All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  As he droned on, I focused on the photo of John sitting on an easel. We’d chosen it together, flipping through his pictures on Facebook until we came upon this one: him, laughing, eyes wide-open, in the plaid shirt he often wore around the house. Vera had selected a Keith Haring quote to open the ceremony.

  The minister walked from the podium, and Vera stood, ready to speak. She took the tissue I’d given her, swiped beneath her eyes, and walked to the front. At the lectern, she paused, breathing deeply as she unfolded a sheet of paper with shaking hands. Her nails were a pale gray color, she’d pulled her hair into a perfect topknot, and she wore a charcoal-gray wool dress that nipped in at her waist, one I’d helped her pick out. Everything about her seemed more pronounced—her cheekbones standing out against her gaunt visage, her eyes puffy and wide, her blond hair pulled back tight against her scalp. Somehow, standing in front of us like this, she made even the most awful grief look beautiful—a modern Grace Kelly.

  “I met John in New York City,” she said, eyes darting around the room. “I know a lot of people say this, but for us, it was love at first sight.” Voice wavering, she bumbled through the story they’d told me together, of meeting in Chelsea, of feeling, immediately, that something had changed. She explained how she’d schooled him in the bar game of the evening and he’d loved her even more for it. She talked about seeing him grow through the years, and his strengths, from painting to wood-chopping to listening to her every single day. She talked about his grief, losing all the family he had so young. His family, who was absent, of course, his parents gone, his brother, who Vera had taken the time to call, not being able to make the trip without an escort.

  As she spoke, I stole a look behind me. The showing was small, only twenty people or so, people I mostly didn’t recognize, I imagined from their old Manhattan life.

  McKnight sat in one of the back rows, his eyes locked ahead. He adjusted slightly, and as he did, I took a quick, shallow breath.

  There, just behind him, in the very back, was Sam Alby. I stared at his thick neck, his gray-brown hair, brushed neatly for the occasion. Anger swelled in my chest—when had he come in? I couldn’t believe he had had the nerve to come at all.

  In the same back row, about a few feet down the pew, was the waitress from Schoolhouse restaurant.

  I smiled, happy to see a familiar face, but her eyes didn’t connect with mine.

  Rachel was nowhere to be seen.

  I turned back to the front. I had the strange feeling that no one here really knew John, not even close to the way Vera did, and she was simply telling us the story of his life as if he were a character in a book, or a quirky Manhattanite in a New York Times profile. That included me, too. I hadn’t known that his favorite meal, despite his epicurean-leaning tendencies, was actually grilled cheese. Or that the two of them had differing opinions on the proper way to fold a T-shirt.

  “That was the gift of being with him for fourteen years,” Vera said, her eyes finding the bottom of the sheet of notes in her hand. “I knew him better than anyone.”

  She folded the paper, then looked up, eyes suddenly focused. “He wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect,” she continued, her words cutting. I pressed my lips together, calm, stoic, as my insides roiled: I hadn’t been good to her. I hadn’t respected her marriage.

  Vera cleared her throat. “But whatever anyone might think about him, he didn’t deserve this.”

  Tears struck me viciously. As Vera walked back, squeezed past me, and took her seat, it lodged deep in my bones: She was right, so very right. I didn’t care what Rachel had said, what doubts she’d tried to sow—John didn’t deserve this, not in the slightest. John was good. Apart from that one stupid night with me, he was good.

  When the service ended, Vera returned to the front to greet people paying their respects. I went the opposite direction, finding a place to stand against the back wall.

  McKnight hovered on the left-hand side, watching us all, his chest pocket bulging from the width of his notebook. I knew he needed to find out what had happened, but still, it was cold, turning a memorial into work, something that required notes.

  I leaned against the wall, watching a line of people I didn’t know waiting to talk to Vera. The service itself was over, but she had the space until noon, giving people time to pay their respects. I wondered what they were saying to her, who they were to John . . .

  “Shit, I’m late.”

  I jumped, turning to see Rachel, sweat on her forehead, cheeks flushed. My eyes flashed to Vera up front. I didn’t want her to see me with Rachel, who kept on talking, undisturbed. “I didn’t know if Vera wanted me to be here, and then I kept questioning myself, and I decided it didn’t matter. I wanted to be here.” She adjusted the collar of her dress, loosely draped as usual but black for the occasion. “I don’t know the right thing to do with her, but I know I wanted to say goodbye to John. Did you bring the flowers over?”

  I nodded instinctively, then stole another look at Vera, who thankfully seemed focused on the line of people.

  “What did she say?” Rachel asked.

  “She said thank you,” I lied. “But she’s getting a lot of flowers.” Another lie. “They might all blend together for her.”

  Rachel’s eyes caught mine, as if wondering who else was bringing Vera flowers. But then she said, “How are you holding up?”

  “As good as I can be,” I said, wishing she’d stop talking to me.

  “And Vera?” Rachel asked. “Is she eating? Sleeping?”

  It hit me then, just how much Rachel cared about her old friend. It wasn’t all talk. In her eyes, I could see it, true concern. The way my mother used to look at me when I was younger. The way she looked at me before . . .

