This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  “Is that a ghost or the real Libby Winters?” he asks. “Thought you might have skipped town going missing like that the other night.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Two hours past my curfew and the whole town knows about it.”

  “Not the whole town. Just the police force. You know—the entire bar at Sully’s.” He laughs as if he’s joking, but I don’t smile, because it’s true.

  “When is Desiree moving back in your house? She said the other day that she misses you,” I lie.

  Sully grins. “You’re full of the stuff in that bag in your hand. Bent tried the same shtick. Is she driving you nuts?”

  I shrug. “It’s just weird . . . you guys not together.”

  “I’m a simple guy, Libby. I want simple things. A nice house. A happy wife. Maybe a couple of kids or a dog. Desiree? Who knows what she wants. One day it’s this. The next day it’s that. I can’t keep up. She’s—what’s the word I’m looking for—cryptic.”

  That’s about the last word I would use to describe Desiree.

  “Do you mean complicated?” I ask.

  He sighs. “You know what I want? Desiree. That’s all. If we have kids—great. A dog—perfect. If we don’t . . . we don’t.”

  “You can borrow him whenever you want.” I point at Rooster, who’s lying on the ground, stretched out as though he’s on our couch and not a filthy sidewalk.

  “I said simple. Not dumb. Only a sucker like Bent would get a mutt who takes a dump the size of Texas.” He points at the bag in my hand. “Keep walking. You’re stinking up my lot.”

  He laughs at his own joke and sprays a stream of water at the soap suds dripping off the fender of his truck.

  I wave goodbye, and tug on the leash, but it’s another five minutes before Rooster gives up the staring contest with me and finally gets up.

  Flynn’s house is only the next street over, but Rooster stops every ten feet to rest, and when we reach the front porch, he leans against the railing, as though he can’t be expected to climb the handful of steps to the door. I drop the leash, let him stay where he is, and ring the doorbell.

  Flynn opens the door and steps out onto the porch. He has a purple bruise under one eye, his hair matted as though he hasn’t showered in days.

  “What happened to your eye?” I ask.

  “Your asshole father beat me up,” he says stone-faced, then smirks. “I’m kidding. You should’ve seen your face, though.” He turns his mouth down at the sides, sticks his bottom lip out. “Classic Plural.”

  I turn and walk down the stairs away from him, pick up Rooster’s leash.

  “Don’t get all offended. I’m just kidding. I was messing around with some of the guys the other night, and things got a little rowdy.”

  “What guys?”

  He shrugs and rattles off a few names. I squint at him, and he shakes his head.

  “See. The look on your face. You don’t even know them.”

  “Since when do you know them? Didn’t one of them drop out of school last year and the other is in and out of juvie?”

  “Walsh didn’t drop out—he got suspended. A bogus illegal locker search, if you ask me. And yeah, Murph’s had some shit go down. What are you? On your father’s payroll or something?”

  “Look—I just came by to say I was sorry. I was late getting home, and my father showed up here and you’re mad about it—”

  “Showed up? He walked around the side.” He points to the backyard. “One o’clock in the morning and we’re all sitting around the fire, booze and . . . shit . . . everywhere . . . and here comes Officer Plural. Looking for you!”

  “Well, he didn’t say anything to me about it—”

  “Only because I met him in the driveway!” Flynn growls. “If he’d made it around back, I’d probably be in jail right now.”

  “He only came here because he couldn’t find me, and you’re my friend—he wasn’t trying to catch you doing anything wrong—”

  “And why couldn’t he find you? Where, oh where, was Plural?” He glares at me. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

  “If you stop talking for two seconds I can explain—”

  “Oh, please—save it! But you’re welcome for covering your ass—he asked me about Katie and Erin. I made up some story about how I lost my phone, so I didn’t have their numbers. I didn’t want him to find out neither one of them is back in town.” He tilts his head, stares at me. “I also didn’t tell him that if he wanted to find you, he should go looking for my fucking brother. You were with him, weren’t you?”

