Iona was my first client today, and I dreaded seeing her, positive she'd whimper and cry her way through our meeting. She'd take the dozens of tissues I offered while resisting any suggestions I made, giving me the poor Iona reasons why they wouldn't work. In the parlance that I'd learned during my psych cla.s.ses at Northeastern, Iona was a help-rejecting complainer. In my vernacular, I'd grown to detest her, which made me feel like pure s.h.i.t.

Iona's ex-boyfriend had battered, raped, and nearly killed her, so my reactions to her, though outwardly sympathetic, were hideous. Everything drooped on Iona-her hair, her shoulders, her d.a.m.n fingernails. In my heart, I wanted to push her away. What kind of victim witness advocate-my official t.i.tle-thought that way? My t.i.tle should have been fraud.

I lit a cigarette on the courthouse steps, one last stall before going into work. Funny, I'd been so keen on this job. Working with victims seemed perfect for me. Victims' programs were the new thing when I'd graduated with my degree in criminal justice, offerings designed to appease the activists who'd lobbied for the recently enacted Victims' Bill of Rights. I hadn't known they were stingy, undercooked offerings.

Despite knowing from my college psych courses that I'd be working out some of my own issues on the job, I was aware that my reactions seemed extreme. I backed away from all my clients, wanting to yell at them to shut up, stop crying. Buck up, for Christ's sake.

Even as I offered kindness and support, Iona's tears of rage and self-pity made me want to slap her. I murmured comfort, nodded, and handed over tissues while internally screaming, Shut the f.u.c.k up.

Sometime after Anne died, between my finishing high school and starting college, a seismic shift had taken place inside me. Living alone in that deadly quiet apartment with Doctor Cohen had stolen my hope. He'd hired a housekeeper who managed everything from food to correspondence with my school. If it were possible, Doctor Cohen would have hired someone to talk to me.

Doctor Cohen's sole manner of caring for me had lain in driving me to Richmond County Prison. He'd upped the visits from monthly to once every two weeks to weekly, and I hadn't known how to tell him it was too much. In some grotesque way, I think he'd believed he could off-load his fatherly responsibilities on Daddy.

Without Anne, Doctor Cohen hadn't known what to do with me. I became the vestigial limb of his life. When he'd begun dating a woman closer to my age than to Anne's, he couldn't get me out of his home fast enough.

I took one last drag on my cigarette, then snuffed it out in the concrete planter guarding the courthouse before opening the heavy gla.s.s door. The door groaned as I entered the darkly wooded and hushed s.p.a.ce; I felt I should genuflect. Criminals and victims alike walked around with their eyes downcast. Lawyers and courthouse personnel scurried through the halls puffed up with self-importance, as I imagined Roman cardinals strutted around the Vatican.

I rode the elevator to the fifth floor. Dirt obscured the bra.s.s panels, testimony to the carelessness of the Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts. Victim Services Office, the afterthought of the judicial system, was stuck in the no-man's-land of the courthouse along with unused office furniture, a typewriter cemetery, and softening cardboard boxes filled with evidence of forgotten crimes.

Just like our clients, we, their advocates, were not, nor would we ever be, the attractions of the legal show. The starring roles belonged to the judges, the criminals, and the lawyers. Even the probation officers, though only supporting players, were still in the main cast. Victims and their advocates were merely extras.

I stepped out of the elevator. Air conditioners belched out barely cooled air. Being on the top floor, we were last to get the chill. The advocates' desks spread out over a too-large area without dividers, preventing even a pretense of privacy. Iona drooped over my desk eating a bagel, spreading sesame seeds and crumbs across my scattered files.

"Take this." By way of greeting, I handed her the napkin that had wrapped my hot coffee. "Sorry about being late." Actually, I wasn't late. I was a few minutes early. Other than the unit secretary studying her pores in a magnifying mirror, I was the only one who'd made it in yet.

Iona mumbled her thanks.

"Are you okay?" I cleared a pile of memos off my chair. Each night I piled them there so they'd get my attention first thing in the morning. Then, first thing in the morning, something more pressing rose up, and I relegated these memos, like so many before them, to the floor.

