Chilly air blows against my face, the rest of the garage stale and hot. I came out for the Costco mega bag of frozen ravioli. Behind it, a paper lunch bag with "DAD'S STUFF, DON'T TOUCH" on the outside, Ziploc baggie with soupy stuff inside. I open it, sniff. Stomach acid gives it away. Gagging, I seal the bag, then wipe my fingers across my jeans, knowing it's only cold, but feeling contaminated. Are there other vomits my husband might keep? I think hard, all the possibilities. No. It must be from Dan's party.
Soren suspects. He has the stamina of a dog gnawing a bone when it comes to curiosity; sometimes, he'll bring a cold case home, spend the weekend locked in his office. He'll search internet forums, talking to people from Friday night to Sunday morning who might know something, or think of the clues in a different way, stopping just in time to get ready for church. If Soren suspects Dan's health scare is wrong, he'll keep poking around, talking to witnesses, putting together a case.
If that happens, who would crack first, Oma or Aimee? One of them will, no doubt. Anyone can see they're soft, unskilled in the ways of interrogation. They'll be tripped up easily, caught like rabbits. From there, it's a quick stop to the worst case scenario: Either one of them gives up the story, and arrests all around. Then a sliding scale landing anywhere between probation to real jail time for assault, and that's before Dan and Jenn file a civil suit for their pain and suffering. I wonder at Dan's medical bill. The cost of the ambulance ride alone might be a thousand dollars.
The less likely possibility is that I go down with them: I knew what they were going to do, and helped Oma after the fact. If we all get pinched for what we did, the next year or so of my life will be court dates and penalties, probation officers and community service. Our insurance will go up – people don't think about it when they commit crimes, but everything from medical to car insurance increases. And of course, the shame Soren will have to bear, a cop with a petty criminal for a wife.
Far more likely scenario: Because I'm a cop's wife, I'll be erased from the narrative. Cops protect their own publicly, dole out in-house punishments. Everyone in our neighborhood will see I got off easy, and they'll hate us for the injustice of it. Worse, Soren will be burned in his squad, a cop too dumb or dirty to keep his own wife on the right side of the law. My husband will drive a desk until he proves he bleeds blue. And he'll do that by having to protect other dirty cops, just like they protected his wife. Soren will learn to hate me, because his love for me will make him sacrifice the thing he loves most about himself; being an honest cop.
I almost throw the baggie out. That would solve everything. Except Soren. He'll know it was me, and he'll never believe I did it by accident. Not with his huge warning across the front. If evidence disappears, he won't be able to let it go until it's figured out. That lie between us will fester until he understands why I did what I did. He'll twist on Aimee and Oma and Scott and Jake and Jenn and Dan until someone cracks.
And then? I don't know. I don't know if our relationship can survive making Soren choose between me and what he believes is right. I can't help feel this crazy pride. In a corrupt, terrible world, Soren might be The Last True Law, defender of victims long before he got his star. It makes me feel safe around him. Except, of course, right now.
I tell myself: This bag of vomit is no true evidence. There is no chain of custody, the vomit bag's not officially tagged, no police signatures across seals. Even if Soren takes it to the lab, and they find Visine, he could never use it in a prosecution case. Any defense lawyer would laugh it out of court. This last fact allows me to breathe. This is a hobby interest for him, at least for now. So I put the bag back. I leave the raviolis too. Like I was never here.
In the middle of the night, I wake up with this thought: What if he didn't do it official because he already suspects you? It's a long time before I can sleep. I have to suffocate any chance he has to follow his investigation.
The next day, I call Aimee and tell her we need to meet. They need to know Soren will be sniffing around, asking questions to make them nervous. But that's all he has. So all they need to do is take a quick lesson on how to Shut The Fuck Up. Leads dry up, and even a guy like Soren moves on. Then we can put all of this behind us.
#
We are quarter way around the lake when Oma says, "You saw Dan when he came downstairs, right? He thinks it was Jenn."
I say nothing. Silence is the best way to let this die. Then on to my quick, informational, The Do's and Do Not Do's When Participating in a Low Key Criminal Conspiracy, before we part ways. Six months from now, when I throw together the ingredients for Slow Cooker Creamy Ravioli, Spinach, and Chicken Soup in the morning before going to work, I will discover Soren's bag gone, or crushed so far in the back of the freezer I will know he's forgotten about it.
