Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  I hesitate, check over my shoulder. The path behind me has become overgrown. Leaves unfold, rustling as they shake themselves out; mature buds blossom before my eyes, their colors so vibrant it burns; their fragrance begins to smother me. I follow into the darkness.

  I’m falling, hurtling, my legs kicking wildly, desperate to feel something solid. I reach and reach, but my hands find nothing to hold before I land into more of nothing. It’s a dream, I know this.

  Then I spot her, Trecie, sitting cross-legged across the way. The Asian woman is gone. Trecie’s pressing a bundle to her and I hear it yelp. I’m reminded of the dog, Peanut, and watch as Trecie pulls it closer, pressing her cheek against its head, nuzzling it as she giggles.

  Relief flows within me, rippling outward in concentric circles, growing larger as it laps against my insides. I walk toward her and my arms extend, ready to engulf her. Trecie is safe, she’s safe.

  She watches me approach and sits erect. There’s a shift in her that fills me with dread. Each step closer to Trecie pains me, a stab arcing toward my chest. But I need to bring her home.

  And then I’m standing over her. She looks at me as if she were protecting me and folds back the blanket that covers her bundle. It’s a baby. The infant’s cheeks, fat and round, beg to be kissed. Her mouth is glossy with drool, a string hanging from the corner. I want to catch it with my finger. Her eyes are brown and clear, innocent and fine. Daisies are scattered over her full belly, a stem caught in a fold of her thigh. She kicks it free, smiling and gurgling. She is my daughter.

  Trecie raises her to me. “Clara.”

  Tears burn my cheeks as I hold out my arms, but I can’t reach her.

  “Clara,” says Trecie.

  My arms are leaden things, as if I’m underwater. I swim toward them, struggling to breathe.

  “Clara!”

  I snap awake, my body heaving itself upward, lungs gasping, the book I fell asleep reading, a war memoir, askew on the floor. My eyes are burning, hot with tears. I want to go back. I need to find my way back to them.

  “Clara, wake up. It’s Mike.” There’s a banging at my door.

  I stumble out of bed, reaching for my robe, forgetting my slippers. He continues to pound the door, calling my name. Through the fog, I wonder if I’m really awake, if I’m not still caught in the nightmare.

  I can see him through the patio doors now; he looks thinner than I remember, though it’s been only a few days. The kitchen clock reads 7:06; I’ve overslept. My head is too clouded to speak when I open the door.

  This is not a casual visit. Mike has not come here for more tea, to hold my hand, to reassure me that Trecie is fine, that it’s not my fault, that he doesn’t truly believe I’ve imagined it all. He’s wearing a jacket and tie, his hands are red raw, and stubble coarsens the usual smoothness of his face. I’m careful to place a hand over the back of my head. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t move from the mat. He won’t look at me.

  “Clara, I need to take you down to the station, ask you a few questions.”

  In the parking lot behind him, there are more cars; three sedans and a Whitman cruiser.

  “Why?” I feel the way I used to when my grandmother would question me about some misunderstanding. Then those awful moments waiting in my mother’s childhood bedroom while my grandmother fetched her brush from the downstairs bathroom. I can almost hear her now, climbing the stairs.

  “I’ll stay here while you get dressed.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

  “What do you want to ask?” Is he curious about my visit to the Vanity Faire apartment?

  “Just get dressed.” It’s as if he’s pleading now, as if we both are.

  “Mike, please.”

  He rubs his face with a hand until it curls around to the back of his neck, rubbing back and forth. “We got the phone records from Reverend Greene’s line. The dates and times of all the anonymous tips match up with calls placed from the Bartholomew Funeral Home. I need to take you down to the station.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mike stands there, his body half turned away. “I can’t say any more.”

  I nod—it’s all I can do—and then head back to my bedroom. I reach for my white shirt, my fingers clumsy, shaking, missing the buttonholes again and again. As I dress, I look out to my greenhouse and wonder if there’s time to water my flowers. How long will I be gone? Will they survive two days, a week? I open the door and inhale, filling myself with them, taking their comfort with me. It’s only a few more minutes to make my bed, brush my teeth, put up my hair. When I return to the kitchen, Mike is in the same spot, still looking away.

