Accidents of Marriage (13 page)

“But what if it worked?” Caleb started to cry. “He should try, right? I want Mommy.”

Emma put her arms out, and he ran to her. “I want Mommy,” he repeated, crying and gulping for air.

Gracie fell into the chair Caleb had left. “Me too.”

“I know, Gracie. Me too.”

Gracie slid her chair close to Emma. “I’m going to pray. Like you said.” She genuflected and lifted the tiny cross Grandma Frances had
given her and kissed it. Closing her eyes, she held Emma’s hand as she moved her lips in a soundless prayer. Emma closed her eyes.

The three of them were locked together when the bell rang. Emma opened her eyes. “I’ll see who it is. You guys start cleaning up in here, okay?”

“I want to see who’s there,” Gracie said. She stood and followed Emma.

“I’m coming too.” Caleb lined up behind Gracie. The bell rang again in three short bursts before they got there. “Hold your horses,” Caleb said, imitating his father.

Emma moved the door curtain aside. A man in a suit stood on the porch. When he saw Emma peeking out, he nodded.

“I’m Detective Perez. With the police,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the door. “Is your father home?”

CHAPTER 12

Ben

“
Dad!
” Emma screeched through the closed bedroom door. “A policeman’s here.”

“Hold on.” Ben fumbled as he buttoned his jeans and then opened the door. “Tell him I’ll be right down. One second.”

“Are you in trouble because of the accident?” Alarm colored Emma’s face.

“It’s just normal procedure, honey.” He gave her a one-armed hug, cautious of his aching ribs. “No big deal. Promise. Go be with Gracie and Caleb. I’ll be right there.”

“I love you, Daddy.” She hugged him hard around his middle.

Ben’s throat closed, realizing how grateful she was for a crumb of attention. He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be right there,” he repeated. It struck Ben in a great wave of sadness how alone his children had been since the accident.

After he’d closed the door behind her, he picked up his dirty clothes from the middle of the room and added them to a growing pile on the chair. The clean blue T-shirt he pulled from the drawer and jerked over his head muffled the harsh sound of the phone ringing. He
tugged the fabric down and looked at the caller ID. His private office line number.

“Ben Illica.”

“It’s Elizabeth.”

Her tentative tone was unfamiliar and probably a portent of days ahead. For a moment, he was breathless with a lack of desire to speak with her.

“How are you?” she asked. “Sorry. Stupid question. I called to see if I could help.”

“Thanks. I can’t think of anything.”

“Do you need someone to handle the papers? Did you read them?”

He pictured the rolled-up
Boston Globe
, still bound by a rubber band, on the hall table where he’d thrown it. He hadn’t read it—seeing the headline and photo in the
Herald
had been enough.

“Not really. Tell me. Quickly, please. I have a policeman waiting.”

“The police are there? Maybe I should come over—or someone else from the office?”

“I’m fine.”

“You should consider having someone there when they talk to you.”

“I’m not being grilled in the box. He just came for a statement. Tell me what’s in the
Globe
. Quickly.” He put the phone on speaker and pressed his fingertips to his temples, working to stave off his rising anxiety. Rustling paper sounds mixed with Elizabeth’s nervous breathing.

“It’s inside the Metro section. The headline is ‘Crash on Jamaicaway. Investigation Under Way.’ ”

Ben closed his eyes in thanks for there being no headline about speed or road rage.

“It could be worse, Ben,” Elizabeth assured him. “They don’t name you in the headline.”

“I’m not famous. And it is worse,” he said.

“I mean . . . I just meant in terms of this coverage.”

Shame nipped. Why had he pitched that ugly retort at Elizabeth?
There was no reason for it except that in some awful way it soothed him.

“I thought it would be hard on you and the kids,” she continued. “It’s probably good school hasn’t started. This will probably be a one-day story.”

“I have to go, Elizabeth.”

“Reporters have been calling. Do you want me to say anything?”

“No comment.”

“Is that meant for me, or are you telling me to say that to the reporters?”

Was she serious? Elizabeth was no joker. Perhaps this was his first taste of people’s caution around tragedy, tiptoeing around him and his family, worrying they’d shatter with the first off-target word.

“No comment to the reporters, Elizabeth. And thanks for calling.” Now, being kind felt soothing. Conferring onto others, not receiving emotional handouts.

