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“That stupid party,” he said now, still studying the letter. “And you didn’t even want to go. It never occurred to me that we should worry about such things.”
“Or me, to be fair. I didn’t want to go to the party because, well, I didn’t want to go to the party. I never thought-he never, all these years, made any overture to me, or even my parents or Vo
Peter poured himself a glass of white wine and Eliza, as she sometimes did, took a sip. No, even as Peter upgraded the wines he drank, she still found the taste acidic, harsh. She preferred the Albie cocktail of fruit punch and seltzer.
“So, he’s on death row, reading the party pages in Washingtonian-”
“It’s almost fu
“Are you going to write him back?”
They had been sitting on opposite ends of the sofa in the family room, her feet in his lap. Now she put his sweating wineglass on a coaster and curled up next to him, indifferent to how warm the room was, even with the house’s various window units droning away. She thought once again of the house in Roaring Springs, cool on the hottest summer nights with nothing more than window fans. Global warming? The fallacy of memory? Both?
“I don’t know. And the very fact that I don’t know bothers me. I should be appalled, or angry. Which I am. But mainly, I just feel exposed. As if everyone knows now, as if tomorrow when I leave the house, people will look at me differently.”
Peter glanced at the letter, now lying on the old chest they used as a coffee table. “No reference to the kids.”
“No. All he knows is that I have a prominent husband and a green dress. But it came to our address, Peter, from a Baltimore PO box. Someone did that for him. Someone else knows.”
“A woman, I’m guessing. A woman with a purple pen. Walter’s sister?”
“I doubt it. His family essentially cut all ties after his arrest. They didn’t even attend the trials.”
She pressed her face into his neck. He smelled of an after-shave that seemed particularly British to Eliza, crisp and citrusy. She wasn’t sure where it was made, only that Peter had started wearing it during their London years. Their growing-up years, as she thought of them, although two thirty-somethings with small children should have been much further along the road to being grown-ups. Peter’s jobs had always dictated their sense of themselves. When he was a reporter at the Houston Chronicle, they had felt young and bohemian, and their lives had a catch-as-catch-can quality, right down to the funky little house in Montrose. His jump to the Wall Street Journal had dovetailed with the arrival of the children, but they remained in Montrose, although minus the wild parties for which they had been known, parties famous for benign drunke
London changed that. They were certifiable grown-ups within months of arriving there, and Eliza wasn’t sure if that was because of Peter’s job, as bureau chief, or the city itself. Perhaps their newfound maturity was a result of the sheer distance from everything and everyone they had known. Now, back in the States, she felt old, on the verge of dowdy. Yet her own mother didn’t even have her first child until she was thirty-six and remained exuberantly youthful in her seventies. Maybe it was their old-fashioned roles-full-time mother, full-time bread-wi
“I know this sounds odd, but I kind of forgot about Walter. That is, I forgot they were going to execute him. He never thought he would die that way.”
Peter shifted, redistributing her weight, moving her arm, which had left a damp stripe across the front of his shirt. “I don’t remember that in the letter.”
“Then. The summer I was fifteen. I think he thought it would end in a slow-motion hail of bullets, like a movie. As opposed to a routine traffic stop at the Maryland line.”
Peter kissed the top of her head. His skin was warm, but then, it always was. Energy poured out of him, even when he was still.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“You don’t know what love is.”
This was a joke, their own private call-and-response, so ingrained that Eliza couldn’t remember its origins, only that it always made her feel safe.
“Gross.” It was Iso, standing on the threshold. “Get a room.” Eliza wondered how long she had been standing there, what she had heard and whether she could make sense of any of it. The summer I was fifteen, hail of bullets, routine traffic stop.
“What do you need, baby?” Eliza asked.
Iso made a face. Possibly because of the word baby, or possibly because the mere sound of Eliza’s voice irritated her. “I came down to remind you to wash my Spurs jersey, in case you forgot. I want to wear it tomorrow.”
“I did. Wash it, that is. Not forget. But, Jesus, Iso, that jersey is made for damp England, not ninety-degree days in Montgomery County. Can’t you wear a T-shirt like the other kids?”
“No. Did you wash my socks, too? I had to dig a pair out of the hamper this morning.”
“Socks, too.”
“You know,” Peter put in, “if you can work an iPod and the television and the computer and TiVo, you could probably learn how to operate the washing machine, Isobel.”
Iso looked at him as if he were speaking Portuguese. Peter didn’t a
“I don’t want them to know,” Eliza said to Peter. “Not yet. That’s all I care about. Albie’s just gotten over those awful nightmares, and even Iso is more impressionable than she lets on.”
“It’s your call,” Peter said. “But there’s always the risk of someone else telling them. Especially as the execution draws closer.”
“Who? Not you, not my parents. Not even Vo
Peter shrugged noncommittally, too polite to say that he considered his sister-in-law capable of just about any kind of bad behavior. It was fu
Eliza pressed him for agreement: “No one else knows.”
“Walter knows, Eliza. Walter knows, and he found you. Walter knows, and he might tell someone else. He has told someone else. The person who wrote the letter. Who clearly has our address, not that addresses are hard to find these days.”
“Well, there’s no one-oh, shit. That asshole. That alleged journalist, Garrett. But I’m sure he’s moved on to other lurid tales, assuming he’s still alive. Is it a proper use of irony to say that it would be ironic if he died in some hideous, salacious crime?”
“I don’t know if it would be irony, but it has a certain poetic justice.”
“Walter never spoke to him, though. Not during the trial, and certainly not after that book. He probably disliked that book even more than I did.”
“But his book is out there. Nothing really disappears anymore. Once, that kind of true-crime crap would be gone forever, gathering dust in a handful of secondhand bookstores, pulped by the publishers. Now, with online bookstores and eBay and POD technology, it’s a computer click away for anyone who remembers your original name. For all you know, he’s uploaded it to Kindle, sells it for ninety-nine cents a pop.”