44.

SPRING 1975.

It was the best and worst night of his fourteenth year. It was the night he got a standing ovation for his Romeo and the night he wished he had died for real.

He had known Becky Tolland since third grade. She had gone to middle school with him; she was in his catechism class at Holy Name Church. She was currently in his homeroom at Franklin High, where they had joined the drama club. But it wasn't until they got the leads in Romeo and Juliet that they became more than childhood friends.

Of course, Lila was proud he had gotten the role, boasting to friends and neighbors about his delivery when he practiced the script with her, saying that he had a natural gift of dissociating himself from his own being to become somebody else. Yet her bragging made him uncomfortable, not just because of the attention but because he could detect a note of sadness in her voice. She had been praised in high school and college for her own acting skills, but her adult life was a string of go-nowhere performances.

On opening night she and his father sat in the tenth row. Every so often he'd glance their way and see her flash him the thumbs-up sign and a wide grin. He had delivered his lines with such credibility that following the famous "But, soft!" soliloquy in the Capulet orchard scene, the crowd burst into applause. When the final curtain came down, the audience gave a standing ovation that continued for two curtain calls. Each time he looked, Lila was applauding, her face wet with tears. And his dad made victory punches in the air.

Looking back, he knew it was the happiest moment of his life-onstage before a cheering crowd and proud parents, holding the hand of his first real girlfriend. A moment he would remember forever.

Later that evening, the whole cast and crew-some two dozen kids-piled into the function room of the Casa Loma, a local Italian restaurant where they celebrated with pizzas and Cokes and filled the place with youthful exuberance. His mom would pick up him and Becky at eleven.

At around ten, when the crowd began to thin, he and Becky receded to a booth in the rear, and like some of the other kids, they began making out. He had kissed her before, mostly theatrical air kissing-the equivalent of shaking hands for thespians. Because she was still wearing makeup, his mouth and lower face was smudged red, as was his shirt collar.

At eleven o'clock the manager flicked the lights that it was time to go. The handful of kids made their way outside.

It was a cool April night with a million stars blazing overhead. He had never felt more alive and sucked in the night air as if to drain the atmosphere, thinking how he could not wait until tomorrow evening's performance. Across the parking lot his mother waited for them in her car. In the light he could see her beaming from the driver's seat.

He took Becky's hand and followed the headlights. But as they drew near, Lila's face looked like the film of a smile played backwards. They got into the backseat, and he could feel her eyes glare at him in the rearview mirror. "Hi," he said, feeling a little charge in his chest.

Becky said hello, calling her Mrs. as she always did, but Lila did not respond. She looked back at them both, then rammed the car into gear and pulled away.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

Still she said nothing, just jerked her head around to check for oncoming cars as she pulled into the street. He looked at Becky, who raised her eyebrows as if to ask what the problem was. After a minute of crackling silence, he asked again, "Is something wrong?"

Lila flashed him a look. "Yes, something is wrong. What the hell have you been doing?"

"What do you mean? We were just having pizza."

"Looks like you had more than pizza."

Baffled, he looked at Becky, who indicated his face. Her lipstick was all over him. Immediately he pulled his hand out of hers and began wiping his mouth. Lila shot Becky a savage look.

"It's okay. I can walk home," Becky said.

"You're not walking home," Lila growled. "It's nearly midnight."

"But I can call my parents. There's a phone booth at the gas station up there."

Lila said nothing and roared past the Gulf station.

For several minutes they rode without speaking. Becky kept glancing at him, but he just kept his face out the window, feeling mortified. The lights from the street flickered and silence filled the car like toxic fumes. When they reached Becky's house Lila slammed on the brakes. She said nothing, as Becky jumped out. "Thanks for the ride. Good night."

He got out to walk her to her door when Lila said, "Where do you think you're going?"

He tried to tell her, but the words had no air. "G'night," he muttered, and watched Becky walk up the path and go inside. He wanted to get in the rear seat, but he knew Lila would object. With his heart slamming he slipped into the front. Without a word she jammed the shift into drive and peeled away. After another minute, he couldn't stand the tension any longer. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" she snapped, and turned to him. "Your little friend is a goddamn little slut is what. Your face is painted with her."

