* * *
—
I’VE COME UP WITH A THEORY OR TWO. About myself, why I am the way I am. Like how I’m fine with a certain kind of evil. The pure kind. The Jokers and Doctor Dooms of the world. Been fine with it since I was ten, the year Daniel and I spent sprawled in his room reading comic books, a little in love with the villains. I saw then how the world needs vice. Good is always searching for evil to crush, right? And doesn’t that make evil at least a little bit good, the way it lets good prove itself?
I’m not saying this because I’m a killer now. But I am noticing things in new ways, like how everyone’s dying for a righteous hatred, a pious fury to unleash in the world. And what better target than evil? What better place to direct the hate that’s been in you all along?
But to be truly gratifying, the evil you decide to hate better be grade-A, unadulterated wickedness. If even a smidgen of love gets mixed in—on either end, in the judger or the judged—there’s only misery.
Here’s a basic example: Say you’re eleven years old and a drunk, doughy-looking guy (most definitely not your dad) punches a woman in the face (most definitely not your mother) in a grocery parking lot—smacks her hard right in front of you, knocks her to her knees, blood spraying from her mouth, splattering your only decent pair of sneakers. You’d feel sorry for the lady, sure, be mad about the shoes and all, but there’d be satisfaction, maybe even a thrill, in knowing evil when you see it, in being certain about that.
But let’s say the man is your father, and let’s say you love him a little. Doesn’t have to be much. All the other eyes staring at him, which naturally include an old teacher and the sister of a friend (because you can’t seem to get away from people who know you in this town), they see pure evil. They see a comic-book villain. But you, because of that tiny bit of love in you, you don’t know what you’re seeing.
That’s what messes you up. The love. You can’t see right with that in your heart. Or maybe you’re the only one who can see anything at all.
Either way, you’re fucked. Either way, you’re never going to enjoy comic books again.
* * *
—
I’M GETTING THEORETICAL. Trying not to feel, I guess. And when it comes to Red, not feeling takes all kinds of concentration, because the girl I met in the park—the one who never had a real name or home she’d admit to—breathed some kind of glorious hell into me. That girl filled me with a miraculous pain.
You can’t find truth with all kinds of noise in your head. You can’t discover when your heart fell ill, when a hole opened up and evil wormed in. Bottom line, it’s not like God is letting you know what’s up minute by minute, not flashing neon signs: Yes. No. Good. Bad.
Mr. Balch says your only hope is to listen to your soul. But best I can make out, your soul is kind of a wuss, whispering so quietly you have to have silence to hear it. It does work, though. Going still. I learned that in those Quaker meetings with him. I wish I’d kept going these last months. None of this would have happened if I had. All that quiet calmed me, opened things up inside. I didn’t feel so small anymore. If only I hadn’t gotten spooked that last meeting, hadn’t worried that Friends had seen me shaking, my hands lifting to the sky.
But on this last morning of my life, it doesn’t matter what anyone made of me that day. I’m giving it one more shot, this silent listening, hoping that what I need to know—what Red needs to know—will soon appear.
8
Jonah’s service took place a few days after Daniel’s last. It was a desolate affair with a few dozen people scattered in the funeral home’s burgundy-carpeted chapel. Katherine didn’t attend. “Let the woman bury her son in peace,” she said, and drove back to Spokane.
I didn’t speak to Lorrie that evening, choosing to sneak in a little late and leave a few minutes early. I’m not sure why I went. It did nothing to bring either of us comfort. Perhaps I wanted others to see me as spiritually enlightened. That sounds very much like me.
* * *
—
IT WAS EIGHT WHEN I UNLOCKED THE MUDROOM DOOR. Though I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, I forced myself to sit in the living room with the local paper, hoping an article on a boat race to Alaska would offer distraction. But I kept seeing Lorrie in that front row, her profile severe and sorrowful, as if her very bones had molded to her grief. And perhaps they had. I knew of no one who had suffered more. Only a year back, her husband, Roy, had killed himself. He’d endured a decade of agitated depression, one in which I’m certain Lorrie often paid the price.