  “Flynn, nothing is going on. We’re just friends—”

  “And I asked you, as my friend, to stay away from my brother. What part didn’t you get?”

  He steps forward, standing over me and Rooster, his voice loud. He’s above us on the porch, large and looming, and I smell it suddenly.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask, waving at my nose. “You stink.”

  “I had a beer. It’s probably just my shirt. We were doing shots the other night and the last one missed my mouth. Jesus, Plural . . . there you go, with that look.”

  “You had a beer? It’s, like, four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  But he doesn’t answer, just backs up, his hands in the air, a frightened look on his face.

  “What the fuck is with Rooster—is he . . . growling at me!”

  Rooster brushes against my leg, and when I look down, he’s on all fours, the fur on the back of his neck standing up. He’s leaning forward menacingly, a noise coming from him that I’ve never heard before, his eyes trained on Flynn.

  “Rooster! Stop it!” I pull him back, but he doesn’t move.

  “I don’t know what his deal is, but I’m not waiting for him to get his teeth into me.” He backs up, steps inside, not taking his eyes off Rooster, who’s making so much noise now, he sounds like a grizzly bear on the other end of the leash.

  Rooster lunges suddenly, his body on the stairs between me and Flynn, the white of his teeth showing, and I know I can’t hold him anymore.

  “Shut the door!” I scream at Flynn, who gives me a panicked look and slams the heavy wooden door just as Rooster leaps up the steps, barking loudly until Flynn disappears from the glass window.

  I call his name, yank his leash, and he looks back, his eyes wild, but he lets me pull him back to the sidewalk and away from the house.

  Rooster stays with me, walking faster than I’ve ever seen him move, running almost, and when we’re finally home, he noses the door and whimpers, as though he can’t get in the house fast enough.

  Upstairs, he jumps on the couch in his favorite spot, and when I sit down next to him, he climbs into my lap, panting.

  I whisper that it’s okay, but his body trembles uncontrollably under my hand. His ears are flattened to his head, his eyes searching my face, as though he has no idea what just happened.

  I press my cheek against his head, listen to the sound of his heartbeat, trying not to picture Rooster’s face when he growled at Flynn, teeth bared and eyes white, wild and feral.

  His gentle heart tormented by something just outside of his reach.

   22

  Quinn

  She sees him everywhere.

  In the grocery line at the store, there’s a man checking out in front of her, and the way he reaches behind him to pull his wallet from his back pocket stops her dead while she blinks him into focus.

  It happens at the gas station. At the park with the twins. Sitting at a red light, catching the truck next to her out of the corner of her eye.

  It’s never him—just someone with the same build. Similar hair or clothes. Any number of things that remind her of him—and that’s the thing—everything suddenly reminds her of Bent.

  It hasn’t helped that Madeline decided to use some of her vacation hours this week; Quinn suddenly has more free time than ever before.

  It came as a surprise. Madeline never took time off—maybe a day or two in all of the years Quinn has worked for her
. Then earlier in the week, she told Quinn she wanted to lighten her schedule with the pregnancy. She said it with a cheery smile until she saw Quinn’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Madeline asked. “You look panicked.”

  “Oh, no—it’s just . . . I would need to find something part-time if my hours are cut. I’m not sure what’s going to happen with John . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Madeline looked at her for a long moment, then sighed.

  “See? This is what I mean. I’m completely out of touch. It’s just been work for years—me counting on you for everything. And here you are with a whole life I don’t know about. And you know why? Because I never asked . . . that’s why!”

  “Well, I didn’t expect you to—”

  “I’m just a jerk sometimes.” Madeline cut her off. “A self-absorbed jerk!”

  “That’s not true—” Quinn interjected, but Madeline held up her hand.

  “No, it’s not your job to make me feel better right now. I told you, didn’t I, Luce?” She pointed at Lucy, who looked up from her fabric book on the table.

