The Hare

by Melanie Finn

  “You have kids?” Rose asked, and when Diane gave a slight shake of her head, she went on. “You never stop protecting them. Making it right for them. Her father was a first-class asshole. Let me be clear. What does she gain by knowing that?”

  “Control. Over her own past. I’m going to put this back on now.” Diane jabbed her phone, sat back in a show of patience.

  “There was a family issue with money. I think. They’d had money. Bennett said his father lost it all.” Rose made a laugh she hoped would be light and dismissive. “But who knows.”

  Diane wrote quickly, concentrating. “Did you want him to come back?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d gone to jail for running drugs.”

  “Maybe he was rehabilitated.”

  Rose imagined roaring out in wild amusement. Instead, she said, “Look, I never saw him after he was released and he never contacted me.”

  “Huh.” Diane chewed her pencil thoughtfully. “Because there’s some confusion with the dates and maybe you can help me out. According to Miranda, you’d told her he was dead when he was — as I discovered — still in prison. And then he got out, and he allegedly disappeared and you declared him dead.”

  Rose sighed softly. “Yes, I see what you’re doing. You think there was a pattern. Malice. Intention. But I just was making decisions as they came. I told her Bennett was dead because it seemed the easiest explanation at the time. She was a small child. I thought that was best.”

  “Easier to tell her her father was dead?”

  “His dealer was a pedophile who wanted to take photographs of her, then a baby of two, to pay his drug debt. My only desire was to protect Miranda. It still is.”

  Diane nodded, then waited.

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” Rose added. “For the record.”

  “You had no contact with him when he was in prison, and you had no idea when he was getting out?”

  “None, and no.”

  “And he never contacted you when he got out?”

  “No. As I’ve said.”

  “Not in May 1993?”

  “No. I never heard from him.”

  “And that was your sole reason for declaring him dead? That he didn’t show up, he didn’t give you a call?”

  “Yup.”

  “You had no other evidence?”

  “Listen, Bennett always came back. It was how he kept control. By leaving and then coming back whenever he felt like it. I could never just get on with my life. Sooner, later, he’d appear, not out of love or duty or even homesickness but to fuck it all up.” Rose flattened her hands on the table, she spoke slowly. “The only reason he would not come back was if he was dead.”

  “Right, hmmm. Interesting.” Diane shifted in her seat, writing manically, then stopping, Columbo like, with the pencil to her lips: “So, there’s a couple of odd things I’d like to go over. Like phone calls. I obtained your phone records.”

  “You can do that?”

  “It’s not difficult. The old phone companies disbanded, their records are available.”

  Rose was suddenly on fire, her face flushing, sweat pricking her underarms. She yanked off her sweater. Diane was studying her, interpreting this fluster. “Menopause.” Rose took a long drink of water. “Go on, you were saying, the phone records.”

  “You had the phone installed in 1992.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “And the bills at that time itemized every number you dialed.”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “So —” Diane brought out photocopies of the bills. “If you see here, in May of 1993, there’s a cluster of phone calls to a number in Maine.”

  Rose felt herself frown, then applied a more placid veneer. Maine, she was thinking, what about Maine?

  “Who do you know in Maine,” Diane wanted to know.

  “No one.” The heat had subsided, Rose pulled her sweater back on, she was thinking about her daughter — why didn’t she just ask for the phone records — and who had phoned who in — “Maine?”

  “Kennebunkport,” Diane clarified.

  “I don’t know anyone in Kennebunkport.”

  “Not a business or a person? Do you recall?”

  “The Kennedys? The Bushes?”

  Diane managed a tight smile. “You see the problem, right? Who would have been calling Kennebunkport from the phone in your house? If not you.”

  Rose’s bra strap dug into her shoulder. “Maybe it was an error on the bill.”

  “Did you question it at the time? Did you call the phone company?”

  “Do I remember calling the phone company 30 years ago to complain about a bill?”

  “You’re a book-keeper.”

  “Now. I wasn’t then.”

  “But you were careful with money?”

  “Did Miranda say that?”

  “I just assumed from what she told me that things had been tight.”