Iona raised her narrow shoulders in an attempt to communicate. She looked ready to collapse. Everything about her seemed depressed, including her lank blond hair. "He's stalking me again."

According to Iona, her former boyfriend stalked her twenty-four hours a day. I had no reason not to believe her; I just didn't know what my options were besides the same blah, blah, blah I'd offered so many times. She already had a restraining order.

Nothing scared me more than knowing that she or some other client might die on my watch.

I leaned across the desk and handed her a tissue. "What makes you think so?"

"How could they have given him bail? It's not fair. Why do I have to be the one looking over my shoulder every second?"

"It's so hard, isn't it?" I took her hand and squeezed. As with most of my clients, I never knew what to do besides petting and comforting. I pitied them for having me as their advocate. "What has he done?"

"I feel his eyes on me," she said. "All the time. I'm sure he's watching me."

"Where?" I picked up a pen. "Give me specifics, something I can tell his probation officer."

Iona slumped forward, catching her head in her hands. "It's not like he makes himself visible. Jesus."

"How do you know he's there?"

Iona's eyes reminded me I was useless. "Trust me, when you've been with someone like Larry, you know when he's been around."

"I understand." Did I? "I don't doubt you, but we need something to show the judge that Larry's breaking his restraining order."

"Why doesn't he have to prove he's innocent, instead of me having to prove he's guilty?"

I skimmed through my years at Northeastern, sifting for words of comfort. I peeked at the inventory of miracles that the court instructed my clients to expect from me, a list given to them at intake, which I kept under the gla.s.s top of my desk.

YOUR VICTIM WITNESS ADVOCATE WILL PROVIDE:.

1. Crisis intervention and emotional support 2. Planning and a.s.sistance for protection and restraining orders application 3. Explanation of the court process and information regarding the status of cases 4. a.s.sistance in offering Victim Impact Statements to the court 5. a.s.sistance with applying for notification of an inmate's status 6. a.s.sistance with transportation to court Numbers two through six were no problem; we had protocols for those tasks. Providing number one seemed over my head. For training, I'd received spiral-bound books of protocols and forms and heard lectures about the various ways men abused women and why. No one explained how we did the saving-victims part of the job.

Iona banged my desk with her fist. "I'm all alone. I had n.o.body except Larry. Now I only have you."

Nicotine urges a.s.saulted me. I glanced down at my list and offered the pat answers I'd come up with since beginning this job. "Iona, you have to think of seeing a mental health counselor. Trauma becomes more manageable when it's verbalized." I tried to personalize the words so I didn't sound as though I were reading. "Maybe if you share your feelings about Larry with someone you trust, you'll feel better."

"You're the only one I trust," she said. "I don't want to see a shrink. At least you don't try to mess around inside my head."

"Keeping a journal helps many women in your situation." My cigarette itch got stronger.

"I can't concentrate." Iona grabbed another tissue from the box, shredding the used one into little, mucusy bits.

I turned back to my sheet. "That's natural. One's thinking is compromised after trauma." I couldn't do this.

"I'm always crying. I can't stop."

"You will," I said. "You will."

"I miss Larry."

"No. You don't. You're missing the idea of him, not the real him," I said, parroting words I'd read, concepts I'd learned.

"I miss him. I can't stop crying for the life of me. What if no one ever loves me again?"

"Tears are a tribute to our pain. They remove the toxins from our body." I pushed the box of tissues closer to Iona. "But you can't return to the source of your pain to heal the wounds."

That was it, I'd read my entire list. Maybe Iona wanted a cigarette.

That evening, I couldn't get to Burke's Bar fast enough; there I'd find loud music, cheap drinks, and a place to pretend I wasn't lonely. Burke's was clean enough to ward off disease, and dirty enough for me to believe drinking there tagged me as young and hip. Layers of nicotine baked into the dark wood stools, the worn bar, and the scuffed linoleum floor tinged everything a jaundiced yellow.