  “We were watching a show the other night, and this woman says to her husband: ‘You know every time you do something wrong, you try to fix it by telling me that you’re an asshole?’ and I turn to Lucy and say—that’s me! I do that! I’m the asshole husband!”

  Lucy waved her hand dismissively, looked back at the book. “We all do that. Everyone’s the asshole husband sometimes.”

  “You’re not,” Madeline countered. “Quinn’s not.” She paused. “I was going to say Desiree’s not, but . . .”

  Lucy looked up. “Desiree will tell you she’s an asshole. She’s just never sorry about it.”

  “Anyway. Quinn—don’t even talk about another job. Consider yourself salaried. Lucy and I will be working on the house in the mornings this week, and I’ll let you feed the boys lunch, but then go get some rest. Read a book. Relax. Take care of you.”

  Quinn didn’t know what to say besides thank you—Madeline seemed a stranger to her lately. Giddy is the word that came to mind. And truthfully, she wasn’t sure what to expect; the old Madeline was known to make promises she didn’t keep.

  Whether it was to the boys—this week we’ll see that movie—I’ll come home early from work!—or to Quinn—I’ll handle their Halloween costumes this year, I promise!—Madeline’s good intentions were inevitably lost in the mayhem of her overbooked schedule.

  So Quinn was thrilled to find herself walking out of work on Monday, the entire afternoon spreading out in front of her.

  She hadn’t wanted to go home. Instead, she turned her car north on the highway and headed away from Paradise.

  She did this all week. She stopped wherever she wanted on her afternoon trips. No schedule. No agenda. Not a single person in the world who knew where she was. At first the thought made her insides clench, her breath stutter in her throat.

  But the more she thought about it—what had changed? Every day, she was alone.

  She was a daughter to parents who were no longer alive. She had a job, but until recently, her boss didn’t even know the details of her life. She was married, had the ring on her finger to prove it—but even when John was home, in his mind, he was somewhere else.

  And somehow, ever since John’s first deployment, she’s let her days take on a relentless monotony. Weekdays, she went to work, ate dinner, went to bed. Saturday was the dump, the gym, cleaning the house. Sunday, she might grab coffee with a friend, but often, she’d grocery shop, do laundry, prepare for another week.

  It occurred to her that over the years, she’d accumulated things to show her existence: a birth certificate, a marriage license, a college degree . . . but she’d never really thought about herself outside of these narrow margins—who was she after all? Especially now, with the hours stretching in front of her and nowhere to be?

  By the end of the week, she learned a few things.

  Nothing overly important: she liked to drive with the radio off, the quiet somehow more pleasing to her ear. Hiking wasn’t her favorite, and she got restless sitting on the beach after two hours, even with a good book. She enjoyed walking into a dark movie theater in the middle of the day, and she liked to be home at dinnertime, regardless of whether she needed to be.

  Now it’s Friday, and she’s on the road again, this time something specific in mind. Earlier, Madeline and Lucy returned from the design store sooner than expected and took the boys out to lunch, and Quinn got in her car, headed to the New Hampshire border.

  She’d been building up the courage to do this all week—no, more like weeks and weeks. Ever since Bent had told her about the puppy.

  She wanted to see it—needed to see it, really. The thought bouncing around in her head. Back and forth, in her mind, she toyed all week with the thought of going to see the now-adult dog—he would be four years old, if her math was correct.

  No amount of reasoning made the desire to see it with her own eyes lessen. It was the opposite: the more she thought about, the more she rationalized that she had every right to want this.

  The puppy had belonged to her—she had chosen him among a litter of a dozen of his siblings—and just like that . . . he was gone, sent away.

  Then last night, lying in bed, she’d heard Bent’s footsteps above, and she sent him a text before she lost her nerve.

  Do you know the address of the family who have the puppy?

