No Hiding in Boise Page 4

  My landline number must be listed somewhere, accessible to the public. It’s probably only a matter of time before they find my cell phone number.

  I hold my cell phone in my sweaty palm. Diana has texted, asking if she can do anything. I imagine her sitting on her front porch, staring at the vans in front of my house. She’s probably made some popcorn for the event. I haven’t returned her text.

  I go to the living room, pull the curtains shut. Still, there are small slivers of space where the reporters can peer. I see them trampling my lawn. They are ruthless. I crouch behind the love seat, out of sight.

  I call Gary because I can’t think of who else to call. Gary and I dated. I guess that would be the term—“dated.” It sounds so silly, a term that should be reserved for teenagers. But if I say we enjoyed each other’s company, it sounds like I work for an escort service and he was a client. We met on an online dating site, though I told Jed we met at the downtown bookstore because I didn’t want him to know his “ancient” mother was looking for men on the internet.

  Gary and I broke up—another teenage phrase—because of Jed. He said I was too intertwined with Jed. He said I had to learn to let go. The final nail in our creaky coffin: “Joyce, I’m sorry, but I’m just past the point in my life when I want to date a woman with a child at home.”

  “Gary, it’s Joyce,” I whisper. The whispering is probably unnecessary, but it wouldn’t surprise me if one of the reporters has affixed some kind of amplification device to the walls of my house, in hopes of hearing me inside.

  “Joyce? My god. I’m watching the news. Is it true?”

  The tears come again.

  Is it true?

  I still cannot believe he was the shooter. I want to think he was just one of the victims. Just. How quickly my world has changed. In this world, the best-case scenario is that my son is dead but he is innocent.

  “Joyce?” Gary says.

  “They say he shot those people,” I say. I’m blubbering. I doubt he can even understand me.

  “Are you alone right now?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He sighs. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  “Well, there are about a hundred people right outside my door, but you know how I feel about socializing.”

  He lets out a little laugh and I smile, through the sobs.

  “Can I come by?” he asks.

  I nod my head, vigorously. It takes me a moment to realize that he cannot see me over the phone.

  “Yes,” I say. “Text me when you park. I’ll unlock the door at the back of the house. Just go around there. Feel free to punch a reporter or two on the way in.”

  “You got it,” he says.

  I feel better already, just knowing he’s coming.

  GARY ARRIVES TEN minutes later, wearing his usual uniform of khaki shorts, a collared shirt, and boat shoes. “He dresses like he lives in Florida,” Jed said once. He used to refer to him as “Tommy Bahama”—“Hey, Mom, is Tommy coming over tonight?” and “Mom, Mr. Bahama said he’d be back in ten minutes.”

  I usher Gary in through the back door quickly, then turn the dead bolt.

  He hugs me, kisses my cheek—not in a romantic way, but in the way relatives do at reunions.

  “You weren’t kidding about the circus out there,” he says.

  “The police are coming soon, with a warrant. I’m sure the reporters want to get footage of that.”

  “Maybe you should come stay at my place for a while,” he says.

  I hadn’t thought of this. It’s been two months since I’ve been to his house. It’s a quaint house, charming, a craftsman built in 1919. He’s constantly renovating it. We used to sit on his back porch, drinking wine. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sound nice right now—an escape from reality.

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude like that. I come with a lot of baggage now,” I say, motioning to my surroundings.

  “I have room for baggage.”

  “Thank you,” I say, still not sure how seriously I should take his offer.

  “Consider it. Really,” he says, clarifying for me.

  There’s a knock at the front door, and I know it’s the police coming to search the house and comb through all of Jed’s belongings. I’m sure they’ll want to take his laptop back to their lab, pore through all his files. I don’t want them to find anything. If they do, that means I was blind.

  Gary says he’ll answer the door. I’m glad for this, content to be the damsel in distress in the background.

