Don't Cry Now Part 37

Slowly, Bonnie's eyes adjusting to the dark, she approached Amanda's bed, hand resting on the large stuffed kangaroo as she listened to Amanda's steady breathing. Carefully, Bonnie switched on the Big Bird light beside the bed. The child stirred slightly, but didn't open her eyes. Bonnie took a quick glance around. There were bears; there were dogs; there were frogs. No snakes, Bonnie saw with relief, switching off the light and returning to the hall.

Lauren's door was closed. Bonnie pushed it slightly open and peeked inside, closing it again when she heard Lauren's delicate snore. Then she returned to her room and crawled back into bed, where she lay awake until morning.

Josh Freeman called her the following afternoon. "I'm on a break," he told her. "I just phoned to see how you were doing."

"Did you call me last night?" Bonnie asked immediately.

"Last night? When? You mean, after I left?"

"I mean last night at exactly twenty-three minutes after two."

"Why on earth would I call you at almost two-thirty in the morning?"

"I'm sorry," Bonnie apologized. "I'm not thinking very clearly. Of course it wasn't you."

"Someone called you at two-thirty in the morning? What did they say?"

"They didn't say anything. They just waited a few minutes, then hung up."

"Did you call the police?"

"What for? It's probably just some crank."

"It might be a good idea to keep the police informed anyway," he advised.

Bonnie nodded, but said nothing.

"How are you feeling?"

"Actually, I feel a little stronger today," Bonnie reported from her bed. "The antibiotics seem to be helping a little."

"Need some more chicken soup?"

"I think you brought me enough to last a week."

"How about some company?"

"Why?" she asked, surprising them both with the question.

"Why?" he repeated.

She hesitated. "First, you wouldn't even talk to me," she reminded him softly, thinking how much she'd like to see him. "Now you're bringing me chicken soup and cooking my kids dinner. What's up?"

There was a long pause. "I like you," he answered simply. "And I sensed you could use a friend. I know I could."

The doorbell rang.

"Someone's at my door," she told him, grateful for the timely interruption. "I better see who it is."

"I'll call you later, if that's all right."

"Yes," she said. "It's all right."

The doorbell rang again as Bonnie reached the bottom step. She gathered her housecoat tightly around her. "Just a second," she called out, her legs wobbly from their sudden exertion. "Who is it?"

"Everybody's favorite jailbird," came the reply.

Bonnie lay her forehead against the hard wood of the front door. When had she lost control of her life? she wondered. "What do you want, Nick?"

"I want to see you."

"I'm not feeling very well."

"So I understand. Let me in. I want to talk to you."

Bonnie took a deep breath, then opened the door.

"My G.o.d, what did you do to your hair?" Nick asked, his own dark blond hair neatly trimmed and brushed away from his forehead. He had their mother's delicate nose, Bonnie realized, standing back and letting him come inside.

"Did you call me last night?"

"Last night? No. Was I supposed to?"

"Someone called here at two twenty-three in the morning," she told him, walking into the kitchen, taking the bottle of chicken soup from the fridge, pouring some into a pot, and lighting the stove. "Do you want some soup?"

"You think I called you in the middle of the night? No, I don't want any soup."

"You've done it before," she reminded him.

"Only because you told Adeline it was important that you reach me."

"So it wasn't you who phoned last night," she said.

"No, it wasn't me." He pulled up a chair, sat down. "You want to tell me about it?"

Bonnie shrugged. "There's nothing to tell. Someone called, then they hung up. End of story."

"I understand Rod's away in Florida," Nick said after a pause.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's called conversation."

"I thought you were implying that Rod might have called."

"It never crossed my mind. Why? Do you think it might have been Rod?"

"Of course not," Bonnie said quickly. Did she?

"Look," Nick told her, "I just came by to see how you were doing. Adeline told me that you dropped by yesterday. I was hoping you'd still be around when I got back from work, but Adeline said you had to leave because you weren't feeling very well."

"What else did sweet Adeline have to say?"

"That you and Dad had a good talk."

"Is that what Dad said?"

"You know Dad. He..."

