Play Dirty

CHAPTER 35

EVEN WHEN HE SAW THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, SAW THE streaks of it on the legs of her tracksuit, Griff didn’t comprehend what was happening until he looked into her eyes and saw the anguish in them. “Oh, Jesus.”

In a keening voice she said, “My baby.”

He reached for her, but she backed away. “Laura, I gotta get you to a hospital.”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s lost.”

“No, no, we’ll stop it. We can. We will.”

She looked around frantically. “Where’s the bathroom?”

He got to the door ahead of her and reached inside to switch on the light. She slipped around him and closed the door behind her.

“Laura?”

“Don’t come in.”

He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.

He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.

The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.

“Is it hopeless?”

She nodded.

He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “Does it hurt?”

“A little. Like really bad cramps.”

“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.

“I need something to put on.”

He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”

“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”

Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.

“I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.

He yanked a robe off a hanger, then began rifling bureau drawers until he found her underwear. Not the skimpier, lacier kind he’d seen Laura in, but what he came up with would do.

Pads. Wouldn’t Ellie be past menopause? Hell if he knew. He searched their bathroom but didn’t find any personal products in any of the cabinets. The guest bath? Ellie had nieces who came to visit occasionally. Maybe…

In the guest bath closet he found extra toilet tissue, toothpaste and soap, disposable razors, even cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes. Pads and tampons. Thank God for Ellie. He grabbed the box of pads.

Laura was sitting on the lid of the toilet, hugging her waistline, staring into near space, rocking back and forth. He set the items on the counter, then crouched in front of her. She was still wrapped in the towel. He saw the goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

“You didn’t. It’s all right.”

“You’re cold.” He placed the thick robe around her shoulders. “Put your arms in.” He guided her arms into the sleeves, then pulled the robe together over her chest, towel and all.

“Thank you.”

“What else can I do?”

“Nothing.”

He remained squatted down in front of her, staring into her face. “Are you sure…Maybe…” She shook her head, cutting him off, severing his hope.

Fresh tears spilled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. “There was a lot. Too much for it to be a false alarm.”

“You should go to the hospital. Call your doctor at least.”

“In a day or so, I’ll go to the doctor. I know they have to make sure that it all came out.” She swallowed hard, he thought probably to hold back sobs. “I’ll be okay. I have to get through this part. It’s not pleasant, but…” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “This happens all the time. One out of every ten pregnancies. Something like that.”

But it doesn’t happen to you. And not to me. This was a sorrow they shared. He touched her cheek, but she yanked her head back and stood up. “I need privacy now.”

“Can’t I-”

“No. There’s nothing you can do. Just…” She motioned for him to leave.

Her rejection made him feel like he had fangs and claws. His merest touch was a violation to her tender, feminine flesh. His size and sex suddenly felt incriminatory. He didn’t know why that was, but he felt burly and awkward and blameworthy as he stood up and backed into the open doorway. He went out and pulled the door closed behind himself.

When she came out, Griff was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers making tunnels through his hair.

Hearing her, he looked up, his expression bleak. She felt self-conscious, wrapped from chin to ankles in the pink terry-cloth robe that belonged to a woman she’d never met. He’d found underwear for her. Sanitary pads. Even with her husband, she’d never shared moments as personal as the last few she’d shared with Griff Burkett.

He said, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Your fault?”

He came to his feet. “In the hotel, I was rough with you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was. I manhandled you. Then I forced you to run, made you crawl through a wall on your belly, dragged you-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Griff.”

“Like hell! It wouldn’t have happened if I’d left you alone. You’d still have your baby if you were safe inside your hotel room, not on this damn fool’s mission of mine.”

“Listen,” she said softly, hoping to calm him. “I’ve been feeling twinges for several days. I was spotting on the morning of Foster’s funeral. That’s normal during early pregnancy. I thought it was caused by stress, the shock of his death. I ignored it. But the cramps and spotting were signals. It would have happened no matter what, Griff.” She could tell by his expression that she hadn’t persuaded him.

“Are you still bleeding?”

“Some. I think I’ve already expelled the…” Unable to bring herself to say it, she ended with “I think the worst of it is over.”

“So, you’re going to be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m sorry I caused you this delay.”

