In Autumn's Wake

by Maguire, Megan

  “No.” He sits up and whisks Riley’s curls from his face. “Let’s go somewhere else and get you sobered up. The pool hall’s open till four.”

  I raise my hand for him to give it a rest. “It’s too late to change my mind. I already have it in my head that I’m going in.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Persistent,” I bite back.

  Riley unzips Sean’s jeans. “Hold up,” he says, gripping her wrist. “Dylan, don’t go in her dad’s—” She kisses him before he has a chance to finish, causing him to fall back into her spell and close the door in my face.

  Sean’s in more danger than me, considering a black guy screwing a Hispanic woman in a truck they don’t own in this neighborhood will worry any cop who stops. They’ll be taken to the station faster than a drunken white guy breaking into a house. I guarantee it. Even so, his “sex before friendship” isn’t sitting well with me, and if he’s choosing a girl over his best friend, well, it’s on him to take care of himself tonight. And he’ll be the one to blame if I get caught.

  “Watch for lights.” I knock on the glass. His fingers splay flat against the fogged window, Riley rocking on top of him, neither of them paying any attention to what I just said.

  Fixated on the Tudor-style home, I walk across the street and up the heated cobblestone drive, lined with paver lights and Holly bushes. The site where the maple grew looks barren, the remaining two maples and young oak are dwarfs by comparison. Jake raked this yard, raked leaves that fell from that tree, but the memories of him, Heather, and the mighty maple were removed from the property when her parents had it cut down. They replaced it with a four-foot stone angel holding a dove. Oddly, the tree was a reminder to them but not the statue? I’m offended that they disturbed the place where she took her life, where my brother did yard work, where expansive branches and the broad trunk once shielded me … shielded us.

  I turn away from the statue and survey the house. Being on the driveway in plain sight is risky, but leaving boot prints along the peripheral edge of the property would be worse. Her parents would start setting the alarm again if they saw tracks and thought someone was sneaking around their yard, and I can’t let that happen. It was turned off at night because Heather stumbled in drunk numerous times. She’d forget to deactivate it. Fifteen seconds after entering, an earsplitting siren would blare and wake the neighbors. After several complaints, her parents decided to set it only when they left for work. It became the norm. I can’t leave prints so they set it again.

  I take out my wallet and find the key—a birthday gift Heather didn’t tell her parents about. She loved it when I sneaked upstairs into her room late at night. I’d slowly undress while she hid under her rose-patterned comforter, her blue eyes peeping out, drawing me to the bed. We’d fuck in total silence to keep from waking her parents. I’d cover her mouth, and she’d cover mine, our rigid bodies barely moving so the bed wouldn’t creak. The urge to grunt and moan was so intense on those secretive nights that I never lasted more than five minutes.

  I rub the key between my thumb and forefinger, believing that a gift that once unlocked so much pleasure may someday unlock an answer. I insert it into the deadbolt and turn it to the right until I hear a click.

  The exterior of the English Tudor is tan, framed by tobacco-colored trim. Drab earth tones continue throughout the interior: beige walls, planked ceilings, and dark wooden floors. I’ve memorized every squeaky floorboard, a master at sidestepping each one, except in her dad’s office. It was a room that was always off limits, and I’ve respected that up until this point, but other than the master bedroom, it’s the only place left to look.

  I slip off my boots out of habit. My wet wool socks leave a trail from the side door to the kitchen and up to the fridge. I slide my finger across photographs displayed on the door, thick with anxiety when I touch Heather’s face. Her spring semester course schedule is next to her photo, bordered by other random notes and reminder cards that haven’t moved since she died, like her mom’s appointment at the Women’s Medical Clinic. Her annual, I’d wager. Typical Lona Anderson—the most insensitive woman I’ve ever met—putting that card next to her daughter’s photo on the fridge. And even worse, the items are secured with woodland animal magnets as if it’s all just cute and cuddly to her. I don’t get why all this remains. It doesn’t make any sense.

