thing at his core—the thing that had been bred into him in this place—being cauterized and already in the process of hardening. He could feel it turning to stone.
*
Early the next morning, Caroline came home. When she entered the house, Robert was on the stairs—his expression cold and unreadable.
“Where have you been?” she said. “Why did you leave the hospital and not come back? You didn’t even tell me where you were going.”
“I came home to be with my children.”
The statement fell between them like a sheet of ice.
There was a brief, deathly hush: the silence before the lowering of the executioner’s blade.
Robert said: “He’s not mine, is he?”
The question paralyzed Caroline.
“It happened that Halloween when Mitch was in town, didn’t it?” Robert delivered this as a statement, nonnegotiable.
“Yes, but …”
Before she could continue, Robert shouted: “Stop! I’ve swallowed my last piece of crap, Caroline. It’s over.”
She scrambled up the stairs, reaching for him. “Robert,please.” He pushed her away with savage force, slamming her against the stair rail. Her words came out thin and choked: “Robert, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
She was clutching at him now, begging, feeling the house tearing itself open around her—preparing to hurl her children into the broken place from which she had been running all her life. “I’ll do anything.” She was crying and desperate. “Just please stay. For our children. Don’t go. Don’t leave them.”
Robert’s response was unnervingly cool. “I’m not the one who’s going.”
Caroline couldn’t make sense of what she’d just heard. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Justin,” Robert said. “I’m telling you that you’re going to pay for what you’ve done, Caroline.”
Justin
SANTA MONICA, EARLY JANUARY 2006
*
Justin was in the midst of chaos.
In the garage, subterranean pumps were straining against a rising flood. Above the house, a cannonade of rain was rushing out of the night sky, hammering down onto the roof. And in the living room, the five o’clock news was flowing with a litany of crisis.
Justin was sitting in semidarkness; his only light was the glow of the television and the flickering of the fireplace. As he listened to the roar of the rain and the drone of the newscast, he was aware the phone was ringing, but he made no move to answer it.
He remained on the sofa, mesmerized: South of Santa Barbara, a mountainside was giving way and burying most of a small town; in the Hollywood Hills, a monumental mud flow was flattening a house while neighbors desperately tried to reach a family trapped inside; to the east of Los Angeles, a woman, pregnant with her first child, was being swept to her death by a flash flood; to the north, a four-year-old boy was drowning in the foaming waters of a rain-swollen river while a rescue helicopter fluttered helplessly above him.
Somewhere in the course of the newscast, Justin felt Amy slide onto the sofa and nestle beside him. She was wearing a satin robe, and her hair was pinned up and damp. He could smell the scent of fragrant bath oil on her skin. Under normal circumstances, Justin would have gone to the spot where her robe closed across her breasts and he would’ve kissed that spot and gently pulled the robe open. They would have made love with a leisurely elegance, then wandered into the kitchen and done what they often did after Sunday-night sex—treat themselves to something sweet and delicious. Since it was now winter, the treat would have been hot cider. In the summer, it would be a cold frothy egg cream made from a recipe Amy had gotten from a New York deli owner a long time ago.
But these were not normal circumstances. Towns were being crushed by mountains. Children were drowning in rivers. And Justin was being tormented by the image of a woman with red hair, pale skin, and sloping shoulders.
He watched as
*
Early the next morning, Caroline came home. When she entered the house, Robert was on the stairs—his expression cold and unreadable.
“Where have you been?” she said. “Why did you leave the hospital and not come back? You didn’t even tell me where you were going.”
“I came home to be with my children.”
The statement fell between them like a sheet of ice.
There was a brief, deathly hush: the silence before the lowering of the executioner’s blade.
Robert said: “He’s not mine, is he?”
The question paralyzed Caroline.
“It happened that Halloween when Mitch was in town, didn’t it?” Robert delivered this as a statement, nonnegotiable.
“Yes, but …”
Before she could continue, Robert shouted: “Stop! I’ve swallowed my last piece of crap, Caroline. It’s over.”
She scrambled up the stairs, reaching for him. “Robert,please.” He pushed her away with savage force, slamming her against the stair rail. Her words came out thin and choked: “Robert, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
She was clutching at him now, begging, feeling the house tearing itself open around her—preparing to hurl her children into the broken place from which she had been running all her life. “I’ll do anything.” She was crying and desperate. “Just please stay. For our children. Don’t go. Don’t leave them.”
Robert’s response was unnervingly cool. “I’m not the one who’s going.”
Caroline couldn’t make sense of what she’d just heard. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Justin,” Robert said. “I’m telling you that you’re going to pay for what you’ve done, Caroline.”
Justin
SANTA MONICA, EARLY JANUARY 2006
*
Justin was in the midst of chaos.
In the garage, subterranean pumps were straining against a rising flood. Above the house, a cannonade of rain was rushing out of the night sky, hammering down onto the roof. And in the living room, the five o’clock news was flowing with a litany of crisis.
Justin was sitting in semidarkness; his only light was the glow of the television and the flickering of the fireplace. As he listened to the roar of the rain and the drone of the newscast, he was aware the phone was ringing, but he made no move to answer it.
He remained on the sofa, mesmerized: South of Santa Barbara, a mountainside was giving way and burying most of a small town; in the Hollywood Hills, a monumental mud flow was flattening a house while neighbors desperately tried to reach a family trapped inside; to the east of Los Angeles, a woman, pregnant with her first child, was being swept to her death by a flash flood; to the north, a four-year-old boy was drowning in the foaming waters of a rain-swollen river while a rescue helicopter fluttered helplessly above him.
Somewhere in the course of the newscast, Justin felt Amy slide onto the sofa and nestle beside him. She was wearing a satin robe, and her hair was pinned up and damp. He could smell the scent of fragrant bath oil on her skin. Under normal circumstances, Justin would have gone to the spot where her robe closed across her breasts and he would’ve kissed that spot and gently pulled the robe open. They would have made love with a leisurely elegance, then wandered into the kitchen and done what they often did after Sunday-night sex—treat themselves to something sweet and delicious. Since it was now winter, the treat would have been hot cider. In the summer, it would be a cold frothy egg cream made from a recipe Amy had gotten from a New York deli owner a long time ago.
But these were not normal circumstances. Towns were being crushed by mountains. Children were drowning in rivers. And Justin was being tormented by the image of a woman with red hair, pale skin, and sloping shoulders.
He watched as
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