Hush

by Kate White

  Nothing had changed in the months since she’d last been here, but then again it never did. The small towns she passed through, with their general stores, painted clapboard houses, and weathered steel bridges, seemed untouched since the 1950s. She and Jack had bought the weekend house here ten years ago based mostly on the affordability of the area, but she’d come to love the region-it reminded her of parts of the Pennsylvania landscape where she’d been raised.

  Jack, however, had eventually grown bored of it. “Every other restaurant is made from an old caboose,” he’d said snidely during a drive up just a few months before their split. It had been no surprise when he’d told her she could keep the house.

  Just outside of Roxbury she stopped at a farm stand to pick up fresh tomatoes and fruit. When she pulled into the town a few minutes later, it seemed deadly quiet, and there was the usual dustiness the town always seemed to wear in August as the summer wound down.

  Her house was at the far end of town. When she and Jack had gone house hunting they hadn’t been able to afford a place with lots of land, so they settled on a lovely center-hall colonial in a short row of houses across from what was called the village green, but what was really a smidgen of park with a few tired benches. The house didn’t provide much privacy, but the backyard was spacious enough for the kids to romp around in. And she loved her next-door neighbors, David and Yvon, gay partners in their fifties.

  It felt strange but good to set eyes on the house again. As she parked in the driveway and unloaded her bags, she heard someone’s long strides behind her. She turned to see David approaching the car.

  “Hey, stranger,” he said, embracing her. “We’ve missed you like crazy.”

  “Same here. And I so appreciate you keeping an eye on the house for me. You guys have been wonderful.”

  “We weren’t expecting you this weekend. Does this mean you’re going to start coming up again?”

  “Yes, I really plan to-though this trip turned out to be just a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’m going to parents’ day at the camp tomorrow. How about a drink tonight before dinner?”

  She’d originally planned to hibernate for the evening, but she suddenly felt the need to have Yvon and David chattering on her back porch.

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more, but we just heard that Yvon’s mother is in the hospital. It’s probably just another kidney stone but we’ve got to head back to the city right now.”

  She felt a rush of disappointment. “Well, we’ll do it another time. I just hope she’s okay.”

  “She’s fine, I’m sure, though I don’t know if I’ll be okay after spending the weekend at Mt. Sinai, waiting for the damn thing to pass. What about you? How are you doing these days?”

  “Better, much better, really.”

  “And you’ll be all right here all by yourself?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ve been up here plenty of times without Jack.”

  “It’s going to be kind of quiet around here-Jean didn’t come up this weekend and the Perrys are at a wedding in Dallas apparently.” He gave her a smile. “Well, I’d better dash. We don’t want to make Momma Bear cross.”

  He sprinted back across her front yard and up the steps of his house. Next door, Lake saw that Jean Oran’s house was locked up tight, and so was the Perrys’. Lake glanced over to the green across the street. Usually there were a few kids kicking a ball on the grass, or people lounging on the weathered benches, but today it looked totally forlorn. Except for a pair of ratty squirrels scampering after each other, there wasn’t any sign of life.

  Please, Lake thought as she unlocked the door to the house, don’t tell me I’ve been a fool to come all the way up here alone.

  8

  THE HOUSE SMELLED both musty and lemony at the same time-it was likely that the cleaning lady Lake had kept on through the summer had dusted every surface but never cracked open a window. Lake set the cooler down on the kitchen table and went back to the car for her duffel bag and the cat.

  “Okay, Smokey, here you go,” she said, unzipping the front of the carrying case. “Freedom…country air.” The cat crept cautiously out into the kitchen, reacquainting himself with the space. For a minute he just slunk around the room, peering and sniffing, and then, with a sudden burst of bravado, pushed through the pet flap in the side door of the kitchen and disappeared. She’d been nervous when they’d first experimented with letting Smokey go outside, but there’d never been any problems, other than the occasional dead mouse or bird he triumphantly brought back with him.

  After unpacking the cooler and wrenching open a few first-floor windows, Lake prowled through the rooms, taking stock. Though the house had come fairly cheap, it had wonderful bones and had cleaned up beautifully. To the left of the center hall was a long, wide living room with a fireplace. On the other side were a small library and a dining room. The kitchen was at the back, and though not huge, it had what real estate agents like to call “country charm.” Flowing from it was a tiny den with a TV. Her favorite part of the house was the screened porch that ran along the back. Whenever she read or just daydreamed in one of the black wicker rockers out there, it brought her instantly back to her grandmother’s house in central Pennsylvania.

  It had been four whole months since she’d last been at the house. Though she’d been avoiding coming up here because she feared her grief was still too raw, it wasn’t sadness that she experienced today. It was discomfort. The house felt foreign to her, as if she were in a dream and everything that should be familiar was slightly off, out of place. Give it a few minutes, she told herself. You love this place and it’s just going to take time to feel at home here again.

  She poured a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen sink. There was a small purple stain in the porcelain sink. What was it from, she wondered. Blueberries? She couldn’t even remember now.

