Kendra’s stomach dropped as if tumbling down a rickety staircase. “You’re not saying ...?”
“The odor was constant, well before Bonnie’s disappearance. The decay attracted more vermin. John set traps for rats and raccoons, but the best way to get rid of the stench was to board up the fireplace and seal in the flue downstairs. We never used them anyway. Weeks passed. The story died down. Bonnie was still out there, somewhere, her bare feet walking in the snow. That’s what we believed, what we clung to. Every few weeks, the police gave us a courtesy call. Every lead turned out to be false. People can be so cruel, giving you hope and then snatching it away.”
Peg wandered over to the bed and picked up the Raggedy Ann doll. Tears spilled onto the fabric face, the painted eyes, and the sewn mouth. “In the backs of our minds, we feared the worst but couldn’t face it. If John had made a thorough search of the fireplace before closing it up. If the police had investigated the odor. If they ... and we ... had asked more questions about Robbie. As it was ....”
Her eyes surveyed the room as if searching for a shadow that was too fleet of foot to be seen.
“In the end, Bonnie would still be gone. And Robbie ... well ... they would have taken him away. Put him in some awful place. And what would that serve? That’s why we ... I ... never faced the truth. I couldn’t chance losing them both.”
She replaced the doll and arranged the arms and legs, then patted the fringed head and turned away. “By spring, we sold the house and moved out. The memories were too strong. And little Bonnie’s spirit was needy. We went on with our lives. Of course, you can’t. Then, when you accused my husband of ....”
“I’m sorry I did that.”
“But you were right. We killed Bonnie. We’re the guilty ones. Not Robbie. Tomorrow, we’re going to the police. We’re going to agree to DNA testing. I’m sure ... I’m confident ... the results will come back positive. I just wanted you to know. To set your mind at ease. And to explain to Bonnie.” Once more, she searched for a fleeting glimpse of the spirit and stilled for the tiniest sound. “We’ll bury her in our family plot, where she belongs, next to her brother. Perhaps then, she can rest in peace. And you and your husband can forget any of this happened.”
Chapter 25
ALAN McSWEENEY WOULD have dismantled the snow fence weeks ago. Beyond the weather-beaten slats, the beach lay deserted. Sand glittered like gold dust. The billowing dunes invited someone ... a particular someone ... to leave a path of wide footprints.
In the few months since his death, the garden had grown wild. Weeds retained the greater majority, but clusters of white stars lit the magnolia trees, and the lilacs blushed with their sweet fragrance.
Emily was hand weeding the garden, bending and stooping. The wide brim of her tattered straw hat flapped in a gentle breeze, revealing a sun-drenched face untouched by years and worries. Not even the death of her one true love had changed the madwoman of Lakeshore Boulevard. The bouquet of dried stems and leaves clamped in her pitchfork grip had expanded to a thick sheaf barely manageable, but Emily continued shuffling from furrow to furrow while Kendra and Birdie ambled nearby.
“The poor woman,” Birdie said, clucking her tongue in dismay. “All these years, suspecting the worst but unable to face the truth. Do you think the husband knew? Do you think that’s why he sealed off the chimney?”
“I only know it became Bonnie’s tomb.”
“But to have a child go to the great God above with the blood of his sister on his hands ....” She shivered at the thought. “I’m not a religious woman, but I do believe in ... what is it called? ... a settling of scores. Yet how does a soul answer to an act of mindlessness? The boy was no guiltier than the man in the moon, but you cannot erase the pain he brought upon his parents or the life he snuffed out at so tender an age.”
Emily was fighting a losing battle. She voiced her frustration by wondering aloud where the gardener was. She had already forgotten the imposing presence of the husband and friend who stood by her in good times and bad. Forgotten they would have celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary in July. Just as she had already forgotten the two children they raised together.
“If it comes to guilt,” said Kendra, “wasn’t it God who created the boy?”
“It was also God who made the parents love him more than the girl. Surely they knew how vulnerable she was and what the risks were. Yet they did nothing to protect her.”
“Their love exceeded logic. They saw him as an innocent, a child destined to never grow up. I suppose they would have done anything to keep him from being institutionalized.”
Emily renewed her mumbling while her gloved hands tore at decayed undergrowth.
“How old was he?” Birdie asked. “The brother? When he died?”
“Fifty, I think.”
“If the Cutlers had put him in a proper facility, his sister would be alive today, and he would have been no worse off in the end.”
“Yes, but how were they to know what lay ahead?”
Birdie dusted a lock of silver hair from her forehead. Since Mac’s death, Kendra had come to rely on the wide brow, the roseate cheeks, the jolly disposition, and the sage wisdom. Kendra brushed her fingertips across the arm of her father’s mistress and pointed toward the treetops, where a cardinal winged its scarlet feathers across the yard and disappeared among the sprouting branches of a sugar maple. “There. Do you see him?”
It was always easy for Birdie to smile. “Given the chance to see the future,” she said, “would we ourselves do anything differently?”
“Ask the Cutlers. If they had put their son away, they would have mourned his loss but rejoiced in their daughter’s survival and the grandchildren she would have given them. Now they have nothing.”
