Just One Look

Vespa said, “You know, of course, that the anniversary is coming up.”

“I do,” she said, though she had done her best to ignore it all. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that awful night at the Boston Garden. The papers had run all the expected “Where Are They Now?” commemorative pieces. The parents and survivors all handled it differently. Most participated because they felt it was one way to keep the memory of what happened alive. There had been heart-wrenching articles on the Garrisons and the Reeds and the Weiders. The security guard, Gordon MacKenzie, who was credited with saving many by forcing open locked emergency exits, now worked as a police captain in Brookline, a Boston suburb. Even Carl Vespa had allowed a picture of him and his wife, Sharon, sitting in their yard, both still looking as if someone had just hollowed out their insides.

Grace had gone the other way. With her art career in full swing, she did not want even the appearance of capitalizing on the tragedy. She had been injured, that was all, and to make more of it than that reminded her of those washed-up actors who come out of the woodwork to shed crocodile tears when a hated costar suddenly died. She wanted no part of it. The attention should be given to the dead and those they left behind.

“He’s up for parole again,” Vespa said. “Wade Larue, I mean.”

She knew, of course.

The stampede that night had been blamed on Wade Larue, currently a resident of Walden Prison outside Albany, New York. He was the one who fired the shots creating the panic. The defense’s claim was interesting. They argued that Wade Larue didn’t do it—forget the gun residue found on his hands, the gun belonging to him, the bullet match to the gun, the witnesses who saw him fire—but if he did do it, he was too stoned to remember. Oh, and if neither of those rationales floated your boat, Wade Larue couldn’t have known that firing a gun would cause the death of eighteen people and the injury of dozens more.

The case proved to be controversial. The prosecutors went for eighteen counts of murder, but the jury didn’t see it that way. Larue’s lawyer ended up cutting a deal for eighteen counts of manslaughter. Nobody really worried too much about sentencing. Carl Vespa’s only son had died that night. Remember what happened when Gotti’s son was killed in a car accident? The man driving the car, a family man, has never been heard from again. A similar fate, most agreed, would befall Wade Larue, except this time, the general public would probably applaud the outcome.

For a while, Larue was kept isolated in Walden Prison. Grace didn’t follow the story closely, but the parents—parents like Carl Vespa—still called and wrote all the time. They needed to see her every once in a while. As a survivor, she had become a vessel of some sort, carrying the dead. Putting aside the physical recuperation, this emotional pressure—this awesome, impossible responsibility—was a big part of the reason for Grace’s going overseas.

Eventually Larue had been put in general population. Rumor had it he was beaten and abused by his fellow inmates, but for whatever reason, he lived. Carl Vespa had decided to forgo the hit. Maybe it was a sign of mercy. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Grace didn’t know.

Vespa said, “He finally stopped claiming total innocence. Did you hear that? He admits he fired his gun, but that he just freaked out when the lights went out.”

Which made sense. For her part, Grace had seen Wade Larue only once. She had been called to testify, though her testimony had nothing to do with guilt and innocence—she had almost no memory of the stampede, never mind who fired the gun—and everything to do with inflaming the passion of the jury. But Grace didn’t need revenge. To her Wade Larue was stoned out of his mind, a souped-up punk more worthy of pity than hate.

“Do you think he’ll get out?” she asked.

“He has a new lawyer. She’s damn good.”

“And if she gets him released?”

Vespa smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read about me.” Then he added, “Besides, Wade Larue isn’t the only one to blame for that night.”

“What do you mean?”

He opened his mouth and then fell silent. Then: “It’s like I said. I’d rather show you.”

Something about his tone told her to change subjects. “You said you were single,” Grace said.

“Pardon?”

“You told my friend you were single.”

He waved his finger. No ring. “Sharon and I divorced two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It hasn’t been right for a long time.” He shrugged, looking off. “How is your family?”

“Okay.”

“I sense some hesitation.”

She may have shrugged.

“On the phone, you said you needed my help.”

“I think so.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“My husband . . .” She stopped. “I think my husband is in trouble.”

She told him the story. His eyes stayed straight ahead, avoiding her gaze. He nodded every once in a while, but the nods seemed strangely out of context. His expression didn’t change, which was strange. Carl Vespa was usually more animated. After she stopped talking, he didn’t say anything for a long time.

“This photograph,” Vespa said. “Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” She handed it to him. His hand, she noticed, had a small quake. Vespa stared at the picture for a very long time.

“Can I keep this?” he asked.

“I have copies.”

Vespa’s eyes were still on the images. “Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

“Do you love your husband?”

“Very much.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

Carl Vespa had only met Jack once. He had sent a wedding gift when they got married. He sent gifts on Emma’s and Max’s birthday too. Grace wrote him thank-you notes and gave the gifts to charity. She didn’t mind being connected to him, she guessed, but she didn’t want her children . . . what was the phrase? . . . tainted by the association.

“You two met in Paris, right?”

“Southern France, actually. Why?”

“And how did you meet again?”

“What’s the difference?”

He hesitated a second too long. “I guess I’m trying to learn how well you know your husband.”

“We’ve been married ten years.”