  With the glass still in hand, she carried her duffel bag upstairs. The stairs creaked and groaned, disturbed by the sudden weight. When she neared the entrance to the master bedroom she felt a pit begin to form in her stomach. It was this room, far more than her bedroom in New York, that she associated with the death of her marriage. Because it was here, on weekends, that she and Jack most often had sex-and it was here where he had first shrugged her hand away.

  She stepped into the room. As she saw the bed, with its pale-blue spread, she caught her breath. It made her think not of Jack but of Keaton. She could see his butchered body all over again, lying in the bloodied sheets.

  Why did I come here? she felt like screaming as she stood frozen in place.

  She needed a plan, she told herself, something to keep her from going crazy. She turned around and walked across the hall to the guest room. This will be my room now, she decided as she laid her duffel bag on the wooden luggage rack. She would organize the room and later tackle the garden. And next it would be time for dinner and then for bed. When she felt calmer tomorrow, she would work on the presentation.

  After changing the bedding in the guest room and dragging in some of her possessions, she put on shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of wilted gardening gloves. As she stepped onto the porch, the phone rang, making her jump. It can’t be the police, she thought, scolding herself for being so skittish. They had no idea she was here-unless of course they talked to Maggie.

  She let out a small sigh of relief when she heard Molly’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “So I’m sitting here on pins and needles,” Molly said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You don’t sound as if you’re on pins and needles,” Lake said. “You sound as if you’re in a car.”

  “I’m just driving up to the fish market on Ninth Avenue. I’m doing a dinner tomorrow night. So tell me about Jack’s little visit. What was that all about?”

  “He claimed he needed to get some papers-but it seemed odd to me.”

  “Odd how?”

  “Like he was looking for an excuse to come by.”
<
br />   “Like he wants to get back together?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Actually, no. How did he act toward you?”

  “Molly, you can’t be serious. The guy just filed for full custody. That’s hardly a strategy for wooing me back.”

  “Guys rarely behave logically when it comes to women.”

  “Trust me, that’s not it. Here’s what I think-that his coming by for the papers was a ruse so he could snoop around the apartment to see what I’ve been up to.”

  “You mean, like he’s trying to find incriminating evidence?”

  “Maybe. God, I don’t know. He’s like a complete stranger to me now and it’s impossible to read him.”

  “What if he did want to get back together? Would you?”

  A month ago she might have answered yes, but she realized now that Jack’s custody bid had burned off the last feelings of love she felt for him.

  “No. Not in a million years.”

  “Okay, then. So tell me about the murder. The Post said the cops don’t have a clue who did it. Is that true?”

  Lake wished she didn’t have to talk about Keaton.

  “I have no idea. The police interviewed everyone at the clinic, but it’s not like they’re letting us in on anything.”

  For a brief moment, she ached to confess everything to Molly. By coming clean she could ask for guidance, and potentially soothe the twisted, tortured feelings inside her. Yet she couldn’t. Her friendship with Molly was still relatively new, and she didn’t know if she could totally trust her. She also couldn’t put Molly at risk legally.

  “Are you upset about it?” Molly asked. “It must be so weird for you.”

  “Uh-yeah, the staff seems fairly freaked out by it.”

  “But what about you personally? The guy was getting pretty flirty with you. It must be upsetting.”

  “It’s not like I knew him,” Lake said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice. “And would you please drop the ‘He was getting flirty with you’ stuff. That’s the last thing I need going around.”

  “You’re not a suspect, are you?”

  “No-of course not. But the situation is a mess.”

  Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to get off the phone. Talking to Molly was churning everything up again.

  “Look, I better get going,” Lake said abruptly. “There’s stuff I need to do while I’m up here.”

  “Are you okay up there by yourself? You’re not scared, are you?”

  God, she thought, this is going from bad to worse.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ve stayed up here many times without Jack. I mean, the kids have always been with me, but I’ve never felt unsafe.”

  “And Smokey’s an attack cat, right? I’m sure he’ll protect you if necessary.”

  “The only thing he’s interested in right now is taking down some poor little sparrow. I should go. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”

  As soon as she hung up, she regretted how curt she’d sounded at the end, but the conversation had been vexing. She wondered if there was any chance the police would contact her friends as part of the investigation. In her imagination she heard Molly describing to Detective Hull how she’d suggested Lake engage in eye sex with Keaton. Wouldn’t that be great?

  For the next couple of hours she worked in the garden out back, digging up weeds, dividing a few plants here and there. At one point Smokey appeared and slid his body along her bare calves. She realized that touch of his silky black fur was the only comfort she’d experienced in the past two days.

  “Are you happy to be back here, Smokey?” she asked him.

  He let out a soft meow and then slunk away, snaking through a row of deadheaded foxgloves.

  She went back to the weeds, trying to focus, but her mind kept coming back to Keaton and the police. Would it make any sense, she wondered, to contact a criminal lawyer to see what advice they would offer her under the protection of client confidentiality? But weren’t lawyers obligated to report a crime-and hadn’t she committed one by not going to the police?