  And what had Miranda told Diane? Rose thought she’d hidden their poverty so well.

  “So if you’d got a bill and there were charges you didn’t recognize, you’d probably flag it, right? Out-of-state calls weren’t cheap in those days.”

  Rose tried to scroll back in her mind. She really had no recollection of the phone bill or the item Kennebunkport. Briefly, she wondered if Diane was making it up, a clever trap. In the days following Billy’s and Bennett’s deaths, she’d felt chaotic, filled with grief and fear, heavy with the weight of both their bodies, she’d had trouble getting out of bed and putting on her shoes. But Hook had stuck her long cold nose into the covers and regarded Rosie without pity. She needed to be let out to pee.

  “The other odd thing —” for the detective believed she was on to something — “is that your neighbor Williamina Mix disappeared a day after the last phone call to Maine.”

  Rose gave an impression of thinking back. “I remember when she disappeared. I reported it to the police. I don’t know the exact date. By May sounds about right.”

  “It’s just a coincidence?” Diane leaned back, her hands braced against the table corners, triangulating her body. “The two disappearances?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.”

  “They both disappeared, Bennett and Williamina, around the same time. Bennett was paroled the week before.”

  “I don’t know when he was paroled. We weren’t communicating.” Rose idled her gaze in neutral.

  “You had him declared dead.”

  “After seven years. I felt we needed closure.”

  “We?”

  “For Miranda. Better a dead father than one who decided his daughter wasn’t worth coming home for.”

  “But the seven years, Rose, the seven years is a very specific time, it’s the legal minimum for such a declaration in Vermont, and you sought it seven years after Williamina Mix’s death — after the phone calls to Maine from your house. After Bennett’s parole.”

  “Exactly seven years?” Rose frowned. “To the day?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Roughly?”

  “Within a year.”

  Rose looked exasperated. “Within 365 days of the seven year anniversary of his parole that I didn’t know about, I filed a declaration of death form. And that’s a coincidence?”

  “I still don’t understand why you bothered. Was it money? Insurance? Why not just accept that he was missing?”

  “I’ve answered that question.”

  “His sister lives in Maine.”

  “Does she?”

  “Kennebunkport, in fact.”

  Rose nodded.

  “So maybe you heard he was getting out and you got in touch with her.”

  “I don’t even know her name, let alone her number.”

  Now Diane smiled. “Then who phoned her in May 1993? The, ah, 5th, 6th and 7th.”

  Bad penny, Rose thought, you bad, bad, rotten goddamned penny.

  “Do you think he isn’t dead?” she burst s
uddenly out. “It halfway wouldn’t surprise me that he was living in the Virgin Islands running a bar or shacked up with a rich widow in New Orleans. If he is alive, if you find him, please let me know. Eighteen years of unpaid child support would come in handy.”

  “Miranda told me you’d be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Evasive.”

  “Evasive?” Rose felt the word like a hard slap. “How about just sad that I’m not having this conversation with Miranda?” Blowing out her cheeks, she went on: “This is years ago, decades ago, I don’t remember exactly what happened or what I thought, but I was alone, Bennett abandoned me with a baby in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter with no money and no car. I was 20.”

  Diane ignored this, she had her own pitiless agenda. “Williamina Mix. Cause of death is listed as suicide.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But if the body was never found, how could anyone conclude that she killed herself?”

  And here Rose faltered. Diane had at last found her heel, the deep hole where the lies slithered in.

  “Hi, Rose!” It was Tony, the mechanic, his fat hand on her shoulder. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, Tony. How about you?”

  They chatted back and forth a moment more, the weather, his daughter’s wedding in the summer. Diane distracted herself by checking her phone, this habit of young people to look busy and important at all times.

  Then Tony moved off and Rose returned her focus to the detective: “You’ve obviously noticed that my daughter is very successful. And she’s only just getting started. She’s going to be very rich and very powerful. I’m sure you’re asking yourself what you really want from her, long-term, and how you might get that.”

  Diane was so earnest. “Miranda Kinney is my client. My job is to provide her with the information she’s asked for.”