  I snap a photo of the fridge before opening the door, helping myself to a swig of apple juice. The cottage cheese container catches my eye, and I debate whether or not I should jerk off into it as a form of revenge. Her mom deserves it after slamming the door in my face the first time I asked to see Heather’s note. The second time I asked, she told me to get off their property, or she’d get a restraining order. She’s lucky I’m drunk and can’t get it up right now.

  I fling the refrigerator door closed, tightening my shoulders and scrunching my nose at the sound of clinking glass. Holding steady, I listen for movement in the house. I’m guessing they’re in a deep sleep in their grand Tuscan poster bed, under their gold and black damask bedding.

  I had sex with your daughter in that bed when you were away on vacation. I think to myself while staring at the ceiling. She came, twice.

  My phone vibrates with a text from my dad that I left my scarf at the bar. I ignore it and put my cell back in my pocket, heading into the two-story living room, past antique tables, gold-framed artwork, and an inherited gun cabinet filled with Heather’s grandfather’s shotguns. She objected to them being in the house, deeming it wrong for people to kill animals for sport, pointing to the deer head over the cabinet as she spoke. Her dad, who she took after, felt the same, but her mom insisted they stay.

  I run a finger across the cabinet and continue through the house. Outdoor lights cast prancing shadows through the sheer window coverings and onto the walls, guiding me under the curved staircase and down a hallway to the office. I drag my hand down the carved oak door panels, my mouth dry, pulse racing. Her note has to be in this room.

  I step inside the dim room and hear a creak from somewhere in the house. I listen in the dark. Look up. Then. A second creak. Louder. Moving closer as I hold still. Could be the wind, or mice, or my imagination.

  A shotgun cocks.

  Or Lona Anderson.

  “Get your ass on the floor … Joel, come down here!” she screams. “On the floor, Dylan!” She stomps her foot. “On the floor!”

  Heat rushes down my spine. I lower to my knees and place my hands behind my head.

  “Joel, come here!”

  Lona Anderson: head of the family, award-winning real estate agent, short, stocky, bleach blonde, spray-tanned, makeup whore.

  “How did you get in?” Her voice is biting, the muzzle of the shotgun like a spike in my back, right over Heather’s memorial tat. “Joel, hurry up. Hurry!” she hollers. There’s rumbling on the stairs and a groan when he flips on the light switch.

  “Dammit, Dylan, what are you doing in my office?”

  “Call the police. I want him arrested.”

  “No.” I try to get up but get jabbed with the muzzle. “I’ll go, just let me up.”

  “Shut your mouth.” She slides the shotgun to the back of my neck. “How’d you get in here?”

  “The door was open.”

  “Liar!”

  “It was. It was open.”

  “Joel, don’t just stand there, call the police.”

  I’d run out of here if I thought I’d have another chance of finding the note after tonight, but this is it, they’re going to start setting the alarm again. “Show me what she wrote. I’ll leave you alone if I can read it.” My fingernails dig into the faded Oriental rug. I’m so damn close; it could be in this room, a foot away.

  “Do we have to go through this?” Joel says in his nasal voice. “The kid smells like he was swimming in a brewery. Let him go. He’ll sober up and realize his mistake in the morning.”

  She marches over to Joel’s desk, o
pening a drawer and rummaging through papers. “Who knows if this is the first time he broke into our home.” I raise my head and see her picking up the phone. “Stay down!”

  “I want the note.”

  Joel paces next to me, his scrawny, hairless legs poking out from his robe. “I don’t want any cops from Heather’s case coming here. I can’t handle it—I can’t! Either let him go or show him the note so he can be at peace.”

  “Me. ME!” She thumbs her chest. “I deserve to be at peace, not him.”

  “Why not me?” I ask.

  “Fine, call 9-1-1 and get this over with, but I’m not getting involved. You do it,” Joel gripes.

  “Oh, sure, go hide in your bedroom. I’ll deal with everything. Like always, right? That’s why I sleep on the sofa.”

  “Don’t,” he snaps at her. “Don’t start in front of him.”

  “Why not me?” I repeat. “What did I do?” The room spins. “Are you blaming me for this? What did Heather write?” My stomach convulses, and I make a retching sound, nearly tossing up the night. “What’d she write? Tell me!” Tears blur my vision.