  As we walk to the parking lot, I see Linus and Alma. Kate is walking Alma toward one of the sedans, and Mike’s partner, Jorge, escorts Linus. None of us speak. We stand too far away to reach out a hand, too close not to feel each other’s dread. Alma is composed yet nervous. She clutches her purse in front of her, red lipstick carefully drawn. She looks at me and nods her comfort. The cold must be bothering Linus’s knees. His gait is slow, careful. When he looks up, he stares, pouring himself into me. Then he smiles, warm and kind, as if to capture me within a protective embrace. If I could, I would go to him. I would take his hand and hold it within my own; I would press it to my cheek. I can hear his voice, I’ll take care of you.

  I swallow the catch in my throat and walk toward him until Mike reaches for my arm, guiding me to a separate car. I stop to look down at his hand, my gaze moving to meet his face.

  He looks at me then and I can see him. Finally, I can see him again.

  “I’m sorry, Clara.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  My tea has grown tepid. With only powdered milk and flimsy sugar packets to accompany it, there seems little point.

  We’re in one of the interrogation rooms at the Brockton Police Department. I sit facing Mike and Frank Ball, and whoever may be standing behind the two-way mirror. I try not to glance at my reflection, and the person beyond, focusing instead on the Whitman detective’s bobbing Adam’s apple as he reads a file from the sturdy cardboard evidence box: the familiar Precious Doe scrawled on all four sides in haphazard print. An ancient metal table sits between us, its gray surface marked by linked coffee rings and scratched with curses and games of tic-tac-toe, the grooves black with filth and the city’s ever-present grit. Mike already told me our conversation will be recorded; he didn’t mention if we were being videotaped as well.

  I try to imagine Linus and Alma in similar rooms, being apprised of their right to have an attorney present for questioning, being reassured that they are not under arrest. I imagine Alma’s stoic facade squared off against Kate’s blond cheerfulness. How her fingers must ache to scrub the table before her.

  Linus will be different. Friendly—warm even—he may go too far. He’s incapable of deception. He’ll give them everything they seek. Or in an effort to protect me, will he try to mislead them? I must remind myself to breathe (one-two-three).

  I keep my hands folded on my lap where they can shake at will. Mike’s coffee sits in front of him untouched. He rubs his hand along his cheek, the scratch of stubble audible in this small room, but he appears not to notice. We are close enough so that I can smell his soap. It seems impossible that just weeks ago I stood with him, holding him while he shook. Now we’re here. I look up and he’s watching me. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.

  Mike starts. “Can you tell us about the phone system at the Bartholomew Funeral Home?”

  I call to mind Linus and Alma, and in their faces find the courage to begin. “It’s a two-way line, meaning two phone numbers are hooked into the same line. One number is for the funeral home and the other is for Linus and Alma’s residence. Each number has a different ring tone, so we can tell if the call is business or personal.”

  “What’s the purpose of having a two-way line?” asks Ball. “Why not have two separate lines?”

  “Death comes at all hours, Detective Ball. Mr.
Bartholomew makes himself available when he’s at the supper table, while he’s sleeping—he even had a phone installed in his shower. No one likes to get an answering machine when they need an undertaker.”

  “I see.” Detective Ball makes a notation on his yellow legal pad and then gestures to Mike.

  “Who has access to the phone?” Mike says. He’s twirling a pen along his fingers, his notepad free of any marks.

  “Linus, Alma, and me.” A bright spot on his otherwise dulled wedding band catches the overhead light. He must see it too and moves his hand under the table while the other continues to flip the pen.

  “How well do you know Reverend Greene?” he asks.

  It occurs to me that the reverend must also be somewhere inside this building, being pushed and prodded by another interrogator. The room begins to waver a bit. The air is dense, and suddenly my throat’s parched and the tea becomes irresistible. But I don’t dare reach out my unsteady hand.

  “I’ve known him for twelve years.”