  “Sleeping,” I said. “Eating, not very much.”

  “Well, I’m glad she’s getting some rest, at least.”

  I was, too, but I needed this conversation to end. I took a step to the side, trying to open up some space between us, but Rachel didn’t seem to notice. I prayed for a distraction, something to pull Rachel from me, so Vera wouldn’t see us standing here, carrying on as if we were old friends . . .

  “Oh Christ,” Rachel said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Sam came?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I was surprised, too.” I took another step to the side.

  “And his daughter,” Rachel went on, lips pressing together.

  For a second, I forgot myself. “His daughter? You mean, Claire?”

  Rachel nodded. “Over there in the front.”

  My gaze followed Rachel’s, but the only girl I saw was Al from the restaurant, standing in front of John’s oversize photo, her copper hair catching the light. I shook my head. “No. That’s Al. I know her from Schoolhouse.”

  Rachel’s head swiveled toward mine. “Al? Is that her nickname or something? Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Al, like Alby? Either way, that’s definitely Claire.” And then, as if to drive home the point: “She’s the girl who got caught up in all this.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I could hardly focus.

  Not on Rachel as she approached Vera, whose body straightened, rigid, when her former friend tried to give her a hug. Not on McKnight, leaning against a wall in the corner, eyeing us all, suspecting every single one of us. Not on Sam Alby, still in his seat, his presence its own sort of threat.

  No matter where I looked, my eyes quickly returned to the girl I knew as Al, frozen in front of John’s photo, captivated as if seeing a Monet in Paris for the first time. Or perhaps, I thought bitterly, a Van Gogh.

  She had lied to me. Purposely given me a nickname that would throw me off. Left out any details of her relationship to John or Vera. She had asked about my neighbors—and more than once—only I’d never put it together. Why would I?

  Sam stood, bru
shing his hands against his sides, then quickly walked toward her. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he whispered something in her ear. Her head twisted away, and she shrugged him off.

  He turned, walking briskly down the center aisle.

  It was another minute or so before she abandoned John’s photo and headed down the aisle herself.

  “Claire,” I said as I followed her out, down the stone sidewalk, toward the parking lot. It was morning still, not even eleven, but the sky was a blur of white, as if gauze had been carefully laid over the whole thing, obscuring any sun. Moisture clung to the air, weightless and ready to drop on us any moment. She walked quicker, and I ran to catch up with her. “Claire.”

  She kept walking.

  “Al?”

  “What?” She spun on her heel, facing me.

  “Which is it?” I asked. “Claire or Al?”

  In the haze, she looked ethereal, a Brontë heroine wandering about the moor, mooning for the older man she maybe thought she loved. “Does it even matter?”

  “That’s your dad? You’re . . .” My words dissipated like water droplets into the air. “You, you knew John . . . Why didn’t you tell me your real name?”

  “People call me both, okay?” she said. “Have since I was younger. Maybe it’s a little easier to introduce myself to new people as Al now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just, I don’t understand.”

  Claire popped a hand on her hip. “What don’t you get?” For a moment, she sounded just like a teenager, headstrong and hormone-stupid, who thought she knew better than anyone else. Like I had at her age.

  “You could have told me. God, I thought you were in college. I had no idea.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Maybe I wanted to talk about writing with you, and not talk about all that bullshit. Maybe I didn’t want you to ask me if I was okay, like everyone feels compelled to, even though they know nothing about me. Nothing.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get it. But you asked why they never came—John and Vera—you asked me, even though you knew.”

  She shrugged. “I wanted to see if you knew.”

  “You could have asked me outright. I would have been honest.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m tired of all the gossip, okay? So when I have a chance to get away from it, I do. It doesn’t matter if you knew John or if he was your friend or whatever. Everything that happened was none of your business,” she said. She glanced at the funeral parlor, where more people were filing out. “And it wasn’t my dad’s business, either. Or my mom’s. Or Vera’s. Or anyone in this town’s, okay?”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  She began to back away.

  “Wait,” I said.

  Claire crossed her arms and sighed, as if all this had exhausted her. Her eyes caught mine, imploring me to understand. “It’s just like your business, with your friend coming into the restaurant—what she said and what you told her, that isn’t anyone’s business but yours.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Back in my cottage, door locked tight behind me, I headed immediately to my bedroom and squirmed out of my dress and tights.

  I still couldn’t believe that Al was Claire.

  She had seemed so guileless, but I shouldn’t have been so surprised. When it came right down to it, we were all full of lies, every single one of us. The truth lay somewhere deep down in our hearts. But with each passing year, we added another layer of protection, like an onion growing. To get to the truth, you could peel back each layer, one by one. Or you could grab a knife and slice, crying as the chemicals hit your eyes. Claire was young and naive—she had fewer layers than I did—but that didn’t mean she hadn’t already begun to build them, hadn’t learned that grand lesson of adulthood: that no one would protect you but yourself.

  I tossed the dress onto my bed, pushing Claire—Al—out of my mind.

  Time to pack. Time to get the hell out of here.

  It was only as I pulled a sweater over my head that I realized—there had been no pitter-patter, no panting run. No Dusty.