"W-what're you-" But before he could finish, she backhanded him in the mouth, the diamond of her engagement ring catching his upper lip and splitting the skin. He grabbed some tissues from the box on the dashboard. "I'm bleeding," he said in disbelief.

"Good for you."

"What's your problem?" he yelled, outrage burning through fear. "It's just makeup. We weren't doing anything."

Through her teeth she snarled, "I don't want you seeing her again."

"How come?"

"Because she's a slut."

"No, she isn't."

"Don't tell me she isn't. She's a little slut, and everybody in town knows it."

"What are you talking about?" His mind scrambled for something solid to land on. Did Becky Tolland have a reputation that he knew nothing about? Maybe some kind of secret parent network that shared dark rumors about kids? That didn't make sense. If there were a buzz about Becky Tolland, it would be all over Franklin High. He'd know about it. There was no such buzz. It was Lila's own paranoia. She was jealous, and the realization hit him like a hammer.

After a brittle moment, she brushed back her hair. "Are you fucking her?"

It was the first time he had ever heard her use that word. In fact, it had crossed his mind that Lila may not in her entire life have ever uttered that word, imagining her uncorrupted by such a vulgarity because she was so proper and didn't want to offend Jesus. "W-what?"

"You heard me. Are you fucking her?"

This time she pronounced the word with such violence that a jolt shot through him. Her face was white and drawn, the flames of her hair rising like fire from her skull, her eyes crazy-askew in the streetlights. He could barely recognize her as the same woman who just hours ago applauded him with tears of joy. It was if some dark malevolence had taken possession of the woman who had raised him. "Don't talk that way," he whimpered.

"Don't go stupid on me. I know what you kids do. Answer me: are you fucking her?"

"No, I'm not."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not lying." His voice was a thin warble. Whatever came over her made him wonder in terror if she was losing her mind.

She nodded. "After all I've done for you. After all the sacrificing, trying to bring you up right."

Against his will, he began to cry. "What did I do wrong?"

In a flash she snapped down the visor mirror. "Look at your face and shirt. Just look at you."

"We were just fooling around. Everybody was."

She continued nodding as if in private conversation with a voice in her head. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Did she go down on you?"

He wasn't even sure he knew what she meant, but the suspicion was appalling. "What?"

"Is there lipstick on your dick, too?"

"You're sick, you know that? You're sick."

She tried to swat him again, but he blocked it. "You shamed me and you shamed yourself, you know that?"

"But how? It was only a little kissing."

"Yeah, with Becky Tolland, who does it for any boy who looks at her."

"That's not true."

She turned the wheel hard, then braked. With a jolt they were home.

Without a word she got out of the car and slammed the door. He sat there for several minutes, trying in vain to compose himself, trying to make sense of what had happened. Then he got out and slouched from the driveway, into the house, and up the stairs to his room, grateful that she had receded to the family room and that his dad was in bed.

He did not see her the next day because she slept late, and in the afternoon she drove to Boston to audition for a movie. Three days later, she returned, her face strained with disappointment. She did not get the part. When she showed up, she went right to her room without speaking.

It made no difference if it was the failed screen test or the Becky thing. Lila was miserable and didn't emerge from her room the entire next day. Meanwhile, his father flew out the first thing Saturday morning for a golfing weekend in Myrtle Beach. Anxious about Lila suffering in her bed, he spent the day cleaning the house and doing laundry, alert for any cue that she was emerging from her gloom. By evening she still hadn't emerged, and his worry peaked. She had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours, so he made a tuna sandwich and heated a can of soup. He assembled the plate and bowl on a tray with a small bunch of daffodils from the garden and waited for nearly two hours until he heard her flush the toilet.