  Mike’s pen stops its fumbling. His gaze settles on me, pulling me into his sphere. I can no longer see Detective Ball. I can no longer see or hear or feel anything but Mike. My arms twitch and a hand begins creeping away from my lap, reaching toward my head.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Mike says. “I asked how well do you know him. Do you talk regularly, see each other socially? He is a widower, correct?”

  I pause, studying the growth along his face. I understand the implication and want to reach out and slap him. Mike is strong, but I feel an equal strength grow within me. I refold my hands. “How well do we really know anyone?”

  His eyes flash when he asks, “Why didn’t you tell the police investigating the death of Precious Doe about the birthmark you found on her neck three years ago?”

  “Why didn’t you find it?”

  He nearly winces. Though it’s not as satisfying as a smack, it has the same effect. Yet he persists. “You and the anonymous caller knew about it.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Did Linus?”

  “No.”

  Mike leans forward. I can smell his sweat through the soap and feel myself begin to grow warm. “Are you sure?”

  Breathe. “If Linus knew anything that could have helped that child, he would have called you.”

  “What makes you think he didn’t?” Mike speaks the next part too quickly for me to respond. “Now, what about Trecie?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in hearing about Trecie.”

  “You said Linus let her play at the funeral home?”

  “Mike, stop.”

  “Have there been other children over the years? Anyone fitting the description of Precious Doe?”

  “No!” My fingernails scrape my palm. “Mike, you know Linus. He’s a good man.”

  But he won’t stop. “You said yourself we never really know someone.” He waits just long enough for his words to register and then, “Why were you visiting Precious Doe’s grave the night Trecie fled your home?”

  “Because no one else does.”

  Mike purses his lips and looks off. “Would you say you go there often?”

  “I usually go at night,” I say, anger swelling my courage. “After midnight, when no one’s there. Well, almost no one.”

  He whips his eyes back to mine, and in them I see his nakedness. I want to turn away, to reel back my words, but they’ve been cast out, hitting the mark I sought. It’s too late.

  Mike squares his shoulders and regroups. “Do you have access to all of the rooms at the Bartholomew Funeral Home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even the residence?”

  “Yes.”

  Mike leans forward on the table, staring at me full-on, his eyes unblinking. He’s stringing my noose. “The bedrooms?”

  “Pardon?”

  Mike raises his voice. “The bedrooms. Have you been upstairs to the Bartholomews’ bedrooms?”

  I should tell him now, force him to listen to my story about the little dog, about the girl who looks so much like Trecie, about the boyfriend named Victor, but I don’t. He’s on the other side. Not mine, not Linus’s. “Yes.”

  “How recently?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “How many rooms are on the second story of the residence?”

  I pause, trying to imagine the trap he’s laying. “There are four bedrooms, a master bath, and a guest bathroom.”

  “I assume there’s a phone upstairs?” Mike won’t look away, and I don’t know where to direct my gaze.

  “I’ve already told you Linus had one installed in his shower. He also has one on his bedroom nightstand.”

  “The night we were searching for Trecie, while we sat in Linus’s kitchen, he claims he went upstairs to talk to Alma. Minutes later, a call was placed from that phone line to Reverend Greene. Then Reverend Greene called me with the news that the other girl in the video was Precious Doe. Do you recall that?”

  I can’t answer him. It hurts to breathe.

  But he won’t stop. “What’s in the other rooms?”

  I reach for the tea, letting the bitterness slip along my throat. “Alma uses one as a sewing room, and the other two are bedrooms.”

  Mike removes a photograph from the Precious Doe file and holds it up for me to see. It’s a picture of Trecie, a still taken from the video I saw at Charlie Kelly’s house. She’s staring at the camera; there’s the dingy wall behind her with the crayon scrawl and the bare mattress that haunts me.

  “Does this look familiar?” Mike asks.

  I bob my head, turning away. I’ve tried hard to forget that video.

  “Is this one of the bedrooms in the Bartholomew residence?” Mike’s voice is a whisper, and the picture begins to tremble between his forefinger and thumb.