•  •  •

The police officer stood as Ben entered the living room. He was a detective; Ben knew because the man wore a suit, not a uniform. He looked older than Ben, but not by much. Like Ben, he was built wide and powerfully. They must look like bulls facing each other.

“I’m Detective Perez.” He put out his hand. “Sorry about having to come at this time. How is your wife?”

“Not good.” Ben needed to keep it brief and never sound self-pitying. Better to have the stiff upper lip had been his experience with cops. “We’ll deal with whatever comes our way.”

“Mr. Illica, I have to take your statement. Actually, your brother—your attorney, correct—led us to believe you’d be at the station this morning.”

“I was at the hospital all night and most of this morning. Then I had to be with my children, of course.” Ben waved his arm toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Detective.”

The detective chose the chair, leaving Ben to sink into the couch.

“Could you tell me everything you remember about the accident?”
Detective Perez took a cheap-looking black notebook from his jacket pocket.

Direct and simple.

“I was on the Jamaicaway, heading toward the bridge going over Huntington Avenue. A car was right behind me, tailgating in a dangerous manner. Practically kissing my bumper. A Ford Expedition.” Ben didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Slick roads played into the accident, but it was the Expedition. Pushing me, trying to get me to speed up or move over—which, as you know, is not easy at that hour on that road. When I finally had an opportunity to move to the right, he sped up and tried to go around me at that same moment. Cutting me off. He crashed into me when he tried to pass me. As I said, the rain was an accelerant. I gave a blood sample at the hospital.”

Ben stopped himself. Less was always more.

“How fast would you say you were going, sir?”

“I’d be hard-pressed to estimate.”

“Within the posted speed limit?” Every scratch of Perez’s pen on the lined pad added to Ben’s nervous irritation.

“Certainly.”

“What happened next?” Perez kept his pen poised above the pad.

“Next thing I know some old guy is looking at me. And a woman. I guess they stopped. Good Samaritans. Then the EMT.” Ben paused so the scratching pen could catch up.

“Right. Go on.”

Ben kept his eyes looking up. He knew facial detectors—he used them in his work. Looking up meant retrieving information and looking down signified searching for a decent lie. He struggled to keep his mind linear. “Then I saw my wife.”

“Do you know what happened to her? Was she wearing her seat belt?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Do you usually wear a seat belt?”

“Me?”

“Anyone in your car?”

“Always.”

“And was your wife?”

“I would think so.”

“Can you swear she was?”

“I don’t recall. So swearing would be impossible.”

“Do you remember your speed?”

“I don’t recall.”

“What do you recall?” the detective asked.

“The pain. The deflated air bag. Trying to get out. Looking for my wife.” His voice got lower. “Seeing her on the stretcher. I saw her briefcase—it’s red. I saw her shoes—they’re red. And the blood.”

Detective Perez tapped the pen on his paper a few times. “Do you think speed and recklessness played a role in the accident?”

Ben nodded. “No doubt. The Ford was being driven in a reckless manner. Tailgating too close. Speeding.”

“And you?”

Gracie charged into the room. “It was our fault! He had to drive us to camp, so he was already late. And then he had to get Mommy. It wasn’t his fault.” Emma and Caleb stood in the doorway. “Tell them, Daddy.”

“Honey, of course it wasn’t your fault. Or Mommy’s. And I wasn’t that late.”

“Were you in a rush because you were late, sir?”

“I was not late in any extraordinary sense. Nothing of note. And I was not rushing.”

“Were you disturbed?”

“I was not disturbed,” Ben said.

•  •  •

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was trying to help.” Gracie sat next to Ben on the couch. Her tears seemed to come from some unlimited source. He folded his shaking hands into fists. He needed to get back to the hospital.

“It’s all right, baby.”

Emma sat staring at the
Boston Globe
, with Caleb looking over her shoulder. A fuzzy photograph of the accident scene was juxtaposed
with a file photo of Ben taken at the famous Franker rape trial he’d won. No one could believe he’d gotten the kid off. It had been a huge win.

“Listen to me, all of you. Honey, put that away.”

Emma’s hand remained on the newspaper as she looked at her father.

“This is going to be a difficult time.” Ben paused, trying to think of a stronger way to word it without terrifying them. “A very difficult time.”