It was Thursday night. Customers jammed the place, but not elbow to elbow like Friday, when everybody seemed frantic. By Sat.u.r.day, you could smell the desperation. Smart people knew to avoid the poison of Sat.u.r.day nights at all costs, unless they were so friendless they might otherwise blow their brains out.

Thursday was my night.

The bathroom smelled of perfume and pot. I washed my hands, checked my makeup, and then made my way carefully down the steep steps leading back to the bar. Only in a boys' bar like Burke's would the women's room be at the same level as the tiny stage. Walking down from the restroom meant being on display, but I didn't care. I felt good. I felt fine. My hair flew wild, my red shirt wrapped me tight and low, and my crystal earrings threw off s.e.x sparks.

I elbowed through the clumps of overgrown frat boys. The so-called band had taken a break, so instead of off-key wanna-be-a-rock-star music, I moved to Chaka Khan as I headed to the bar. "Ain't n.o.body (Loves Me Better)" drummed in my ears.

Wasn't n.o.body loving me at all, at least n.o.body good for me. "Another one, Mickey," I called, taking my barstool and finishing my remaining quarter inch of Jack Daniel's and c.o.ke.

Mickey gave his Little League smile and picked up a gla.s.s. Sweet Mickey would never pressure you to go home with him, but, of course, he never had to. Mickey had his pick, as bartenders usually did. We'd gotten together a few times, both of us aware we were simply pa.s.sing the night in safe harbor. Mickey wasn't my dream man, but he kissed s.e.xy, nibbling without gorging, and always brought me a hot cup of coffee before leaving the next morning. When I told Lulu why I considered Mickey a gentleman, she asked if my standards could possibly get any lower.

Sorry we can't all have the love of our lives dropped into our laps, Lu.

"You have to work tomorrow?" Mickey placed my drink on a Heineken coaster gone soft and blurry.

Pat Benatar blared. "Tomorrow's Friday. I can slide."

"Nevertheless, I made you a mild one." Mickey gave me a fresh napkin.

"Am I supposed to thank you for that?"

"You will. Tomorrow." He tapped my forehead. "Trust me."

Mickey had witnessed my hangovers.

I swept my hair from my face and looked around. The band started to warm up, making me wonder from which musical sludge pond the owner had dredged up this group. Burke's was famous for off-key Police cover bands.

"Hey, beautiful."

Someone put his hands on my shoulders from behind and squeezed. I leaned back a millimeter. Someone felt tall and smelled married. "Hey," I said.

Someone removed the Red Sox hat marking the stool beside me. Someone tossed the hat on the bar so he could sit. "Haven't seen you for a long time," he said.

"I've been here." I wanted to wind my words back so he didn't think I hung out waiting for him.

He moved a curl from my eyebrow. "Then I should have been here."

My stomach shot down. Quinn's touch inverted me. I picked up my gla.s.s and tried not to drain it. Quinn motioned Mickey with two fingers. Mickey nodded to acknowledge Quinn, n.o.body ever ignored Quinn, but he took his sweet time making our drinks, doing little more than wave the Jack bottle over mine. It didn't matter. My previous drinks already had me halfway to drunk, and being next to Quinn did the rest of the job.

There wasn't a worse choice than Quinn. He wasn't just married; he was five-kids-Irish-Catholic-guilt married. Tough luck for me that Quinn melted the skin off my body.

Quinn had played for the Patriots years before. Unlike the other former football players who hung around Burke's, Quinn hadn't gone soft or bitter. Muscles covered his chest and arms, and he wore the same ironic grin I'd seen in his old game tapes.

Quinn never told me what a b.i.t.c.h his wife was or that she didn't sleep with him. He just told me he wanted me. His beautiful wife probably slept with him upon command.

Quinn pressed me against the wall outside my apartment. He jammed his mouth to mine. He smelled like ocean and leather, like the health club he owned in South Boston.

"Come inside," I said, barely able to talk from wanting him.

"I can't wait," he whispered. "Let's just do it here."

I wasn't that drunk. I pulled away and jammed my key in the door.

