by Ronald Malfi
Back in the kitchen, Laurie located Dora Lorton’s phone number on the pad beside the phone and dialed it. It rang several times without answer, and Laurie was just about to hang up when the ringing stopped. Silence simmered in her ear but no one said a word.
“Hello?” said Laurie. She thought she heard someone breathing.
“Who’s this?” It was Dora Lorton’s clipped, businesslike voice.
“Ms. Lorton, this is Laurie Genarro. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you have a moment to talk?”
The woman exhaled loudly on the other end of the phone. Laurie thought she heard a TV on in the background. “What is it?”
“I wanted to ask you about the little girl who lives next door,” Laurie said, searching now for a sign of Abigail through the bay windows as she spoke. “Do you know her?”
“There is no little girl who lives next door.”
Laurie thought she had misheard the woman. “The little girl with the long reddish-brown hair. Surely you’ve seen her. She plays in the yard.”
“There is no girl who lives next door,” Dora repeated. “The Rosewoods live next door and they do not have any children.”
“Their last name isn’t Evans?”
“No. There are no families named Evans that I am aware of on Annapolis Road, or anywhere else in the neighborhood, for that matter.”
“Ms. Lorton, a little girl named Abigail Evans—”
“Some months ago there was some trouble with vandals,” Dora said. In the background, the sound of the TV had vanished. Perhaps she had muted it or turned it off. “People’s mailboxes were stolen, windows were broken, and cars were vandalized. It turned out to be teenagers from a few streets over. Perhaps this girl is one of them.”
“No, no, she’s much too young. The girl is Susan’s age, and she—”
“Susan?”
“Yes. My daughter. The girl is ten years old. You’re telling me you know of no such girl?”
“I have never seen a young girl at that house. I don’t know any family by the name Evans.”
Laurie stood there with the phone to her ear, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Mrs. Genarro? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Is there a problem at the house?”
“No,” she said, but her voice was small now, nearly nonexistent. “No problem.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Was there anything further?”
Laurie shook her head. She thought she saw someone’s silhouette move between the trees on the other side of the fence, but then realized it was just a leafy bough swaying in the breeze.
“Mrs. Genarro? Hello?”
“Sorry. No, I’m okay. Thank you. Good-bye.”
She hung up the phone.
Chapter 16
Ted was cursing to himself while hunched over his laptop in the parlor when Laurie came through on her way to the front hall. He didn’t even seem aware of her presence. She went out the front door and walked down the driveway. Annapolis Road was a curving band of asphalt that ran a rough parallel to the Severn River, heavily wooded and dotted with lampposts and the occasional parked car. Laurie walked next door to the rundown house on the other side of the fence. Unlike her father’s well-kept property, the front yard here was wildly overgrown and populated by a multitude of ceramic garden gnomes. The driveway was comprised of unpaved concrete slabs that had been reduced to rubble in places. The green sedan was back in the driveway, its bumper dented, its tires bald enough to let the steel bands poke through. The white car with the BGE emblem on the door was gone.
Years ago, when Laurie Genarro had been Laurie Brashear, this house had belonged to Sadie Russ and her parents. In Laurie’s youth, she had been in the house on a handful of occasions, and she recalled the dark rooms and the smell of bad meat coming from the kitchen. The Russes had been liberal and inattentive parents who would let the girls do as they pleased whenever Laurie came over to play. She recalled Sadie leaving empty dishes all over the house, clothes in every corner of her bedroom, socks and shoes left out overnight on the back porch. It looked like the same house now—even more so in its disrepair and neglect—and as she walked up the front porch and knocked on the door, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. or Mrs. Russ answered her knock, though she knew they had moved away soon after their daughter had died.
The woman who answered was not Mrs. Russ, but a woman who might have proven a suitable counterpart. With short, choppy blond hair, a clear complexion, and startling green eyes, she was good-looking in a pleasant, carefree sort of way. She wore an open chambray shirt over a ribbed undershirt, loose-fitting Capri pants, and sandals. With a partial smile, the woman offered her a breathy hello. She looked to be about Laurie’s own age.
