“God, Olivia. Why didn’t you come get me when it happened?” he says.
“There are some things you don’t need to experience firsthand, Park. Trust me.”
The quiet desolation, the haze in her eyes. She’s already back there, remembering, reliving it.
“Then why didn’t you tell me, honey?” he asks, softer now.
“I was about to when they rang the bell,” she whispers, body drooping in defeat. “Park. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I failed you again.”
He grasps both shoulders—he can feel the sharp edges of her collarbones under her sweater; if she’d only gain a little weight, maybe she wouldn’t keep miscarrying—and makes her face him. “Oh, hon. No more talk like that. Remember what Dr. Henry says. This is not a situation of blame. It’s a biological anomaly.”
“Apparently, you’re the biological anomaly, Park. What will the neighbors say? How will you explain this to our families? Do you even have any idea who the mother might be?”
No, I don’t. I don’t have a clue.
“I’m sure this is some sort of lab screwup,” he says. “They’ve made a mistake.”
“They don’t make mistakes with DNA. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t sure.”
“Just... Olivia, go upstairs, okay? Let me talk to the police, let me straighten this out. You do need to lie down, you look very pale. Take an iron pill, and maybe a little something to relax you. Since you won’t hurt the baby—”
Her face crumples, and he trails off. The tears have ended—Olivia is too strong for her own good—but she needs to temper things. No woman should have to go through what she has. He feels a spike of guilt for his uncharitable thought about her weight being to blame for the babies. Of course this isn’t her fault. It’s a terrible circumstance, that’s all.
“No numbing,” she says finally. “I have to work today. The Jones build. And you owe me an explanation of what the hell is going on. When you finish telling them whatever it is you need to say without me in earshot, I expect you to share with me, Park Bender. Is that understood?”
This last is said fiercely, and he nods. Without another argument, Olivia moves soundlessly to the stairs and floats up, small feet soft on the runner. He watches her go, heart twisted, mind whirling.
This absolutely cannot be happening.
The detectives are still in the kitchen. He half hoped they’d see his family was suffering and quietly let themselves out, but no, here they are, the Black cowboy sitting at the table calmly sipping away and the cold white chick with the swan’s neck standing at the window, looking out at the backyard. The feeders are nearly empty, and the squirrels are up to their usual hijinks, hanging upside down, tails straight out as the feeders spin wildly. Olivia always laughs when they do this, says it’s their way of going on a roller-coaster ride. Moore seems to agree, is more animated, at least. He doesn’t know how Osley can stand being with her all day; she’s so intense, so disapproving.
Osley has helped himself to another cup of coffee. He sets down the cup with a small click and smiles, gesturing for Park to take the chair opposite, as if this is his kitchen, his home, and Park the honored guest.
Park hesitates a moment, drops into the chair. Moore stays by the window.
“Sorry things are so confusing, sir. Your wife okay?”
“She will be. Listen, she’s in a fragile state right now. We’ve lost several pregnancies, and it’s been very difficult. We’re both in therapy, trying to make sense of it all. You can imagine this news coming as more than a shock. That I have...a kid.” He shakes his head like a wasp is flying near. “How old is he?”
“We don’t know for sure. Old enough to ejaculate. Now that your wife’s out of earshot, who’s the mother?”
Park shakes his head again. “I told you. I honestly have no idea. I don’t have a lot of exes. Olivia and I dated in high school. I had a girlfriend in college, then Olivia and I got back together.”
Osley’s eyes glitter. “Speaking of the girlfriend in college—”
“She’s dead. Which I assume you already know, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
3
THE WIFE
“The suspect in our case is your biological son.”
That word, that word. Olivia wants a son. She wants sweet-smelling baby skin to cuddle. She wants so much, more than she’s ever going to get. More than she deserves.
Who has birthed her husband’s child? Is he telling the truth that he doesn’t know? He’s been faithless before; has it happened again, and again, and again? When did this anonymous woman spread her legs for him to sow his seed?
She opens the cabinet, assesses the array of bottles. It is tempting, too tempting, to seek the oblivion of a pill. How easy it would be to just check out of this situation.
Park has a child.
If this was happening to anyone else, the irony would be delicious. They’d lie together on the couch, legs intertwined, watching some random documentary about the story, a mysterious child who murders women, drinking wine and giggling at the absurdity of it all.
Can you imagine? Poor guy. He had no idea.
Poor guy? Poor kid!
But this is their chaos. There is no way they’re going to keep it a secret. If Park doesn’t cooperate, the police will just leak it to the media, and he’ll be forced to confront the story in the press. They are going to be scrutinized, pitied, torn asunder. She can already hear the screams from the street as she slams the door—Mr. Bender, how does it make you feel to know you’re father to a murderer? Mr. Bender, why didn’t you tell your wife you had a child with another woman? Mrs. Bender, how are you still living under this roof knowing your husband lied to you all these years—
“Jesus.”
Olivia shuts the cabinet, scrubs her face, twists her chocolate hair into a bun, changes from her yoga pants and T-shirt into leggings, boots, and a blazer. Her therapist is going to be pissed at her for normalizing things again. She’ll want both Olivia and Park to sit down and discuss their “feelings” about the miscarriage immediately, add entries to the dog-eared journals they’re both supposed to be keeping, sharing those words between them, but damned if she’s going to put herself through another round of who’s fault is it? That’s all their conversations are anymore anyway. Olivia—I’m so sorry, the money, it’s me, we can’t keep doing this; Park—it’s fine, it’s not your fault, we have plenty, we’ll try again. Reassuring, cajoling, tender, conciliatory, while inside she can feel him blaming her.
At some point, he will want a baby enough to try with someone else, and he’ll divorce her, leave her the house maybe, as a consolation prize, with its sterile bathrooms and haunted toilets, while he sets up shop across town with a leggy blonde who produces two-point-three perfect towheaded little beasts within the first five years.