Chapters Fourteen and Fifteen

Chapter Fourteen

It’s easier to exorcise your demons when you’re alone, Serena thinks, unloading a full bag of groceries. She shelves boxes of cereal, crackers, and snacks then proceeds with the refrigerator items, her least favorite part of the chore.

She pulls open the fridge door and the expired culprits greet her immediately—jars of salsa, cartons of cream, wilted lettuce, and blemished onions. Like a cluster of loitering teens, they stand uselessly on the shelves each week, daring someone to remove them.

A quart of dated cream is the first to go. Pouring the remaining half down the sink, she watches the bad cream glug from the spout, its acrid stench rising through the air like an omen.

Doug, dressed in a Black Dog sweatshirt from Martha’s Vineyard, enters the scene casually and—in line with his recent attitude—finds fault immediately.

“What are you doing? Don’t throw that away!” he chides with the fervor of a parent scolding his child for running into the street. “That costs money!” he adds, stating the obvious.

Respond don’t react. Respond don’t react. Hit the pause button, she tells herself, her bare hands squashing the empty cream carton against the sink’s corner while, less violently, she says, “Hello Serena. Would you like some help with the groceries? It seems that you have a lot going on around here?”

“I’m just saying, Serena. That stuff’s expensive. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Hmm…I know the feeling,” she answers, stomping the trash deep into the basket, “though I think we differ slightly on what counts as waste, Doug. You see…I prefer to waste a dollar’s worth of cream that’s gone sour in lieu of spending fifty dollars on a pro-athlete’s number jersey, not to mention the one on your back. But maybe that’s just me,” she finishes.

Defeated, Doug exits the kitchen and Serena is left alone with a recurrent thought: this has nothing to do with the expired cream. His pettiness is the symptom of a larger issue. There’s a catalyst behind the little things that go wrong in every relationship. But staying married, she thinks, is not only about acknowledging what’s behind your spouse’s temper—it’s about choosing how much you’re willing to tolerate.

She opens her refrigerator door and inadvertently rests her eyes on a bottle of Chardonnay. It is three quarters full, relaxed, and propped against a carton of juice. She removes it, pours herself a generous glass, and sits at the kitchen table, the groceries surrounding her like fallen leaves. The first sip is elegant, a fine wedding waltz. She sips slowly, savoring the taste while processing what’s to come in her home.

Sara Nadeau, the criminal psychologist hired by the DA to investigate Joshua’s ‘take’ on the crime will be over in about a half hour. Children are the best witnesses to a crime, she had said, because they think in literal terms and tell us exactly how a crime took place, unlike adults, who tend to gage what they say according to the consequences implied by their confessions.

Already, Josh has met with McKenzie to report on the details of the crime, precisely as he had remembered them. The Chief had made a generous concession to allow her to stay in the room, given her promise to remain detached and quiet. She had kept up with her end of the bargain, listening casually, masking her terror, while her son described the incident to the police chief.

“Tell me the exact conversation you had with Mr. Roth, immediately following your father’s departure to tend to his injury.”

“I know this isn’t easy, buddy, but can you tell me how he confined you to the passenger seat, along with what he said to you while he was doing it.”

“Tell me one more time what he said about his ex-wife and son.”

“What were your specific thoughts when he tricked you into going with him? Did you fear that your life would be taken?” To this question, her chest had tightened.

“I was mostly afraid because he seemed so different. He changed himself.”
Changed himself. The words linger in her mind. She has a feeling that Sara Nadeau, too, will rake through the words. Her wine glass half full by now, her mind begins to draw best-case scenarios for the interview.
She hasn’t yet met Sara Nadeau. Perhaps she will be perky and pretty and tell jokes at the table that put Josh at ease. Or she will tell him a story more horrific than the one he endured to make him feel better.

In her mind, she creates positive conclusions to the meeting while staring at Josh’s third-grade class picture on the refrigerator. Drawn to it, she gets up and involuntarily opens the fridge door. The overcrowding issue inside is probably the last thing she ought to be taking charge of.
Yet something tells her that—right now—it needs a purge. She ejects bottles of salad dressing, jars of olives, and cans of sauce as though they carry a disease. The more food she removes, the more jars of unidentified items she finds, items that have been hiding like criminals in the back.

