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  Melinda’s grandparents, Charles and Danielle Braun, lived west of the city on the Main Line, in an historic brick colonial mansion. As Charles welcomed everyone and took their coats, he said, “I can’t thank you enough for taking on the Barlow case. Whatever happens, I know you’ll do your best, which is all anyone can hope for.”

  The dining room, with working chimneys at both ends, was furnished opulently. The faces and profiles of former lords and ladies of the manor watched over the meal from ornate picture frames, while the musty odor of fireplace residue permeated the rafters and plaster walls.

  Martin’s relatives were already there. Everyone except Melinda wore either dresses or jackets and ties, leaving her looking like a mutt brought in from the street.

  At dinner, Melinda gobbled her turkey ravenously. Martin’s sisters eyed her and Victoria more critically than ever.

  Silver-haired Charles Braun had the same oblong face as Martin. Victoria had liked Charles from their first meeting. Impeccably dressed, he was the incarnation of a vigorous man aging well. Morris Schone and his second wife, Carolyn, got on with the senior Brauns splendidly.

  With a diplomat’s sensitivity to the malaise in the room caused by Melinda, Charles steered the dinner-table discussion to an uncontroversial subject, Pennsylvania’s colonization by William Penn.

  “Did you know,” Charles said after the plates were cleared, “that Penn received huge tracts of land in 1681, from England’s King Charles II, in repayment of a large debt owed to Penn’s father by the throne? But unlike the Commonwealths of Massachusetts and Virginia, Penn paid the Indians for the land.”

  Preoccupied, Victoria said, “I never realized that.”

  Charles turned to his granddaughter. “Melinda, you go to Friends Select, a Quaker school. What do they say about how William Penn treated the Native Americans?”

  Gregory and his cousins, all younger than Melinda, looked at her wide-eyed.

  Melinda rolled up her napkin and flicked it from side to side. “My school is full of hypocrites. The teachers say how important acceptance is, but I see them whispering behind our backs. Those polemicists make William Penn into an icon of religious tolerance, but it’s all for show. He fucked over the Indians, the indentured servants, the women, and the slaves, with impunity, just like every other colony. William Penn treated the Native Americans the same as Hitler treated the Jews. Those he couldn’t buy off, he had no use for.” Melinda stood up abruptly and began swaying back and forth. Victoria cringed.

  “Genocide,” Melinda continued. “We’re still doing the same fucking thing. Look at what we did in Korea, then Vietnam and Cambodia. Now Afghanistan and Iraq. The government wraps up the package with a red, white, and blue bow, but I know different.” Melinda picked up one of the serving plates bearing an image of the Pennsylvania state flag. “Look at this,” she said.

  Victoria, who knew the true value of the antique plate, was terrified.

  “Melinda, I—”

  “Just look at this place,” she interrupted Charles, pointing around the room with the plate. “William Penn got the merchant class to build manors like this, but slaves did all the heavy lifting. He didn’t give two shits about how many of them died from yellow fever. You don’t think someone constructed this house for union wages?”

  Victoria reached for the plate. “Please, honey, let’s calm down. Your grandfather didn’t mean anything.”

  Melinda jerked the plate away. “I know exactly what he meant. That we have so much to be thankful for, just like you’re always saying I’m such an ungrateful bitch.”

  Victoria said to everyone. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

  “That’s right,” Melinda said. “Apologize, because you’re ashamed of me. I can’t say what I really feel without you thinking I’m wrong.”

  “Please give me the plate, Melinda. Just put it down,” Victoria said. She counted to ten and remembered the plan she and Martin had discussed with Dr. Milroy. “Can we go home now, Melinda? It’s been a long day for everyone.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Charles said to Melinda, like an ambassador dealing with squabbling dignitaries. “I had very strong opinions myself when I was young. They didn’t endear me to everyone, but I earned a lot of respect.” He nodded to his children. “It turned out okay, didn’t it? Let me tell you something about that plate, Melinda, my dear. It has been in our family for many generations, and as the oldest grandchild, it will be yours some day. Your great-grandmother received it from Benjamin Franklin’s family. Let me show you something interesting about the inscription on the back. You’ll appreciate the calligraphy.”

