“And did Bob have one to provide?”
He said he couldn’t remember. He said he would call back after checking his wife’s calendar and speaking with her. So Parsons left and Bob said he did that—called his wife. She reminded him they were at a club function. The spring wine-tasting dinner. I had wanted to go to that, but we had dinner plans instead.
“I remember. You said you quarreled with Tom in the car over that.”
Yes. Anyway, Bob called Parsons back and told him.
“I see. So that’s that. He has an alibi?” In all honesty, I had not considered this possibility. I don’t know why, but I had assumed Bob would say he was with his wife somewhere and then they would not be able to prove it or disprove it. A wife was never a good alibi. But a club dinner would have a record. And many witnesses. Still, I did not lose my focus.
“I do think it’s odd that he didn’t remember where he was. I think everyone in this town remembers where they were that night. The news of the assault was shocking to us all.”
Christ! I don’t know what to think. I really don’t.
“About what? This should be good news.”
It would be if Bob had been at that dinner. Or if he had said he was somewhere else.
“Wait. Are you saying he wasn’t there? How do you know that?”
Because I know. She was there, his wife. Fran. Uh … this is humiliating. My friend from the club who went to the dinner was filling me in on the gossip. It was weeks later. She was trying to get my mind off Jenny. Bob never showed up. Fran sat with my friend and her husband and made excuses for his not being with her. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have cared or remembered. But it was Bob, and I hadn’t seen him, you know really seen him, since that night. I got this ache in my gut. I was worried that he was seeing another woman.
And the wind kept blowing.
“I see. Did you tell Bob you knew this?”
Of course. I mean, I didn’t tell him that I was worried. But I reminded him that Fran had been alone that night and had sat with my friend. He looked surprised, like he really didn’t remember where he was. Like you said—that’s strange, right?
“It is to me. But you never know. Did he have any other explanation for where he was?”
No. In fact, he just kept telling me I was wrong, that Fran had already confirmed he was with her. Parsons believed it. Case closed.
“Then you should feel relieved.”
But Charlotte was not relieved. I could not be entirely sure whether she was starting to doubt her own lover’s innocence with regard to the rape of her daughter. Or whether she was feeding her suspicions that he had been with another woman that night. I watched her body, her face, the way her knee bounced beneath the leg that was folded on top of it, causing her foot to dance in the air. She was not horrified. She was anxious. I concluded her distress was from the latter.
He stopped talking then. He reached for my waist. We had sex. We left. I went home to my family and pretended to be good Charlotte.
“You are just Charlotte. You are winning this battle. Can’t you feel it?” The doctor had returned. Charlotte had adopted my language, the “good Charlotte” and “bad Charlotte” paradigms that I knew would begin to resonate within her. She had been feeling less attached to bad Charlotte and less deserving of good Charlotte. My hope, my dream for her, was that she would let go of both of them.
I know I have used many metaphors. Pick the one you like best—the roller coaster barreling down the hill, the cars heading for a collision, the strands of sugar winding their way into a perfect cone—the end of the story. This is the part where everything accelerated.
Charlotte and I worked on her internal struggles. The doctor was brilliant that day. The timing, the words, the way he led her to the truth within herself. She left feeling sick inside, disgusted by her behavior. Bad Charlotte was losing ground. I worked on dismantling good Charlotte. We talked about her connection with Jenny, how good Charlotte, perfect Charlotte, would never have been able to understand her daughter’s pain, how she’d felt that night when her will was taken from her. She understood. The thoughts were in her head, and they were starting to take hold.
Before she left, she told me this one last thing:
Oh … I almost forgot. When you see Tom this week, just be prepared. He found a picture in the yearbook—a kid with that sweatshirt. You can’t see his face, because it’s from behind and he’s standing in a crowd, I think it was at a football game. He’s obsessed with it now. I don’t know how he found it, honestly. He must have gone over every picture with a magnifying glass.
“I’m sure he’ll tell me all about it. Has he given the yearbook to Detective Parsons?”
Called him at six in the morning. Can you imagine? He’s out of control. I’m so tired of it.
I smiled. Charlotte left. I was perfectly calm.