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  “Oh, business is that good, is it?”

  He laughed again. “It’ll take a few years, but Donny seems to think I’ll go places. When I look around here, it’s hard to believe what we came from.” He slipped his arms around her. “And I’ll never forget how I got here. If it wasn’t for you …”

  She smiled, now brushing on a light blusher. Those days when he was studying day and night, when he worked at any odd job he could get, those days felt like a long, long time ago.

  “We’d have more time together, too, sweetheart.”

  Lorraine put down the brush. “You mean if I was at home with an apron on and a casserole in the oven?”

  “I don’t think you’d ever be that, sweetheart, but you know we should think about it and also, maybe, about a trip somewhere. When will you know about your next vacation so I can work it out with Donny?”

  She carefully outlined her lips, and caught her pale blue eyes staring back at her. They looked so tired. “I’ll check on it as soon as I can.”

  Mike leaned across to take a comb from the dressing table. She continued to carefully outline her lips, watching him. He was unaware of her scrutiny as he ran the comb through his thick dark brown hair, then peered closer into the mirror to check his hairline. She even caught his small almost congratulatory smile, as his hair was definitely not receding. Mike was not exactly your “Marlboro Man,” but he was in good shape and worked out regularly, playing a lot of tennis, so he was always tan. He was a very attractive man, she admitted, although probably more so to himself of late than to her. He was looking too groomed for her liking, and as if to confirm what she was thinking, he opened a bottle of cologne and splashed some into his cupped hand. She didn’t like the bittersweet smell he had begun to use; it wasn’t effeminate, it was just sharp to her nostrils, but she didn’t mention it. And just thinking about it reminded her of Lubrinski and the way he had described Mike once, just joking, saying Mike had a floral aroma and, grinning, asking if perhaps that was why he was failing with women—no floral bouquet.

  The doorbell rang and Mike charged out, leaving the air heavy with his Forest Flowers. It was the pizza delivery. She’d better get a move on. She heard him on the phone, confirming with Rita what time she was to come over. Mike the methodical! Upwardly mobile Mike was so different nowadays, she seemed to be losing him.

  Lorraine stared at the blurred picture of Lubrinski. She touched his face with the tip of her finger. His face seemed to crease into a smile—but that was impossible; he’d never smile at her again. Lubrinski was dead; he had died in her arms. Sometimes she felt as if she were dead. Nothing seemed real anymore; this apartment, all the new appliances Mike had filled it with, all the new furniture. Mike had organized the move down to the curtains. She had liked their old place even if you did have to lug the stroller up and down three flights of stairs. She missed the neighbors. Sometimes Mike’s energy drained her, and lately she was always tired. She never spoke to anyone in the building and didn’t even know who lived on their floor.

  The doorbell rang again and she could hear Mike welcoming the guests. Still she sat, unable to muster enough energy to join them. She pulled out the bottle from the bottom drawer of the dressing table. Just a few sips, that’s all she needed.

  Donny and Tina were chatting in the kitchen while Mike uncorked the wine. Tina Patterson looked as if she were heading out to a premiere rather than the local cineplex. She kissed Lorraine on both cheeks and Donny gripped her hands tightly in a firm “trust me” handshake. Mike ushered everyone into the dining area and proceeded to pour the wine. He was doing everything—seating his guests, bringing in big platters of pizza, apologizing for the informal dinner, explaining that Lorraine had only just come home from duty.

  She sat sipping her wine. She couldn’t look at the pizza: its bright colors made her feel like vomiting. They discussed the Coleridge case. Donny constantly gripped Mike’s shoulder in another “trust me” gesture that irritated Lorraine, just as she found Tina’s delicate hands with their red-painted nails annoying. They made clicking noises on the plate as she picked up a minuscule slice of pizza, popping it into her collagen-enhanced lips. “To look at you, Lorraine, you’d never know you were a cop, it’s just amazing.”

  Lorraine forced a smile as Mike reached over and held her hand. “I’m so proud of my wife. You know, she’s been commended for bravery twice.”

