Free Don't Cry Now by Joy Fielding Page B

Bonnie hesitated, then knocked gently, gingerly pushing open the door when Sam failed to answer.
    Sam lay spread across the sofa, which doubled as a pull-out bed, wearing only his baggy brown pants, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, ashes dropping onto his bare chest. He jumped up when he saw her, and the ashes spilled onto the taupe carpeting.
    â€œI know I’m not supposed to smoke in the house,” he said quickly, looking around for a place to extinguish his cigarette, finally butting it out between his fingers.
    Bonnie looked helplessly around the small den, once intended as her sanctuary, a room to which she could retreat to mark essays and exams, to prepare her lessons, to read, to relax. Now, clothes hung over the top of the large-screen TV, a guitar stood propped against one soft-green wall, gray ashes mingled with the yellow and green flowers of the sofa bed, and a large glass tank had all but overtaken the top of her stately oak desk, pushing the framed photograph of Amanda unceremoniously off to the side and relegating her computer to the floor. She froze. “Where’s the snake?” she asked, her brain suddenly registering that the tank was empty.
    Sam raised one long skinny arm and pointed toward the window. “Right there—on the windowsill. He thinks he’s a cat.”
    Reluctantly, Bonnie’s eyes veered toward the window at the far end of the room. The mint green curtains were partially open to reveal the coiled body of the snake behind them.
    â€œWould you mind keeping him in the tank when we’re home?” Bonnie asked, her voice small, fighting the almost overpowering urge to run screaming down the hall.
    â€œSure thing,” Sam said, though he didn’t move.
    Bonnie paused in the doorway. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
    â€œLike what?” the boy asked.
    Bonnie didn’t know what to say—How about the weather? Or the Red Sox? How about the fact that your mother was murdered this morning?—so she said nothing. She waited, trying to penetrate the boy’s opaque features, finding it ironic that boys so often resembled their mothers, while girls tended to look more like their dads. At least such was the case with Sam and Lauren. And such had been the case with her and Nick. “Goodnight, Sam,” she said finally, wondering if her brother would call. “See you in the morning.”
    Bonnie stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her just as the door to the guest room opened and Lauren appeared. Instinctively, Bonnie took a small step back.
    â€œI’m just going to the bathroom.” Lauren motioned toward the small room at the end of the hall.
    â€œThere are fresh towels and a new bar of soap,” Bonnie said as Lauren brushed past her. “If you need anything else…”
    Lauren entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
    â€œâ€¦just call,” Bonnie said. “Give her time and space,” she reminded herself, returning to her bedroom, seeing Rod already underneath the covers. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said, pulling her dress over her head, dropping it to the floor, sliding out of her underwear and into bed beside her husband, looking forward to the luxury of his arms. Maybe he was right. He’d always known exactly how and where to touch her. She snuggled in against him, felt the steady rise and fall of his bare chest.
    He was asleep, she realized with a smile, running her hand along his warm skin, delicately kissing his slightly parted lips. He looks like a little boy, she thought, thetroubled lines around his eyes and mouth now smooth with sleep.
    She’d never sleep, she realized in that same moment, getting up and going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and splashing some soap and water on her face, careful not to rub too hard around her swollen lip. Her mind was too full of