Laurie smiled and tried to appear harmless. “Hello. My name’s Laurie Genarro. My father was Myles Brashear. He lived next door.”
The woman’s mouth came together in an O while her thin yellow eyebrows drew together. “Oh, shoot. Oh, no. I’m so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. Please, come in.” She stepped aside and allowed Laurie to enter. “I didn’t know your father very well, except to say hello when I saw him sitting out in the yard. That was so long ago now. He seemed like a nice man. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
The house was dim, the windows in the adjoining rooms overrun with foliage that blotted out the daylight and left the hallway as dark as an undersea chasm. The air itself tasted of some nonspecific uncleanliness. Amazingly, it was just as Laurie remembered it.
“I’m Liz Rosewood.” The woman offered her hand to Laurie and Laurie shook it. The woman had small pointy breasts beneath her ribbed undershirt and the figure of a teenaged boy. “Let’s sit inside. Do you drink tea? I’m just about to have some.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Liz Rosewood led her into a small kitchen at the back of the house. The walls and floor were done in muted earth tones and there were many papers, magazines, and unopened envelopes scattered about the counter and a nearby hutch. A wall of windows looked out on a weather-grayed deck and an untidy backyard. It was all distantly familiar. Liz Rosewood waved a hand at the small kitchen table and beckoned Laurie to sit. Laurie pulled out a chair and dropped down in it before her knees could give out. Liz went to the stove and poured two cups of hot tea.
“This is an omen,” Liz Rosewood said. “I was just telling Derrick last night that I should bake some brownies or cupcakes or something and come by your house. I felt horrible about not coming by sooner but Derrick said it would be too intrusive, considering what you poor folks are dealing with at the moment. I mean, we saw the ambulance and the police cars that night. Derrick went over to see if he could help in any way. Such a terrible thing.” She stepped to the table and set down the two steaming mugs. “Derrick is my husband.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Laurie said, pulling her hot mug in front of her. “It’s been a circus over there. We’re from Hartford, Connecticut, and we had to pick up and come down here at the last minute. It’s my husband, Ted, and our daughter, Susan. She’s ten, and was pretty upset about coming down this way for the summer.”
“Yes, I’ve seen her playing in the yard,” Liz confessed, sitting down in a chair opposite Laurie at the table.
“Well, I figured I’d introduce myself, seeing how our daughters have apparently been hanging out together.”
Liz smiled, shook her head, and looked down at her tea. “Abigail’s not my daughter.”
“No?”
“She’s my niece. My sister and her husband went to Greece for the summer. Derrick and I said we’d keep an eye on her. We don’t have any kids of our own.”
Relief hit her like a tidal wave. Only then did it occur to her that she had been expecting Liz Rosewood to say she didn’t know what the heck Laurie was talking about, and that no girl by the name of Abigail Evans lived here.
“Oh,” Laurie said. The word w
as borne on a shuddery exhalation. “Well, that’s good of you. To do that for your sister, I mean.”
“Oh, Abigail’s no trouble. And my poor sister and her husband never get any time to themselves. Derrick and I were happy to do it.”
“Does your sister live in this neighborhood?”
“They live in Ellicott City. It’s not far, maybe half an hour or so. Are you familiar with the area?”
“Actually, I grew up in the house next door.”
“No kidding?” Liz Rosewood brightened. “A Naptown girl!”
“Barely. My parents got divorced when I was ten and my mother and I moved to Virginia. I feel like a bit of an outsider, to tell you the truth.”
“That’s the beauty of this area. It’s a brilliant mix of locals and refugees.”
“Refugees?”
“Interlopers. Imposters.” Liz smiled warmly. “Folks from out of town. With the Naval Academy downtown, we’ve always got tourists and out-of-towners coming in and out of the city. You may feel more welcome than most.”