Rufus trudged in and swiped a paw at the paper, knocking it to the floor. He crawled onto me and laid his head against my chest with a low moan. Eighty pounds of muscle hardly made him a lapdog, but he managed it, using his body like a sponge, as if to draw from me all that made me hurt.
As Rufus began to snore, as he dripped snot onto my funeral shirt, I thought about Jonah. From the time he was six until nearly fifteen, Jonah slept at our house most Saturday nights. If Daniel went to Quaker meeting with me in the morning, Jonah did as well. At fourteen, Daniel declared meeting a waste of time, and the boys took to sleeping in. But one Sunday, as I was about to leave, I saw Jonah sitting quietly in the living room. I asked if he’d like to join me, and he grabbed his jacket.
After that, I found him ready every Sunday, even ones when he hadn’t slept over. There he’d be, waiting outside in the pouring rain or howling wind, skinny and hunched in his too-thin jacket. Something pathetic in it, how eager he was for fatherly attention, even before his dad died.
Afterward Katherine would often ask, “How’s your wet kitten?” This was her term for the strays, whether animal or human, that I had the habit of adopting. I believed that God sent them to me for a reason. Even Rufus, a pit bull mix, had been my “wet kitten” when I brought him home sick and skinny from the pound.
From the beginning, Jonah impressed me at meeting. At twelve and thirteen, the boy could sit in preternatural stillness for an hour on that hard bench. He possessed an affinity for the Divine, a portal most of us are denied. This must sound crazy when speaking of a murderer, but it was true. He witnessed things I have only dreamed of.
The April before Daniel’s murder, Jonah stopped attending. Though he never told me why, I suspect that his last meeting shook him. A blast of Divine light inside oneself can be overwhelming. At least that’s what I’ve been told.
After that, the boys spent less time together. Jonah was a shy, unathletic boy, and I understood why he might be excluded from Daniel’s group. It wasn’t until late July, when I ran into him working at the local hardware store, that I understood how distant they’d become. We chatted briefly, and as I was leaving, he said, “Tell Daniel hi for me,” as if they hadn’t spoken in some time.
That evening, I lectured Daniel. “Our lives speak. It doesn’t matter how popular you are. What matters is how you treat others. Particularly those in need, like Jonah. You know how rough it’s been on him since his father died.”
I reminded him that I’d promised Lorrie we’d be there for Jonah. Daniel grumbled he shouldn’t have to live up to a promise he hadn’t made, but in those last few months he did exactly that. He often invited Jonah to join other friends at our house. He’d tease him like he did all the guys, and I’d see Jonah laughing, glad to be one of the group. Sometimes, though, I’d find him sitting alone in a dark corner. He’d say he was tired or not feeling well. When Daniel headed out with the other boys, Jonah inevitably chose to go home.
The boy was lonely. I couldn’t understand why he would reject the friendship offered him.
* * *
—
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER NINE, and my legs had begun to cramp. I eased Rufus off me. I had yet to eat dinner and couldn’t remember if I’d had lunch. Though food held not the slightest appeal, I headed toward the kitchen as Rufus trailed behind. I remembered then how the dog had often fo
llowed Jonah through the house. Only a week before the murder, I’d seen Jonah on the living-room couch, Rufus in his lap, the dog’s full weight pressed against the boy.
Maybe Rufus had sensed Jonah’s inner disturbance, as tonight he had sensed mine.
9
Evangeline stood buried in the border trees. She’d found the man’s place straightaway, as if she’d been there a thousand times. As if she were coming home.
The night wind sliced into her, and she dug the denim jacket from her pack. As she layered it over her cardigan, the town’s bell tower began to toll. On the ninth and final ring, something soft brushed her lips, tender, hesitant, like the kiss of a shy boy. She swiped a filthy hand across her mouth, the taste of decay seeping onto her tongue. She scanned the lights below. There had to be a home or a shelter less haunted. But where else could she go? Where else did she have the slightest connection? She touched her belly. No. There was nowhere else. There was only here.