Aimee waddles a step behind us, between us, a little bit out of breath. "She has no clue."
I don't slow down; Aimee needs to keep up. Bright, cool morning. Lake silvered out by the sun, Coots and Mallards skimming the surface. I focus on that. Breathe in slow, out to the count of five, like those yoga bitches teach.
"I... I saw something the other day." Oma mutters the words into her cleavage. She's toned up lately, and it looks good, brightens up her skin, her eyes. She wears broken in yoga pants, a long sleeved shirt, and knit fingerless gloves. The kind women wear in Southern California to signify cold weather, same as Uggs or an infinity scarf.
Aimee stops, arm stretched out to stop Oma as well. "What?"
Oma's cheeks are too pink for the exercise, she glances this way and that, checking. An older couple passes us, bag of bread to feed the ducks. Even this morning, I've spotted a goose with angel wing, deformed from eating that shit. The leftover bread causes hypoxia in the water and will eventually suffocate every living thing. It's proven science. Of course they're Baby Boomers. They wave at us, so charming and old and coupled. I smile, closemouthed. What do you care if you ruin the world? You'll be dead before we have to face the consequences.
Oma says, "At the grocery store. I saw Jenn. She didn't see me, and she lifted up to get something and... I saw it. A big. Big bruise."
"Let's keep walking," I say. More we move, less likely someone can overhear the thread of our conversation.
"On her back." Oma gestures to her kidney area. "How do you get a bruise there?"
I walk ahead, hoping they'll be dragged along by the force of my will.
"Here's what I need you to remember," I try to get them back to the topic at hand. "If anyone asks, we're all sticking exactly to what happened. You don't need to make anything up. You just snip out that part about the Visine, OK? It's OK our stories will sound a little different. That's how they do when people are telling the unpracticed truth. Remember, they have nothing. If anyone tells you they have evidence, if they tell you someone else confessed and it's in your best interest to corroborate? Pay attention. Both these set ups are tried and true ways cops get you to confess when they don't have anything. Suckers get taken that way." Aimee and Oma both nod. Oma like a slow-witted but dedicated student, cramming for finals. Also, like she might throw up. "Tell me back."
Aimee might have rolled her eyes as she turned ahead, and doesn't say anything. Oma, dutifully, "Tell the truth, just omit the... bad stuff. Don't believe them if they say they have evidence. How do we know they don't have evidence?"
"They would've interviewed you already. Or arrested Jenn."
Oma gasps. "Wh... why Jenn?"
"Because it's almost always the spouse, or someone close by. You always look at them first. We know from talking to Jenn that the bloodwork made them think it was a problem with Dan's medication. And that's probably the truth, right?" I stare hard at Aimee, but she just walks, eyes on the path ahead, the reeds around the edge of the water. "Because nobody actually put Visine in Dan's drink." I really wanted her to say this part, but when she doesn't, I supply it.
"What about Jenn?" Aimee asks. When nobody answers for a few paces, she adds, "You saw how he was that morning. He thinks she did it. And you heard him at the party. If he was abusive before, what's he going to do now?"
"Maybe it put the fear of God into him. Justice done." Shut up, Aimee.
"What if we..." Oma trails off. "What if we did another prank on him? But made it so he'd know there was no way Jenn could've done it? Like she had an alibi this time? Maybe we could scare him into leaving her alone. Like when Scott trained the cat to stay off the kitchen counters."
"What?" Has she lost her mind? We are all in danger. She needs to shut up, real quick. I summon the memory of my stepdad; shoulders bunching, mood; amazed by the stupidity. Oma sees it in me and flinches back a little. But she continues anyway.
"Yeah, the Youtube videos said you got a squirt gun filled with water, and every time the cat did something you didn't like, you squirted it. But they said it was way more effective if the cat didn't see you, so you have to go sharpshooter from around the pantry door, or behind a cabinet. Because if the cat sees you it learns to not break the rules only if you're around. If the cat thinks the punishment comes from the universe, it never feels safe breaking the rules."
"You want to piss off an abusive guy, make him think some Voice of God is making him sick? You gonna tell Jenn—hey send me your schedule so I can commit a crime on your husband while you're at brunch?"
Oma shrugs. I haven't told them how I know that vomit baggie will never be real evidence because it lacks chain of custody. I don't want them to feel relaxed. Gritting my teeth, I say in my most polite kindergarten teacher voice, "How about we stick to fixing this mess first?"