Not Guilty Page 4

  Abby buried her face in her mother’s neck and whimpered.

  “Mrs. Weaver,” said the graying officer, “I’m Sergeant Henderson.” He did not seem to realize that Keely did not care who he was.

  Clutching Abby, Keely pushed past him, feeling as if she were moving in a soundless, weightless atmosphere, like a dream landscape. An old dream. An old nightmare. Through the open door of the gate, she could see them. Beside the pool, a knot of people seemed to be working, concentrating. No one was moving with any particular haste or urgency. But the tension in the air was palpable. As Keely approached, she could see that someone was lying on the concrete apron of the pool. Someone fully dressed, with shoes on. She recognized the pants, the pin-striped shirt. She stopped and stared.

  “Mark?” she whispered. There was no response from him. “Mark!” she cried, as if urging him to stand up.

  She tried to get near him, but others materialized and held her back. The sergeant came up to her again. “Mrs. Weaver, I have to detain you for a minute. The medical examiner is with him right now.”

  “Is that a doctor?” Keely asked. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We found him in the pool.”

  “The pool?” Keely whispered. “No, no, that can’t be right. My husband can’t swim.”

  “No,” said Sergeant Henderson, as if he already knew it. His gaze was steady, pitying.

  She felt a furious impatience with all of them. “Why is everyone standing around while my husband is lying there? Get him to the hospital. Hurry.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help, ma’am.”

  “Well, that’s impossible,” Keely insisted. “He wouldn’t go in the pool. He was afraid of the water. . . . He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said it, something was penetrating the fog in her brain. Abby, in her arms, was wet. Completely sopping wet.

  Keely looked at Abby as if she were seeing her for the first time. “Why is my baby so wet?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it was already too late when we got here, Mrs. Weaver.”

  “Too late?” she whispered. The police officer seemed to realize that she was not taking it all in.

  “The medical examiner is examining the body right now, Mrs. Weaver. To certify the cause of death. Not much question, of course. We found him floating in the pool. The baby was beside the pool, soaked like that.”

  Keely shook her head. “No . . . no . . .” She had to reject what they were saying. If she rejected it, maybe it wouldn’t become real. She had to prove that they were wrong. That this was all going to stop happening, any minute now. “All these people just standing around . . . you should have him in the ambulance. You should be taking him to the hospital,” she said faintly.

  The paramedic with the stethoscope said, “He’s beyond our help, ma’am. Believe me, if there were any chance . . . even the slightest chance . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sergeant Henderson, taking a pad and pen out of his shirt pocket. “I know this is a terrible shock.”

  Keely was shaking her head, pushing the man’s words away.

  “I’m sorry, but we need to know. . . . When did you last see your husband?”

  “What?” She looked up at him in confusion. “What time is it?”

  The officer looked at his watch. “It’s about nine o’clock.”

  “Supper. After supper . . .”

  “You went out,” he prodded.

  Keely felt dazed. “They were fine. Everything was fine.”

  “Was your husband alone here with the baby?”

  She saw them in her mind’s eye, Mark and Abby in the driveway, waving. “Yes,” she said. “He was holding her.”

  The officer held the pen poised over the pad of paper. “And you say that your husband couldn’t swim. Are you in the habit of locking the gate to the pool?”

  “Yes,” said Keely. “Yes. Of course. Always.”

  “And your husband never went into the water.”

  “No. Never. Except . . .” Keely could feel the cold water leaching through her clothes, running down the front of her shirt. The only part of Keely that was not freezing was her neck, where the baby’s tears seemed to sizzle on her skin. She could smell chlorine in the wisps of Abby’s hair. “Abby.” She looked up at the detective. “Abby is . . . I smell chlorine.”

  A short man in a tie and a dark jacket who had been crouched in the knot of people by the pool stood up and came over to where they stood. He was wearing a dark blue all-weather coat and he carried a medical bag. He nodded to Sergeant Henderson.

  The sergeant acknowledged his nod and said, “Dr. Christensen, this is Mrs. Weaver. Mrs. Weaver, this is the county medical examiner.”

