And When She Was Good, page 20
“Not exactly.”
Tom went to Bettina’s house, which wasn’t even two miles from Helen’s. He showed her his badge, asked for a cup of coffee, said he needed to talk about the old days. He said some things were best forgotten by everyone. He told her to go on with her life and let others get on with theirs. He stayed until her husband came home, then said he was a Baltimore County detective and he was worried about some break-ins in the neighborhood, was asking stay-at-home types like Bettina to keep their eyes and ears open. “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “And while I guess it’s not politically correct, I think it’s nice that you have a wife who stays at home, even without kids. I like an old-fashioned girl.”
He never mentioned Helen’s name. He didn’t have to. The message was clear: If you come near anyone in my life, your life will be exposed, too. Bettina could have the satisfaction of destroying Helen’s life, but she’d have to take her own with it. Val was right. Bettina had something to lose, too. It was a game of chicken, and Helen kept her foot on the accelerator while Bettina swerved.
That Sunday, Helen began studying the real-estate section. She also began researching how to change her name. She was stuck with Lewis, because it was the name on all Scott’s legal documents, and he was already too inquisitive a child to accept a new surname without multiple questions. She couldn’t really start over, but she could paper over what she had, make it look shiny and new. She thought of her mother, doing the Jumble in the afternoon paper, devouring the advice columns, never noticing that her daughter, more than anyone, needed some sound advice. Ann Lewis? Too plain. Abby Lewis—ugh.
Heloise Lewis. That worked.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 26
She is exactly, precisely on time for her lunch date with Terry, which is probably a mistake, but her internal clock is finely calibrated. It was a good technique to learn when she was starting out, something that allowed her to end her tricks at exactly the right time without stealing glances at clocks or phones. The tendency for most new girls, the ones who work by the hour and not the act, is to short their customers—an hour is actually quite a bit of time when it’s just (just) sex. Meanwhile, some customers are always trying to steal a little extra. One man actually suggested a punch card—one free date for every paid ten. He owned a chain of sandwich shops that made such an offer, and he argued that almost no one actually collected on it, so it was a good way to appear customer-oriented without having to outlay that much.
But Terry is late, and Heloise feels self-conscious, although she is often alone in public and doesn’t think twice about it. But then, she’s never in the position of doubting that the other person will show up. She doesn’t have a book or anything to occupy her, although there’s always her phone. She checks e-mail, looks at her schedule. The weekend is thin in terms of work, top-heavy with things for Scott—
“I’m sorry,” Terry says, and he looks truly distressed at his lateness. “There’s a terrible accident on Route 50, but I don’t have your number, just your e-mail—”
She slides her phone into her purse. Corresponding with Terry has been too much fun. She doesn’t want to start talking to a disembodied voice, not yet. She wants him to continue to write, explain himself to her.
So far he has told her that he grew up in Northern California, the only child of two professors. His household sounds like Heloise’s fantasy—full of books and art, attending theater and even opera when he was younger than Scott is now. Scott is not a reader, much to her regret, and she can’t imagine what he would do if she tried to take him to an opera. Still, it sounds appealing, Terry’s family.
He also has volunteered that he’s twice divorced, which is daunting yet also endearing. Certainly no one would lie about that.
He had described the two relationships as two starter marriages.
“How does one have two starter marriages?” she wrote back.
“By learning nothing from the first one,” he replied.
She was, by habit, less free with information about herself. She mentioned that she was widowed but did not bring up Scott. She said she had grown up in a small town but managed not to add the state and the fact that her mother was a nurse. She did not say her mother was dead, as she usually does. She didn’t say she was alive either, just left it alone. When her half sister, Meghan, was living in the same neighborhood, Meghan thought it was hilarious that Heloise had “killed” Beth, said she was going to start killing all sorts of useless people in her life. It had seemed funny. Then.
“So,” he says. They are in that odd state of knowing so much yet knowing so little about each other. They have agreed, by Heloise’s initiative, to avoid the “What do you do?” discussion as long as possible. “I’m not what I do,” she wrote him. “Besides, it’s really boring.”
“So,” she says. “There’s something I should tell you, I guess. There just never seemed to be a right moment. But I know it matters.”
“Maybe not to me.”
“Maybe. I have a son.”
“Actually, you did tell me. The first time we met, in the grocery store.”
“I did?” How strange. She has no memory of this. But then, she immediately put him on that side of the ledger, the one with teachers and neighbors.
“In passing. How old is he?”
“Eleven. Twelve in a few months. On New Year’s Eve, actually, poor guy. It takes a lot for him not to get lost in the shuffle of holidays.”
“That’s a great age, eleven. Where’s his dad?”
“Out of the picture. Gone before he was born.” Great, now she’s having trouble killing Val.
“Gone as in—”
“Dead. Car accident. He didn’t even know I was pregnant.”
“Wow. So whatever you do—that thing you are not, as we agreed—you must be doing well. Nice car, a house out here—”
“I never told you where I live.”
“I just assumed it was somewhere nearby, since you had a kid. I bet you wouldn’t want to go too far on what is technically our first date. And I guess this means I have to lure you back to my place.” He laughs, for which she is thankful, but suddenly she does want to go back to his place.