  There are four officers, standing awkwardly close together in the tight confines of the front hallway. I tell them to come in, and they spread out in the living room. One of them presents a warrant, which I do not even bother to review. I don’t care if they turn the house upside down. How could I care about that? My son did something awful; that’s what they’re saying, at least. They can burn my house for all I care.

  “We’d like to start with your son’s bedroom,” one of them says. His tone is even. I can’t decipher what he thinks of me, the mother of the monster.

  I take them to his room. I wish I could have had some time alone here before they turn it into something that is no longer his. They do not care what I want though.

  His bed is unmade, as usual. His computer is on, the screensaver a disgruntled-looking anime character—a guy with purple hair, his foot kicking outward, the computer screen made to look cracked. Jed loved anime. I never really understood it. It just seemed like disturbing cartoons to me. Was I supposed to ask him about it? It’s not like he was a twelve-year-old delving into inappropriate content; he was twenty-eight!

  “Why don’t we go to my place?” Gary says, his hand on my shoulder.

  I nod, in tacit agreement.

  “Can I pack up some items in my room?” I ask an officer. It’s strange, needing permission in my own house, a house I’ve lived in for thirty years.

  “Yes, ma’am,” another officer says.

  I go to my room, pack an overnight bag with toiletries and some clothes. Before I go, I make my bed, for some semblance of normalcy, I suppose.

  Gary and I leave out the back door. He wraps his arm around me tightly, practically carries me pressed up against his side, as we make our way to the front yard. When the reporters realize it’s me, they swarm. Gary quickens his pace, our bodies like Ping-Pong balls, bouncing against other bodies, voices shouting at us:

  “Ms. Ketcher, did Jed have a history of violence?”

  “Were there any signs?”

  “Do you have a message for the victims?”

  “What do you think motivated this?”

  Gary puts his hand on the back of my head, encouraging me to keep looking at the ground. Part of me wants to meet the eyes of these people, tell them that my son was not a monster. Gary must know it’s best if I am silent. If they see my red eyes, if they hear my frantic responses, they will write me off as crazed. The unstable son will have the unstable mother, and their stories will be written for them. That’s what they want.

  Gary shoves me into the passenger’s seat of his Jeep. It’s only then that I look up. The reporters are at the windows, with microphones, their cameramen not far behind them. There are flashes. My photo will be online within twenty minutes. I cower in the seat, hide as best I can. Then Gary puts the key in the ignition, and we speed away.

  LEIGH MAGUIRE

  VICTIM #1

  JASON AND I PROMISED ourselves—and our marriage—that we’d complete five therapy sessions. After all, we made those vows in front of all our loved ones seven years ago. I hate that it’s been seven years. If we split up, people will chalk it up to the “seven-year itch.” Maybe we should commit to making it to year eight, just so our failure can’t be blamed on some notorious itch.

  “So today’s your last session,” the therapist says.

  It was my idea to do therapy. It must always be the woman’s idea. I can’t imagine a man saying, “We should see a therapist.” Maybe there are
evolved men out there who say such things, men who are in touch with their emotions, men who cry. They probably live in California. Anyway, I wouldn’t be attracted to that type of man. I’m attracted to strong, stoic types—for better or worse. It’s the last year or two that have revealed the “worse” part.

  “Last one,” Jason says.

  We sit on a couch, and the therapist sits in a chair across from us. It’s the exact scene you picture when you think about a therapy appointment. Jason and I are about a foot apart. I wonder if other couples touch, if they hold hands. We’ve never been that type of couple.

  “How are you guys feeling?” Tracy asks.

  She’s asked us to call her Tracy, which I guess makes sense. She’s not a doctor. She doesn’t have a PhD or whatever the degree is that the fancy psychologists get. She’s a marriage and family therapist, an MFT. These credentials make her somewhat affordable.

  “Better,” Jason says. “I think this has been helpful.”

  Jason is a good liar. He has hated every moment of therapy. He just wants to be a compliant patient in her mind.