  As Charles diffused the situation, Victoria wondered about her father-in-law’s calming influence. How did he do that? she asked herself. He had appealed to Melinda’s intelligence and curiosity. He made her feel special, something Victoria wished she could do.

  With Melinda quieted down, Charles and Danielle led the six grandchildren on a tour of the house. As darkness overtook the landscape, thick wet snow began falling rapidly, forming a layer of mushy slush on the roads and sidewalks.

  When the adults adjourned to the library, Victoria implored Martin to leave before Melinda could make another scene. She just wanted to get home.

  Martin’s sisters, Lydia and Sophia, began to talk about their holiday vacation. “I hope it won’t be too much of a rush to get to Pier 26 the day we leave for the BVIs.”

  Victoria could tell how relieved they were that they wouldn’t have to deal with Melinda. Sophia whispered to Martin, infuriating Victoria so much she wanted to slap him. Unable to stand her sisters-in-law another minute, Victoria said, “I’m going to check on the children,” and left the room abruptly.

  She headed for the center-hall spiral staircase, at the base of which stood a nineteenth-century grandfather clock enclosed in an ornately carved, sharply pedimented cabinet. She could hear Gregory and her nephews talking, out of sight on the second-floor landing. The others must have stepped away.

  Lydia’s son Mark said, “She’s so weird. There’s a kid in my class like that. He needs a teacher’s aide with him to keep him from going off. I think they called him autotic.”

  “Did you see the way she’s dressed?” his cousin Richard said. “She looks like one of those orphan kids in old movies, and she uses the F word every other sentence, like rappers. What’s the matter with her?”

  Gregory said, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s not well. My parents are worried about her. They went to see a doctor about it. Don’t be so hard on her—she’s your cousin, you know. Families are supposed to help each other when someone’s sick.”

  Victoria broke into tears. He’s so compassionate, she thought. She took her shoes off, so she could creep closer undetected.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Richard said.

  “What way?” Gregory said.

  “That she was psycho or something.”

  Gregory said, “Suppose someone called you weird?”

  “He is weird,” Mark said. The boys giggled.

  “Watch this!” Mark said. The next thing Victoria knew, Mark, legs astride the mahogany banister, flew around its curved railing. Coming out of the curve, Mark yelled, “Wheee!” just before nearly decapitating Victoria, who was midway around the turn. Soon the other boys came barreling after him. Gregory, the last, lost his balance when he plowed into them, but he recovered in time to avoid plunging over the side and impaling himself on the clock case. Everyone had a good laugh except for Victoria.

  “What were you boys thinking?” she said harshly. “Someone could have fallen over the side!”

  Gregory said, “You worry too much, Mother. Remember? We talked about this.” He told his cousins, “That was fun. Let’s do it again.”

  Victoria said, “No way, boys. It’s too dangerous. Besides,” she fibbed, “tomorrow is a work day. We have to get home soon.”

  When at last it was time to go home, Victoria stormed to the car, dreading the c
all to Dr. Milroy she would have to make in the morning. Just get me home in one piece before anything else happens, she prayed, fixating on the sickening image of Gregory impaled on the clock.

  33

  By the time the family left, several gelid inches had accumulated, and the temperature had plummeted into the low teens. Since Lancaster Pike hadn’t been salted and plowed, the road was a patchwork of shards and ruts of ice mixed with puddles. The cars ahead of Martin’s Mercedes churned up opaque slushy liquid that coated his windshield. When he tried the windshield washer, a warning light blinked, indicating that the washer fluid had run low. The wipers left smeared arcs nearly impossible to see through. With the glare from oncoming vehicles nearly blinding, Martin squinted as he drove.

  “Dammit,” he said. “I should have filled up on washer fluid. I can barely see.” Martin pulled into an abandoned gas station and tried to clear the windshield with a wad of slush. The freezing liquid penetrated Martin’s gloves and loafers. Back in the car, he winced in agony.

  “What’s wrong?” Victoria said.

  “My toes feel like they’re encased in ice.”

  “This should help,” she said, turning the heat on full blast and directing it downward.