When the shelves are barren; she sprays them down with disinfectant and wipes them clean, bunches of paper towels falling from her hands like spilled popcorn.

Four bags of full groceries remain still on the counter when she exits the kitchen. Her mouth tastes of sour grapes. Doug, like the fridge, needs a polish.

In his office, he moves his computer mouse slowly, tracking the cursor with the concentration of a surgeon while staring into the screen. His eyes remind her of his past.

Before Doug became a teacher, he had been an advertising manager for a large company in Boston. The pay was incredible but, like all things that seem too good to be true, it was. Doug wasn’t fulfilled or happy. She had encouraged him to leave the company to pursue his passion for education and, shortly thereafter, he had designed a loving ad to say thank you. Who knows me better than I know myself? The question floated onto the screen in purple font, a preview to a picture slide-show that ended in the line, thank you for saving me.

The memory sweeps through her like a warm breeze. But the tone of her voice, chilled in hurt and wine, betrays her love for Doug.

“I’m extremely disappointed by your crude show of emotion in the kitchen,” she says.

“I’m really disappointed by your no-show of emotion in the bedroom,

Serena,” he says back, still focused on the screen.

The comment crowds her like a bad smell. She moves herself away from him and says, “Please help me to make the connection, Douglas, between our sex life and your temper tantrum over saving bad cream.”

Doug, less passionately, says, “I’m just a guy with normal needs.”

“Does it occur to you—in your infinite wisdom to meet your needs—that the man who could have raped or killed our child is currently roaming free?”

“Could have, Serena. Those are the operative words. And he’s not exactly free, he’s in a secure rehabilitation center, handcuffed as I understand it.”

“And I suppose it doesn’t matter to you whether or not this creep will have a chance to put another child, or another family, through this hell.”

“What matters to me, Serena, is that we not dwell in what we cannot change.”

“It’s pretty clear to me what matters to you lately, Doug…and it doesn’t seem to be your family. Today the expired cream mattered. Tomorrow it will be the way I put the toothpaste cap on. In case you haven’t noticed, Doug, I have better causes to fight and one of them will be home in fifteen minutes.”

“Hmm…better causes,” he says numbly. “Is that kind of like the wine you’ve been sucking down lately?”

“No Doug, that would be a cause that you—”

“Go ahead, Serena…say it…that I caused. It’s my fault.” He squeezes the arms of his chair, lifts himself up, and proceeds to walk away.

Facing him, palming his chest to stop him, she says, “Sara Nadeau will be here shortly. It would be helpful for you to be present.”

“I already told you I don’t agree with that shrink interrogating Josh. These people have enough information. How many times does the kid have to talk about what happened…”

“You’re actually going to leave me stranded with this woman.”

“I told you before I want no part of it.”

“So this is about what you want again,” she says, practically choking on her temper to keep it at bay. “We are a part of it, Doug, because the child we happen to share is the victim and we need to protect him. If the DA wants to collect more evidence to nail this dirt-bag and a simple interview is the way to do it, then we need to support our son.”

“I disagree. I don’t think having him rehash the scene every week is supporting him.”

“Oh…because god forbid the boy is actually given the opportunity to process and sort through his feelings. That would just be way too revolutionary in your world, wouldn’t it?”

The conversation ends by default of Josh’s early and ungraceful entrance through the front door, the Guinness Book of World Records flapped open in his arm.

“How many eggs do you think this man crushed with his head in only a minute?” His cheeks are pink with fresh air, his eyes lit by his own news.

“How many eggs?” Doug has already freed himself of the grey sentiment of moments ago. “Gosh, that is weird. Let me see...there are sixty seconds in a minute… so if he crushed three eggs per ten seconds that would amount to—”

“Let’s not make it a lesson, Dad,” Josh interrupts, weary of teachable moments. “Just estimate, Dad.”