"...doesn't say much," Bonnie said, finis.h.i.+ng her brother's sentence.

"But I know he felt good about your visit, Bonnie. It was all over his face. Like some long shadow had been lifted."

The soup started boiling. Bonnie lifted the pot off the stove, poured the hot soup into a bowl. "You're sure you don't want any?"

"I'll have a beer, if you've got any."

Bonnie nodded toward the fridge. "Help yourself."

In the next minute, they were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, Bonnie sipping her soup, Nick his beer. Who'd have thought it? Bonnie wondered, amazed by the brain's continued capacity for surprise.

"What's happening with the murder investigation?" Nick asked suddenly.

The question caught Bonnie off guard and her hand started shaking, the soup in her spoon spilling onto the table. "What?"

"Careful," he cautioned. "It's hot." He grabbed a napkin from the side counter, wiped up the spill. "I asked if there was anything new with the police investigation."

"Why do you ask that?"

Nick shrugged. "Haven't read anything in the papers for a while. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything."

"Like what?"

"Like if the police were any closer to finding Joan's killer."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Bonnie told him, watching his eyes, trying to read the thoughts behind them.

Nick raised the beer bottle to his lips, threw his head back across the top of his spine, sucked the rich brown liquid into his body as if he were inhaling a cigarette. "Nothing like a good cold bottle of beer," he said.

"Have you heard anything?" Bonnie asked.

"Me?" He laughed. "How would I hear anything?"

"I thought the police might have been back to question you."

"Still think I might have killed Joan?"

"Did you?"

"No." He took another sip of his beer. "I have an alibi, remember?"

"I'm not sure our father qualifies as an unbiased witness."

"You were wrong about him before."

There was silence.

"Maybe you're wrong about me too," Nick continued.

"I doubt it," Bonnie said stubbornly, gulping down the balance of her soup, taking the bowl to the kitchen sink, the floor s.h.i.+fting slightly beneath her feet. "You're not exactly a stranger to murder, are you?" she asked. "Or are you still insisting you were framed?"

"I was in the car when Scott Dunphy was arranging the hit," he reminded her, as old newspaper clippings danced before Bonnie's eyes. The clippings from Joan's sc.r.a.pbook, she realized, her breath catching in her throat.

"They were standing two feet away from you," she argued. "How could you not hear what they were talking about?"

"The car window was closed."

"So you didn't hear a thing, and you had no idea why your shady partner was handing over ten thousand dollars in cash to a total stranger. Is that what you're seriously trying to tell me?"

"It's more complicated than you realize."

"Is it?"

There was a moment's silence. "I didn't kill Joan," Nick said finally.

Bonnie nodded, said nothing. What was the point? She watched the room suddenly tilt, the ceiling slope toward the floor. She leaned back against the kitchen counter, tried to focus on the large maple tree just outside the front window, watched its branches sway with the gentle outside breeze. She s.h.i.+fted her gaze to the Chagall lithograph on the wall, watching as Chagall's upside-down cow slid off the roof of the house, feeling her knees grow weak. She saw Amanda's painting of square-headed people, her own head starting to feel vaguely boxlike. What was happening to her? Was it time to take another pill? She tried to focus on her watch, gave up when the numbers proved indistinguishable, looked instead to the digital clock over the stove, but it, too, blurred, its numbers waving in and out. "The clock in my car is digital," she remembered telling the police, and then laughing at the absurdity of it all. Why hadn't anybody told her it was only going to get worse?

"Bonnie," Nick was saying, his voice lumbering toward her, as if coated in heavy mola.s.ses. "What's happening? Are you all right?"

She took a step forward, panicking when she was unable to feel the floor beneath her feet. "Help me," she cried out as the room faded to black and she felt herself slipping headlong into the abyss.

27.

When Bonnie opened her eyes, she was in bed and Nick was sitting in the chair across from her. "What happened?" she asked, pus.h.i.+ng her body slowly up against the headboard.

"You fainted," he told her, approaching the bed, sitting down gently at her feet.

Bonnie looked around, saw it was still light outside. "How long ago?"

"Not long. An hour maybe."

"The kids...?"