Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [30]
Later that night, her sister, Clare, called. “I heard you’re considering turning Ann Marie in to Social Services,” she said. “Apparently at this very moment she’s trying to pick out the right potpourri for her prison cell.”
“Who told you about it?” Kathleen said. “Oh, let me guess.”
“Indeed. Alice told me to tell you to apologize.”
“Apologize!”
“You’re too hotheaded. No one knows where you get it. And apparently you take Ann Marie for granted. She’s the best babysitter you’ll ever get, as far as our mother can tell. You leave your kids with her all the time, but don’t accept that she’s their aunt, not some sort of hired help. Oh, and also, according to Alice, kids need a slap every now and again. It’s good for them.”
“Well, take it from the mother of the year.”
“Why I’m now in on this, I have no idea.”
“Why the hell does Ann Marie always run to Mom?”
“Because she’s the daughter Alice never had.”
Kathleen had forgiven Ann Marie or, if not forgiven her exactly, she had not mentioned the incident again. They were a foursome back then—Patrick and Ann Marie, Kathleen and her husband, Paul, frequently going to outdoor concerts at the Hatch Shell together, driving up to Maine, taking the kids to the Marshfield Fair, or out to dinner at Legal Sea Foods. And much as she hated to admit it, it was true that Ann Marie sat for her kids often, probably two or three times a week, while Kathleen was never asked to reciprocate. (Ann Marie had her own sisters for that, and anyway, she didn’t have a job.) Even though Kathleen didn’t find Ann Marie particularly interesting, smart, or enlightened, they were family. It was impossible to stay distant for long.
A few years later, it was this sort of closeness that Patrick used as an excuse for why he had helped Paul cover up his affair.
Two nights a week for a year, the two of them, her husband and her brother, had claimed they were together—Tuesday night poker, Friday night Kiwanis meetings. Paul was gone other nights, too, inexplicably coming home after midnight, never bothering to give Kathleen an explanation. She sensed that something was happening, but she stuffed the feeling down deep, wanting and not wanting to know.
One Friday night after she put the kids to bed and downed half a bottle of red wine, she called Ann Marie, to ask if they’d be going to Alice and Daniel’s for a barbecue the next day.
Ann Marie turned her mouth away from the phone and said, “Honey, are we going over to your mom’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” came Patrick’s unmistakable voice.
“What’s Pat doing there?” Kathleen had said. “I thought he was at Kiwanis.”
Ann Marie might have said something convincing if she wasn’t such a dimwit—He has a cold, or Patty had a ballet recital so he skipped the meeting—but instead, she was silent for a moment, before saying, “What do you mean? Pat’s not here. I was talking to Little Daniel.”
Kathleen took a deep breath. “You’re full of shit, Ann Marie. Now do you want to tell me what’s going on, or do you want to put Pat on?”
Ann Marie’s voice quavered. “I think you’d better take it up with your husband,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Kathleen was still awake when he came in, the rest of the wine gone. She sat at the kitchen table, watching Letterman on the black-and-white set, waiting for the back door to swing open.
“You’re up late,” he said when he saw her.
“How was Kiwanis?” she asked calmly, though her heart was racing.
“Eh, dull,” he said. “But we went for a few beers after and had a pretty good time.”
“Did my brother mention a party at my parents’ house tomorrow?” she asked.
“He might have,” Paul said tentatively. “I honestly can’t remember now. I love the guy, but he never shuts up, you know? He rambled on so much tonight, I can’t remember half of it.”
Kathleen drummed her fingers on the table. “Don’t lie to me,” she said.
“What?” he said, taking a beer from the fridge.
“I know where you were,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“My brother told me everything,” she lied.