  “Sit your ass down.” She points the shotgun at my chest.

  “Sit down, Dylan,” Joel says.

  “Screw you both.” I get up and walk over to a bookcase, hurling photos and books to the ground. I pivot and swipe everything off the top of Joel’s desk with a quick swing of my forearm. The phone jerks out of Lona’s hand, crashing to the floor, along with pens, and photographs, and a whirlwind of papers. “I deserve peace. ME!” I slam my fist on the desk. She raises the gun with a steady hand, the barrel following my drunken strides throughout the room. “Go ’head and shoot me.” I tip over a lamp and lift a framed photograph of Lake Chert off the wall, pitching it at Joel’s feet. I turn back, spotting a shiny black wall safe. “It’s there, isn’t it?” I point. “Open it. Open the safe.” I pound the wall. “Open the safe!” I lower my head between my arms. My shoulders rise and fall as my chest constricts. “Goddammit, open this safe!” I’ve stopped breathing. “Open it. Open it!” I kick the wall.

  The kick ricochets back. No … not a kick, a knock, knocking at the front door. And then a low voice echoes throughout the house, “Police Department.”

  “Dammit,” I whisper.

  “Did you call?” Joel asks.

  “I didn’t have a chance,” Lona says.

  She scampers out of the room, shotgun swinging at her side, the sash of her white robe floating behind her like a ghost.

  “Coming. I’m coming.” The door opens, and heavy boots thud on the hardwood floors toward the room. “Back this way,” she says.

  My heart starts jackhammering through my chest. I lower my head and place my hands behind my back, spreading my legs for the cops. Breaking and entering, property damage; what else will I be charged with?

  “That’s him,” Lona says. “Joel, he said a neighbor reported a man walking up our driveway.”

  “He’s a friend of the family,” Joel says to the cop. I keep my head down and eyes on the floor. “You can put the gun away. We’re not pressing charges.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Lona freaks. “He broke into our home. Just look what he did to this room. Are you insane? Of course, we’re pressing charges.”

  “This is Heather’s boyfriend. We can’t—”

  “No!” She stomps her foot again. “Was her boyfriend. Was. He turned our baby into an alcoholic. She was unstable because of him.”

  “That’s bullshit. No, I didn’t.” I look up, seeing Ed in the room. Of all the cops, he had to show up.

  “We’re not pressing charges,” Joel repeats. “That’s final. He’s drunk and doesn’t mean any harm.”

  She crosses her arms and extends her bottom lip, puffing her bangs off her forehead. “I’m disgusted by him and his family. They’re trashy drunks. The mother, the father, even the youngest was—”

  “Don’t you dare talk about Jake.” I try to form a wad of saliva so I can spit in her face, but my mouth is too dry. “Owning a bar doesn’t make us drunks. You had my parents over for a barbeque, and my brother did yard work for you assholes. Since when are we trashy drunks?” I sway because I’m drunk.

  “That’s enough.” Ed uses a crushing grip on my shoulder. “I’ll escort him out of your home and the neighborhood if you’re not pressing charges.”

  Joel sees the tight hold. He starts to say something but becomes paralyzed when he recognizes Ed’s face. He remembers that morning. I’m sure of it. He looks heavenward, fighting back the tears. “Dylan, don’t ever come back here. Please don’t.”

  “Arrest him,” Lona insists.

  “This is over, Lona. I’ll clean the room.”

  She turns away with deep disgust. “Get him out of here. Hurry, before I change my mind.”

  “Where are your boots?” Ed asks.

  “In the mudroom by the kitchen.”

  “I’ll find them and meet you at the front door,” Joel says.

  “How’d you get in?” Lona asks, turning back.

  My lips tighten.

  “Check to see if he broke a window,” she calls to Joel. “Check the back door, too. I need to know how he got in.”

  “Tell her how you got in,” Ed says. His hand leaves my shoulder and grips his baton. A threat. He’ll beat me with it the instant we’re alone if I don’t fess up. And honestly, at this point, why keep the key? Lona will have the locks changed in the morning and will set the alarm from now on.

