She took a tissue from her handbag and wiped her eyes, pausing then to blow her nose. She made a sound that was an audible sigh and he wondered if the worst of the storm had passed. She was shaking her head with a small sad smile. “Do you want to know what I came home to? You’ve probably forgotten this along with everything else. I found an empty vodka bottle and six empty beer cans tossed in the trash. There was whiskey all over the patio where you’d knocked over the Maker’s Mark. You must have fallen against the table because it was tipped up on its side and there was broken glass everywhere. It’s a wonder you didn’t cut your own throat.”
She paused and pressed the tissue against her mouth. She shook her head again, saying, “I don’t know you, Walker. I have no idea who you are or what you’re about. I’m serious.”
“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I’ll never have another drink again as long as I live. I give you my word.”
“Oh, for god’s sake. Spare me. Look at you. You’ve been drunk for days and now an innocent girl is dead.”
He knew better than to go on defending himself. He’d just have to ride it out, let her get it all out of her system, and then maybe she’d relent. He held his hand out, palm up, in a mute plea for contact.
She leaned forward. “I’m filing for divorce.”
“Carolyn, don’t say that. I’ll quit. I promise you.”
“I don’t give a shit about your promises. You said you could quit anytime you wanted, but you meant as long as I kept an eye on you. The minute my back was turned, you were at it again and look at the result. I’m not your keeper. That’s not my job. You’re in charge of yourself and you blew it.”
“I know. I understand. I have no defense. I’m begging you not to do this. We’re a family, Carolyn. I love you. I love my kids. I’ll do anything to make this right.”
“There’s no way to make it right. That poor girl died because of you.”
“Don’t keep saying that. I get it and you have no idea how horrible I feel. I deserve the worst. I deserve anything you want to throw at me—hatred, blame, recriminations, you name it—only please not right now. I need you. I can’t get through this without you.”
Her smile was mocking and she rolled her eyes. “You are such a horse’s ass.”
“Maybe so, but I’m an honorable man. I’ll take full responsibility. You can’t condemn me for one lapse in judgment—”
“One lapse? Perhaps along with everything else, you’re forgetting your previous DUI.”
“That was years ago. The whole thing was dumb and you know it. The cop pulled me over because the tag on my license plate was expired. The guy was a moron. You said so yourself.”
“Not so much of a moron he didn’t smell whiskey on your breath and haul you off to jail. I was the one who bailed you out. Because of you, the social worker nearly tossed out our application to adopt—”
“Fine. All right. I did that, Your Honor. I’m guilty as charged. I’ve apologized a hundred times, but you keep bringing it up. The point is, nothing came of it. No harm, no foul . . .”
She got up and reached for her coat. “Tell the judge ‘No harm, no foul’ at your arraignment. That ought to be good for a laugh.”
The rest of the day went by in a blur. He feigned more pain than he felt, just to get more medication. God bless Percocet, his new best friend. He picked at his supper tray, then flipped from channel to channel on the TV set, too restless to focus. He ran through the confrontation with Carolyn a hundred times. What he hadn’t dared confess, for fear of her heaping even more venom on him, was that he actually felt nothing one way or the other. How could he regret consequences when the before and the after and the in-between were gone?
At 9:00 P.M. he woke with a start, unaware that he’d fallen asleep. He heard footsteps in the hall and turned to the door expecting to catch sight of Blake Barrigan. He’d never had much use for the guy, but their wives were friends and he was sorely in need of a friend himself just now. Barrigan, like most doctors, was capable of keeping judgment at bay, appearing sympathetic whether he felt that way or not.
When Herschel Rhodes appeared in the doorway, Walker thought he was hallucinating. Herschel Rhodes? Why was he stepping into his hospital room? Walker had known him at Santa Teresa High School, where the two had occasional classes together. Herschel was a homely teen, awkward and overweight, with bad skin and no social skills. To compensate for his failings he was earnest and studious, the poor schmuck. Teachers fawned over him because he paid attention in class and actually participated. That’s how out of it he was. The boy was hell on raising his hand and the answers he gave were usually right. He turned in his class assignments on time, even going so far as to type his term papers, including the copious footnotes. What a little kiss-ass. Herschel was one of those kids shunned and ignored by the popular kids. No one was ever outright rude to him and if he was aware of the smirks and eye rolling that went on behind his back, he gave no indication of it.