Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [47]
So, in their next appointment, Tom decides to address the topic more frankly, and ask questions that encourage Seth to speak freely about the relationship. What do you talk about? Not very much. What do you do? Have sex, mostly. Are there any other girls who you are interested in? No, not exactly.
Eventually Tom asks, “Do you love her?”
“No,” Seth laughs, as if to say, Come on, we’re all adults here, which of course they aren’t.
The following weekend, Tom finds himself driving by the gray Victorian. The car in front of him has one of those bumper stickers that Tom hates: I drive under 25 m.p.h. in Narberth, PA, a pledge the driver observes with due diligence. As Tom creeps along well under the speed limit, he gets a good look at the house. He can see that Seth and Marianne haven’t only been fucking; Seth’s been working too. The yard looks immaculate.
The next day, passing by, he sees her. She is leaning against her doorframe, staring into nothing as if she is remembering something. Tom takes off his sunglasses to get a better look. He can’t believe it, but it’s her: Amelia Watson. She’s lost some weight and she’s dressing differently, maybe even dyed her hair too, but it is most definitely, unmistakably her, Amelia goddamn Watson. From the dark of the hallway, Seth emerges. She leans forward like she is going to kiss him goodbye, right there in the open. But before she gets too close, she catches herself and touches his shoulder instead. Tom slumps in the seat as Seth walks away, and Amelia retreats into the house.
At home, Tom unlocks his filing cabinet and thumbs through the manila folders until he finds it. Watson, Amelia. The first page of the file is the form that he requires all patients to fill out: a brief medical history and a confidentiality agreement. At the top of the page, in her tight handwriting, it reads, Watson, Amelia Marianne. Shaking, Tom closes the file.
It’d gone on for several months, and Jackie never knew. They’d kept up their weekly appointments for appearance, and they’d even done it on the couch in this very office. Once they started fucking it became impossible to talk, and the fifty-minute sessions were painfully slow. He’d ended it eventually, and Amelia had agreed it was best for her to move in with her sister in Rhinebeck, New York, where things are quieter and there are more open spaces. Tom even gave her the name of a therapist up there, a woman who’d come highly recommended.
That night, Tom takes Jackie out to dinner. Almost every Saturday they go into the city to try the latest restaurant written up in the Main Line Times, and tonight cannot be any different. They eat overpriced Mexican tapas, and on the way home, when Tom is careening down Schuylkill Expressway, Jackie reaches over and gently squeezes his crotch. Tom is stiff and guilty but he tells himself nothing’s wrong. It is a warm summer night and Jackie turns off the air-conditioning and opens the windows.
At home, Jackie suggests they to go for a night swim, something she likes to do when her belly is full and her mood is high. They change into their bathing suits, wrap themselves in towels, and go out onto the deck. Jackie walks down the steps to the poolside, and Tom crosses the deck to switch on the underwater light. As soon as he flips it on, Jackie screams. In their neighborhood, which some say was designed to be an outdoor amphitheater, whispers carry like they do in the valleys of mountains. Hers is not a scream that Narbrook Circle has heard before, and to be sure, all of Narbrook Circle hears her scream.
Tom is at the railing. He sees what she sees, a body of a man—a boy—floating facedown in the pool. He doesn’t have to look any closer to know that it’s Seth Lever.
The police arrive, Jackie is crying, and the whole neighborhood is out, trying to get a look. Tom wishes, more than anything, that he were wearing something besides a bathing suit. The yard is roped off, there are police swarming the property, red lights shining on the pine trees. Everyone whispers that it’s