“Delay?”

“Manuelo.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Do you know how to get to Itasca?”

He looked at her like he didn’t understand the question, then said, “South on 35 out of Fort Worth. I’ll find it.”

“How long will it take you?”

“I don’t know. Hour and a half maybe.”

“And if you do find Manuelo, how are you going to convince him to come back with you? He doesn’t even speak English.”

“I’ll make myself understood.”

“He’ll be scared. When he sees you, God knows what he’ll do.”

“I can take care of myself. Can you?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Can I get you anything before I go?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

He turned his head away. “Yeah, okay.” He was speaking in a clipped voice, lightly slapping his palms against the outsides of his thighs, anxious to be away. “I would stay, except-”

“No, you must go. Actually, I’d prefer to be alone right now.”

“Sure. Understandable.” He plowed his fingers through his hair and walked in a tight circle, then whipped the bedspread back. “Lie down. Sleep.”

“I will. Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

He turned abruptly and left the room, pulling the door closed, not loudly but soundly. She heard the door connecting the hallway to the living room being opened, then shut.

Knowing she was finally alone, she sagged under the weight of her heartache. She lay down on the bed, turned onto her side, and drew herself into a tight ball. Then, burying her face in the pillow, she opened the floodgate that had been tenuously holding back her emotions.

Her sobs were so intense, they shook her whole body. So when the mattress dipped, she didn’t trust herself to believe that he had come back. She didn’t let herself accept it until she felt his hand stroking her shoulder and heard his whispered “Shh, shh.”

He’d made it as far as the back door. He’d even taken hold of the doorknob. His future, possibly his life, depended on finding Manuelo Ruiz before Rodarte did. It was in his best interest to leave now, drive as fast as he could to that dot on the map, and rout out the only individual in the world who could save him from being convicted of murdering Foster Speakman.

Besides that, Laura had rejected his help. She’d practically pushed him out the door. No mystery there. It was his fault that she’d lost the baby. Earlier tonight, when she told him it was for real, that she was pregnant, he’d thought: Finally. For the first time in his life, he’d done something right and good.

He should have known that it wouldn’t last, that he would somehow mess it up. Anyway, it was over. The baby was lost, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

Go! Go! Turn the freaking doorknob.

He was moving back through the living room before he fully realized he’d made an about-face. He heard her sobs when he opened the door into the hallway. The sight of her huddled inside the pink robe, weeping into the pillow, made his heart feel like something had pinched it, hard.

He lay down behind her and touched her shoulder. “Shh, shh.”

“You need to go,” she moaned.

“No, I need to be here with you. I want to be.” Placing his arm across her waist, he scooped her back against him.

“You can’t let Rodarte-”

“I can’t leave you. I won’t.” He pressed his face into the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry, Laura. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Please stop saying that, Griff. Stop thinking it. This wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was nature’s way of saying something wasn’t right. I was only seven weeks pregnant. It wasn’t even a baby yet.”

“It was to me.”

She raised her head. Her swimming eyes found his. Then with a long, mournful sound, she turned toward him and pressed her face against his chest. His arms went around her, drawing her to him, holding her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. He sank his fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp.

She wept and he let her. It was a female thing, a maternal thing. The tears were essential, cleansing, as necessary for healing as the bleeding. He didn’t know how in hell he knew that. He just did. Maybe in times of crisis, you were graced with superior insight like that.

When her crying finally subsided, she tilted her head back against his biceps. “Thank you for coming back.”

“I couldn’t leave.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“You pushed me away.”

“To keep myself from begging you to stay.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

He looked deeply into her eyes. “They’re pretty.”

“What?”

“Your eyes. When you cry, your eyelashes stick together in dark spikes. They’re pretty.”

She gave a soft laugh and sniffed. “Yes, I’m sure I look radiant right now. But I appreciate the sweet talk anyway.”

“It’s not sweet talk. I don’t make sweet talk.”

She hesitated a moment, then tucked her face back into his neck. “You’ve never had to. Have you?”

“I never wanted to.”

“With Marcia?”

“She was paid to sweet-talk me.”

“And with me, it certainly wasn’t necessary. With or without it, you were being paid.”