  She waited, thinking of how she’d missed seeing Bent this week. He’d been a ghost around the house—even if she wanted to run into him, she wouldn’t have—that’s how infrequently he was home.

  She felt a twinge inside, a sharp stab knowing he was avoiding her.

  He answered her promptly with the address. Just what she asked for and nothing more—his response precise and short, and she returned with the same.

  A simple thank you.

  Now the ride is shorter than she expected, the map on her phone showing she’s arrived even though she’s surrounded by green fields as far as she can see on both sides.

  She pulls the car over to the side of the road and looks at Bent’s text again, makes sure she has the correct address.

  The street is wide, but she hasn’t passed another car for miles.

  She hasn’t really figured out what she’ll do when she finds the house—it occurs to her now that in the best scenario that runs through her mind, the dog is merely sitting on the front porch inside a fenced yard on a neighborhood street where she could just park and watch for a few minutes—just long enough to put her eyes on him, to see him in the flesh. She remembers the white spot on his chest, the patch of fur bright and distinct on his black body.

  But this isn’t a neighborhood—it’s farmland.

  Across the street, a silo splits a field in two. Her eyes scan the road ahead of her, searching for a house, but there’s only the flat paved road, the double yellow line stretching before her.

  To her right, a dirt road runs between two fields and disappears out of sight. She shuts the engine and gets out of the car, her legs stiff. There’s a white rail fence surrounding the field in front of her, and she leans against it, watches several horses grazing in the distance. The wood is warm under her hands, and she pulls her shoulders back, tilts her face to the sun.

  Maybe it’s for the best.

  She wonders, in some way, if she isn’t just stalling for time. Her husband is home, after all. And she’s the one avoiding him now. John hasn’t been in touch—just as Bent assured her—but she knows he’s waiting, somewhere, sometime, to talk to her.

  The problem is, Quinn has no idea what to say to him. In some far-reaching place in her mind, she thought seeing the dog might help—that this slice of her past that she’s just learned about might, in some way, help her understand what to do next.

  But there is no next—nothing to do besides get back in the car and go home.

  She waits until the stiffness in her legs fades before she turns to the car.

&
nbsp; She’s opening the door when a truck pulls up next to her, the window down. A man looks out at her from the driver’s seat, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Car trouble?” he asks in a way that suggests it’s not the first time he’s asked that question.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I’m not broken-down. Just at the wrong address.”

  He looks up at the road, back at her. “Where are you trying to go?”

  She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out her phone, and repeats the address Bent gave her.

  “You’re in the right place. We had a sign, but the storm last winter took it down. Haven’t gotten around to putting it back up. You’re here about a dog, right?”

  She blinks at him. She didn’t think Bent would tell them she was coming, and now she’s flustered, a heat spreading up her neck.

  He studies her for a moment, then tips his chin at the road in front of him. “I’ll take you up. My wife’s probably waiting for you.”

  She watches the truck pull down the dirt road in front of her. She gets in the car and shuts the door, the keys heavy in her hand as she starts the engine.

  Her mind is numb as she follows him—buzzing with the words she’ll need to explain. She’ll just be honest, she decides—just tell them who she is and maybe ask to see the dog, and then she’ll go.

  In another minute, the trees lining the road end abruptly, and a white farmhouse appears before her, so large and imposing it seems impossible she couldn’t see it from the street. The truck veers to the right, over the grass, and parks in front of a small barn, but she stays on the circular driveway and stops in front of the house. She takes a deep breath before she opens the door and steps out.

  It occurs to her after she’s already out of the car that she’s just followed a stranger to a house in the middle of nowhere, and when the man steps down from his truck and she sees the state trooper uniform—a statie is what Bent had called him, she remembers now—her body relaxes, and she feels the churning in her stomach ease a bit.

  “She’s likely outside,” he calls, and motions for her to follow. He disappears around the side of the house, and when she walks behind him and turns the corner, he’s standing in the doorway of a massive barn, next to a woman who smiles when Quinn joins them.