The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  The idea had come indirectly from Coach, when some of the guys were getting pissed about the minutes of playing time they were getting on the field. Factions began to fight; players cut each other down the second Coach’s back was turned. A soccer team, he said, has no room for a superstar. He was trying to make the players understand that how well they played together was a direct reflection of how well they interacted off the field. Visit the Empire State Building together, he’d suggested. Go bowling. Split a pizza in Little Italy. But the Columbia University varsity soccer team had found something else to share.

  There were always a number of girls hanging around their team bashes, soccer groupies who cared less about the sport than they did about being seen with and by winners. By unspoken agreement, the high scorer got to pick one from the crowd. He’d ply her with alcohol, even though she’d usually arrived ready, willing, and able. And after they screwed, he’d ask her if she wanted to meet one of his friends.

  Once a girl had passed out cold and all eleven players had gotten to fuck her.

  Jack pushed through the press of bodies in his apartment, trying to reach the Holy Grail of the keg. He was not a particular fan of this tradition, never having been one who liked sharing what he considered his. But as the lead scorer all season, he was first . . . so it was easy to pretend he was the only, too.

  He filled up two plastic cups and wove back toward the girl he’d been talking to. She had green eyes and tits that looked like they’d fill up his hands. He couldn’t remember her name. “Here you go,” he said, offering his most charming smile.

  “Thanks.” She took the cup, and then stumbled against him as someone pushed her from behind. “Sorry. It’s just so crowded in here.”

  She did this thing with her eyes, making them go all slanty and looking up from underneath her lashes, all of which was getting Jack as hard as a railroad spike. “You want to go somewhere quieter?”

  “Okay.”

  He tugged her by the hand toward his bedroom. Chad, his roommate, was standing near the threshold. “Save me some,” he said.

  Jack closed the door. The girl walked around his room, touching the trophies on his shelves, his team jacket, the battered soccer ball his dad had given him as a kid. He set his hands on her shoulders. “See anything you like?”

  She turned in his arms. “Yeah,” she said, and kissed him.

  They needed to turn down the music. Jack pulled a pillow over his head, wishing he could drown out the sound. The bass alone was killing him.

  Beside him, the girl lay sprawled on her stomach. He must have dozed off too, after. Wouldn’t have minded just crawling under the covers right now, either, except for the fact that his teammates were out there waiting.

  Rap rap rap.

  “Jack!” Chad’s voice came muffled through the door. “Jack, c’mere!”

  Naked, Jack stumbled off the bed and cracked the door open. “I’m almost done.”

  “It’s not that. Your mother’s here.”

  “My mother?”

  Granted, his parents lived on the Upper West Side, just a stone’s throw away. But they rarely saw each other, in spite of their proximity. The elder St. Brides did not move in the same circles as a college senior. Plus, it was nearly midnight, on a Saturday. Jack glanced over his roommate’s shoulder and saw the impeccably dressed Annalise sticking out like a hothouse flower in a tangle of weeds. He hiked on his jeans and pulled a shirt over his head. As he started out of his bedroom, he looked back to see Chad unbuttoning his fly, and easing down beside the girl.

  Something stabbed at Jack’s conscience. Cynthia. Her name was Cynthia, and she’d told him a story about how her father—a farmer—would cut fields of hay in a spiral and make all the rabbits run out of the center. “Chad,” he said quietly, and his roommate looked up.

  “What?”

  Maybe she doesn’t want to. Maybe she ought to be asked, at the very least, instead of waking up with some guy on top of her. “Jack?” Cynthia said, her voice slurred, and she reached out to tug Chad down.

  It’s not my problem, Jack thought, shrugging. It’s someone else’s, now.

  Pushing it out of his mind, he shoved through the thick snarl of people. It had gotten more crowded, if possible, these past twenty minutes. “Mom. Are you all right?”

  Annalise St. Bride looked at him. She tried to speak, then covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Mom, I can explain—”

  His mother glanced up, tears in her eyes. “Jack,” she said, “your father’s dead.”

  The funeral was attended by a multitude of men in the finance industry, society women, and Mayor Ed Koch. Jack moved around his childhood home in his charcoal gray interview suit, shaking hands and accepting condolences. Everyone wanted to talk to him, to offer sympathy, to let him know that his dad had been a great man.

  It had been a heart attack, his mother said. She was still shaky, and Jack assumed it was because she hadn’t been at her husband’s side when it had happened. Out on one of her crusades, she had come home to a message saying that Joseph St. Bride had been taken to Columbia-Presbyterian.

  Slinking away from the well-wishers, Jack escaped to his old bedroom. It was much like his apartment, filled with paraphernalia from soccer. Jack sat on the narrow bed and fingered a blue ribbon that hung from one of the bedposts. For league play. He’d been ten.

  His father had been the one to teach him. Every Sunday, in Central Park, they’d kick a ball around. Closing his eyes, he pictured the little boy he had been, and the young man who was his dad, weaving around each other’s defense. With a start, he realized that right now, he looked exactly like his father had back then.

  Footsteps approached down the hallway—his mother, probably, telling him to put on a good face and suffer in public along with her. But the sound stopped short of his bedroom door, and then Jack could hear two of his father’s colleagues talking.

  “He was so young,” one said.

  “Yeah.” The second man laughed. “But what a way to die!”

  A muffled chuckle. “Well, you know. You come . . . and go.”

  Jack’s head rose slowly. He walked out of the bedroom, pushing past the two surprised men. In the living room, he located his mother. “Can I speak to you?”

  “Just a second, sweetheart,” Annalise said.

  “No. Now.”

  Jack didn’t hear what excuse she made, but she followed him to his father’s library, a rich russet room with wall-to-wall bookshelves. “What is so important that it can’t wait until after your father’s funeral?” Annalise demanded.

  “How did he die?”

  “I told you. He had a heart attack. The doctors said it came on suddenly.”

  Jack took a step forward. “Mom,” he said quietly. “How did he die?”

  She looked at him for a long minute. “Your father had a heart attack. On top of a prostitute.”

  “He what?”

  “I would rather assume that the people here do not know. I may be fooling myself, but in the unlikely event that they haven’t yet heard, I’d like to keep this information private.”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that.” Jack shook his head, rooted in denial. “He loved you.”

  Annalise touched his cheek. “Not enough.”

  As a kid in New York City, Jack had been repeatedly warned by his mother to stay out of this part of the town, because you were likely to leave it knifed, mugged, or in a body bag. The taxi pulled up in front of an apartment building that might have been dumped into a run-down section of any city. Annalise paid the cab driver and swept up the pitted sidewalk as if she were entering a castle.

  He did not understand his mother. Jack couldn’t even forgive his father yet, much less visit the prostitute he’d been fucking when he died. He wondered with a mild curiosity how his mother planned to get past the first hurdle: a locked front door. But she only rang the buzzer beneath the apartment number she’d been given and said clearly into the speaker, “I’m here