Illusions

22

I told Kerry that night over dinner. All of it, every detail. She had as much right to know the truth as I did. We’d had secrets from each other once, before our marriage, but not since and not ever again. Anything, everything that mattered to one of us now belonged to the other.

Kerry, yes, but nobody else. Our secret and Bobbie Jean’s to the grave.

She took it as I expected she would: shock, bewilderment, sadness, understanding. “My God, that poor woman. What she must’ve gone through.”

“Six kinds of hell and still burning,” I said. “So you think I did the right thing? Not turning her in?”

“Yes.”

“Letting her get away with a crime.”

“I suppose so, but— Oh.”

“Sondra Nelson and Gail Kendall, that’s right. Nelson went through the same kind of hell, and for a much longer time, and she’s still burning, too. So is Kendall after nine years.”

“But Bobbie Jean didn’t murder Eberhardt.”

“Technically, no. But she did help him kill himself and then hid the fact. Assisted suicide is a serious offense in California, Kerry. Just about as serious as second-degree homicide.”

“Which means you’ve decided. You’re going to let Nelson and Kendall get away with their murder.”

“I have to, now. How can I do anything else? I’d be the most despicable kind of hypocrite if I let a guilty friend off the hook and gaffed a couple of poor strangers. The cases are too similar, legally and morally and in every other way. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can see it.”

“But you still don’t approve?”

“I didn’t say that. Part of me keeps balking at the idea, but another part...” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s all so damn complicated.”

“And the suffering makes it more so.”

“You think any of them will ever find peace again?”

“I hope so. They wouldn’t if they had to go through due process, that’s for sure. Besides, if it happens I am wrong to be playing God this way, I’ll answer for it some day.”

“So will they.”

“Right. One thing for sure: Eberhardt and Ira Erskine already have.”

She was quiet for a time. Then, “I really don’t know you as well as I thought I did,” as if she were a little nonplussed by the admission. “Either that, or you keep changing in ways I’m not sure I understand.”

“Do I seem that different to you?”

“Right now, yes.”

“Maybe I am. But in only one way.”

“Which way?”

“I’m like the kid who comes to realize Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are a couple of big-time frauds. After nearly sixty years I’ve grown up. I don’t have any more illusions, pretty or otherwise. I’ll never have another as long as I live.”