  Dr. Christensen nodded grimly at Keely. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Weaver. It’s pretty clear. He drowned. No injuries of any kind, otherwise. He’s been dead about half an hour.”

  “Mrs. Weaver tells me that Mr. Weaver couldn’t swim.”

  Dr. Christensen looked back at the body lying by the pool. “He may have jumped in after the baby.”

  Sergeant Henderson nodded, as if these words confirmed his suspicions. “That’s what I thought. I’m guessing it was instinctive, Mrs. Weaver. He didn’t think. He didn’t have time to think. His daughter was in trouble . . . he had to do something. So he jumped in. Somehow he managed to shove her out of there.”

  “No, that’s not possible.”

  The EMT held out her arms for Abby. “Ma’am, we should get that child’s wet clothes off,” she said. “And you should sit down. Give me the baby.” The young woman tried to reach for Abby, but the baby shrieked and would not release her mother’s neck. Keely held her baby close and took another step toward her husband. An EMT there, seeing her approach, stepped away, and Keely saw Mark’s face.

  Instinctively, Keely threw up a hand over Abby’s eyes, to shield her from the sight.

  Everything inside of her was refusing to believe. No, no, it couldn’t be. This was all a mistake. But she had seen the face of death before. Her husband Richard. And now that she had seen Mark’s face, she knew. Evelyn Connelly approached Keely and laid a hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry, dear. I don’t know how long the baby was screaming before I realized. . . . She never cries like that. I thought something must be wrong. That’s why I came over. And then I saw him floating in there. So I called 911. I’m afraid he was already gone when I found him . . .”

  Keely was shaking her head, but her heart was already beginning to feel trapped. She would not be able to escape from it. She began to tremble. The paramedic returned again, this time with a towel, which she wrapped around Abby. Drawn to the warmth and dryness of the towel, Abby allowed herself to be peeled from her mother’s arms. Keely stumbled toward Mark on legs so numb she could not even feel them. She fell to her knees beside him and studied his features. She ran her fingers over the curve of his cheekbone as if she were blind. She put her face against his chest. The pin-striped shirt was sopping wet. There was no thrum of a heartbeat in her ear. She raised her head and stared at him, not believing it. “What did you do?” she pleaded of him. “You know you can’t swim.” But she knew there was no point in asking him.And she knew, also, the answer to her question. “You couldn’t let Abby drown, could you?” Tears began to spill from her eyes. “You wouldn’t do that. Not our baby.”

  Sergeant Henderson rested a hand on her shoulder. “He gave up his life to save the baby, Mrs. Weaver. Not many people would have the courage. You should be very proud of him.”

  She could still see them, Mark and Abby, together in the driveway, waving to her. Her body began to shake with sobs.

  “Mom?”

  She raised her face, brushing away tears, and turned to see her son standing by the edge of the pool. He held something dark against his chest like a shield. His eyes were wide and terrified.

  “Mom . . . what happened?”

  “Dylan,” she whispered. She reached out her hand and he edged toward
her, gazing against his will at the body.

  She clutched his hand, pulling him closer. “Dylan, Abby fell in the pool. Mark tried to save her. He drowned.”

  “Oh, no,” Dylan whispered. He fell to his knees beside her, still clutching the long, curved object against him. Keely reached for him, and they embraced, murmuring through tears and disbelief. A pair of ball bearings gouged Keely in the side. She released him and stared at the object between them. It was his skateboard tucked under his arm. Dylan seemed to have forgotten he was holding it. He appeared to be dazed by what he saw.

  “The gate must have been open,” Keely said. At first she didn’t know why she said that. It didn’t seem relative to anything. And then he looked up at her guiltily and she knew. She stared at the skateboard. He jumped to his feet and dropped it, as if it were on fire, and the skateboard clattered against the cement.

  Two men were guiding a rolling gurney through the gate. Sergeant Henderson came over to Keely, bent down, and tried to help her up. “Come on, Mrs. Weaver,” he said. “We’re going to have to move your husband. Let’s get you inside before they start.”

  As one of the attendants pushed it, the gurney rattled toward the pool, while another man began to unfold a large, black polystyrene bag.With Sergeant Henderson’s help, Keely staggered to her feet. Evelyn Connelly approached Dylan and started to guide him back inside the house.