  Trying to stay calm, I slid into jeans and walked through the kitchen, calling his name. He’d probably only gone out back to pee. I twisted the doorknob, and a rush of cold burst in as I stepped onto the back patio, the stone chilling my bare feet. He wasn’t in the yard.

  “Dusty,” I called louder, heartbeat quickening as I returned to the bedroom, dropping to my knees, looking under the bed. Nothing.

  “Dusty,” I called again. In the living room, I searched beneath the sofas, under blankets.

  “Dusty,” I cried, more frantically this time. I ran into the backyard and double-checked. My eyes welled as I repeated his name—nothing.

  I slipped into shoes and pulled the door shut, made my way down the driveway. “Dusty!”

  Running down the road, the remaining bits of ice and frost licking my ankles, I headed toward Maggie’s house—maybe she’d seen him, or maybe—god—she’d seen Davis. I was out of breath by the time I got to her porch, and I knocked three times, loudly.

  Within seconds, Maggie opened the door. “Lucy,” she said. “I was—”

  “Dusty!”

  His furry little body rushed forward, his paws scratching my ankles, and I knelt, scooping him into my arms as I burst into tears.

  “Oh dear,” Maggie said.

  “You had him?” I asked as Dusty licked the salt from my cheeks. “Why?”

  “I spotted him running down the road,” she said. “Luckily, I was able to rush out and call him in.”

  “Why didn’t you come over?” I snapped. “Or leave a note?”

  She stiffened, taking a step back, hand reaching for the door.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just got home, and Dusty wasn’t there, and—”

  “I did. I went over right away, but you weren’t there. Then I realized the memorial was still going. The Daily Freeman said it lasted until noon,” Maggie said. “I didn’t know you’d returned early.”

  Dusty squirmed, but I only held him tighter.

  “And it’s not my fault he got out,” she said, lips pursed. “Set up like it is, it’s no wonder he did. You have to be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She slipped her feet into a pair of Crocs, then pulled on her coat. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  She led me back to my cottage, but when we reached the property, she headed to the fence at the back. She hunched over and pointed to a spot where the ground sloped downward, creating a slim gap at the bottom of the fencing. “I noticed it when I came over with him to find you.”

  “You think Dusty got through that?” I asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” she said, eyes widening. “Little dogs like him, their rib cages compress. They can scurry into tight spaces. It’s the way they’re bred. It looks like the ground has eroded a bit in this spot, maybe from the snow or rain creating mud. He could have seen a squirrel and chased it out.”

  My eyes scanned the opening, my breath catching in my throat, my body going numb.

  Davis was subtle. If he really wanted to mess with me, he would do something like this, something so nuanced, so seemingly benign, it would drive me crazy—just like the damn faucet. If Dusty had gotten hurt—god, if he’d died—not only would I have lost him, I’d be racked with guilt, half thinking it was my fault.

  “You have to check that your fence is secure if you’re going to leave a dog alone like that, with access to the yard. Especially if he doesn’t have good recall.”

  “Thank you,” I said, clinging to his little body. “I should get back in. He’s had quite a morning.”

  I reached for the door, but she cleared her throat.

  “By the way,” she added. “Was Rachel there? At the memorial service, I mean.”

  I nodded.
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  “Good,” she said. “I worried that she wasn’t going to get up the guts to go, but I know it was important to her.”

  “Thanks again, Maggie,” I said quickly, eager for her to leave so I could pack my bags, get on the road.

  “And if you need anything else,” Maggie said.

  “I know where to find you.”

  As soon as she was gone, I made for the closet, pulled my suitcase off the shelf. I began opening drawers, grabbing stacks of sweaters and jeans and throwing them inside.

  When I reached the top drawer, I whipped it open and started to pack my underwear.

  I froze, my mind beginning to spin.

  My mother’s scarf, which I’d kept in this very drawer since the day I’d arrived. Edged with a blue stripe, with rosebuds, with the stain Davis had created . . .

  It was gone.

  I ripped the drawer out, pulling so hard it chipped a bit of the wood, and flipped it over. Panties and bras and the vintage furniture brochure fluttered down like confetti.

  The scarf wasn’t there.

  I tossed the drawer to the ground, and it clattered awfully, terrifying Dusty. My fingers began to tremble and my heart banged brutally as I picked up the brochure.

  It was empty. John’s photos, gone.

  And even scarier: The note he’d left me, it was gone, too.

  I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t paranoid. Something was happening. As much as I didn’t want it to be, it was. This was more than a running faucet, more than a gap under the fence. This was real, tangible. Proof.

  John was dead, for fuck’s sake. Maybe it had been Sam Alby. Maybe none of it was on me. But maybe, maybe . . .

  I could forgive you . . . but I’d have to kill the guy.

  Who else but Davis would know what that scarf meant to me? To anyone else, it was nothing more than an old stained thing. What if Davis had killed John, stabbed him with the knife he kept in his pocket, then snuck back into the cottage, put Dusty in danger, and taken my mother’s scarf so I’d get the message? Taken the photos and the note, too, just to fuck with me?