper when you do your shopping, even if you don’t need it. That way you never run out. Elizabeth’s household wisdom: there was no shortage.

But it was good advice; Maggie had followed it, even in college. As a cook, a wife, and a mother, she held herself to at least that standard. Even now, she had cupboards full of more toilet paper than they’d ever need.

“Why do we have so much toilet paper everywhere?” Jones always wanted to know.

She picked up the phone and dialed his number, but her call went straight to voice mail.

“Where are you?” she said. “I was thinking of ordering a pizza and salad for dinner. Sound good? Call me.”

Then she dialed Ricky. Voice mail again.

“What do you think about pizza for dinner? Maybe you want to invite Char?”

It was probably a bad idea given Jones’s mood and the whole tattoo thing. But so what? If Ricky and Jones didn’t fight about that, they’d fight about something else. Maybe they’d be on better behavior with a guest at the table. They could all have a meal in relative peace.

She ordered two pizzas from Paesano’s (Jones and Ricky preferred Pop’s, but she thought it was too greasy), one plain, one pepperoni, and a large Greek salad, got hung up on the phone exchanging niceties with the owner, someone she’d gone to high school with, Chad Donner. She might even have kissed him once-she had a fuzzy memory of some indiscreet moment at an unsupervised Halloween party. At any rate, he always made goofy jokes and exuded a lonely energy when she stopped in to pick up a meal or if he answered the phone at the restaurant, as though he remembered something that was important to him but that she had long forgotten. When she hung up, feeling vaguely bad, her thoughts returned to Marshall.

When Marshall had left her office, it was as if he’d taken all the air with him. She’d sat stunned and breathless, though she couldn’t have said why precisely. It wasn’t as if he’d raged, or lost control, or even moved physically toward her. But she’d felt a malice radiating off him in palpable waves. When he was gone, she’d called the high school and happened to catch Henry Ivy during his break.

“He hasn’t been in school in a week,” Henry said. “I e-mailed you.”

“Did you?” she asked, opening her e-mail for the first time that day. She scrolled through a flock of waiting messages and found Henry’s, sent late yesterday afternoon. She wasn’t much for e-mail, hated the impersonal distance of it. People used it to hide from one another. It stripped communication of expression and tone, essential markers for meaning. She avoided it when possible, preferring to pick up the phone.

“Something’s changed, Henry,” she said. “We’re losing him.”

“What happened?”

She recounted the session in broad strokes, avoiding specific things he’d said to protect Marshall’s privacy and her oath. She focused instead on his mood, the air of malice, and his abrupt departure from her office.

Henry was silent for a moment after she finished. If she’d been talking to Jones, that silence would have annoyed her. She’d have rightly assumed that he was multitasking, not quite listening to her. But with Henry, her friend since high school, she knew he was processing her words, turning the possibilities of the incident over in his mind.

“Maybe I’ll stop over there on my way home,” he said finally. “Check in with Marshall.”

That was the problem with The Hollows-though maybe it wasn’t always a problem. Everyone’s relationship was complicated-your doctor was also your neighbor, maybe she’d gone to the prom with your brother. The cop at your door had been the burnout always in trouble when you were in high school. In this case, when Henry stopped by to check in on Marshall, Travis might not see his kid’s teacher dropping in to check on a student. Travis might see the boy he’d mercilessly bullied for years, the one who’d finally-after a summer growth spurt-beat him down in front of the whole high school at a homecoming game. Beat him so badly that Travis had actually cried. No one was quite as intimidated by Travis Crosby after that-until he’d started wearing a badge and carrying a gun.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked.

“I think it’s my job.” She detected a note of defensiveness, which reminded her of a question she’d held at bay for a while. How much of Henry Ivy’s interest in Marshall had to do with Travis?

“You’re a teacher, not a truant officer.”

He blew out a breath. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Let’s call Leila. She can send the boys over to connect with Marshall. It’s less confrontational.”

Another silence; in the background she heard the bell that announced the end of class, a sudden wave of voices and footfalls.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ll call her?”

“I will.”

But she hadn’t called right away. Her next patient had arrived early. There was a court-ordered evaluation she had to complete after that. And the next thing she knew, she was sitting in the dark of her office, the space lit only by the glow of her computer screen. She picked up the phone without bothering to turn on the light. Leila answered after just two rings.

“It’s Maggie.”

Leila expelled a tired breath. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

Maggie told her about her last session with Marshall, suggested that she send Tim and Ryan over to reach out. But she didn’t get the reaction she expected.

“I don’t think so, Maggie. I’m sorry. We’re overextended in this area to begin with. The boys-they haven’t said much, but they’ve been keeping their distance from Marshall.”

“But, Leila…,” Maggie began. When Leila didn’t let her finish, Maggie felt a rush of something desperate. When you feel that, Dr. Willough warned, you know you’re over the line internally. Maggie could almost see Leila lifting a hand and closing her eyes. Over the years, they’d been friends, rivals, and then friends again.

“You know Travis, Maggie,” Leila said. “He’s toxic. Like, you can’t touch him-it burns. And Marshall. He’s just different when his father’s around. I hate to say it. I’m afraid of him. Of both of them. My own brother and nephew.” She paused here, seemed to collect herself with a deep inhale. “I need to protect my boys from their… poison.”

Maggie was quiet now. The thing was, she did know Travis and other men like him. Leila was right to protect herself and her sons. Maggie stopped short of saying so.