“Did you do something wrong?” Caleb asked. “Is that why the police came?”

“No, of course not. It’s just . . . It’s just . . .” His children looked at him, expectant, waiting for the father who always had the answers, who never said
I don’t know
. Ben prided himself on being that sort of father—if he didn’t know the facts, he’d look them up. He relied on facts. “It’s just a procedure the police have to go through whenever there’s a crash where someone gets hurt.”

“To find out if someone committed a crime?” Gracie asked.

Someone mowed their lawn nearby. The whining vibration sliced into his brain like a buzz saw. “Sort of. Like driving while intoxicated—drunk—that’s a crime. But there was no crime here.”

All three children stared at him.

“What happened?” Caleb asked.

Ben tried to be a good father. An honest father. Always.

But not a stupid father.

“Were you playing a CD too loud?” Gracie asked in a tentative voice.

“That would be a good example of something wrong, honey, if it took away your concentration. But it’s not a crime. And no, I didn’t have the music too loud.”

“But sometimes you
do
play the music loud. Could that make a car crash?” Caleb asked.

“No. And I didn’t have the music on.”

Ben remembered being angry.

Late.

Hungover.

But he hadn’t hurt Maddy. “It’s exactly as I told the police officer; it was the Expedition. He cut me off illegally, he hit me, and that made our car crash into the tree.”

“So did
he
do a crime? The other guy? Will he go to jail?” Caleb asked.

Ben wanted to go back to bed, go back to the hospital, be alone, be alone with Maddy, sit by her side and touch her finger. “It’s too early to know anything yet.”

“When is Mommy going to wake up?” Caleb asked. “Will it be today?”

Ben closed his eyes. “Maybe not today, cowboy.”

“Tomorrow?” Caleb joined Ben and Gracie on the couch. “She’ll definitely wake up tomorrow, right?”

Ben kept his eyes shut. Caleb shook his upper arm. “Daddy. Daddy.
Answer!
Tomorrow?”

Ben heard the newspaper being folded and felt Emma move toward them. The couch settled as she sat next to Gracie.

“When, Daddy?” Caleb sounded panicky.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tipped his head back. “Soon,” he answered without opening his eyes. “Soon.”

CHAPTER 13

Emma

Five days passed like a year. Emma was stuck watching the kids every minute, but complaining about it even one bit—even to herself—seemed like the worst thing she could do.

Even as she pulled on her jeans, she wondered if she should wear something more respectable. She’d begged and begged to visit her mother until her grandmother gave in and helped Emma talk her father into saying yes. Now Kath would be there in a few minutes to take her, and all Emma wanted was to stay home.

She combed her still-damp hair back and braided it. Her mother loved when Emma wore her braid hanging down her back. And her mother adored the electric-blue T-shirt that she wore, the one her mother had bought for her last month. Emma thought it embarrassingly bright, but Maddy thought the contrast with her hair incredible.
Stunning!
That was her mother, always speaking in giant exaggerations. Emma had
the most gorgeous
hair, and Gracie was
the smartest
nine-year-old ever, and
no other child
could draw as well as Caleb. She did it about Emma’s dad also. When her mother thought Emma wasn’t listening, she’d told Kath he had the biggest balls in the world.

Emma knew what she’d meant, even though the implication made her want to throw up. Daddy never seemed afraid of anything. Sometimes Emma liked that, and sometimes she wished he would hold back. Two years ago, when he went with her to register for Saturday gymnastics, she’d cringed as he’d performed his lawyer tricks.

“Mr. Illica, there’s simply no more room in the class. It’s limited to ten girls and we’re filled,” the instructor had said. The teacher had been new at the community center, a college student, and Emma had thought she was trying hard to sound like a teacher.

“Will one more girl, just one, actually make a difference?” he’d asked.

“Never mind, Dad,” Emma had said, standing behind him. “I don’t care.”

Ben had held his palm out toward Emma, efficiently shutting her out as he pled their case. “It’s likely—practically a given—that a minimum of one girl will drop out or not show up each week. Moreover, when you say ten, is it a
hard
number, or is it more of a general guide? How large is the gym?” he’d asked, knowing exactly how large it was. Emma had been taking classes there since she was six. “Why don’t we walk over and take a look?”