  The sun was getting low in the sky. She returned to the house and showered in the guest bath. If they just catch the killer everything will be okay, she thought as she scrubbed at her dirty nails. And it won’t matter who Keaton had been in bed with that night. She glanced at her watch through the ribbons of water. It was almost six. The house had satellite TV and she would be able to catch the local news in New York. Maybe there would be some kind of update. After throwing on a robe, she hurried downstairs and turned on the TV in the little den.

  A four-car collision on the Tappan Zee Bridge was the top story, but the Keaton murder was next. The anchors went live to a young redheaded reporter outside the apartment building on Crosby. Lake grimaced at the familiar sight.

  “It’s been over two days since prominent fertility doctor Mark Keaton was found brutally murdered in his SoHo loft,” the reporter announced, “but police still haven’t made an arrest. There are no known suspects at this time.”

  Before the story even ended, Lake regretted turning it on. She told herself that the kids needed her tomorrow, that she had to find a way to seem normal for them. She leaned back against the loveseat, closed her eyes, and tried to drive Keaton and Hull and McCarty all from her mind.

  Later, after getting dressed, she dragged the grill from the small garage next to the house and set it up in the backyard. She lit the coals and waited for the flames to die down. The smell of the burning briquettes usually brought Smokey running, but he was obviously too busy to be bothered. Lake let her eyes wander toward the far end of the yard, to the western sky above the maple trees. The sun had set and the sky was the smooth, milky-blue color you find on the inside of a scallop shell. On nights like these, she and Jack and the kids used to sit in the backyard and watch the stars and fireflies come out one by one. Her heart ached from the memory of it.

  When the coals were ready, she laid the steak on the grill. Next she sliced tomatoes and set a place for herself at the table on the porch. There had been many times when she’d sat alone at that table-times when Jack had stayed in the city working and the kids had gone to bed-and the loner part of her had relished it. But tonight the solitude held no appeal.

  She had been a fool to come here alone, she realized, especially because it was mainly to spite Jack. And how could she have thought that being alone in the country would make her feel less rattled? At least in the city she would have had the option of grabbing lunch with Molly or going to a movie. There was no way, she decided, she was staying here Saturday night. Once she was finished with the parents’ day activities, she would come back, pick up Smokey, and drive straight back to the city.

  She ate her steak and salad with a glass of wine, tasting none of it. After clearing the table, she chopped up a piece of steak for Smokey and left it on a small plate on the floor of the porch with the screened door propped open.

  “Here, Smokey,” she called out into the now utter blackness of the yard. “Come on now.”

  He’d always had an instinct about when leftovers were being served, and she expected to see him dart through the darkness at any second. But he didn’t come, even after she called twice more.

  She went inside and poured herself another glass of wine and returned to her chair on the porch. The crickets and katydids had begun to chirp in a loud, cacophonous concert. Still no sign of Smokey. That damn cat, she thought. His refusal to return was probably payback for having been denied the country for so long.

  By the time she had finished her wine, her annoyance had morphed into worry. It had been four hours since she’d laid eyes on Smokey in the garden, she realized, and he had never before stayed away this long, even when he was being obnoxious. Was he lost? Or, worse, injured? She let out a jagged sigh. She had no choice but to search for him.

  After digging out a flashlight from a kitchen drawer, she started out across her backyard, training the light first toward the trees in the rear, an
d then into the black hedge that formed the border between her house and Yvon and David’s. The night was moonless but stars twinkled across the sky.

  “Come on, Smokey, come on,” she called in irritation.

  She listened, hoping for a meow, but none came. From the street behind her yard, she heard a car door slam and a motor turn over. After the car drove away it was only the crickets and katydids again.

  Great, she thought. This is the last thing I need.

  She passed through a small break in the hedge into David and Yvon’s yard, letting the beam of light dance over the lawn. Nothing but rows of coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. From there she cut through into Jean Oran’s yard, and then into the Perrys’. A small light came on suddenly, one attached to the Perry house. She realized it was triggered by a motion sensor.

  She had never felt anything ominous about the darkness up here before, but she didn’t like it now-especially with all her neighbors gone. She was about to turn and head back when she heard a rustling in the bushes at the far end of the Perrys’ yard. She whirled around and pointed the beam of light down there. There was another rustle, loud enough to make her think it was being caused by something bigger than a cat. She held her breath. A raccoon suddenly lumbered out of the bushes, making her jump. Quickly she retraced her steps back to her house.

  “I’m going to shoot you, Smokey,” she muttered to herself, but she was really worried now. There was the possibility the cat had been hit by a car. After grabbing her keys, she headed out to the driveway. She drove up the street and circled the green several times, looking back and forth. She also drove along the side street that ran behind her house, and then the one behind that. There was no sign of the cat, no sign of anyone for that matter-though in several houses she could see the blue light of a TV pulsing through a window. A half hour later she let herself back in the side door of her kitchen, praying Smokey had returned. But he hadn’t. It felt like everything was starting to crash down on her.