Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  How to explain the four catatonic children bound to the television, mute Adalia, and the pressing absence of Trecie? “Nothing.”

  I reach for my teacup, and as I swallow I begin to digest her words; there was something off about her tone, too precise and cloaked.

  “Alma?” I watch her, concentrating, knowing that if I can translate her gestures, they will tell me more than she will intend to reveal. “Did you know about Linus and Trecie? That she played here? Before, I mean?”

  Her hand pauses over the pot. “He was on a lot of painkillers when he spoke, Clara. A trauma like that can muddle a man’s head.”

  A tremor grows within me and I replace my cup before I scald my lap. “That night we were looking for her, when we were all sitting at this table, did you know Trecie was here in this house? Linus must have told you.”

  Alma strikes the whisk against the pot, sending flecks of mashed potato against the tile backsplash. “I never saw the girl.”

  I squat to clip on Peanut’s leash; he flinches when I do. Feeling the breath leave my body, I become conscious of the earth spinning freely beneath my feet. When I stand, I steady myself against a chair. “You knew. You knew about Linus, about everything. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Alma whirls around, the whisk still in her hand, her lips curled in fury, and I’m suddenly reminded of my grandmother. “Because it was unnatural. Because you wouldn’t understand. You refuse to even try.” Her chest heaves as she speaks.

  “Please.” But my voice is swallowed by the swell of horror gathering in my throat. Instead I fill myself with the sight of her; I need to see the woman I thought she was. I need to find her again. “Alma, tell me.”

  “They would have called my husband a freak, had him committed, and I would not have that. He was not, is not a freak. He was a man of God who saw the world differently. You know that. You know Linus was a good man.” Her body trembles and the whisk shakes in her raised hand. I search her eyes, but they’re shrouded as if by rolling storm clouds.

  “Unnatural? What are you saying?” The dog begins to whimper.

  “Just stop it, Clara. Enough of this nonsense. You saw Trecie for yourself, where she’s been, what she’s been doing here. Open your eyes to what’s been going on right in front of you.”

  She can no longer stave off the tears, but I’m too ill for that. I race down the hall, pulling too hard on the leash. I hear the dog cry out as he tumbles down the last few steps. Finally we’re out the back door. From above, I hear the kitchen window rush open and Alma calling out, her voice breaking, “Linus is a good man!”

  Hurrying across the parking lot to my cottage, dragging Peanut until I’m forced to bend and carry him, I know Alma isn’t following, but still her words hound me. I fling my patio door open and slam it behind me, turning the bolt into its tunnel. When my cell phone rings from deep within my pocket, both Peanut and I startle.

  It’s Mike. “How’s the puppy?”

  The little dog trembles against me, and I wonder at his life, how much trauma he’s been privy to, the horrors he could detail. I tuck him under my chin and don’t pull away when he licks my ear. “Fine. Any word on Trecie?”

  “No.” From the weight of his few words, it sounds as if each day were a decade in his life. “Adalia’s in with Kate and a psychiatrist from McLean Hospital now, but she’s completely shut down.”

  Though I continue to see Alma’s face and hear her words, I go through the motions of this conversation. If I think about either of these circumstances, each too horrible to fully realize, I will slip away and fade forever. “And Inez, the boys?”

  Mike sighs. “From what the psychiatrist said, they’ve been isolated so long they’ve developed their own language. They learned some from television, but they can’t hold a conversation with outsiders.”

  There’s a pause and I wait for something, some billow of hope to rise from the ashes. Instead Mike says, “I was thinking of stopping by after work, bring over some takeout.”

  But it’s too late for me. Everything has come too late. “I don’t think so. Alma needs help getting ready for the wake.”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

  I can’t begin to contemplate a tomorrow. “Good-bye, Mike.”

  I hang up the phone and set the dog down. He scampers to a corner of the kitchen, looks to me, forlorn and uncertain, and then defecates on the floor.

