Russ, please, Cynthia begs, come on. This is ridiculous.
Russ thinks of Cynthia’s feet, muscles straining in pink silk ballet shoes. The veins in her neck, Lee’s noodle arms. He steps back from the scene and that’s when he sees her: Ines, his lovely wife. She stands next to Ivan, one hand folded over her mouth. Ines is watching, but not like a foal. Instead, bystander to wreckage. Her breath curls in the cold.
Russ is only feet away, but he has never felt further from Ines. Detective Williams has not singled out Ivan, and this should make Ines happy. Appreciative. But they could very well be strangers, Ines a disgusted witness to such injustice—a scene outside a funeral, tragedy within a tragedy.
Once, Russ was sick with the flu, and Ines tucked him into bed and put an empty bucket on the floor just in case. She held a cool washcloth on his forehead, and when he’d closed his eyes for long enough, she began to sing. A lullaby in Spanish. He understood then, as he begged his own eyelids not to flutter: her past was a thing she doled out like dog treats, holding it close to her chest to ensure it would not be taken away.
Detective Williams escorts the bewildered suspect to the car. Russ starts the engine. As they pull away, Russ looks at Ines one last time.
She is no foal. She is a woman and Russ is a man, and that is all. That is all they can do.
Russ tried to tell Cynthia about Hilary Jameson. Two months before Lee’s arrest.
Lee had run to the gas station for another six-pack, and Cynthia was weeding in the garden. She wore a floppy straw hat and overalls. Eight-year-old Cameron sat at the patio table, coloring in a cartoon book—he had an entire box of crayons, but he used only yellow. He shaded so hard with the yellow crayon that it was just a nub, Cameron’s chubby fingers nearly touching the paper as they jammed it with wax. Why don’t you try purple? Russ suggested. Purple is a nice color. The boy didn’t answer. Only pressed the yellow crayon harder.
In the garden by the back fence, Cynthia held a fistful of greenery.
Come see, she said to Russ, and he carried his unsweetened iced tea over to the patch of blooming vegetables.
We’re getting rid of the poisons, Cynthia said, as she wiped her forehead with a leather-gloved wrist.
The poisons?
See the roots? Cynthia tugged a small plant from the soil. When she squatted, both her knees cracked.
I see them, Russ told her.
There’s no science to it, Cynthia said. But I think you can tell which weeds are poisoning this garden by how deep the roots go.
They peered into the shallow hole the plant had left. A sluggish earthworm curled around a pebble, squeezing and oozing through its subterranean home. Cynthia squinted up at Russ, her sun-sweating face so close that Russ could see fresh mint leaves caught in her teeth.
He tried to imagine Lee and Cynthia having sex on top of Cynthia’s hand-sewn quilt. Russ’s stomach dropped, and with it a pleasurable feeling that had nothing to do with Cynthia’s proximity and everything to do with guilt. He wanted her very far away. It was a longing Russ felt, but not for Cynthia; too sharp. The sort of longing that dug into you, penetrated hard.
See this? She held up the plant and a chunk of soil landed on the front of her overalls like a wine stain.
The roots go deep, she said.
Russ should have told her then. He wanted to. All the time Lee had been spending with Hilary Jameson—Cynthia thought he’d been with Russ. And what about Russ, here? Russ, who spent most nights alone in the shadows of his too-big house, drinking just to keep himself company. He should have told Cynthia, should have shared the weight of this sudden alienation.
He tried to tell her, but what could he say: You poor woman. There’s no science to it. You are lying with the poison. Your little boy watches as you hand glasses of whiskey to that poison, three fingers thick. You’re sucking on the poison, you’re letting it inside you, you’re stroking its forehead afterwards, tender where tenderness is expected. Not deserved. You’ve given birth to its incarnation. Those roots—they’re swollen fat.
More tea? Cynthia asked.
Yes, Russ said. Yes, please.
Only after she’d gone inside, leaving him in the vegetable garden beneath that valiant sun, only then did Russ mumble: Take care of yourself, okay?
Feeble.
Russ is a man prone to regret, and this fact has abused him in every moment since.
Jade
“You’ll need to come to the station with us,” the officer says. “We have a few questions for you.”
The crowd erupts. People swarm in all directions, trying to get a better glimpse of the drama, and only when the mass shifts can I see: Cameron clings to his mother’s arm as the officers take hold of the person to his right.
I’d recognize the sweater vest anywhere. He has a collection of four or five sweater vests that he wears throughout the school year, regardless of the season. He wears a black one now, coat folded over his arm, shoes speckled white with plaster.
I had Mr. O for art last year. He would always stand too close, looking over your shoulder, making comments like It’s just a paintbrush. Play around with it a little. He was one of those teachers awkwardly invested in his job, personally offended when you didn’t give a shit. The girls always fluttered and speculated—Mr. O was one of those young, attractive teachers. He dressed like a high-schooler, and he was always so friendly. There were rumors, of course, about his relationships with students, but they were always started by the meanest and stupidest girls. Did you hear what Mr. O said about Lucinda’s pottery project? “Gorgeous.” A series of giggles.
The scene is chaos. Cameron’s mom is pleading with the officers. “Please,” she says. You can tell she’s uncomfortable with the sound. “Please, you can’t take him. Russ, come on, it’s me. You can’t just take him.”
I catch snippets of conversation. The art teacher; he was her art teacher—Years at Jefferson, I never thought he’d—So inappropriate for a funeral, they should have waited—Wanted to make a scene, makes them look productive—
The two police officers march Mr. O away like a trophy. He keeps his head bowed to the ground, takes each step purposefully. His hair, peppered with gray, shines white in the sun.
Cameron’s mother hugs him close, and they both watch, horrified, as the officers lead Mr. O into a squad car.
Sirens wail. Doors slam. People follow, and a few have their flip phones poised to take grainy photos. But most stand, dumbfounded, circling a drama that has now gone, leaving an empty, pulsing space in the middle of the crowd.