  By the time they got under way again, the windshield was smearing up. Martin turned left at City Line Avenue. “I’m going to take the Schuylkill Expressway. It has to be better than this.”

  A high-pitched noise sounding like a beehive emerged from Melinda’s half of the backseat. Her iPod was overflowing its headphones.

  Trying to avoid another rampage, Victoria told Gregory, “Tell your sister to lower the volume. Your father needs to focus on the road.”

  Gregory shouted, “Melinda,” but she remained oblivious. “Muh-linn-dah,” he yelled louder.

  As Martin approached Center City, the light from the Art Museum intensified the glare. “I can’t have all this noise,” Martin said. “The driving is treacherous. I have to concentrate. Gregory, please. Make her stop.”

  Gregory poked Melinda’s thigh. It took three tries to get her attention.

  “What do you want?” she snarled.

  Gregory pulled the plugs from her ears. “Melinda,” he shouted. “Martin needs you to lower the volume, so he can concentrate on the road.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she said, repositioning her earpieces.

  Gregory snatched them and disconnected the iPod with a jerk. “Listen, Melinda. Cut it out! You want to get us all killed?”

  As the sparring escalated, Victoria hollered, “Stop it, you two. Don’t miss the exit, Martin. We’re almost there.”

  Melinda said, “Keep your fucking hands off my headphones.” She grabbed for them.

  Something hit the hood and windshield with a heavy thud, sending Victoria and Martin into a panic. A huge wad of slush had dislodged from an overpass and pelted the car like a missile.

  “Jesus, Melinda,” Gregory yelled. “How can you behave this way? After I just stuck up for you with Mark and Richard.”

  “Give them to me!

  “How much longer?” Victoria asked Martin.

  “Only a couple more blocks. Shit! The light at Market Street is red.” Martin looked both ways, then ran the stoplight in desperation.

  Melinda tried to slap Gregory’s face. He parried most of the blows, but not the last, which reddened his right cheek. Victoria turned around and tried but couldn’t grab Melinda’s flailing arms.

  Gregory screamed at his sister, “You asshole, crazy asshole! Nothing matters to you except what you want.”

  Martin turned left onto Rittenhouse Square South and pulled up in front of their house. A blast of frigid air hit Victoria’s face when she opened her door. In a rush to open the rear door and separate the combatants, she slipped and twisted her ankle on the slippery street. Gregory got out, key in hand, and ran up the eight ice-caked steps to the house, trying to get away from his rabid sister.

  Melinda tore after him. Victoria tried to regain her footing but went down on her other knee. When her hand reached the pavement, she heard the snap of her wrist bones breaking. Searing pain radiated up her arm. Looking up from the curb, Victoria saw Gregory frantically trying to unlock the door.

  Melinda charged up the ice-coated steps after Gregory. Martin, whose thin-soled shoes had little traction on the icy pavement, tried to catch up with her.

  Gregory lurched to the left to avoid Melinda, as she tried to wrench the key out of his hand, but his right foot slid on the ice and he fell over backwards, smacking his head on the top step. Stunned, he careened down the steps feet-first, but at the bottom step his body cartwheeled around, cracking the left side of his head violently against the point of the granite threshold.

  Unable to get up from her fall, Victoria saw it all unfold as if in slow motion. Cradling her broken wrist in her left arm, she scrambled to her feet and minced her way to where Gregory lay lifeless, blood oozing from his ear and his nose.

  “Oh my God!” Victoria cried. “Oh my God! No, please, no. Not my Gregory. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Victoria cradled Gregory in her good arm and rocked him, wailing, “Gregory, Gregory.”

  Victoria looked up the steps at Melinda, who was staring back down at the carnage. “You!” Victoria hissed. “What did you do to my Gregory?”

  It took all of Martin’s strength to restrain Victoria from going after Melinda, who fled into the frigid night.

  “Call the police! Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance!” Victoria pleaded. “Call an ambulance, call an ambulance,” she continued, until the sounds came out as throaty whispers.

  34

  Jonas looked expectantly at Jennie, while Pete and Beth Bodenheim, hosting Thanksgiving at their Old Greenwich, Connecticut, home, sat contentedly at the head and foot of the table. A pair of college-aged girls served coffee and soufflés. Beth Bodenheim had just delivered a light-hearted tribute to life in the locker room with Pete and their two sons, and it was Jennie’s turn to reflect on what she was thankful for.