She forced herself onward, ignoring blackberry vines that grabbed at her hair. The drive was longer than expected, curving upward in a gentle slant. As she cleared a large cluster of firs, she saw it, a sprawling plain-faced Victorian. The house was dark, no light on in the place, and she found herself wondering if the man were dead in there, if rats were feasting. She thought that because . . . well, that’s how she thought these days.
How stupid she’d been, thinking she could imagine the boys alive and just out of sight. The moment she stepped onto the property, she’d understood that everything there, the grasses and trees, the house and patio, all the rooms inside—each thing knew exactly where the boys were and how they’d last been found.
An ancient tree with twisting limbs stood guard near a large stone patio, and she settled beneath it. She had made a decision: She wouldn’t sneak in. She wouldn’t even knock. No matter how cold or wet or inhospitable the night became, she would huddle alone outside. She would wait as long it took to be found. To be invited in. Her arrival had to appear unplanned. This was crucial. People were suspicious of unwashed girls with plans.
When her eyes adjusted, she saw that the lawn at the far side glowed brighter, as if a room in back were lit. She noticed other things too, like a wraparound porch and a large barbecue on the patio, and her imagination bounded from rotting corpses to lazy afternoon teas and soft breezes, summer evenings filled with the heady scent of burgers on the grill.
She didn’t much like Victorians. Port Furlong was full of them, mostly the tall, narrow type that leered over sidewalks. They made her think of bitter spinsters wearing too-frilly dresses. But this one was okay. Wider and looser, without all the fussy curlicues. It was comfortable-looking despite its grand size.
After studying it awhile, she felt someone watching her. A presence peering from one of the windows on the ground floor. The gaze came from just above the sill, like maybe a little kid was looking out. But the papers said Daniel didn’t have any siblings, and even if he did, no one could possibly see her out there. They certainly couldn’t be staring right into her eyes, which was how it felt. She blinked and the presence was gone, just another window on a huge old house.
She wondered if she should worry about Daniel’s vengeful ghost. Wouldn’t he consider her at least partially to blame? But she dismissed the thought. Daniel knew what he’d done. He wouldn’t want to face her again. Besides, while the living had caused her endless grief, she’d never had the slightest trouble with the dead.
A light came on in the kitchen, and Daniel’s father shuffled in. She knew him right away from his picture in the paper. His gray head thrust forward with effort, as if it were dragging the rest of him, as if he had bowling balls chained to those storklike legs. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic container—probably a casserole some friend had dropped by. People around here did that sort of thing. He fished a spoon out of the sink and began eating the stuff cold and congealed, a duty to be done.
A blustery wind whistled through the trees, sent broken leaves showering over Evangeline. She unrolled a small blanket she’d tied to her pack and wrapped it around herself. She wondered how much cold a body could survive, but she already knew that someone had seen her and wanted her there.
She sat back against the gnarled tree, watching the old man eat at the kitchen sink. And she felt it again, someone in the room next to the kitchen, looking out at her. Looking right into her eyes.
10
The kitchen’s sink, long stacked with foul dishes, had begun to reek. While the mess offended me, it provided an odd comfort, as if the house were mourning too, had joined me in shunning the stifling conventions of cleanliness and health.
I forced down a few bites of stale bean salad and threw the container into the sink, not bothering to scrape it clean. It had begun to mold, and I wanted to add it to the greasy sea. The mold was alive. That is what I told myself. That was my excuse. I stood there, my reflection distorted in the old night glass, and watched as some beans sank and others floated to the surface.
I retired then to my room and fell asleep exhausted. At one in the morning, I woke to Rufus whining and pawing at the bed, nudging his head under my arm. I’d forgotten to let him out. As soon as I opened the back door, he raced outside, lost into that darkness. Twenty minutes later, he hadn’t returned despite many calls. I shoved my bare feet into cold work boots, pulled on a coat, and ventured out with a flashlight.