  “Leigh?” Tracy asks. “How about you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. The good thing about therapy is that it allows me to be honest, without having to fear being misunderstood by Jason. We have a neutral party in Tracy. She is our interpreter, our referee.

  “I guess I don’t feel any kind of real resolution,” I say.

  If I said this at home, without Tracy, Jason would throw his hands up in the air and say, “Nothing makes you happy.” Here, he just has to sit. He can’t fly off his usual handle. He’s always cared what people think of him, which is a benefit in this situation.

  “Tell me more about that,” Tracy says.

  Tracy says this at least five times in every session.

  “I guess I was hoping to know at the end of this if we’re meant to stay together.”

  I can feel Jason’s eyes on me. He thinks we should stay together. He’s always thought that. He doesn’t understand my discontent. Tracy has tried to tell him that our strife is more about my needs not being met; his needs are mostly met, though he did express desire for more “physical contact.” We are such stereotypes—me wanting more emotional connection, him wanting sex.

  “And you don’t know that?” Tracy asks.

  “I still don’t know if we’re … compatible,” I say.

  Our issues started after I had Molly, our daughter. I decided to become a stay-at-home mom, mostly because my teaching job paid barely enough to put Molly in day care. It just didn’t make sense. I got depressed as a stay-at-home mom. It’s still something I’m ashamed to admit. I know I’m supposed to “cherish every moment” and all that, but it’s difficult. I love Molly. I just miss time to myself. I miss teaching. I miss being someone besides Molly’s mom. Jason says it will be better when she’s older, when she starts school (she’s three now). He works fifty-hour weeks at Micron; he doesn’t know what it’s like to be a full-time parent. He has no patience for my moods, says I’m being dramatic when I claim I’m depressed. He doesn’t believe in medication. When he told me he wanted another child, I insisted on therapy. I mean, if he thinks we are in any position to have another child, he must not understand me at all.

  “Can you say more about that?” Tracy prods.

  “I just don’t think Jason gets me. He doesn’t really care about my happiness. He just wants our life to run smoothly.”

  Jason scoffs.

  “That’s not true at all,” he says.

  “Sometimes, I guess I wonder if I’d be happier being divorced.”

  There it is—my fantasy exposed, finally, during session number five.

  I know Tracy will ask what I mean, so I get right to it.

  “We’d each have our own place. We wouldn’t have to deal with the daily bickering. Jason wouldn’t have to hear me ‘whine,’ as he puts it. If I was just officially a single parent, I wouldn’t resent him for all the stuff I do for Molly. I wouldn’t resent all the hours he works. I wouldn’t expect anything because he wouldn’t be there, you know? We could share custody of Molly. We’d each get our days off that way. It just seems … nice.”

  Tracy nods. She does a stellar job of hiding any of her personal feelings about my admissions.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jason says.

  I put my hand out like it’s holding an invisible platter, the gesture saying, See, this is what I’m talking about.

  “If it’s the way I feel, it’s inherently not ridiculous,” I say. “That’s how you should feel toward your wife. You should respect her feelings, be curious about them, ask questions. You just dismiss me. All the time.”

  Tracy puts her hand up like she’s a crossing guard and we are approaching a busy intersection.

  “Okay, let’s dive deeper,” she says.

  This is something else she always says.

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, we leave her office and walk to the car. It’s awkward walking beside each other after what’s just transpired.

  “I can’t believe this is what you really want,” he says.

  By the end of the session, we’d settled on considering a trial separation—not doing it, considering it. I have to admit, when we verbalized this possibility, I had butterflies—the good kind, the kind you get while waiting in line to ride a roller coaster at an amusement park.

  “Just give me the space to think about it, okay?” I say.

  I’m fairly certain it’s what I want to do, but I don’t want to come out and say that now. He’ll write me off as impulsive, irrational. He’ll take me more seriously if I claim to be “thinking about it” over the course of a week or two.