  “I really have to get back to work now.” Rose pushed her chair back. Billy wasn’t in Heaven. Billy wasn’t an angel standing in judgement of Rose’s lies. There were no witnesses. Yet Rose felt her treachery afresh — she felt the rotten, fungal-infested wood of her soul, she felt what lies did to the liar. She took a deep breath and said: “Billy killed her dogs, Diane. She shot them. And then she went into the woods. Deep into the woods somewhere. With her gun. And she never came out.”

  Now she stood and began to gather her things. Diane was in no such hurry. “It’s just so weird,” she tapped her pencil. “Two people you know go missing within a short period of time, and yet there are no bodies.”

  “Weird? Huh,” Rose puffed out her cheeks. “Weird is all you’ve got? What the hell do you think life is?”

  Out the door, warm sunshine. Safe in her car. Ignition on. The engine sounded good with its new catalytic converter. Rose backed out, then pulled forward and away from the Bagel Depot. Turned right, maintained speed. She stopped at the road works near the supermarket. The town was finally putting in a traffic light. Her car was warm from the sun, she cracked a window. Bennett. She hated him, the hate still glowed hot and nuclear. Then a wave of exhaustion came over her with such smothering force she leaned her head forward onto the steering wheel.

  WHUMP! Her head flew up and back, the blasting, disconcerting sunlight. Instinctively, she slammed on the brake. A man was walking toward her. “Stupid bitch!” he was screaming, the way people scream these days, full of personal affront. “Fuckin’ dumb, stupid fuckin’ bitch you fuckin’ rear-ended me!”

  Insurance, she thought. Five hundred deductible.

  It took her an hour to untangle the disparity in April’s accounts. At last, she turned to the hard copies and realized that Silas had typed in $1056.94 instead of the correct amount, $156.94 on the invoice. She tidied up the errors, the columns were so neatly arranged. For this reason, she loved accounting — the numbers obeyed if you treated them well. Life in Excel was neat and tidy, ordered and predictable. If things didn’t add up, the mistake could be pinpointed and corrected. Numbers were guileless.

  Checking her email, she felt a little lift seeing one from Chris.

  Rosie,

  Is Boston too far? How about June 13, 7 pm, the Copley Plaza Hotel? I’m staying there. So we can eat at the hotel restaurant or find something in the area. What do you prefer?

  Chris.

  She replied:

  That would be great. The hotel is fine. I’ll see you then!

  And worried about the exclamation mark. Was that too much enthusiasm? Too young? The equivalent of a skirt above the knee? She took it out, then reinserted it. Chris hadn’t seen her since she had the skin of a peach, so she really shouldn’t worry about age-appropriate punctuation.

  On a piece of scrap paper, she wrote:

  Haircut and color $100

  Mani/Pedi $50

  Facial?

  Eyebrow shaping $25

  Cash to have on hand $100

  Clothes $200

  Shoes $150

  Ins. deductible for car $500

  Total $1225.

  Scrolling back into the accounts, she changed the $156.94 back to $1056.94, then went to the petty cash sheet and deducted $900. There. Seamless. From the petty cash, she took five hundred in twenties and fifties.

  A few hours later, she stood at the bottom of the steps leading up to Le Petit Choux Boutique in Montpelier. Expensive clothes have a scent, she thought, as she entered in: wool, linen, cotton, cashmere, leather, suede are nothing like the smell of hands and detergent in a thrift store or the cleaning solvent mixed with cheap vanilla candles at Penney’s. The subtle perfume of the cashier — and was that Aveda shampoo? Plus a bouquet of lilies on the counter.

  A woman of her own age materialized from the racks: “How may I help you today?”

  The saleswoman was calculating, scanning Rose from head to foot, identifying the cut and quality of her clothes. Was she a shoplifter? Was she a rich person dressed eccentrically in cheap clothes?

  Her voice sounding suddenly too loud, Rose affected a breezy tone: “Just looking.” The saleswoman stepped back, but Rose knew she was being followed; suspicion was upon her as she touched the fabrics, as if staining them with her dirty hands, as if her breath might undo the stitching. She’d gone from invisible to visible, and she did not dare to turn the tags face-up to see the prices.

