“I know, okay? I know everything, Pauline.”
It feels as if her heart rises up her throat, all the way to her teeth. If he’s found out about the settlement, then everything—everything—she’s done is for nothing. She’s been told he has no legal rights, but she doesn’t want to spend a penny fighting to keep what’s hers, and Gregg will fight for money. “Know what?”
“It came out in the papers over here. You’re a killer, who’s already lost custody of one kid, then got a second chance. Well, you had it. Maybe the third time will be the charm for you. This, us—we’re over.”
Close to being over, she thinks. So close. But then, every time she thinks she’s close to the end, something else happens, another bump in the road.
“Okay,” she says. Now she knows exactly what he wants. Wasn’t that Barry Forshaw’s advice? Trick Gregg into revealing what he wants, and then you’ll have true leverage. Gregg wants Jani. He’s probably bluffing, but maybe he thinks that’s the only way he gets the other stuff. He’s expecting her to counter. She wins by not doing what he expects.
Still, she can’t help allowing herself one little zinger.
“You can’t rely on your mother for child care forever, you know.”
“Who said I was?”
“I just assumed that’s what you were doing.”
“Fact is, I found a really good day-care center near the office last week.”
Interesting. Gregg always said day care wasn’t right, that it was for welfare mothers or people who didn’t really love their kids.
“Are you dating?” she asks.
“Pauline.” Kind, beseeching, as if he thinks the information could hurt her.
“You’re entitled,” she adds.
“There’s a woman at work. But she’s more of a friend. She has a little boy about Jani’s age.”
Gregg has never had a female friend. Gregg doesn’t believe in female friends. They specifically had that argument after watching When Harry Met Sally on video one night, with him maintaining that “real” men didn’t have female friends.
“That’s nice for you.” She tries to think of what a normal woman would say in this situation, a woman who’s not trying not to conceal how much she wants a man out of her life, how much she loathes him. “Do the kids like each other?”
“Pretty well. Look, Pauline—”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens, we’ll make it work,” Gregg says. She wonders who the “we” is—Gregg and her? Gregg and his mother? Gregg and Jani? Gregg and his friend? But that’s secondary. He has established his terms. She knows what he wants, what he’s willing to give.
“Could I get this in writing?” she asks. “The financial stuff. Have your lawyer draw up something based on what we talked about today, about the property, and I’ll sign it. Have it notarized if that’s what it takes. But then we’ll be on our way. Just the financial stuff, though.”
Polly also knows what she wants and what she’s willing to do to get it. She swallows hard, dials Barry Forshaw collect, and tells him what she needs. He asks a lot of pesky questions, complains that it’s not really his kind of thing, but in the end, he’s happy to do what she wants. For a price. When you help a man make more than a million dollars with very little effort, he tends to be kindly inclined toward you. Paper trail commenced, now she has to mark another kind of trail. Lead the horse to water. Make him drink.
That night, when she goes to work, she checks to see if Mr. C really does keep a gun in his desk.
43
Adam’s possessions, the ones he plans to take with him to Belleville, require exactly eleven boxes, eight of them for books. He could probably live without the books if it comes to that. But they’re easy to box and they are the only objects, along with his mother’s paintings, about which he allows himself to be sentimental. Half the books belonged to his parents—his mother’s art and photography books, the old man’s biographies and histories. He will build a shelf for them in Polly’s place. Not some college-kid thing made out of plywood and cinder blocks, and not some prefab IKEA shelf. He will build a real one, borrowing tools from Mr. C or someone else in town.
His life in Baltimore is almost as neatly packed away as his possessions. The lease on his apartment will end February 1, phone and utilities will be turned off then, too. On Christmas Eve, he’s going to drop to one knee and ask Polly to marry him. So why not cancel his apartment by December 31?
Because I’m not sure what she’s going to say.
When he’s in his soon-not-his apartment, he checks two, three times a day to make sure that the blue velvet box is safe in its hiding place. He goes to look at it again now, nestled inside a box of tampons that some woman left behind, he’s not even sure who. Someone gambling that she was going to be spending more time with him than she ever did, that’s for sure. Since Adam’s marriage ended, he’s never come close to living with anyone. A month, maybe two, was the most time he put in with a woman.
Then Irving Lowenstein hires him to follow Pauline Hansen and the next thing he knows is that he’s in love with Polly Costello. A woman who killed one man, walked out on another. But he’s the one who almost got her killed. He can’t forget that.
Maybe he shouldn’t ask her to marry him until he’s man enough to tell her that.
Irving’s lawyer keeps calling Adam, asking him to come see him in the city lockup, where he’s being held without bail. The lawyer leaves a message every three days or so. “Irving Lowenstein would like to see you.” “Checking back to see if you’d like to visit Mr. Lowenstein.” “I’ve identified you as a contractor for my firm, so you don’t have to worry about filling out a visitor’s application. You’ll be treated as an employee of the firm.”
Adam has nothing to say to that snake. He owes him nothing. Sure, he felt guilty last summer when he fell in love with Polly, but he still did right by Irving. Irving Lowenstein, teller of tall tales, pretending that a vulnerable woman ripped him off, preyed on kids, when he’s the one who was trying to kill her all along.
It is December 21, a Thursday. That means Christmas falls on a Monday this year, a nice three-day weekend for regular folks who won’t even notice how many other people still have to work December 25. Cops, firefighters, waiters at Chinese restaurants. And there’s not even Chinese food in Belleville. Adam bets the only thing open December 25 will be the Royal Farms near the soon-to-be bypass. Belleville is beautiful at Christmas—and he has never found it more cloying. It has a real It’s a Wonderful Life vibe, and It’s a Wonderful Life is only the most depressing movie ever made. Work your whole life, be good, and maybe your friends will save you. Except they probably won’t, and every small town is Pottersville in the end.