  “Mom,” Dylan cried, breaking away from the older woman and reaching out for his mother, awkwardly trying to slip an arm around her. “I know you told me to come home and do my homework, but I just went out skating for a little while.”

  In her mind’s eye, she could still see that skateboard beside the pool when she’d looked out of the kitchen window after dinner. And she knew what had happened. Dylan had ridden his bike home and then, not wanting to go in and do his homework, he had retrieved the skateboard from where he’d left it, beside the pool. He had gone on his way, leaving the gate open behind him. So that Abby could toddle down there while Mark was busy looking over some brief for court tomorrow.

  Dylan had gone off, and Mark had been absorbed in his brief, thinking Abby was playing somewhere near him. Somewhere safe. And meanwhile, Abby had wandered. It was a chain of carelessness. Each little oversight not significant in itself. Linked together, they had the power to devastate. And where had she been when this chain of carelessness had been forged? When her life was about to be upended again? Sorting through silk ties. Reading the jacket copy on a bunch of books and CDs. Each little decision a link in the chain. The chain that was squeezing the breath out of her now. Making her feel almost faint with fury at her son, who stood before her, apologizing for going out, not even acknowledging his part in all of this. His oversight was the worst—the fatal one.

  “How many times did I tell you to lock that gate around the pool?” she said through clenched teeth. “How many times?”

  “What do you mean?” he said. “I didn’t—”

  “Your skateboard was out by the pool. Don’t deny it. I saw it there after dinner.”

  Dylan was white with horror. “I know. But . . . I locked the gate, Mom. I did.”

  Don’t lie to me!she wanted to shout.You didn’t think aboutanyone else! Mark, the baby. You were mad about the bike, and mad at the world. So you went on your way and left that gate swinging open. You set this disaster in motion. Your sister nearly drowned. And Mark . . .She wanted to scream at Dylan. She could feel it rising in her throat.

  “I know I locked it,” Dylan cried.

  Keely turned away from him and dug her fingernails into her palms.Don’t do it,she told herself.Don’t rage against him. He’ll never get over it. He’ll never forget it.She could feel him beside her, staring at her helplessly. It would take every ounce of the love she had for him not to berate him. To be compassionate. To spare him. Desperately trying to stifle the words she could never take back, she looked wildly around her. The house, the pool. Their perfect little world. Hadn’t a little voice inside warned her not to agree to the house with a pool? Hadn’t she known better than to put that danger in their paths? Why hadn’t she followed her instincts? Wasn’t that the first act of carelessness, after all? Wasn’t she herself to blame?

  She turned back to face her son and saw his eyes, feverish with fear and anxiety.No point in blame,she thought bitterly. She remembered all the times she had blamed herself for Richard’s death, berated herself for failing him, and felt guilty. What good had it done? There was no use in it. It wouldn’t bring Mark back to her.

  She summoned all her will and her love for Dylan. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s not your fault,” she said. “It was an accident.” Then her tears welled up and spilled over again as she began to face the harsh reality of her life.

  “Mom, I didn’t—”

  She shook her head, needing to silence him. “Don’t. Please, let’s leave it at that. Let’s go in the house. We need to help each other now. And Abby. Please, Dylan. I need your help . . .”

  Sergeant Henderson came over and offered her an arm. The EMTs began the process of removing the body. He urged her to lean on him. She shook her head angrily and then stumbled as she started up the path to the house.

  “Dylan,” Keely called out faintly from the path. “Come inside.”When he did not respond, Keely turned to see her son, rooted to the apron of the pool, staring at the lifeless body of his stepfather. He did not flinch as the EMTs lifted the corpse and unzipped the body bag. “Dylan,” she cried. He remained staring, remote and dry-eyed, as if he were a bystander who had happened on the aftermath of a wreck.

