I've Got My Eyes on You(9)

The waitress came over with his steaming pizza and Alan asked for a Coke. As he devoured the slices and sipped his drink, it was obvious he was calming down and sobering up. The other three sensed that the exchange of texts had toned down the argument. They started following the Yankee game more closely when each team hit three-run home runs in the twelfth inning.

After fifteen minutes Alan pushed back his chair. “Kerry said everybody had to be out by eleven o’clock. It’s twenty past. I’m going to swing by her house and straighten things out.”

“Fine,” Bobby said.

“Good luck,” Stan added.

“Are you sure you’re okay driving?” Rich asked. “Why don’t you stay and watch the game?”

“I’m fine,” Alan said in a voice that made it clear the conversation was over.

A minute later the waitress came over with Alan’s check. Not seeing him, she asked, “Is one of you taking care of this?”

“Give it to me,” Rich said. “I’ll collect from him tomorrow. Assuming he remembers he came here tonight.”

Twenty minutes later the Yankees scored the winning run and they decided it was time to call it quits. They piled into Stan’s car and he dropped them off at their homes.





10




It was much too early to pick up Jamie at his job. Instead Marge slipped into a pew at St. Gabriel’s church and began to pray. At two-thirty she drove to the Acme parking lot and managed to find a spot where she could see him the minute he left the store.

She spent that half hour in continued prayer. “Dear merciful Blessed Mother, please help the Dowlings find a way to cope with their tragedy. And please, don’t let it be that Jamie had something to do with it. Jack, if only you were here to help us. He needs you.” It was a prayer she had made to her husband over the five years since he had his fatal heart attack.

“Dear God, You know he would never hurt anyone. But if he thought he was just playing, and he’s so strong—please—”

An image of Jamie holding Kerry underwater haunted Marge’s mind. Suppose Jamie saw her in the pool and started to go down the steps. Maybe when she was swimming near him, he reached down to grab her. They used to play a game—who could stay underwater longer? Suppose he held her under until she was—?

Marge’s agonized thinking was broken only by the sight of Jamie coming out of the store holding two heavy grocery bags in each hand. She watched as he followed an older woman to her car. Jamie waited while she used her key to pop open the trunk. He hoisted up the bulging plastic bags and placed them gently into her trunk. He is so strong, Marge thought with a shudder.

Jamie closed the trunk and started across the parking lot. He walked over to a waiting limo and shook hands with his coworker Tony Carter, who was opening the door and stepping into the backseat. Marge heard Jamie yell “Have fun!” as the SUV pulled away.

A delighted smile came over his face when he saw her. Waving the way he always did, with his palm pushed forward and his fingers back, he walked over to the car, opened the door and got in beside her.

“Mom, you came to pick me up,” he announced, his voice triumphant.

Marge leaned over and kissed her son as she smoothed back the sandy hair on his forehead.

But Jamie’s happy smile quickly evaporated, and his voice became very serious. “Mom, are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you, Jamie?”

For a long moment a troubled look came over his face. That moment gave Marge time to look at him and, as always, realize what a handsome young man he was.

Jamie has Jack’s blue eyes and even features, his six-foot height and perfect posture. The only difference was that Jamie had been deprived of oxygen during a difficult birth, and it had damaged his brain.

She could see that he was trying to remember why she might have been upset with him.

“My sneakers and socks and jeans got wet,” he said haltingly. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

“How did they get wet, Jamie?” Marge asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact as she waited before turning the key to start the car.

Jamie’s eyes were pleading. “Don’t be mad at me, Mom.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Marge said quickly, “I’m not mad at you. But I just need for you to tell me what happened when you went over to Kerry’s pool.”

“Kerry was swimming,” Jamie said while looking down.

She was fully dressed, Marge thought. I saw her when Steve carried her out of the pool.

“Did you see her swimming in her pool?”

“Yes, she went swimming,” he said, not making eye contact with his mother.

She may have been still alive when he saw her, Marge thought to herself. “Jamie, did you ask Kerry if you could go swimming with her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did she say to you?”

Jamie looked straight ahead, trying to reconstruct in his mind a picture of the previous evening. “She said, ‘Jamie, you can always go swimming with me.’ I said, ‘Thank you, Kerry. You’re very nice.’?”

Marge sighed inwardly. Time was always a hazy concept for Jamie. A memory of a place they visited a week ago would intertwine with his recollections of visiting that same place years earlier. Did this conversation with Kerry take place last night or on one of the many previous times she had invited him to swim with her?