“You make the case.”
Emily took a breather and raised a round face to the sky, warming herself in the sun’s afterglow. Her lips moved to a rhapsody of her own inner murmurings. Kendra pondered what the sleep of the mad was like. Was it filled with sweet dreams? Or nightmares? Probably Mac was right. Probably Emily McSweeney would outlive most everyone. Insanity had a plus side. Like a contemplative nun, she had removed herself from the stresses of everyday life.
“And how are things going,” Birdie broached, “between you and Joel?”
“Still feeling each other out. He’s very attentive. He makes me feel as if I’m pieced together with broken glass.”
“And so you are. Make him feel guilty.”
“Of what? Of marrying a woman of unsound mind?”
“Of not understanding her, as all good husbands must. In my opinion, he deserved a wakeup call. But that’s just the opinion of an old woman.”
Emily returned to her gardening, but with each successive pull of a weed, her voice notched up a decibel. “He was sick, you know,” she said. “Very, very sick. But would he say anything? Would he complain? Would he go to the doctor? Not Alan McSweeney. Not until it was too late.”
Birdie fondled Kendra with a mournful gaze, as if to empathize with a lifetime of promises never kept. She hustled over to her companion. “Come along, dearheart. Let’s go inside.” Hers was a genuine affection, not as woman to woman, but as mother to child. She took charge of the spray of bramble and brier Emily had gathered, and scolded her in a way that was both loving and stern.
Emily responded, soothed not so much by her companion’s words but by the tone of her voice. But then her frustration grew. “You can say what you will,” she said into the air, “but I’m still angry. Extremely angry.”
“At what?” Birdie asked.
“At who, is the real question.”
“All right. At who?”
“You know who.”
“Why are you angry?”
“Because. He left me. If you think I don’t know what happened to him, you’re as wrong as you can be.” She nodded emphatically; the straw hat dipped with the gesture. “There’s more left inside me than you’ll ever know. What you see on the out
side—Emily McSweeney—she’s the other woman. But Emily Nilsson is still here.”
They reached the flagstone patio and the long shadows of the Queen Anne. “Can she come out?” Birdie asked. “The other Emily?”
“If she wanted to. She doesn’t want to. I thought you knew.” With that assertion, Emily pursed her lips and said no more. Kendra and Birdie exchanged another set of glances, and hope took wing at their backs.
They retired to Birdie’s version of English tea: a mid-afternoon snack of smoked salmon, rye toast, and peppermint schnapps. Here was the cheery kitchen of Kendra’s childhood. Where the stomach-warming fragrances of meatloaf cooking in the oven or chili simmering on the stove were ever-present. Where vases of fresh-cut flowers occupied every nook. Where vegetables picked fresh from the garden covered the countertops. Where the family gathered every evening and laughed themselves silly. And where a wife respected her husband, a husband adored his wife, and the children basked in the exchange of love, feeling that they too were special. These were treasured memories that came from a time of yore. Before Emily’s illness took a tenacious hold. Before a high school student, afraid of what lay ahead, took his own life. And before Birdie Jellinek became Alan McSweeney’s mistress.
The years marched on. Lives changed, but the kitchen endured. The butcher-block cabinetry. The white appliances. The floral-patterned china. The checkerboard floor tile. The long table and six matching chairs. The teakettle parked on the stove. And samplers adorning the walls, each sewn with sayings and Emily McSweeney’s steady hand.
Hardly anything had changed, yet nothing was the same.
Emily inhabited her usual chair, the one facing away from the windows. Her eyes wandered, but when Kendra began setting the table, she studied her daughter like a mislaid acquaintance from her discarded youth. Eyes met eyes. Intelligence lay behind the nutmeg of her mother’s irises, something Kendra hadn’t seen for more than a decade. Emily leaned forward and trapped one of Kendra’s hands, a kindly gesture. Over the years of illness, she exhibited similar gestures of affection but none as a mother toward her daughter. It was no different this time, not until Kendra drew away and the silky touch became a handhold, and the handhold turned into a secure grip. Kendra yielded to her mother’s persistent tug and sat on the adjacent chair, which was conveniently turned out. The way a fortuneteller beckons, Emily gestured toward Kendra’s other hand. Coming under her mother’s persuasive spell, she complied. Emily treasured the two-fisted clasp and stroked her daughter’s knuckles with the pads of her callused thumbs.
“Are you familiar with foxglove, my dear? No? Well, if you were a gardener, which I can see that you’re not ... your hands are much too smooth ... you would know that foxglove is known by many other names. Witches’ Glove. Dead Man's Bells. Bloody Fingers. Foxesglew. Finger Flower.” She paused to take a breath. “And digitalis. From the Latin. He grew the foxglove. In the garden. His garden,” she stressed. “The seeds and leaves are poisonous. I knew this. And do you know why? Because he told me.”
Birdie stilled her preparations to listen and sent a sidelong glance toward Kendra, nodding for her to say and do nothing.