“Alright…let me take a stab. How about twenty-six?”

“Try eighty,” Josh answers, brandishing the full-length picture as though showing off a trophy.

“Eighty eggs? Gosh, I think Mom and I are in the wrong profession,” he says, eyeing Serena as though to say eat it.

There is more to talk about, more to reconcile, she knows. Doug’s lack of respect is atrocious. It wraps around her heart like a tangled kite, carrying with it hidden hurts and mysteries unsolved. Her husband has become a different person.

She smiles and says, “I think these record breakers have too much time on their hands. And…speaking of time…that lady I was telling you about, the one that works for McKenzie, Sara is her name—”

“I have to tell what happened again?”

Doug slides a glance to her. I told you so.


“I know it’s a pain, honey, but remember what I told you before…in order for the legal system to bring fairness to the crime committed, you have to tell what happened to all of the different faces who collect the evidence.”

“Is Mr. Roth going to jail for taking me?”

“Mr. Roth,” she says, feeling his name stick in her mouth, “needs to pay a consequence for the crime he committed. Right now, he is considered innocent until proven guilty. In order for him to be rendered guilty, the jury will need to hear the truth about what happened.”

“Who is the chury?”

“The jury,” she corrects, “is made up of twelve people chosen to work together to decide on the verdict, on whether or not the person being tried for the crime actually did it.”

“But will they make him go to jail?”

“You don’t have to worry about him, buddy,” Doug says. “He’s being taken care of.”

“I think he asked whether or not he will go to jail,” she snaps back, before turning back to Josh. “He will go to jail if the truth is told, honey…and what do I always tell you about the truth?”

“The truth will never hurt?”

“The truth will never hurt you,” she repeats, “only lies get you into trouble.” Her thoughts shoot back in reverse: to Roth handing over the business card, to believing him, to the betrayal, then her disguise in the hospital room. Two lies, two wrongs. “The truth will never hurt you,” she whispers again, hoping to convince her son and, moreover, herself.

A car door slams outside. Sara Nadeau has arrived.

Chapter Fifteen


Ms. Nadeau and Josh are seated on the family room sofa with the Guinness Book of World Records. A rumpled afghan lies beside them while the psychologist, legs crossed, leans close to check out outrageous pictures of the record holders. A lightweight pair of glasses sits on the brim of her nose. Her demeanor is as gentle as the soft brown curls that frame her face. Sara Nadeau, it seems, has a way with children.

“It must be hard to shampoo her hair,” she says, pointing to a picture of the woman with the longest fingernails.

“Or play cards,” Josh adds. “I bet it would hurt to cut them off.”

“I think you’re right, Josh.”

Serena serves the two of them drinks then excuses herself. “I just need to run upstairs for a minute…pay no attention to the mess behind the curtain,” she jokes, alluding to the room’s clutter.

“Don’t worry about it, Serena. A home is meant to be lived in, not for, right?”

“Oh, this one’s definitely lived in. I’ll be right back, honey.” She winks to Josh and scurries away.

Doug hides in the shower. It is a rather coy maneuver, she thinks, barring one slight detail: Serena does not have the option to gracefully bow out of life’s hard parts and nor does Josh.

According to the DA; although Roth has already been arrested for the crime, his sentence will depend upon the intent by which he acted. In other words, what was his motivation in kidnapping Josh that night? How forceful was he? Did he intend to control his mind? To kill? The possibilities are agonizing.

As Sara had said earlier….if they could interview the fly on the wall of Roth’s Subaru that night, they’d be all set. But, to Serena’s favor, Josh survived the accident unscathed and, therefore, can be thought of as their fly when it comes to documenting facts. As a passenger, he is considered to be the most reliable witness to the crime and, that said, his ability to report on exact conversations shared in the vehicle are the best means to unleash Roth’s motivation. Besides, she had added, the Defense will not hesitate to manipulate facts for their client, pleading not guilty.
We must be pro-active, Serena whispers on her way up the stairs, mimicking Sara’s final words of advice.