  While he squats, I walk to the hall and dig toward the back of the linen closet. There among the towels and soap, I keep my luggage. I pull out the pieces, three cheap black things, and feel for the Amtrak tags still taped around the handles. These are all the mementos I have marking my life in Slatersville. I finger them, reading the faded print, the date still legible, and think of a life I believed I could leave there.

  It’s time to start over, in a city this time, or maybe a farm out west, working with the invisibles who float between this world and another across the border. We won’t speak the same language, be expected to share our lives or our selves. I can rent a shack near the orchards, a place of my own with only prairie dogs and hawks for company. It’s time to be alone again. This time, I want it. One last wake. I owe Linus that, and then I’ll move on, anew.

  As if such a thing were possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Adalia’s foster house is a neat split ranch with brown shingles and cranberry shutters. An evergreen wreath hangs on the front door with a crimson bow, a sprig of plastic holly tucked between the branches at a jaunty angle. A cheery blow-up snowman, its electrical cord buried under several inches of snow, waves to Peanut and me as I carry the dog along the salt-covered cement path. He whimpers when the wind kicks up, burrowing deeper under my coat.

  Through the bow window, I can see Mike talking to a woman, both of them beside a Christmas tree adorned with multicolored lights. The woman is plump and blond, wearing a red sweater with bright patterns. I imagine that when I get closer, those colorful blotches will reveal themselves to be a Christmas tree with a bounty of presents spread beneath, all laced with real ribbons neatly tied. She spots me before I’ve a chance to ring the bell.

  “Come in, come in!” She’s not a pretty woman. Her cheeks are ruddy and fat; her eyes are magnified, wobbly behind thick lenses; and though her lips are cracked from the cold, it doesn’t prevent a warm smile. She smells of talcum powder and bleach. As I wipe my boots on the landing of the split level, I spot Mike looking over the wrought-iron railing at me from the floor above.

  “I see you brought the puppy,” says the woman. She reaches out to pet the dog huddled against my chest, but I turn aside.

  Her smile falters a moment. “My name is Janey Conyers. I’m Adalia’s foster mother, at least for now.” She directs me up to the main floor. “You know Detective Sullivan?”

  I take the stairs ahead of the woman and stand before Mike. The living room is clean with a blue sofa and love seat, each positioned to face the brick fireplace and Christmas tree displayed before the window. The adjoining dining room is simple with blue and yellow check wallpaper and matching valances. Peanut pokes his head out of my coat when Mike reaches to scratch his head.

  “Hey, thanks for coming over so quickly.”

  I hug the dog to me and he nuzzles my collar. It was no surprise when he leaped onto my bed during the night, trying to sleep against me. Again and again, I put him back on the floor.

  Mike’s fingers graze my blouse as he strokes the little dog’s back. I move so he can no longer reach. “How is she?” I ask.

  Mike starts to speak, but the woman interrupts. “Poor lamb, she hasn’t said a word or eaten a bite since she got here last night. My husband and I are working with children’s services to see if we can get her brothers and sister here too. They’ve let us do that in the past. He’s out now getting presents for the little ones. It’s a blessing there’s still two shopping days left.”

  I ignore the woman and her cheerful optimism. “Has she said anything about Trecie
?”

  Mike just shakes his head. “We’ll have to wait until her mother comes down from her high. We found her early this morning in an abandoned factory on Main Street.”

  “Oh my Lord,” says Janey, stretching her Christmas sweater down along her thighs. “What these poor children have been through. If I could just get her to eat something.” She casts a wistful look down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

  Mike nods to the woman; his face is drawn and pale. Yet when he turns to me there is something more, something I’ve not yet seen: a smile for me. I wish I could return it. My mind flashes to him prowling my greenhouse, his gun pointing at me, and then what came after. I’ll do what I can today and tomorrow to find Trecie, to see Linus through the wake—I owe them that much—but then I’m gone.

  “How long before the mother can talk?” The dog sighs in my arms and shifts his snout deeper under my arm.