  “Heather gave me a key to the house years ago. It was a birthday present.” I grieve.

  “Give it to me.” She holds out her hand. “Now!”

  I take it from my wallet and slap it in her palm. She stares at it for a moment, then waves for us to leave.

  I’m taken down the hallway and through the living room to the front door where Joel is waiting with my boots. Devastated, I slip them on, but a second later, I don’t remember doing so. My aggression in his office drained me to the point that I’m in a trance. Bleary-eyed and full of regret, I want to drink until I pass out, or curl into a fetal position and weep.

  Surely, Ed will punish me first.

  8

  Ed opens the passenger-side door of his SUV, and I sink into the seat, lowering my head between my knees. Any other cop and I’d be on my way to the station. Even without Lona pressing charges, a report for a domestic dispute would be filed. But Ed doesn’t follow any rules. And since he hasn’t said a word, I know he’s livid, ready to attack.

  I clasp my hands behind my head as a shield in case he slugs me. The scent of greasy fish fry is still on him, and oddly, a trace of strawberries, too. The sweet smell of that girl must be on my clothes. I inhale deeply and let her sink in before I ask him where he’s taking me.

  Snow crunches under the tires and the wipers squeak. I stare at the floor as I wait for an answer.

  “Sit up. We need to talk,” he says, breathing heavier than an old Bulldog. “That’s an order, not a request.”

  I sit up feeling lifeless and hollow, knowing I can’t go home and be alone in my bedroom. I won’t be able to fall asleep. Not after what just happened.

  He swerves to the right, leaving the Roosevelt Park area, starting the two-mile drive to my house.

  “Take me back to the bar,” I tell him.

  “It’ll be closed.”

  “Not till four. I’ve got an hour.”

  “I’m not driving you there. Your dad deserves better than to see you like this. You should think about him sometimes and how he feels instead of always thinking about yourself.” He turns on the defroster and adjusts his rearview mirror to look in the back. “You wanna pass out in the bar when your dad’s trying to shut it down for the night? That’s your plan?” His face turns red. “What about him? He already lost one son. He doesn’t need to lose another. Is getting drunk to forget about last year all you care about?”

  “Yeah, that’s
all I care about, Ed.” I elbow the door, lashing out. “I never think about Jake. He never crosses my mind, you asshole!”

  He drives down an unlit street and presses his shoulder mic. “Rick, meet me at the dead-end section of Thompson Street, off Elm.”

  The Tahoe slides into the curb. He puts it in park, slams my head into the passenger-side window, and presses my face against the glass. I catch his wrist but can’t twist free.

  “You want to know what I saw that morning? Is that what you’re waiting for? Will it help you get out of this sick state?” He grabs my coat collar and brings me inches from his face. “I drove up and saw Heather’s dad collapsed underneath her. He was inconsolable. Gutted. And her mom was sitting on the front stoop, rocking back and forth with puke on her feet, bawling, just sobbing like a baby.”

  “Stop it.”

  “She begged me to cut Heather down so she could hold her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch the scene until the homicide detectives got there. It was hell!” He shakes me. “You think it was easy, like I don’t give a shit? I think about it every fucking day!” He pushes me away. “It took detectives minutes to arrive. It felt like hours. I had to stand there and wait, do nothing, but wait.”

  “Ed, stop.” My voice quavers with emotion as my throat closes up.

  “She must’ve showered because her hair was frozen. She was in nothing but underwear and a tank, and those goddamn heart lights were spiraling across her body.”

  “Stop it!” I open the door and stumble onto the sidewalk. “I only wanna know about the note!”

  He gets out and follows me down the street, grabbing my neck and tossing me down. He strikes my back with his baton, a hard blow to the kidney. “You wanted to know. Now listen!”

  “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know!”

  “Her boots were next to the front door.”

  “That’s not true!” I kick my feet. “I took her home early. She was wearing black sneakers. I remember!”

  “She went out after an argument with her mom and drank when she got home. There was a bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter.”