“The leaves,” Emily was saying, as if reciting the words from a reference book, “are used, ordinarily, for medicinal purposes. They should be picked when the flower spike is fully developed and most of the flowers have budded, because then and only then, before the seeds ripen, are the leaves in their most active state. Only green leaves should be picked. Leaves from seedlings, before the plant flowers, are worthless. Leaves in autumn, after the plant has seeded, are just as useless. The odor of fresh leaves is unpleasant, and the taste of both fresh and dried leaves is disagreeably bitter. That’s why you must cook them in wine, but not at too high a temperature, because you don’t want to burn off the alcohol. Used judiciously, foxglove stimulates a weak heart. But in large doses, the remedy overexcites the patient’s circulation.”
Her eyes fixed on her charge, Birdie poured the schnapps.
Emily said, “Have I said something wrong?”
“No, pet.”
“Then I’ll tell you the rest. He stayed home with a bad cold that day. Birdie was spending the afternoon with her daughter. So I gave it to him at lunch. First one glass without the leaves.” She leaned over and shielded her mouth as if telling a secret. “He never could take more than one glass of wine before getting tipsy.” Sitting straight again, she looked mournfully at Kendra, her eyes open and direct. “And then a second glass with the juice of the leaves. A phone call came from one of his business partners. Was it Norman? Or the other one? He told him he’d call him back later in the evening. I knew there wouldn’t be any phone call in the evening. He did, too. We played cards in the den until he complained of feeling sick. The diarrhea didn’t last for very long. He said he saw dark circles and that made everything turn blue. We went upstairs to bed and watched television. He was very tired. He fell asleep with his head on my lap. At first, I was afraid I hadn’t made the potion strong enough. But by evening, he was gone.”
The kitchen turned into an echo chamber that reflected every wayward sound. The faucet dripping. The refrigerator cycling. The wall clock ticking.
Emily gazed down at her folded hands. Tears splashed from her eyes, yet her face held no emotion. “I had to do it. Because of the cancer.”
“What cancer?” Birdie asked gently.
“The cancer, the cancer. The doctor said it was a matter of weeks. The pain was more than he could bear. I couldn’t let it go on, now could I? He was a good man. At least”—she paused here to reflect—“he was to me.”
Chapter 26
WHEN JOEL LET himself into the house, Kendra was upstairs, sitting on the Queen Anne chair. He called out to her from below. Rather than respond, she listened to him scour the house, turning on lights as he went. Eventually he climbed upstairs.
“Kendra?” His silhouette was as ephemeral as a glimmer, and the curve of his cheekbone glowed like a crescent moon against a midnight sky. He groped for the light switch.
She averted her eyes. “Turn it off.”
“Why?”
“Just ... please.”
The room plunged back into the comfort of darkness. He stayed where he was, at the top of the stairs, and stood immobile, silent as the grave.
“I’m not crying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve been listening,” she said, “for the ghosts.”
He inhaled a shallow breath and held it. Then he felt his way in the dark and knelt at her feet. His double-fisted grip was different from Emily’s. Hers had been gentle and reassuring; his were strong and blistering.
To make what she was about to say go down easy, she bestowed a trembling smile, which he probably couldn’t see anyway. “It’s about Emily.”
He waited to hear the bad news. But it was worse than he thought. Much worse.
She took a deep breath and released it with a stuttering sigh. “She gave Mac a lethal dose of foxglove.”
He digested the information. “Foxglove? I don’t ...”
“If done right, it induces a heart attack. And ...” She took another girding breath. The words were hard to get out but even harder to hear herself say. “He ... he coached her. And showed her how.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I were.” The power of his fists cut off the blood flow to her fingertips. Despite the numbness, she didn’t want him to let go. “He ... he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I spoke with his doctor. Sam Stone. Do you know him?”
“One of the best.”
“He confirmed the diagnosis. Alan refused treatment. He knew the prognosis was grim. He didn’t want to face chemotherapy. Or surgery. Or a long illness. That’s why he put his life in order. Because he knew.” The chortle came spontaneously. The subject matter wasn’t funny. But it was ironic. “I accused you of something awful.”
“You don’t have to ...”
“I built it up in my mind until I was c
ertain. So goddamn certain.” She took a steadying breath and went on with her confession, hoping he could forgive her. “I’m so sorry, Joel, for what I accused you of. For what I put you through. And ... and everything else. When I think ...”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Isn’t there? You married damaged goods.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Insanity doesn’t run in families.”
“Sure it does. I’m living proof it does. Non compos mentis.”
“If you want to label yourself with something, try grief. Mac’s death was too much for you to handle. That’s why ...” He stopped short.
“I went off the deep end? You can say it, Joel. I blamed you when I should have blamed anybody but you.”
He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. “I can leave it behind if you can.” He urged her out of the chair and wrapped her inside the radiant heat of his body.
The last thing she wanted was for him to comfort her. She didn’t deserve his compassion, even though she desperately wanted it. “Don’t you understand?” she whispered against his cheek. “My mother killed my father.”
“Your mother loved your father. She broke free of her sickness and committed a final act of love. What she did was a gift. If her illness ever had meaning, this was it.”
“We should tell someone. We should go to the police.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother murdered my father.”
“It was an act of mercy.”
“That’s what Birdie says, but ...”
Trick of the Mind Page 19