  He sprang up from the table, went to the side cabinet, and returned with two framed photographs. Lorraine in uniform with President Reagan and in a group picture of the year’s most decorated officers. “Lorraine caught the killer of that little girl, you remember the one that was found in a drain? The caretaker had done it, she was the one who caught him.”

  Tina made the right noises, shaking her head and rolling her eyes—with admiration, Lorraine supposed. She drained her glass; she needed another drink. “I’ll put some coffee on,” she said, leaving the table. She took out the vodka from the freezer and drank from the bottle. She had only just slipped it back when Tina appeared carrying the dirty dishes. “Men’s talk in there. Can I help?”

  Lorraine laughed. She was feeling better, eased by the vodka and wine. Tina began to stack dishes in the dishwasher.

  “Do you get involved?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you do these murder investigations, do you get involved?”

  “Yes. I can’t help it.” Lorraine was fixing the coffeemaker. Her hands shook and she spilled the ground coffee over the counter. She brushed it off and onto the floor.

  “Does it affect you?” Tina asked, running the dishes under the tap. “I always know when Donny’s on a tough case—he’s so moody. He works out at a gym to get rid of the anxiety, you know, but … that case with the little girl … That must have been terrible.”

  Lorraine reached for a tray. “She was only six, her name was Laura Bradley. She’d been raped, tortured, and she had a face like a little angel. Yes, it hurt me.”

  Tina tried to think of something adequate to say in response but couldn’t. Lorraine had suddenly slumped into a chair as if she were exhausted, her head bent forward, hiding her face.

  “You okay?” Tina asked.

  “I still see her face, always Laura’s face. I don’t know why … don’t know …”

  Lorraine gave a long heavy sigh as if she had a great weight on her shoulders, and then leaned forward, resting her head in her hands. Tina hovered a moment before she walked out; she still could not think of anything to say.

  Lorraine continued talking, unaware Tina had left the room. “For a while afterward, I got possessive about the girls, scared they’d be picked up. It never leaves you. You think it’ll go away but it never does. Something somebody says or asks makes it all flood back and …”

  Lorraine looked up, expecting Tina to still be there, but instead heard her voice in the next room.

  “Okay, you guys, no more business, this is movie night. We’re just gonna enjoy ourselves.”

  There were so many previews before the movie that Lorraine excused herself, saying she wanted to go to the ladies’ room. She needed another drink. She figured if she just slipped out to the nearest bar and had a quick one, she could be back before the film started.

  When she hadn’t returned halfway through the movie, Mike went to look for her. He called Rita to see if she had gone home; she hadn’t. Back in the cinema, he told the Pattersons that Lorraine sent her apologies but had felt ill, and rather than spoil their evening had gone home. It was after eleven when Mike got back. He checked Lorraine’s duty schedule; he knew she was on a two-day break, but he called the station anyway in case there’d been a change. He was put through to Bill Rooney.

  After the call, Mike paced the apartment, sat in the kitchen, then in the living room flicking the TV from channel to channel, waiting. He checked the girls. He waited until he fell asleep on the sofa. He was woken by shrieking laughter. He got up and crossed to the window.

  Lorraine
was standing on the sidewalk outside, paying off a taxi. Two people were inside it. He watched her drop her purse and fall against the wall before she reeled into their building. A couple of lights from neighboring houses came on and people stared from their windows. This was a very security-conscious area, and Mike could imagine their disgust when they saw the drunken woman stumble into the building.

  The front door was open as she walked from the elevator. She took a deep breath and, with a fixed smile, peered inside. Mike grasped her by the elbow and drew her into the kitchen. He kicked the door closed. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Oh, I hadda do something.”

  “What?”

  “Just interview somebody.” She was trying to keep her voice from slurring; her eyes were unfocused. He pushed a cup of coffee toward her. “I’m tired.”

  “Drink it and sober up.”

  She rested her head in her hands. Mike drew out a chair and sat opposite her. “I know, Lorraine.”