  “So I get no say in the decision?”

  He unlocks the car. I get in the passenger’s seat; he gets behind the wheel.

  “Of course you do, if you’re willing to talk about it. Clearly, if I’m fantasizing about our marriage ending, I’ve been unhappy for a long time. Do you want to talk about that or just continue telling me I’m crazy?”

  He turns the key in the ignition, and the car comes to life. He doesn’t say anything as we exit the parking garage. He doesn’t know what to say, I’m sure. He doesn’t really want to understand my unhappiness, but he knows he can’t admit that. He knows the right answer is to say, “Yes, talk to me.”

  We are starting down Main Street when he says, “Let’s go get a beer. Can we do that?”

  Jason always has an easier time talking after a beer or two. I can’t criticize his need for it; at least he’s trying.

  It’s just past nine o’clock. We chose to do 8:00 p.m. therapy appointments so we could put Molly to bed and the sitter just has to, well, sit. Hannah’s a high school senior who lives next door. I don’t trust her to do much more than sit.

  “I’ll text Hannah.”

  Two seconds later, Hannah responds, says she doesn’t mind staying at all.

  “Okay,” I tell Jason. “Let’s go get a beer.”

  A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of Ray’s.

  ANGIE

  ARIA AND I SIT at the kitchen table, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. Evie is in her high chair, eating one pea at a time until she declares “all done” and starts playing peekaboo with us. She is endlessly entertained by this game, by her ability to make the world disappear and then suddenly reappear. It’s a relief to play with her, to act as if nothing is wrong, to force a smile. I can see how it will become exhausting—pretending to be something you’re not always is—but for now, it’s a relief.

  “Have you told Mom and Dad?” Aria asks.

  I shake my head. Our parents retired to Maui five years ago, something they had always talked about doing and something Aria and I never thought they’d actually do. Our dad was a bigwig at Micron, a technology company that was founded in Boise. When he retired at sixty, he had more than enough money for them to live on for decades to come. We do Skype calls, occasionally. They’ve never even met Cale in person
.

  “I’m not up to that yet,” I say.

  Aria nods because she understands. Our parents raised us to be self-sufficient, for better or worse. When Evie was born, I expected they—or at least my mom—would fly in to meet her. After all, social media has made me privy to all the acquaintances I have whose moms basically move in with them for a month following the birth of their children. My mom isn’t that kind of mom though. She took care of us, but she didn’t weep when her nest became empty—she moved to Maui. They have plans to come visit in fall; they say they never want to experience another Boise winter or summer. If the fall visit happens, it will be their first time holding their granddaughter.

  “I can stay the night if you want,” Aria says.

  It’s just after six o’clock. Aria put a frozen pizza in the oven for us, but I couldn’t manage a bite.

  “No, that’s okay,” I say. “Sahana is coming over.”

  Sahana, my best friend since freshman year of high school.

  “You need anything before I go?” Aria asks.

  I shake my head. “Thank you for being here,” I say.

  It’s usually me coming to Aria’s rescue—she is the younger sister, after all. It’s always bothered Cale how I go out of my way for her. Once, after I canceled dinner plans with him to be by her side during a breakup, he said, “You will do absolutely anything for her.” His tone implied this was a bad thing. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, probably. So?” He said, “I just don’t think she would do the same for you.” She would, though. I wish he were here so he could see for himself.

  “Okay if I come back in the morning?”

  She grabs her purse and keys from the kitchen island.

  “That would be great,” I say.

  I lift Evie from her high chair and put her on the floor. She runs to Aria and wraps her chubby arms around Aria’s legs.

  “Bye-bye, Aya,” she says.

  Just as Aria leaves, Sahana pulls into the driveway, as if they have coordinated, agreeing that I should not be alone for even thirty seconds. Evie shrieks at the sight of Sahana’s car. It’s a red Subaru, easily identifiable for a toddler.