  Jennie paused thoughtfully. She put her hands on her children’s shoulders. “I give thanks every day for my husband and children. Without them, I would not be the woman you see today. Gracie, your kindness has always delighted me. Gil, I marvel at your solidity and self-discipline. Before you two, I never appreciated how much of a privilege it is to be a mother. Raising you has been a chance to grow up all over again. Seeing the world through your eyes as you’ve developed has been an amazing journey. The little things: the way Gracie changes the pictures on her wall to mirror the coming and going of the seasons; the sensitivity Gil shows by lowering the volume of his bass when Dad comes home, even when he’s working on a new song; how he always calls home when he knows we might worry about him. While other children are sullen and self-consumed, Gracie and Gil never take their families and friends for granted. You’ve made me into a kinder, more forgiving person. I never think about what I don’t have or what I didn’t get when I was growing up. You’re such a joy. I want you to know how much I wanted you both. I give thanks for you every day.”

  I try so hard to feel like she does, Jonas thought, wondering if it had to do with his children being adopted. Why don’t I?

  Jonas’s cell phone began vibrating. He excused himself to answer it. The call originated from area code 215. Jonas had given his number to only one person in that area code, Victoria Schone-Braun, but it was not her calling.

  He meandered into a corner of the Bodenheim’s family room, and said, “This is Dr. Speller. Can I help you?”

  A frantic man’s voice exclaimed, “Dr. Speller, I’m so glad it’s you. My wife said to call you. I know it’s a holiday, but it may be a matter of life and death.”

  Jonas’s throat tightened. “You’re Martin, aren’t you? Victoria’s husband? What’s happened?”

  “It’s unbelievable. Victoria’s in the ambulance with our son Gregory. They’re taking him to Children’s Hospital. I think he’s dea …”

  “Oh my God, no,”
Jonas cried loudly enough to hush everyone. He retreated into Pete’s den and closed the door. “What happened? What’s Gregory’s condition?” Someone knocked tentatively on the door. Jonas said, “Don’t go away, Martin. I’m at dinner.”

  It was Jennie at the door. She said, “My God, Jonas. Your face is the same color as your shirt. What’s happened?”

  “My patient’s family just suffered a catastrophe. The child of someone I saw on Monday is in critical condition. I have to figure out what to do. Tell everyone I’ll be back in as soon as I can.”

  Jennie squeezed his hand. “It’ll be all right.”

  He tried to believe her.

  Martin said, “I’m so sorry to disturb your holiday.”

  Jonas ran his hands through his hair, preparing himself for a very long night. “It’s okay. Tell me what happened to Gregory.”

  “It’s his head. We both saw the fall. He slipped down our cement steps and cracked his skull against the pavement. I’m no doctor, but I think he’s hurt very badly. He’s out cold. When the EMTs got him into the ambulance, they said that his breathing was irregular and his heart rate was slowing down. They also said his left pupil was much larger than the right.”

  Oh no, thought Jonas, who knew that bleeding inside the skull causes downward pressure on the base of the brain—the part called the brain stem—which regulates breathing, blood pressure, and heart rate. Brain stem compression traps the nerve that controls dilation and contraction of the pupils, which would account for what the EMTs said about Gregory’s eyes.

  Martin continued, “I don’t know what it’s like where you are, but we’ve just had a slush storm, and everything turned to ice when the temperature turned bitter.”

  Jonas looked around. Everywhere, he saw pictures of Pete, Beth, and their children. He said, “Did this have to do with Melinda?”

  “Yes. On the way home from Thanksgiving at my parents’, she got out of control with Gregory and attacked him like a maniac. We barely got home in one piece. Our front steps were solid ice. When Melinda charged after Gregory, he fell down and slammed his head. Then Melinda ran away. The police are looking for her now. God knows what she’ll do if she thinks her brother’s dea—” Jonas shuddered. “Melinda knows how close Victoria is to Gregory. If he dies … she knows her mother will never forgive her. Melinda could do something desperate.”