She put John on the spot, but I told him to keep things between us between us. It pisses me off. “He wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“He said that, too, but he said you told him to be my friend, and he thought the best way to do that was by telling me what a good husband I have. He told me the truth about himself, about getting fired from New York University and why. Then he told me about his screwups since he arrived in Finland and how you fixed them all. About how you got his boots back.”
I say nothing, prepare for her well-deserved anger.
Kate wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. “Thank you so much,” she says. “John is right, you’re a wonderful husband.”
I think I know Kate so well, but she continues to amaze me.
“But still,” she says, “you should have told me the truth.”
“I was afraid to. John’s life is his own, and I didn’t see how upsetting you with his problems could help.”
“He’s my brother, and you don’t have the right to make those decisions for me. And this discussion goes deeper than that.”
I was afraid of that. “How?”
“You keep all sorts of things from me. We’ve been together for almost two and a half years, been through a lot together, but still you hold things back. I know things hurt you. I want you to tell me about them.”
“I don’t see how it would help.”
“Maybe you should try and find out.”
Back against the wall. I let out a sigh. “Tell me what you want to know.”
“Everything. But this thing with Mary has taught me that I need to know about your childhood.”
“Like what?”
“People were mean to you, especially your father. I want to know about it.”
I try to make myself tell her, but I can’t. I don’t want her to know. “Maybe one day,” I say, “but I’m not ready for that.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she asks.
“Yes, but it’s not about you. I’m just not ready.”
We hold each other in silence for a while. “I shouldn’t have pressed so hard,” she says, “but please don’t lie to me anymore.”
I consider if this is possible for me. It is. “I won’t,” I say, “but sometimes I need time to work up to telling you things. You have to let me do it in my own time and in my own way.”
“Okay,” she says.
Kate falls asleep. I lie awake thinking. We hold each other tight, in a state of detente.
42
I get up early Saturday morning, thinking about Sulo Polvinen. He seems like a good kid who took a hard knock. No doubt he assaulted the bouncers at the Silver Dollar, and alibis from his parents or no, he’s going to get caught. If he turns himself in, he’ll get a reduced sentence. I decide to have a friendly talk with him. I check my case notes and find his address.
He lives in East Pasila, not far from the police station. It’s a crappy neighborhood, built in the 1970s. It’s frequently called the DDR, because its concrete and bunkerlike buildings call to mind the architecture of East Germany during the Soviet era. I drive over without calling first, because I think if I asked, he would refuse to see me.
The temperature remains around minus twenty, the snow still flies. Driving is difficult.
Mama Polvinen opens the door of their dreary apartment. I introduce myself. With a look of distaste, she lets me in. The furnishings are all old and worn. Papa Polvinen sits on a dilapidated couch, reading a newspaper, sipping his morning hangover beer. Sulo sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, playing video games. They should be called the Family Big. Mama Polvinen is two ax handles broad. Papa Polvinen is even bigger, his body built out of thousands of gallons of beer. Monster-sized Sulo takes after them.
“Sulo,” I ask, “is there somewhere we could talk in private?”
Papa doesn’t approve. “Anything you got to say to him, you say in front of me.”