  “Know what?”

  Mike told her he had spoken to Rooney. She sighed, looking away, and shrugged. He leaned over and gripped her hand. “I know about the shooting. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She tried to pull her hand away. He wouldn’t let go. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  She pushed him off and hunched up, clasped her hands together. He had to lean farther forward to hear her. “There’s nothing to say, Mike.”

  He got up and paced the kitchen. “What do you mean, nothing to say?” He wanted to slap her. “You were drunk on duty and you’re telling me that you have nothing to say about that?”

  She gave a soft laugh. “No complaints.”

  He gripped her hair and drew her head back. “You killed a boy, Lorraine.” She made no effort to release herself and he shoved her forward, disgusted. “You shot him.”

  She nodded.

  It was impossible for Mike to know what she was thinking; her eyes were glazed, and she seemed to be half smiling.

  “You’re out, don’t you understand? You’re off the force. They’ve kicked you out! Rooney told me they took your badge.”

  She shrugged again. “Well, that’ll make you happy, I’ll get some nail extensions and some jumbo rollers and make myself into a Tina clone. That what you want, Mike? Is that what you want?” Her face was ugly with rage. He turned on her, equally angry.

  “Jesus Christ, aren’t you ashamed? At least have the decency to show some remorse!”

  She turned away, her whole body trembling. “Don’t, please don’t do this, Mike. I am trying so hard to hold myself together, I am trying, please don’t think for one second I don’t know what I’ve done. If you could just put yourself in my position, just …” Her voice became inaudible as she muttered to herself, and he sighed because he couldn’t, not for a second, put himself in her position. One moment she would appear to have no remorse, the next she was so vulnerable, so obviously in need of comfort, but he felt incapable of knowing what he should do or say.

  “Oh, Mike, Mike, I’m bleeding inside. I don’t know what to do or what to say to you, to anybody, because I am hurting so much, I am hurting. Lubrinski’s dead you know, you know that?”

  “What?” he asked, still unable to hear her clearly. He couldn’t decipher her slurred words, and in exasperation he told her to go to bed. He had to repeat it.

  She bumped against the doorframe, and fell facedown on the bed. Mike didn’t bother to undress her. He was almost out of the room when she said something, muffled by the pillows. She was repeating it, over and over. “I don’t remember, I don’t remember, he’s dead, he’s dead.”

  Mike never heard the plaintively whispered, “Don’t go.” Instead, he sat in his study until dawn, compiling notes for his case. The next morning, Mike called Rita to take the girls to their nursery school. He bathed and dressed them and packed their little lunchboxes with sandwiches and cookies. Lorraine remained in their bedroom. He showered in the guest bedroom and when he came out he saw she was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a glass of whiskey in her hand. He dressed for the office and then joined her, sitting down opposite. She held up the glass. “Hair of the dog.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You mean work?” she asked.

  “No. Will you be on trial or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I blame Lubrinski. You haven’t been the same since you started working alongside him.”

  “Lubrinski’s dead, for chrissakes.”

  Mike watched as she refilled her glass. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and yanked away the bottle. “That’s enough.”

  She held out the glass like a child asking for more. He snatched it. “It’s nine-thirty in the morning. How long has this been going on?”

  “What going on, Mike?”

  Holding the bottle, he almost felt in need of a drink himself.

  “I just wanted something to relax me. I’ve been kind of tense lately.”

  He was speechless; she sounded almost flippant, as if the terrible events surrounding her termination from the police force could be dismissed just because she was tense! Her drunkenness glossed over as easily as the boy she had killed. He shook his head.

  “I don’t have a problem, Mike. It’s just … lately things have gotten to me.”

  He felt even worse, as if someone had punched the air out of his lungs. Lorraine looked at her bare feet. “I feel all strung out and I can’t remember what happened the other night.”

  He swallowed: could it be possible that she was blanking it out of her mind? Is that what she was doing? If it was, he wouldn’t allow it to continue. He took a deep breath to keep his voice steady.