He placed his finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Do you think that on that last day I was thinking about the money? Or making a baby? No. I broke every speed limit to get there for only one reason, to see you. That afternoon had nothing to do with anything except you and me. You know that, Laura. I know you do.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Well, good.” They smiled gently at each other.

She was the first to speak. “You’re not rotten.”

He laughed. “We’re back to that?”

“Did you ever look for your parents? What happened to them after they abandoned you? Do you know?” He didn’t say anything for such a long time that she said, “Forgive the questions. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just ugly.”

But she continued to look into his eyes, hers inquiring.

He supposed she was entitled to know just how ugly it was. “My old man died of alcoholism before he was fifty. I tracked my mother to Omaha. Right before I checked in to Big Spring to start serving my sentence, I worked up enough nerve to call her. She answered. I heard her voice for the first time in, hmm, fifteen years.

“She said hello again. Impatiently, like you do when you answer the phone and the caller doesn’t say anything but you can hear them breathing. I said, ‘Hey, Mom. It’s Griff.’ Soon as I said that, she hung up.” Although he’d tried to form a callus around it, the pain of that rejection was still sharp.

“It’s funny. When I was playing ball, I used to wonder if she knew I’d become famous. Had she caught me on TV, seen my picture on a product or in a magazine? I wondered if she watched the games and told her friends, ‘That’s my son. That Pro Bowl quarterback is my kid.’ After that call, I didn’t have to wonder anymore.”

“Your call caught her off guard. Maybe she just needed some time to-”

“I thought the same thing. Glutton for punishment, I guess. So I hung on to that phone number. For five years. I called it a few weeks ago. This guy answered, and when I asked for her, he told me she’d died two years ago. She had a lot of pulmonary problems, he said. Died slow. Even knowing she was going to die, she made no attempt to contact me. Truth is, she simply never gave a shit about me. Not ever.”

“I’m sorry, Griff.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I know how bad it hurts. My mother abandoned me, too.” She told him about her father. “He was a real-life hero, like a character in the movies. His death shattered Mom and me, but eventually I recovered. She didn’t. Her depression became debilitating, to the point where she wouldn’t even get out of bed. Nothing I said or did made her better. She didn’t want to get better. One day she put herself out of her misery. She’d used one of Daddy’s pistols and left herself for me to find.”

“Jesus.” He pulled her close and kissed her hair.

“For the longest time, I felt that I had failed her. But now I realize that she failed me. Even though this baby was infinitesimal, only weeks from conception, I felt fiercely protective of it, Griff. I wanted to guard it from being hurt, emotionally as well as physically. How could a parent, any parent, relinquish the parental instinct to nourish and protect her child?”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t have an answer. He’d been asking that about his mother for as far back as he could remember. “I should have been up-front with you about my background. But I was afraid that if I was, you’d think I was the bad seed and choose someone else as a surrogate.”

“I admit I didn’t think too highly of you at first.”

“Tell me,” he said, a smile behind his voice.

“My opinion of you changed when you brought the lubricant.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you again.”

“Hmm, and got very upset when you discovered I hadn’t used it.”

“Yeah, but what really made me mad was that you thought I wouldn’t mind hurting you.”

“So you said. Your angry reaction changed my opinion of you. You cared much more than you wanted to show. I saw that you weren’t nearly as rotten as people think. As you think.”

“Don’t go pinning any medals on me, Laura. You were still another man’s wife, but I started looking forward to being with you. I wouldn’t admit it, even to myself. But I did. It was his idea, and every time you met me, it was because he insisted on it. But after that day you had the orgasm, I stopped kidding myself.”

“So did I,” she confessed softly. “I knew it would be dangerous to be alone with you again. That’s why I told Foster I wouldn’t go back. But I did. And, despite everything that’s happened, I can’t honestly say I’m sorry I did.”

He came close to saying something then, making some kind of profession, the likes of which he’d never thought he would make to another human being. But the timing was off. Way off.

Instead, he took her hand and laid it against his chest, pressing it close to his heart. She wouldn’t know, couldn’t know-for him, who never invited a touch-how significant that small gesture was. But he knew.

She said, “I always wondered…”

“What?”

Looking chagrined, she shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“What you used.”

“Used?”