  “Blood tests show she has heroin and methamphetamines in her system, so a few more hours before she’ll be coherent enough to answer questions. She’s known to the police; we picked her up about four years ago for possession and prostitution. Nothing since then. Neighbors said she’d leave the kids alone for days.”

  “Oh my,” says Janey. She licks her lips and then asks Mike, “What about pancakes? Do you think she’d eat pancakes?”

  Mike places a hand on the woman’s arm. “I think she’d love it.”

  “And ham patties, too,” says Janey. “I was saving them for Christmas morning, but we have a lot to be thankful for this morning, don’t we? I’ll just be a minute.” Janey heads off toward the kitchen, taking all sense of hope with her.

  “The mother isn’t going to talk, is she?” I ask Mike.

  He avoids me and instead looks out the window. “In a few hours, she’ll come down.”

  “Mike.”

  The furrow set within his brow tells me everything. “We’ll do our best.” He turns back to me. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”

  “Did you ask Ryan about the dog?”

  “He said he dropped it off at the Brockton SPCA after leaving Charlie’s house. I sent him back to the shelter yesterday and the director told him they destroyed the dog about a week later. Looks like the name is just a coincidence. Not a surprise, really.”

  “And Jorge? Has he found the cop named Victor?”

  Mike tries to reach for me, but I take a step back. “Clara, we’re doing everything we can. We’re going to find Trecie.”

  I squeeze the dog closer and he scratches at my arm until I loosen my hold. “I want to talk to her. I want to talk to Adalia.”

  “Clara, why don’t you get some rest? You’ve had a rough week. Let us do our job. Maybe I could come over.”

  “She’ll talk to me.”

  He crosses his arms and stares at me. “I have to sit in on it.”

  I hesitate, but there’s no other way. I nod and together we walk down the narrow hallway. Mike knocks at the last door before turning the knob. Adalia is sitting on the bed, her legs tucked under, her back to us. If her life weren’t so utterly shattered, I could imagine her being happy in this room. Though small, it has a white-frame bed decorated with a cheery pastel comforter. There’s a matching desk and bureau, and on the wall, a poster of a kitten dangling from a tree branch, the words hang in there! scrawled beneath it.

  Adalia remains still when we enter. Her hair is matted, though she’s wearing newer clothes, a blue sweat suit. I suppose a shower would have been too traumatic given the past twenty-four hours.

  Mike gestures to me and I make my way over to stand next to her. The only trace of life is when she spots Peanut, though I can’t tell if it’s fury or despair that crosses her face. The dog struggles against me when he sees her. My fingers clamp around him until there’s no danger of him getting free.

  “Hi, Adalia. Do you remember me?”

  There can be no mistake now; her nostrils flare.

  “Do you like cats?” I point to the cat poster and then return my hand to Peanut’s head, stroking his velveteen ears. “Or are you a dog person?”

  She begins picking at a seam in the bedspread, tugging the thread free.

  “I like dogs,” I say. “I used to think I’d get a cat someday, but now I like dogs better.”

  Her head whips up and looks back and forth between Peanut and me. Across the room, I see Mike shift his weight from one foot to the other. I swallow the vomit that rises in my throat.

  “Peanut sure likes to cuddle. He slept with me last night, you know. I think he likes it at my house.”

  Adalia’s eyes begin to fill. It’s a few seconds before I can speak again.

  “Where’s Trecie?”

  She looks at me. One tear after another rolls down her cheeks until her lips tremble and her body begins to shake.

  “Clara, that’s enough.” Mike is too weak to do this, so I must.

  “If you want your dog back, you have to tell me where Trecie is.”

  Mike crosses the room to stand between Adalia and me. She’s sobbing now, each wail piercing whatever life I have left. He points to the door, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Get out!”

  “Come on, Peanut.” I start for the door, but Adalia leaps from the bed.

  “He took her away!”

  “When?” I say, my hand cupping the dog’s head. He begins to whine under my touch.