The bathroom is a cloud of steam. Atop the toilet, lid closed, she sits with her eyes closed, mentally preparing to persuade Doug. Coming on too strong will turn him off, she knows, but she can’t completely wimp out either. Ultimately, the situation at hand is not about Doug or Serena’s feelings. It’s about helping their son. It’s that simple.

All of this in mind, she closes her eyes, sighs, and says, “It’s really important to me that we go through this interview together, Doug. I know that you’re uncomfortable with all of this talking but I truly think that, in the long run, Josh will be better off.” Satisfied with the pitch, she goes on to say, “Let’s swallow our pride and be united for once.” The ending, she knows, is coated with offense. Most likely, it will place Doug on the defense. But it came without warning and she can’t take it back now.

“I already told you I’m not doing it. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” How did they get to this point? Her heart does a back flip.

“Yeah…I have to go to the bank and run a few errands.”

“Oh.” Ashamed of buying into the false implication, along with a shadowy lack of trust in her husband, she gets up and quietly stands outside the curtain. The water beats against the liner, a steady rain.

To what is happening between them, she begins to choke up.

When she and Doug were in college, he at Syracuse University, she at UMass Amherst, they used to miss each other terribly, spending only weekends together in alternating dorm rooms. One time, after a petty argument over sharing shampoo, he had left enraged, only to appear back in her dorm suite three hours later, sick with sorry and drenched from the rain. They had reconciled immediately, the tiff an unbearable stain on their relationship.

Now, through fifteen years of marriage, their skin has toughened, with spats popping into their relationship like new freckles. She runs her index finger down the shower curtain, as though she can somehow penetrate the more elusive barrier between them. Inadvertently, she draws an invisible heart on its fabric. Would he drive three hours to reconcile now?

She flips open the curtain, exposes her naked husband.

His eyes are closed while he soaps his chest and rubs himself clean. His bangs, dripping in suds, are pasted adorably to his head. His legs appear thin beneath a more muscular top half. His penis hangs calmly at the center of his being, a bird hung over its nest.

“Close that! You’re letting water out,” he chides, sensing the draft.
It has become the language they speak, these biting words of fault. “I was just…” she says back, her throat tightening, “never mind. I’ll see you later.”

She gives Doug his space.
* * *
By now, Sara Nadeau and Josh are discussing the sword-eating man. Serena manages a smile but there’s something forced about it and Josh is quick to take note.

“Is Daddy joining us?”

The question presses against her, a fist kneading dough, forcing her to create an answer that works for her son. Being a good parent, she thinks, isn’t only about telling the truth. It’s also about learning how to tell it.

“He’s actually got a couple of errands to run, Josh,” she says, hoping to sound lighter than she feels, “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

A shade of disappointment impales his young face as he presses his lips together and nods to the floor. The actual abduction was bad enough. Now her nine year old must, also, make room for his father’s rebellion. It is wrong. And, even worse, there’s nothing she can do about it.

“You know what guys. It’s actually easier to run an interview with less people,” Sara says, saving Josh. “I’m sure you can fill your husband in later.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Serena lies. “We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

“I just want to go say good-bye to Dad before he leaves,” Josh says.
Serena and Sara exchange a knowing look, a look laced with insight. Boys want their fathers even when they’re wrong. “Go right ahead, honey. We’ll be here.”

Josh out of earshot, Serena sits on the recliner opposite Sara and asks, “Do you have kids?”

Sara takes a sip of tea. “I have two,” she says, “teens, both of whom chose to live with their dad after our divorce.”

“I’m sorry,” Serena says back, reading the defeat in the woman’s face—in the tense way she presses her lips together, in the lines that deepen between her brows. “Then you get it, huh.”

Sighing, she nods to the floor before tossing a sympathetic look to Serena. “Yep. I sure do. I think what’s happened in my own life helps me to connect more easily with what kids go through these days. They end up picking up the tab for what adults fail at. But that’s a whole other story,” she says, placing her mug down on the coffee table. “I was actually hoping to brief you on a few things without Josh present.”

“Oh?”

“We have some new information on Roth’s pathology, Serena.”