  “You killed a kid, Lorraine. They’ve taken your badge. You’re out, don’t you understand?”

  “Oh.” She said it lightly, still staring at her feet.

  Mike was still fighting to keep his voice under control, but it was getting harder by the second. It was as if she was playing some kind of game with him.

  “I’m gonna talk to Rooney again. I don’t know if they’re pressing charges.”

  “You’ve talked to Rooney, have you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he snapped. “I told you last night. How the hell do you think I know about it? And what do you think Donny is gonna say about this if the press gets hold of it?”

  “Donny?” she said, confused. “What’s he got to do with me?”

  “He’s got a lot to do with me. I’m in the middle of a big case right now. How do you think it’s gonna look if they find out my wife not only opened fire on a kid but was drunk on duty as well?”

  She rubbed at her neck. “It’s none of their business.”

  Mike closed his eyes. “No? You think the press won’t have a field day with this?”

  She took out a cigarette, hands shaking. He watched as she tried to light it. She inhaled deeply. “You remember that day, Mike?” She looked at him, tilting her head to one side. “Best day of my life. You’d just qualified and …”

  She laughed, dragging on the cigarette again. She was making his stomach churn—it was as if everything he said to her wasn’t getting through. And then she made him want to weep.

  “I knew by the expression on your face you’d passed the bar. But I didn’t say anything, I knew you wanted to tell me yourself, and you acted so casual, wondering if I was off duty that night. Nothing special, you said, just thought that maybe we could have a quiet dinner someplace.”

  Mike’s eyes filled with tears as she laughed again.

  “We hadn’t been able to afford dinner out for so long, but you kept up the act until we got to the restaurant. It was Bianco, remember that little Italian bistro with the red-checkered tablecloths?”

  She got to her feet like a dancer as she mimicked the maǐtre d’ ushering them to a private little booth with the candles lit, the wine on ice, and a small bouquet of roses tied with a blue ribbon.

  “ ‘Mrs. Page, you are now married to a qualified lawyer,’
and you lifted the glass, and you were crying and I was crying and I loved you so, I was so proud. I loved you with my entire soul and never thought anything could ever come between us. So what happened, Mike? I feel as if I don’t know you, as if I’m drifting in some kind of sea. I hate what you’re becoming and I’ve gone along with it, never felt I could say anything to you, but it’s all changing between us. You want success more than you want me.”

  Mike poured himself two fingers in the tumbler she had used and drained it. It was as if someone was pulling the rug out from beneath his feet. Suddenly everything he had been striving for was ragged at the edge. He sat down, cradling the glass in his hands. “Nothing has changed between you and me, nothing. I love you. I have always loved you. Okay, maybe I’ve had to put in more hours lately, but then so have you. You know I wanted you to give up work, you think I didn’t notice the strain you were under, but you’ll never talk to me about it.”

  She knelt down at his feet and wrapped her arms around him. “I want things to be the way they were when we both had nothing.”

  “You had your career. It was me that had nothing,” he said petulantly.

  “But you know why, don’t you? I worked hard so we’d have a home and you’d have your chance.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Maybe you haven’t noticed that I’m earning good money now—you haven’t needed to work for years and you’re missing the girls growing up.” She leaned against him and he slipped his arm around her. “Whatever happens, we’ll come through this together.”

  They went to bed and made love for the first time in ages. That evening, Lorraine began to prepare dinner, even putting candles on the table. Then it started, the panic. It swamped inside her, beginning, as always, with fast flashes of faces. Lubrinski, then Laura Bradley, and now the boy. A boy running with a yellow stripe down his jacket. All she could think of was to get just one drink; then the panic would stop and the pictures would blur into oblivion. Just one drink would do it and she’d be all right. She went on with the dinner, having just one more, then another and another. Mike didn’t come home until after midnight. He saw that the table had been laid for some special occasion; the candle wax had melted over the cloth. In the kitchen he found two wine bottles and the Scotch bottle, all empty in the trash can with the remains of dinner.