  4

  The mourners at the funeral for Mark Weaver had filled every pew of Our Lady of the Angels Church, and now the crowd at the neighboring cemetery spilled out across a dozen graves. Keely sat on a metal folding chair, wearing dark glasses and the same black suit that she had bought in haste at an Ann Arbor dress shop the day after Richard had died. The weather had been much the same on the day of Richard’s funeral, too, she thought as she stared at the bier of her second husband. Cool and windy, with a brilliant blue sky. A perfect day to go for a brisk walk or apple picking. Behind her sunglasses, she closed her red, swollen eyelids and imagined it. A bright orchard, leaves that camouflaged green fruit, and baskets too full and heavy to lift. She and Mark and Dylan, laughing as they bent to their task, and Abby, toddling precariously among the broken apples on the ground . . . a scene that never had, never would, take place.

  “When he was but a child, Mark’s parents were taken from him suddenly,” intoned the elderly priest. “I remember the day they were laid to rest. He kept asking where they were, and when they were coming back. After that, Mark was alone in the world, and often despairing, despite the best efforts of many good people. He was smart, but he was also angry, and he lashed out at the world for a while. Then, with help, he took himself in hand and began to work hard, and he made a great success of his life. But he remained a lonely man. Until that day when he finally met Keely and found what he had been seeking all those years. His very own family to belong to . . .”

  Oh Mark,Keely thought.You were so sure we had all the time in the world. And you made me, who should have known better, believe it, too.She felt somehow that she was being punished for having tried to makea new life. She knew that people had gossiped when she remarried. It was as if she had been disloyal to Richard’s memory by starting over. Even though Richard’s mother, Ingrid, had given her blessing to the match, Keely realized that she had always felt guilty for finding happiness again. But she was young and she had needed love in her life.Isn’t that what God wants us to do? To love one another? How can that be wrong?

  She realized that her thoughts were wandering, and she forced herself-to pay attention to the words of the priest, who was trying to offer comfort and hope.

  “And so, we commit the mortal remains of our brother, Mark, to the ground. We remember that he gave up his life to save the life of his beloved daughter, and we say farewell, hoping and be
lieving that his heavenly Father will welcome him into his many mansions on high. Jesus said, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for another’ . . .”

  Keely’s tears dripped off of her chin. She was hardly conscious of them anymore. The last few days had been pain, waking and sleeping. She reminded herself of how much worse it would have been if Mark had failed to save their baby girl. Today, when she returned from this bleakest of ceremonies, Abby would be there, unaware of why or how her father had left her and wanting only to be held by her mother.You’ll never know him,Keely thought.But you’ll know how much he loved you, how precious your life was to him. You’ll have that for all your life. You’ll always know that the only reason he left you was to save you.

  At that thought, she could not help but think of her son. On her right, Dylan sat, just as he had at Richard’s funeral. He had wept inconsolably on the day his father was laid to rest. Today, he stared at the ground and avoided the gaze of anyone who tried to speak to him or express sorrow. Of course,hewas not wearing the same clothes he had worn to his father’s funeral. His size had nearly doubled in four years. Yesterday, Lucas Weaver had taken Dylan to his favorite men’s shop and purchased a blazer and pants, which he insisted on paying for. Keely studied the closed, scowling expression on her son’s face. His father had chosen to leave him, to escape the pain of living.His love for us was notenough to make him stay,she thought. All grief was the same in the first wave. But Richard’s death made for a much more bitter loss over time. She laid a hand gently on Dylan’s forearm through the fine fabric of his new blazer. Dylan did not acknowledge her gesture. It was as if he had not even felt it.

  A prayer began, and Keely murmured along, unable to take comfort in the familiar words.It’s almost over,she thought, and a panicky sensation seemed to take her own breath away. She wasn’t ready for it to be over. She wasn’t ready to return to the house and greet all these people who had come. Lots of people were here to offer comfort. Her two older brothers and their wives had come from the Midwest. She’d known that they would come, even though she wasn’t close to them. People Mark had known for most of his life and clients from his practice had arrived in force. Lucas Weaver, of course, and his wife, Betsy, were seated in the front row. Keely felt vaguely worried about the old couple. This past winter, they had lost their other son, Prentice. Prentice had led a sorry life, his youthful promise deteriorating into an endless cycle of benders and rehabs, with a record of minor scuffles with the law. He suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and was forbidden to drink. His life ended, at the age of forty-two, in a seedy bar, where he’d systematically drained a bottle of vodka and collapsed.