“To…you know. While I was in the bedroom, waiting. I always wondered what you did, what you used to get aroused.”

“Oh,” he said around a soft laugh. “I used you.”

“Me?”

“The first time we met there, you had on a soft pink top under your ball-breaker’s suit.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You were wearing the kind of business suit that said you wanted to be taken seriously. Seen as an equal in the workplace, not as a woman. But it didn’t work, because to me you still looked like somebody I wanted to have sex with. Especially that top. It was about the color of this robe.”

“I know the one.”

“So to get it up, I thought about your breasts under the top, all soft and warm. Thought about sliding my hands up under your top and touching them. And that did it.”

“Just that?”

“Well, there may have been some flashes of tongue against nipple,” he added, grinning unrepentantly. “And the times after that, I thought about you, lying in there, prim on the top, nothing on the bottom, waiting for me. Worked every time. Of course, that last day was different.”

“Yes.”

He touched her lips with the backs of his fingers. “The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was let you leave and go back to him.”

“I think he knew something had happened that afternoon. Something shattering for me. When I got home that evening, he acted strangely. I was undone, and he knew it. He was almost taunting me.”

Easing him away from her, she turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve come to realize that all this-you, the baby, all of it-was Foster’s way of punishing me for being at the wheel when he was injured.”

“How could he blame you? It was an accident.”

“That’s just it, Griff. He didn’t believe in accidents. You have to understand his OCD. Everything had to be done in sequence and in a particular way. No deviation whatsoever. He believed that any change in the order of things resulted in calamity.

“He wanted to drive home that night because he’d driven us there. But I said no because he’d had more to drink than I had. I interrupted the sequence, and what happened was a consequence of that. He never blamed me out loud. But I think now that he did inside. He must have harbored a deep resentment that became corrosive.”

Griff was glad she was talking this through. She needed to, more for herself than for him.

“I could have conceived a child by going the clinical route, using a donor. Foster used his OCD as an excuse not to. But that wasn’t the reason. I see that now. I loved him purely and exclusively, and he knew that. Our marriage was sacred and precious to me. I valued it above everything. So he devised a way to weaken it, if not destroy it altogether.”

“Like his legs.”

“Like his legs. Morally, he knew how I felt about his plan. I told him time and again I thought it was wrong, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He played upon my being an overachiever, never backing away from a challenge or task. I can see now how deftly he manipulated me. He appealed to what he knew would get me to agree.”

“Then he put you in bed with me, a pariah, a man you couldn’t admire and wouldn’t like.”

“No,” she said with a sad smile. “There you’re wrong. He chose you because you were handsome and strong, unquestionably masculine. You’d been abstinent for five years. I’d been for two. How could each of us not become attracted to the individual who was giving us what we’d been missing? He wanted us to be attracted. Especially me. So that, in my heart, I would be committing adultery, violating the marriage vows I’d held so dear.”

What she was saying made sense. Or it would have to the twisted mind of Foster Speakman. “Once the child was conceived and I was dead, you would feel the loss, along with the guilt.”

“I think that’s what he had in mind.”

“You believe me? Everything I told you about how he died? Without question?”

“It’s hard to think this way about my husband, but yes, Griff, I believe you. Your death was part of his plan. The perfect punishment. I would never be able to look at the child without thinking of you and remembering my sin. My infidelity would never have been acknowledged as such, but I would have spent the entirety of my life trying to make up for it.” After a long moment, she turned on her side again to face him. “We dragged you into a terrible mess. I apologize for that.”

“You didn’t drag me, I jumped in willingly, with far fewer scruples than you. I was after the easy money. Lots of it. Even Rodarte said that a hustler like me would-”

“Rodarte!” She sat bolt upright and gave him a shove. “You’ve got to go now.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You have to, Griff. I’m fine. But I won’t be if you stay with me instead of finding Manuelo. You must go. You know I’m right.”

He did know that. Regretfully, he got off the bed, then bent down to stroke her hair. “You’re sure you’ll be okay with…everything.” He motioned toward her middle.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stay in bed. Try to sleep.” He kissed her lips lightly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Before he could talk himself out of going, he turned.

Coach and Ellie were standing in the open doorway. In his loudest sideline voice, Coach bellowed, “What the hell are you doing in my house?”