Instead she orders lunch and picks a dish redolent with garlic, something she seldom has when out with a man. Terry is as easy to talk to in person as he is in e-mail, and he tells her more stories of his magical childhood. It’s easier for her to imagine Harry Potter’s life than it is to believe in Terry’s stories, where everyone is sweet and charming and loving.
She doesn’t have similar stories to share, so she talks about Scott. She finds herself sharing an anecdote about his only truly bad act, shoplifting a candy bar when he was seven, how she made him take it back and apologize to the man at the pharmacy.
“You’re an honorable person,” Terry says. “I think that’s what I like best about you. I can tell, even with our limited knowledge of each other, that you try to do the right thing.”
She loses her appetite for the lamb stew, delicious as it is.
When can I see you again?” He has waited until the parking lot to ask. “This weekend?”
“Weekends are for my son. I work so much.”
“Okay, then Monday.”
Monday is good, Monday is slow. So many of her regulars start the week pretending that this is the week they won’t call.
He gives her a polite kiss on the cheek but strokes her arm in a way that’s undeniably sexy. Promising. This is a man who will take care of her, if she lets him.
“Monday,” she repeats. Thinking, By Monday I could be as honorable as you think I am. I might not be able to make a clean breast, but I can do the right thing. I can do it right now.
Luckily, Bettina still lives in the same house. Heloise wouldn’t know how to find her otherwise. It seems as if a thousand years have passed since their encounter in the Giant, but it’s really only six. Heloise knocks, but no one answers. So she waits in her car, hoping Bettina will return soon. Before she loses her nerve.
A ditty runs through her head. One of these things is not like the others.
Bettina’s not in the life, hasn’t been for a long time.
Two of these things are kind of the same.
Shelley and Heloise were in the same business. She was probably kicking back money to Val, too. Lord, for a man with no real expenses, he required a lot of tribute.
But the photo was of Shelley and Bettina, arms wrapped around each other. Who was the photo for? Why had it been left there?
One of these things is not like the others.
Shelley is dead.
Two of these things are kind of the same.
Shelley was threatening to tell police something about Val. Why did he care? He can’t do more than life. Did he think he had a shot of being released, did he worry that Shelley would complicate that for him? All the disallowed evidence in the world won’t mean a thing if there are eyewitnesses willing to testify against him. Yet Val believes that Bettina is the person who put him in prison. And that’s Heloise’s fault. She never meant to hurt anyone else, only to save herself, protect her child.
She has to warn Bettina. She has to do the right thing.
A Ford Explorer pulls up, Bettina at the wheel. When she gets out, she looks much older than the woman Heloise saw six years ago, perhaps because she is thinner, which hasn’t been good for her face. But she looks happy, content.
That—and maybe the thinness, come to think of it—can be explained by the blond toddler she lifts from a car seat. Children can wear a woman to a nub like nothing else.
Heloise rushes up the walk, “Bettina, it’s—” Even as she pauses, making the mental adjustment necessary to use her real name, Bettina is backing away from her wide-eyed, anxious, fumbling with her keys.
“Leave me alone,” she says. “I haven’t caused you any trouble. You have no right to cause me any.”
“I’m not.” She thinks guiltily of Tom’s visit, made with her approval. “That’s not why I’m here. Bettina, something has happened. Something for grown-up ears.”
The boy is large; she can’t judge his age. He looks up at the word “ears,” pulls his own, laughs.
“Bettina, it’s important. To you.”
“Jesus, you make it sound life-or-death.”
“It very well could be.”
The house is a museum devoted to two works—photographs of the little boy and a much older girl, presumably the one whose wedding landed Bettina her husband. She steers the boy to the television, then invites Heloise into the dining area.
“You have a lot of nerve, coming to me for anything.”
“A woman was murdered a couple of weeks ago. The madam, out in Howard County?”
“Yeah. I heard something about that.”
“It was Shelley. From back in the day. She was using the name Michelle, but it was really Shelley.”
“You know, I thought that might be her, but she really changed, didn’t she? She got old. I mean, I know what I look like, but she really looked like hell.” A bitter glance at Heloise. “You’ve managed to keep it together pretty well. Money can buy some things, can’t it?”
“There was a photograph left with the body. A Polaroid picture of her—and you.”
Bettina looks dubious. “I didn’t hear anything about that, and no one’s tried to talk to me. How do you know?”
“The police showed it to me, thinking I might help them.”
“Why?”
Heloise is still leery of Bettina—the woman, after all, tried to blackmail her once. “They found out I had a connection to Shelley, thought I could tell them something. I couldn’t. And I didn’t tell them I knew the other woman in the photograph. I figured it didn’t matter.”
“Oh, but now it does. Look, we are not well fixed—”
“I’m not here for money.” I’m not you. “I think Val had Shelley killed. And I think he might come after you next.”
“Why would he care about me? He threw me out. Best thing that ever happened to me, although it didn’t seem like it at the time.”