Quinn loved taking chances-with s.e.x, on the field, with love, with me. Resisting him seemed hopeless. Each time I managed it, he dragged me back. Lulu called me naive and stupid, but Quinn was a ride I couldn't get off. He had almost twenty years on me. He took me to candlelit restaurants on the water while guys my own age took me to the International House of Pancakes. He gave me a tiny gold locket that held a tiny picture of him in his Patriots uniform.

Once inside my apartment, Quinn lit cigarettes for both of us. I took mine to the kitchen, where I made us drinks, uncapping his bottle of Jameson for the first time in a month. He came up behind me while I popped ice out of the tray, pushing against me. I leaned back and let him outline my body.

"I missed you," he said, his voice dark and gritty.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Yet I am. Why is that, do you think?" He nudged his leg between mine.

I shook my head, unable to come up with a tart answer, unable to admit I'd let him in because he'd asked. Did he know it rarely took more than that?

Quinn and I had been going on since December, almost a year. Every now and then, I found my emotional muscle and threw him out of my life, and he'd respect my wishes for a week or a month.

"You need me to take care of you." He answered his own question. "I want to make you happy, baby. My poor little orphan."

Poor little orphan.

Quinn didn't have a clue about my real life, but I liked the person he imagined me to be. Better his darling orphaned girl than daughter of a man who'd murdered his wife. My mother.

I handed him his drink. I'd already finished half of mine, strong, unlike the watered-down versions Mickey fed me.

The room spun as I emptied my gla.s.s. It didn't matter how drunk I got. I'd slept with dozens of men without being tempted to break Lulu's rules of engagement; the secrets she'd made for us so long ago, even though she'd slept with Drew one time and given away all our stories. However, I'd understood once I met him. I wondered if I'd ever be with a man like Drew, if I'd even allow myself to date a Drew. In truth, I didn't think a Drew would want me.

Quinn and I made our way to my bedroom. I hadn't planned on his visit, and the apartment looked it. Dishes filled the sink. Clothes hung over chairs, the ratty couch, the end of the unmade bed. Coffee-stained cups covered my Salvation Army coffee table. I pictured Quinn's mysterious wife as a marriage of Cleopatra and a Good Housekeeping fairy, and I hated her. Sometimes I imagined her looking like my mother, the most beautiful woman I'd known in real life.

I tried straightening the sheets, a difficult task as I could barely stand without weaving.

"Leave it." Quinn unwrapped me from my shiny red shirt as though I were a Christmas present. After getting me down to bare skin and lowering me to the bed, he knocked away a pile of books, fumbled around for my tape player, and hit Play, ready to accept any sounds that came on. Marvin Gaye poured out, and I didn't give a d.a.m.n how obvious the choice sounded. Quinn seeped through my pores and up into my brain, and once again he owned me.

He covered me, rocking us, welding us together, and then pressing me down hard to finish. I thought maybe I'd never come back. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

At four A.M., I woke to find Quinn standing over me. When he saw my eyes open, he sat at the edge of the bed and tried to cover me.

"Don't," I said. I struggled up and rested my head on his shoulder, smelling bar, soap, and cigarettes.

He ran his hand over my tangled curls. I nuzzled my chin into his large, warm hand. "Got to go, kid."

"Where does she think you are this time of night?"

"Who?"

"You know who." My hand crept to my chest.

"She thinks I'm exactly where I am, hanging out with a friend." His voice closed the topic. Don't broach the holy wife, wh.o.r.e. Don't name the sainted children. Quinn's scowl slammed my words down my throat. I backed away and locked my arms around my knees.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said.

"Don't."

"Are we starting this again?"

I picked up my wrinkled cotton robe. Quinn had taught me to go to bed naked. No man before Quinn had seen my scar. He'd accepted my lies about a knife fight at Duffy without comment or judgment. At first, I'd loved that. Now I knew the truth; he simply wasn't that curious. Thus, I realized, he didn't love me. When you love someone, you're curious about everything he does, everything he is.

I knew because that's how I felt about Quinn.