  I place both hands on the table and push myself up, then reach for my coat from the back of my chair. Detective Ball stands and moves to the door. “We’re not done questioning you.”

  He is no one. I turn to Mike and he also stands, facing me, the picture of Trecie lying on the table between us.

  “There are four bedrooms upstairs.” I’m calm now; for Linus I can be anything. “There’s the master bedroom, Alma’s sewing room, and a guest room decorated with a quilt Alma made with her sisters. The fourth bedroom belongs to their dead son Elton. It contains his baseball trophies and posters of his favorite band. Nothing has been touched since that day.”

  My voice cracks and I need to stop, clear my throat before continuing. “You will not find that room”—I gesture to the photo—“at the Bartholomew home.”

  Feeling the rage build, my voice drops. “I assume you have officers searching the house as we speak. I would appreciate it if you would tell them not to disturb Elton’s room. It would devastate Alma. You of all people should understand.”

  Mike nods, his face slack and impossibly tired. I turn to leave.

  “Clara, wait.” He reaches for my arm and I shake him free.

  “Don’t touch me.” I want nothing more than to leave this place. I feel in my pocket for my wallet, hoping I have enough cash for a taxi home. I won’t ask for a ride. Had I really believed I could expect more of him, anything other than betrayal? My fingers knit themselves under the elastic holding back my hair and begin twisting. Not here, not now. Later. “If you have any more questions, please contact my lawyer.”

  Before I can open the door, Ryan is there. He steps into the room, blocking my escape. He nods in my direction but looks at Mike. “We got our caller. Bartholomew just asked for a lawyer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My grandmother came to me at night.

  I felt her there before I opened my eyes, the odor of lye soap and cloves hanging between us. She didn’t say anything at first, just waited while my pupils adjusted to the light streaming in from the hallway. Though physically small, she towered over my bed, my mother’s bed; her rosary beads wound tight around the knuckles of her left hand, the ti
ps of her fingers glowing white. I began to tremble when I realized she was dressed, her clothes covered by the striped apron, the one with pockets. The head of the boar’s-hair brush peeked over the lip of one pouch; the other was weighted down with something I couldn’t see. I didn’t look to my grandmother’s face.

  “Get up.”

  My bed was warm and the farmhouse frigid that winter night. Still I followed her along the hallway and down the stairs, gripping my cotton nightgown on either side as it fluttered against my knees. I should have known better than to drag my bare feet along the planks of knotty pine, I should have stepped firmly toward the inevitable. It wasn’t long before a splinter embedded itself in the ball of my right foot. It stayed there for days until an angry weal formed. When I touched a hot needle to it more than a week later, the bit of wood exploded through the skin, carried by a wave of pus.

  As my grandmother led me through the living room, I saw it and knew. There, on the mantel below the crucifix and alongside my mother’s senior-year picture, was my own portrait taken the month before. Each was defaced with red marker in her neat, purposeful cursive: Whore. When I had arrived at school on picture day, I freed my hair from its elastic, allowing it to hang loose to my waist. I’d hidden the photograph in the bottom of my closet along with the money saved from my job at Witherspoon Florist, a one-way bus ticket to Boston for the day after my graduation, and the calling card from my long-ago doll, Patrice, the same card I’d snatched back from my mother’s casket. It was safe to assume everything was gone now.

  We continued into the dining room that contained her mother’s set, the crown jewel a Victorian sideboard with contrasting mahogany inlay. It was too heavy for this space, too reminiscent of guests we’d never have. Through the doorway, the kitchen was ablaze with lights. When we walked in, I understood what was to happen. It wasn’t the first time, though it was the last. Or, perhaps, the beginning.

  A stool waited in the middle of the linoleum floor, a side table from the guest bedroom beside it. My grandmother’s Bible lay on top of it, its worn plastic cover obscured by a hand mirror lying facedown. Torn bits of paper marked favored passages. Whatever warmth I had left me then. It was as if all my blood flowed out, leaving my body weak and malleable. I’d like to say I protested, at least backed a step or two out of the room, but I didn’t.