Halfway across the field, Rufus came tearing from the other side of the house, panting and wide-eyed, evading attempts to snag his collar. He barked as if instructing me to follow and ran back around.
On the far side, an animal of some sort lay under the old plum tree. As I approached, the creature reconfigured itself, turned human. Cutting the darkness with swipes of light, I pieced together an image—a girl, a teenager I guessed, her wild hair filled with pine needles and bark, her startled eyes squinting against the glare.
Rufus laid his head on her lap, and she wrapped her arms around him, her face twisted to the side as if in pain. When I switched off the light, she said, “Thanks.” A familiarity in her tone made me wonder if she was a student or the child of a neighbor. I knelt beside her. She was shivering in the cold. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, brushing dead leaves off her cheek.
She offered nothing more, so I asked if I could get her home.
“There’s no home,” she said.
“A friend then?”
“No friend. We were new here.”
“We were?”
“I mean me. It’s just me.”
“No people here then?”
She hesitated, then said, “No. No people.”
She said she’d been in town only a few days, had wandered up my drive thinking it was a park, hoping to find shelter. Rufus had led me to a foundling. What option was there but to bring her to warmth, to food, to a clean bed if she was in need? I led her inside to the kitchen table, but the stench and disarray of the kitchen embarrassed me, and I went to the sink.
“Don’t worry. It’s okay,” she said. She smiled and held my gaze in a way that didn’t feel right, and I glanced away for a long moment. When I looked back, she seemed more like what she was, an abandoned creature, small and vulnerable and fierce. She absently touched her left wrist, and her eyes darted to the battered pack she’d lugged in and set near the door.
Mud caked her jeans, and her dark red hair hung to the middle of her back, matted and dirty, weeks without a wash. Who knew what might be living in its knotted secret places. Her face, though smudged with dirt, was smooth and freckled, her eyes a startling yellow-green like new moss. She stroked Rufus with hands that were a horror—nails black with impacted dirt, sticky grime between her fingers, streaks of blood on hands and forearms, as if she had clawed her way through the dark earth to the spot where I’d found her.
She kept glancing at the refrigerator. She was hung
ry. Of course. I went to it, pulled out one of many plastic tubs, and peeked inside.
“Lasagna,” I said. “I think it’s still good. Let me heat it for you.”
“Cold is okay,” she said. She went to the sink, fished that frightful water for silverware. She pulled out a big spoon and two forks and started rinsing them. Something proprietary in her manner put me on edge, made me wonder how long she’d been under that tree.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Should I know you? Have I forgotten you somehow?”
Her head jerked around. “No,” she said, agitated. Then, more calmly, “No, like I said, I’m new here.”
She pulled her hands out of the sink. “Oh. Should I not have? I wanted to help. You’re being so nice. I wanted to help.”
“No. Of course it’s okay, but please, sit.”
I would feed her, but then what? There was no reason to involve the police, nor was there anyone I wished to frighten with a middle-of-the-night call. “Eat. Afterward, if you want, I’ll set you up in the guest room.”
I dished her up a large serving of the overly cheesy affair, one of the many casseroles thoughtful Friends had deposited on my doorstep after the memorial. With thick yellow grease coating the top, it hardly appeared appetizing, but she dug in, wolfing down a half dozen bites before she stopped and looked up.
“Would you eat some with me? Please?” The voice was that of a small child, her fair skin reddening.
“Of course. If you wish.” As I dolloped a modest scoop onto another plate, she waited, smiling beneath that bowed head. I’d hardly eaten in weeks, and my belt now gathered my pants like a skirt. But I could imagine the girl’s discomfort in eating alone and ravenous in a stranger’s home. I sat and out of courtesy took a bite. To my surprise, the greasy pasta with its rich, dense flavor woke my appetite as if from hibernation. After finishing the small portion, I served myself more.
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