“Did you know the Russes? They lived in this house when I was a little girl. It was a long time ago.”
“The Russes? No, I’m afraid not. We’ve only been in the house a few years, and we bought it from a family named Cappestrandt. Derrick and I are originally from the Eastern Shore, but he took a job with BGE and the commute over the Bay Bridge was murder on him, so we starting looking around on this side of the bridge. We looked at a number of places in Baltimore—it would have been much cheaper out that way—but it’s so much nicer out here by the water, don’t you think?”
“It’s lovely,” Laurie agreed. “So how long will Abigail be staying with you?”
“Until the end of the summer. We’ve been having fun.”
“When did she get here?”
“A few weeks ago, just after school let out for summer vacation.”
“So then she was here when my father had his . . . his accident. I’d hate to think she was troubled by what happened.”
“To be honest, I don’t think she even knows what happened. The sirens woke Derrick and me up, but I think she slept straight through it all.”
At first, the word sirens summoned images of mermaids in Laurie’s addled brain. She struggled to keep a smile on her face. “Well, it’s nice of you to take her for the summer. Your sister and her husband are lucky to have you.”
“My brother-in-law is an architect, so this Greece trip is half pleasure and half business. They kept putting it off until Derrick and I finally said go, go, go. Have you ever been to Greece?”
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“I used to teach, but I’ve been home now with Susan for about a year. Ted, my husband, he’s a playwright. He’s working on an off-Broadway adaptation of a John Fish novel right now.”
“Is that right? Wow, that’s spectacular. I’ve read a bunch of Fish’s novels. I love him. Have you met him?”
“No, but my husband has.”
“That must be very exciting. So he’s writing a theatrical version of one of the books?”
“Yes. It’s called The Skin of Her Teeth.”
“I’ve read that one! How fantastic! Will you get special seats for the opening night, seeing how you’re the wife of the playwright?”
“I suppose so.” She recalled opening night for Ted’s play Whippoorwill a number of years ago now. There hadn’t been any special seating in the tiny Greenwich theater, unless you counted the metal folding chairs lined up in the walkways.
“Derrick and I saw Wicked in DC last year; it was wonderful. It must be such a rewarding profession.”
Laurie thought of Ted cursing to himself on the sofa as she slipped out of the house just moments ago, and she smirked ironically. “It’s a lot of work,” was all she said.
“Well, it’s nice that Abigail has found a friend for the summer. There are so few kids on this block for her to play with, and of course she doesn’t know any of them, anyway. She can be a bit shy, the poor thing. Will you be here much longer?”
“We’re liquidating my father’s estate, so we’ll be here until that’s done. I’m not really sure how long it will take.”
“And then it’s back to—Connecticut, did you say?” She sipped her tea with both hands around her mug. She looked like a squirrel eating a nut.
“Yes. Hartford.”
Liz reached across the table and touched the top of Laurie’s hand, startling her. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead.”
Liz sprang up and went to a credenza where she rifled through paperwork and checkbooks until she located a carton of Marlboros. “Want one?”
“I don’t smoke, thanks.”
Down the hall, the front door slammed.
“Well,” Liz said, sitting back down at the table. “Speak of the devil.” A cigarette bouncing from her mouth, she called down the hall, “Abigail! Come here for a minute, love.”
Laurie held her breath as she heard the girl’s approaching footsteps. A moment later, Abigail appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey, peaches,” said Liz Rosewood. “Your friend Susan’s mom stopped by to say hello.”
“Hi,” Abigail said. Her faded blue dress looked too big on her. Harsh black shoes reflected the paneled lights in the ceiling.
Laurie said, “Hello.”