As is the case with every detail learned about Roth; her muscles tighten, her nerves stand on edge.

Sara continues. “He actually suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder—DID, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.”

Serena gasps, one hand floating to her mouth. “Oh gosh. Go on…”

“During the night of the abduction, his alter, named Mark, actually committed the crime, at least in his troubled mind that is—”

Before Sara has a chance to continue, Serena interrupts, “How do we know he’s not using that as a ploy to get himself off the hook? Aren’t these insanity pleas getting old?” Agitated, she springs up from the coach and folds her arms before gesturing for the psychologist to continue, “I’m sorry. Go ahead….”

“It’s a good point, Serena, and the short answer is, regardless of whether Steve or Mark committed the crime, he’s still being charged with a felony. It doesn’t help his cause that he taped Josh’s mouth shut, even for only a short time. In fact, I’m almost glad that he did because, if not, I can guarantee you that the defense would have tried to twist things to say Josh left willingly. This is a major crime we’re talking about and, if our team can help it, the judge will go hard line.”

Gazing wearily out the window, Serena says, “…and the long answer?”

The thumping sound of Josh’s footsteps, followed by Doug’s, jars their thoughts. Sara whispers, “After the interview, I’ll tell you more about him.”

Doug is freshly showered, wearing jeans and a pink cotton button-down when he appears in the kitchen with Josh. He rips a paper towel off of its dispenser to wipe down the coffee maker, cleaning a sudden priority. The rustling sound of Doug breaks through the quiet. It seems to announce his reluctance to participate. It is an awkward moment, one in which she decides to remedy through a brief introduction.

“Doug, before you leave,” she says, sauntering into the kitchen, “let me introduce you to Sara Nadeau. She’s going to help us out with the interview.”

“How ya’ doing, Sara,” he says, angling his body to face her. “I just have to take off for a little while. Are you ladies all set with everything?”

Doug has put on his mask. He knows that Serena is anything but all-set but, still, he manages to play the role of the eternally busy man effectively, knowing that Serena will pick up the slack.

“Not a problem at all,” Sara says back. “I told your wife it’s actually easier to conduct an interview with less people.”

“Oh, that’s great,” he says from the coat closet. “Need anything while I’m out, Serena,” he hollers.

Yes… pick me up a gallon of understanding, she thinks. “I’m good, Doug,” she hears herself say.

He slips away from them, leaving Serena with a single terrifying thought: Behind Doug’s charm is a lie.

The leather of the sofa squeals as Josh jumps hard onto the corner of the sofa, beside Serena. Gently, he rolls a matchbox car along the armrest.

Josh, she knows, will tell the truth.

The Charlie Brown Football Parents

On an exceptionally hot day, the Jamboree shined down on us with play action and fun.

The sun—more July than August—caught us off guard. Sweating by noon, we cranked up the air and followed the impossibly calm voices of our British GPS guides until, upon arrival at Oak Street, a mutual thought spiraled through our heads like a Hail Mary pass. Where on earth will we park?

Swiveling our steering wheels abaft to manage parallel-parking jobs that even our dogs were skeptical of, we squeezed in, killed our engines, and proceeded to follow the football crew.

Helmets in hands, our boys walked beside us, their minds ablaze with thoughts less petty than our parking woes. It’s time to show the other teams what they’ve got and, when you’re a football player, there’s nothing worse than feeling as though what you’ve got may not be good enough.

How will I compete against this team…they seem huge? I’m still new at that position?—what if I screw it up? How can I live up to the undefeated record of last year? What if I miss a pass? a tackle? What if I disappoint my coach? myself?

As much as we’d like to put on a pair of shoulder pads and take the nasty hits for our kids, remember that this is the stuff that drives our boys to work harder, fight back, play with their hearts and, eventually, win the battle. It’s the stuff that makes them believe in themselves. When this happens, you can bet your latest raffle ticket that others will start to believe in them, too.
* * *
At the gate our boys gelled immediately while, dutifully, we appeased them in separating. We are like the Charlie Brown parents: that is, we don’t exist. We don’t talk to our kids or their friends. We don’t talk to the friends of their friends. Instead, we offer a modest simper to our coaches. It is our single concession in exposing the secret.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t take long for us to be swallowed up in a crowd of jamboree jammers, ticket holders, and football friends. We small talked, paid our five bucks, hauled chairs, commiserated about the heat and, later, hovered around our child’s teams like groupies.