Trembling with each step, he carried the tray up the stairs, not knowing if she would be normal or still fuming hatred for him. He could take anything but that. Anything. No matter how irrational she became-and she seemed to be getting worse-he could not suffer her rejection. It was the one thing that could extinguish his will. And he'd do anything to win her back.

For a long moment he stood by the door balancing the tray, his blood throbbing throughout his body, uncertain if she'd let him inside, dreading that she would. He tapped the door. "Mom?" No voice. No sound of movement. He tapped again, this time a little louder. Nothing still. He tapped a third time, saying, "Mom. I've got some dinner for you."

Nothing.

"Mom, please, you've got to have something to eat." He could hear the echo of her own words when he was sick in bed.

With relief, he heard some movement within. Then faintly her voice, "It's unlocked."

He opened the door. The room was dark. But in the hall light he could see her sitting up in bed. He turned on a small lamp. She was dressed in her nightgown with her hair pulled back. Her face was blank as he approached. A sour odor laced the air. "I made you some tuna. It's all I could find, but I put chopped tomatoes and green olives in the way you like it."

He placed the tray on her lap with relief that she accepted his offer. But she said nothing. "I didn't know what you wanted to drink so I brought water. You want milk or tea?"

"Water is fine," she said, her voice flat.

"Want me to open the window?"

She nodded.

He pulled up the shades and opened the window. The sky was purple in the sunset.

"I don't want the soup."

He removed it and she took a sip of water. He watched her, struggling to come up with something to say, desperate to get her talking normally. "I'm sorry you didn't get the part."

"Makes no difference."

Her words made him sadder still. "There'll be other roles."

She took a bite of the sandwich. He watched her, wondering what was going on inside of her. Wondering what it was like being her. Wondering if she would ever be happy, truly happy. If her ship would ever come in.

Without looking at him, she said, "You can leave."

"No, it's okay."

"I prefer to eat alone."

"Okay." He moved to the door. He started to close it behind him but stopped halfway, his hand still on the doorknob. He took a deep breath. "You still mad at me?"

She turned her face toward him and studied him for a moment. Her face was blank, her eyes flat. His heart pounded so loudly that he was certain she could hear it across the room. Then in a clear voice, her eyes trained on him, she said, "I don't want you to see Becky Tolland again."

"Okay," he said, knowing at that moment the syllables rising up from the bottom of his soul were like a pledge to Jesus.

45.

Steve lay in bed and stared up into the black.

In the Middle Ages, people believed in the bifurcated soul. Unable to explain the mechanism of dreams, they were convinced that when someone slept, a spiritual double-a doppelganger-separated itself to go roaming on its own, oftentimes wandering into the world to do mischief. It was the same folk mind that created legends of werewolves, vampires, and other shape-shifters-monstrous doubles that acted out dark passions. But this was the twenty-first century, and nobody believed in doppelgangers. Yet, was it not possible that given the right combination of chemicals and psychic makeup he could have left that pub and under some brute autopilot driven to 123 Payson Road, rung the doorbell, followed her up those stairs, and taken a stocking to her?

That, like Dr. Jekyll, he had created his own evil twin?

At around two A.M., Steve was still rolling around in the sheets. So he got up and took two tabs of Ativan that knocked him into a black hole where he remained like dead until his alarm startled him at seven thirty. He took a shower and made a pot of strong coffee to flush the muck out of his brain. He was getting dressed in the bedroom when he heard his PDA ringing.

It sat on the night table. He stared at it while it jangled, the pull of his Glock in the bureau drawer. The horse between two haystacks, as his mother used to say. He paused. On the fourth ring he reached for the PDA. The caller ID had a North Shore number that he didn't recognize.

"Lieutenant Markarian?"

"Speaking."

"This is Alice Dion from the Kingsbury Club. I'm sorry to bother you so early at this hour, but I was wondering if we could talk."

"Okay."

"I saw the story about the suspect you've got, the English professor? So it's probably nothing and maybe just a waste of your time."

"Go ahead."

"Well, it's been bothering me ever since last week. And, God forbid, that I want to cause any trouble or anything like that, especially since you made an arrest."