Free Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane Page A

they’d given her. The cop was hovering around the nurses’ station, the attending physician was with another patient—so she summoned all her strength and stood from the bed. It felt as if they’d attached lead weights to her wrists and ankles. She had a lead anchor strapped to her chest. She moved down the hall and had the same feeling she’d had as a kid trying to run in water. Right. Left. One. Two. Working hard but not getting anywhere. She’d grown up swimming at Killiney Beach, the stones in the water there rattling around inside the waves like bones in a bag. Diving under, you risked getting pummeled. Her mouth was hanging open and her lips were dry.One foot in front of the other she made it to the end of the hall and slipped out through the swinging doors. They still had her shoes, her coat, her bag, but at home she had more shoes, she had another coat. When she reached the lobby, she put her hand on the reception desk for a moment to catch her breath, and the attendant didn’t even notice she was there. When she stepped outside there was a cab waiting, and she had just enough strength left to open the door and collapse onto the smooth bench seat, the most comfortable seat she’d ever sat upon. It was warm in the cab, and the driver caught her eye in the rearview as if he’d been waiting for her. She knew then that everything had turned around since the supermarket, and now the world was falling over itself to win back her favor.
    “Gillam,” she said. “One-se-ven-one-one Jeff-er-son Street.” She said it slowly, as if speaking to a child. She knew she wouldn’t be able to repeat it. She closed her eyes and slept.
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    It was Francis Gleeson’s face she saw next. His stubbled jaw was different from Brian’s. He had a nice face, really. Not as handsome as Brian’s but nice enough. Dependable. A big Irish head like a cabbage. He was holding her tight. She wanted to ask him about the sound of the waves in Galway, if it was the same bag of bones as in Dublin. He’d tried to talk to her about Ireland once. Early, early, early on. Lena Gleeson was spilling over in those years between the breasts and the belly and the wet-mouthed babies hanging from her. But now Anne wished she’d been kinder. He was carrying her easily, and just as if he entered her house any day of his life, he continued past the threshold, all the way upstairs, and laid her on her bed. She decided if he tried to rape her she’d just let him and deal with it later because she didn’t have the strength to fight. She tried to tell him there was money for the cab in her wallet, but her mouth didn’t work. And she had no wallet. Her feet were so cold.
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    Peter thought he and his mother might be able to keep the whole thing from his father if they thought it out and worked together. She hadn’t told him what to do, but he figured they had time; he knew his father wouldn’t find it unusual to come home to her asleep upstairs. But then, after carrying his mother up the stairs, Mr. Gleeson didn’t go home like Peter expected him to. “Your mother’s resting,” he said, and asked if Peter would like to go over to his house for a while. Kate wasn’t home but Peter could watch a movie with Natalie and Sara. When Peter refused, Mr. Gleeson just sat down on the Stanhopes’ porch step and waited. Peter couldn’t remember if he’d turned off the car ignition or if it was still up there idling in the Food King parking lot, still ticking off the top one hundred hits of 1990. Then the police officer who’d been asking Peter all those questions at Food King showed up; he’d headed straight to 1711 Jefferson Street as soon as Anne was discovered missing from the hospital. Mr. Maldonado was outside taking down his Christmas lights even though it was after dusk by then, and Peter watched him look over at Officer Dulley in his navy uniform.
    Officer Dulley and Mr. Gleeson talked on the lawn, and when Brian finally came home, Peter watched