Surrounded by oranges, white game jerseys, watermelon wedges, green game jerseys, gallons of water, lawn chairs, grandparents, the smell of burgers, and adorable cheerleaders; we celebrated. It’s a Jamboree! Life is good.

Then game time began. We were suddenly jittery, back to our parenting selves, craning our necks to watch every play. In our minds, we sorted through the fears of our boys. They are positioned to fight and yet, somehow, our minds wandered back to the first time that they stepped onto the school bus, waving back to us with toothless grins. Where have the years gone? How did they get to be so tough? They’re only ten…

Our boys look like miniature adults yet, at the end of the day, they’re still kids. They just want to please us and make their coaches proud. It’s only a game, we think to ourselves. We know that football is a sport of ups and downs. We know that resilience is grounded on getting back up again. Yet still, we don’t want to watch them fall, see them hurt. Mostly, we don’t want them to feel disappointed because, even though we’re the Charlie Brown parents, we care deeply.

So… what really happened on the field?

The Raiders—as usual—came out on top. They scored a touchdown. Then another. One more. Incredible. We blossomed. There is something very safe and victorious about watching a football player cross the end zone. He has made it and his dreams seem to rain down on him like glitter. No one could bring him down and, better yet, the Defense wouldn’t allow it. When our boys failed to execute a play, we wilted. We cursed their defenders under our breath like sour barmen. We watched their dreams crumble at the seams of a stripped pigskin football. Alright, so that’s melodramatic. Want some specifics?

Let’s chat with the coaches and take a closer peek at individual teams…


COACHES CORNER
• Pee Wees

Despite the heat and all that was weighing down on them in proving themselves in playing a new division—found a way to pull it off and win. From the first huddle, they connected like an oiled machine. They made mistakes, but rose above them. Great plays were made and the coaches felt proud that the team did what they came out to do. They learned that sometimes you need to play as hard as you can and, when you do, good things happen. If they continue to work hard, they will have a successful year. Bring it on, Brattleboro!

• Junior Pee Wees

When it comes to coming together as a team, the Junior Pee Wees had it covered, also pulling out a few wins and maintaining a positive attitude beneath oppressive heat. Along the sidelines, the kids knew just when to take charge of their positions and followed directions remarkable well. The coaches offered reassurance when mistakes were made while celebrating their successes. Between touchdowns and tackles, there was certainly a lot to celebrate!

• Mighty Mites

The Mites played three games in ninety degree weather, the first of which was played against Grafton. To the Raiders, this was a warm-up for the next two. After the excitement wore off, they came alive while competing against Northboro-Southboro, involving all members of the offense. The success of this game carried over to the final match against the Boston Raiders. The Jamboree served as an excellent opportunity for first year players to exercise their budding talents. The Mites are well prepared for the upcoming season!

• Cheerleading

The cheerleaders, upon being asked about the highlights of their performance at the Jamboree, said this to me: “We scored three touchdowns!”

Now that’s what I call loyalty.

When they realized that I already knew about the boys and actually wanted to interview them, their faces lit up. “We completed our halftime cheer three times, once for parents and twice for the kids! We danced to ‘Rock That Body’ by the Black-Eyed Peas!” The spirit of the cheerleaders, even when they’re not cheering, is truly amazing. Girls….you rock!

To the Coaching Staff of the Millbury-Sutton Raiders Teams –

Thank you for your hard work and dedication to the boys and girls of our community. Your diligence and belief in our players certainly came through on the field. May you continue to inspire our children to not only win, but to play with a winning spirit:

• To work hard
• To believe in yourself
• To never give up

…and to continue to love the game of football. That’s just what Raiders do.