  The clothes made her feel hungry. The textures, the colors, the delicate buttons and hand-stitched hems. What was she doing? Stealing money to impress a man she hadn’t seen in nearly four decades. Who’d asked her merely for dinner. Who thought she still looked as she had. Or had aged in a graceful California way.

  Oh, but here: regard the bias cut of this linen dress, the dark coffee brown of the dye, so beautifully sophisticated. Elegant. Perhaps with this wide, striped scarf? The coveting was almost sexual. Rose wanted to put these beautiful dresses and slacks and skirts in a huge pile and roll around in them, she wanted to rub the soft suede trousers all over her breasts, to nuzzle the cashmere cardigans and suck on the shell buttons.

  “Let me help you.” The saleswoman’s lipstick was immaculately applied. Meekly, Rose followed her. Inside the spacious changing room, she slipped out of her clothes. Here, the lighting was flattering and Rose re-appraised herself. How well the clothes fit, designed for the long lines of her body. She turned side to side, her hands running over the taut linen skirt. But this would wrinkle badly, so she swapped it for a light-wool mix in a dove-grey — a softer silhouette, more appropriate for the evening anyway. And beautifully elegant with the cream chiffon blouse. Though the blue was lovely.

  Willfully, she averted her gaze from the price tags, and surrendered to the carnal wanting. She wanted, she wanted, the wanting of a hungry baby; she knew the wanting, yearning was completely irresponsible and unreasonable, but still she proceeded to the checkout, to the smiling, grateful saleswoman — “Oh, that shirt looks so amazing on you! I’m so glad you decided to go with it.”

  In this moment, she could flee. Run. She might ev
en admit, “I’ve made a terrible mistake, I’m sorry, this isn’t me, I can’t possibly afford these clothes.” Or she might simply buy one item. But there was a demon in her fighting against the years and years of pinching pennies, squeezing them like discount oranges.

  “Your total today is four hundred and forty-three and nineteen cents.”

  Today. Rose liked that, the idea that she might come back tomorrow or next week and it would be today all over again. Then her gut contracted, she felt the first ember of another hot flash. Do not blush. This is nothing to you, a mere today. Reach into your thrift-store bag and pull out the envelope of money. Cross off haircut and color and eyebrow shaping, cross off shoes. Those serviceable black pumps from the second hand shop in Littleton will do.

  Do not flinch, do not smile. Pay the lady.

  Clearly, the saleswoman was not expecting cash, and yet here it was, a little stack of 20s. Rose watched her take the bills, test their authenticity with a magic marker, and hand over the change.

  We’ve made this world in our own image. We desire only to undo nature, our own nature. The roads, highways, power lines, factories, shopping malls, houses — we think it’s improvement, civilization; but perhaps it’s self-hatred, a death wish. Rose had lived for so long in the Kingdom that the vast sprawl of outer Boston’s suburbia shocked her. The ubiquity made it pointless. Why so many Staples? What were people doing in a giant warehouse containing stationery? How many different kinds of pens did humanity need? Cars flew by her, beeping, yet she was doing 15 over the speed limit. Drivers were on their phones — she could see them! What was so important, why were they so busy that a call could not wait? The roadside was littered with dead animals, raccoons, deer, toads, foxes — the sleek, perfect beasts who live in mute accompaniment with our world, rendered into litter, there among our beer cans and coffee cups. One raccoon lay face down, arms stretched forward in ghastly supplication.

  Rose clung to the steering wheel, a drowning sailor with a floatation ring. She had forgotten this America, for her life had existed within a narrow set of compass points. In thirty years, she’d gone no further than Littleton or White River Junction or Burlington. She’d actually had to practice walking in the black high heels, wobbling back and forth across the kitchen. Her feet had shaped themselves to winter boots and Sketchers, the sensible footwear for seasons of mud and snow. Affordable. And unremarkable. She didn’t want Fate to notice her, she didn’t need drunk hunters to know she lived alone at the end of the road. Like Gran, she’d shunned joy, as if it necessarily trailed disaster. How cautiously she had moved through the days.