  Adalia collapses on the bed, crying, her legs pulled in close. One hand worries at her ear, and she sucks the thumb of the other. Mike sits next to her, whispering “It’s okay, it’s okay” over and over. But it’s not, it never will be. When he looks at me, I don’t look away.

  “He beat her real bad and then he took her away. I don’t know where,” Adalia says.

  “Honey,” Mike says. “Was it Victor?” She can only nod.

  He pushes the hair from her face. “When did this happen?”

  Adalia doesn’t answer. Her eyes have become glassy again, the way they did yesterday. Her mouth purses around the thumb and she begins to suck loudly. Her fingers have already rubbed raw the spot where her lobe meets the side of her head. I crouch beside her and open my coat. Peanut leaps the short distance from my arms to the bed and licks at the wetness of the girl’s cheeks. She finally frees her hand from her ear and places it limply across the dog. He lies beside her, his snout just under her chin.

  I head out of the room and fight the urge to run when I hear Mike’s footsteps behind me. I make it to the foyer before he grabs my arm and spins me around, knocking me against the wall.

  “What the hell was that?” I stare down, unable to stand the disappointment I can already hear in his voice. I try not to breathe either, to be reminded of his scent.

  “Information.”

  “Don’t you get what this girl has been through? And to browbeat her like that? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  I shake my arm free and open the front door. Gusts blow the edges of my coat and whip loose strands from my ponytail. The wind is especially piercing against the moist burns along my scalp. All fresh.

  “I got what we needed to help find Trecie.”

  Mike seizes my shoulders, forcing me to face him. “At what price? That little girl is fragile. She needs help too.”

  I take a step back, onto the front stoop. “You can’t help her. She’s broken. Just like you. Just like me.”

  “Clara, go home. Let the police take care of this.”

  “You think you can fix everything, Mike, but you can’t. You think by picking at things, pulling away the bad stuff, you’re making a difference? It doesn’t take it away, it’s always there—the scars are always there.”

  He doesn’t follow me as I cross the yard, making fresh prints in the snow. But I can feel him watching. Before I can slide into the car, I hear Mrs. Conyers call to me, “Clara, the pancakes are ready! Aren’t you going to stay for breakfast?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I drove around for hours. When I finally pull into the parkin
g lot behind the funeral home, I’m momentarily blinded by the sun casting its last streaks of brilliance across the afternoon sky. At first I can’t see his car, but then Reverend Greene comes into focus. He’s opening his trunk as Linus’s brother, Matthew, looks on.

  “Hello, Clara.”

  I’d forgotten how alike Matthew and Linus are, the same generous build and wide brown eyes. Though Matthew is five years younger, he lacks the vitality, the sheer wonder, Linus exuded, a certain innocence in the way he regarded the world and the people in it. Or so I thought.

  “Matthew.” I nod, still unprepared to see him. It must pain him to look in the mirror, each pass a reflection of his loss. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Thank you, Clara.” He sets his bag down on the frozen ground and takes my hand in both of his, just the way Linus used to do. “I know it must be hard for you, too. You were like a daughter to him.”

  Reverend Greene is standing just past Matthew, his hands filled with luggage, his face with pity. I wonder what the reverend’s god would say about a man who stood at his pulpit week after week, demanding that his flock call out evil, loud and proud. And yet, when faced with it himself, the best this man could do was whisper from the shadows.

  “Alma’s making one of her dinners now,” says Matthew. “Frieda and the kids are inside. They’d love to see you. I hope you’ll join us.”

  “I have to make the final arrangements. The wake’s in two days,” I say, pulling my coat around me, against the wind.

  Reverend Greene steps forward. “Matthew, why don’t you go on upstairs? I’ll bring this up in a bit.”

  As soon as Matthew is out of earshot, Reverend Greene begins to speak, a comforting touch on my shoulder.

  I duck. “Don’t.”

  He pulls back, nods. “Clara, Alma told me what happened.”

  “I have to go.” Just two more days and then I’ll be free of them.

  As I walk toward my cottage, Reverend Greene calls to me. “You don’t understand. Linus was helping that girl.”