Here it is. Heloise has to confess what she did. “Right, he threw you out. Everyone assumed you’d live on the street until you died. You were pretty messed up, Bettina. I forgot, I guess, that people can get lucky, that anyone’s life ever changes for the better.”
“Yours did.”
Heloise decides to try to appeal to her through their strongest mutual bond. “I got pregnant, Bettina, and I decided to tell a police detective what I knew about Martin’s death, where the murder weapon was hidden. But I was terrified of even being a confidential informant. I didn’t think Val would let me live if it came to light—and, like I said, I was having a kid. A cop friend of mine had a CI who was dying of cirrhosis, had nothing to lose. He agreed to be the cover, to say he heard about the shooting and where the gun was hidden from a girl who was there that night. No one ever said your name, ever.”
Ah, but that’s a lie. She said it. Heloise rushes on, as though she can outrun her mistakes if she just talks quickly enough.
“There were three of us there that night. Plus the Georges. But Val always thought it was you, for some reason.”
It takes Bettina a beat to absorb this. She never was the brightest girl, and even being drug-free can’t make her sharp. But she sorts things through and says, “You bitch.”
“I’m really sorry, Bettina. You should go to the police, say you were a friend of Shelley’s, that she once saw a murder. They’ll show you the photograph, maybe, and you can identify yourself, tell them what I suspect about Val—I’m sure they’ll give you protection—”
“Yeah? Why don’t you go tell them all this?”
“I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Because you’re still a whore, aren’t you? Oh, yeah, I added that up, especially after that vice cop came over to talk to me. And now you want me to put everything in my life at risk so you don’t have to risk yours.”
“You’re a respectable citizen. Married to a nice man, beyond suspicion. The police will protect you. Val won’t be able to get to you once they know. He doesn’t know where you are, isn’t even sure you’re alive. He can find me.”
“You’re amazing.” She draws out the syllables as a teenager might. A-MAY-zing. “You come over here like you’re doing me a favor, but you’re still trying to pin this on me. Here’s my suggestion: You go to the police, you cop to what you did, and you deal with the fallout. Leave me out of it.”
“I can’t. I would if I could, but I can’t unring this bell. Please, Bettina, go see Detective Alan Jolson in Howard County. I’m sure he’ll be discreet.”
“But not so discreet that you’re willing to trust your life story with him, right?” Bettina has been keeping one eye on the boy, entranced by the television, visible through the door to the small den. Now she closes it and comes back and stands over Heloise. She remembers their fight, all those years ago, how comical everyone found it when Bettina lunged at her, almost as provocative as the kissing sessions with Shelley. And certainly more sincere. She flinches, ready to absorb a blow.
“Look, you always were a snooty bitch, thought you were better than everyone. Because of your looks, because Val liked you best, because you were sneaking around with those books. But what were you? You were just another whore. Like Shelley, like me. Only I got out. I have a legitimate life, with a legitimate kid. And you want to wreck that? I don’t think so. Yeah, I’ll go see your detective, and I will tell him everything. Everything, Helen. Who you are, what you do.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“Or maybe I’ll write Val a letter, explain it all. How about that? Man, you painted a target on me and then just went about your life, thinking—hoping—that I was dead and it wouldn’t matter. And even when you knew where I was, you didn’t have the guts to tell me what you did. For, what?—six years you’ve just left me hanging. I’m surprised you didn’t tell Val where I lived, back when I tried to get a loan from you. That would have solved everything.”
“But I didn’t,” Heloise said, relieved to have this one tiny parcel of high ground. “Precisely because I didn’t want anything to happen to you, despite the fact that you were trying to put the screws to me.”
Bettina shakes her head. “Get out. Just get out. Val obviously doesn’t know where I am. Everyone in my life knows me as Betty Martinez. I don’t even look like my old self. First time I ever felt good about that. I’m just another neighborhood lady. You want to make amends, you need to be talking to someone else. A cop, a priest.”
What can Heloise say? Bettina has the ultimate advantage of being right. Heloise has been a coward. Bettina got out, Heloise stayed in. She didn’t think Bettina’s life was much to envy when their paths crossed six years ago—older husband, problematic stepdaughter, not a lot of money—but now it looks pretty damn sweet.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m really sorry.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
2005–OCTOBER 28, 2011
It was not the best time to shop for a house, although Heloise would later comfort herself with the notion that it could have been worse, that she didn’t buy at the top. Besides, in 2005 seemingly everyone believed that prices would rise forever, that a house simply could not lose value. Heloise, preapproved for a ridiculous amount of money, a sum she would never lend herself, was advised to offer above the asking price or waive an inspection to get what she wanted. The advice made her feel like a sap. She wasn’t used to being at the whim of an irrational market. The commodity she provided did not experience wild price fluctuations. Demand went up slightly in overheated times such as these and slumped in recessions, but there were no giddy bubbles. Heloise envied the funeral-home business, wondered how it responded to an economy where everything was measured by percentage increases in profits. Did funeral homes have stockholders? If so, how did they appease them? Presumably with suggestive selling, suckering the bereaved with extras they didn’t need, items with ridiculous markups.