She watched Abigail go to the refrigerator, pop open the door, and scrounge around within. There was artwork on the refrigerator door, if the repetitious drawing of circles could be called “artwork.” Circles of varying sizes in a multitude of colors. They looked like something a kid with Asperger’s might draw. The girl came out of the fridge with a carton of apple juice, which she set on the counter. Laurie saw that her fingernails were black with grit, and there was just the faintest smudge of dirt or grease beneath her chin. There was a step-stool beside the cabinets, which Abigail used to get a glass out of one of the high cupboards.
“I was thinking tacos tonight,” Liz told Abigail. “How’s that strike you, hon?”
“Hooray!” The girl beamed. “Can Susan eat over?”
“Well,” said Liz, turning to Laurie, “that’s up to Susan’s mom.”
Laurie smiled wearily. Her face was beginning to hurt.
“Derrick and I, we sometimes regret not having children.” Puffing on her cigarette, Liz Rosewood looked down longingly at her tea, as if to divine some comfort from its steaming surface. “It’s so much work, but then again, I don’t think you truly live until you raise a child of your own. It must be so rewarding.”
It was the sort of thing people without kids seemed obliged to say to people who had them, as if attempting to commiserate over an illness they did not have. She nodded in a simulacrum of agreement while she watched Abigail replace the apple juice in the refrigerator. Then she watched as Abigail chugged down half her glass of juice, her grimy little fingers leaving smudges on the glass.
“It’s no trouble, of course,” Liz said as Abigail put her empty glass in the sink. It clanked against a stack of dishes. “If Susan wants to have dinner here, I mean. It would be nice for the girls to spend some more time together. They’re both refugees this summer.”
Abigail ran a pointy little tongue over her lips.
“I’ll check with Susan,” Laurie said, though the thought of her daughter spending any time in Sadie’s old house—with a little girl who looked disconcertingly like Sadie—caused a fist to shove up through Laurie’s guts. Suddenly, she wanted to get the hell out of here.
“We drew pictures of dinosaurs the other day,” Abigail said. She had taken a napkin from one of the kitchen drawers and was running it back and forth across her mouth. “I did a stegosaurus and Susan did a tyrannosaurus.” She balled up the napkin and placed it in the trash. “Tyrannosaurus was the king of the dinosaurs. Its name means . . . something . . . lizard.”
“Tyrant lizard,” commented Liz Rosewood.
“That’s right,” Abigail said
gloomily.
Get me out of here, Laurie wanted to scream.
“I like tacos,” Abigail told no one in particular.
Abruptly, Laurie stood. “I need to get back to the house now.”
“Oh.” Liz stood as well, though with less fervor. The cigarette hung limply from her lips. “Well, it was wonderful meeting you. Won’t you let me know if you need anything from us?”
“I will.”
“And again, I feel horrible for not stopping by earlier—”
“Don’t be silly. Thank you for the tea.”
Laurie moved quickly down the hallway to the front door. Liz set her tea down and rushed to catch up.
“So can Susan come for dinner?” Abigail asked from the far end of the hallway. Her slight silhouette in the oversized dress was framed in the kitchen doorway. “Please?”
“Really,” Liz said to Laurie, her voice dropped to a half-whisper now. “It’s not a problem.”
“I’ll have to check with Ted,” Laurie said. “I’ll let you know.” She gripped the doorknob more tightly than necessary. “Thank you again for the tea. It was nice meeting you. Good-bye.”
Chapter 17
“Let her go,” Ted said. “It’ll be good to have a night to ourselves.”
She had been foolish to tell Ted about going over to the Rosewoods’, and about the invite Susan had received for dinner. She wished she could rewind time and take it back. The thought of her daughter in that house with that girl troubled her. Every time she thought of those drawings of circles hanging on the refrigerator door, she shivered.
“I don’t know,” she said. They were in the kitchen and she was digging out pots and pans from the cabinets. “She can be a handful.”
“A handful? Susan? The kid’s an angel. Seriously, Laurie, what harm can it do? You and I can go out and eat a nice meal, maybe catch a movie. We haven’t had any time for ourselves lately. And frankly, I think it would do you good to get out of this house for a while.”