Katy. She’d been asleep upstairs when Holly and then Jack told their story. How late had Jack kept her up the night before? How much sleep did a five-year-old need normally anyhow? It wasn’t as if he knew.
Face it. You don’t have any idea what happens in the life and brain of a five-year-old. Even if you were allowed to see Katy, how would you begin to get to know her? Take her out for ice cream? How predictable and forced is that?
At Stanford, whenever the concept of Katy came to his mind, he’d take out a mental shovel and bury it. He’d then pat down the ground on top by deciding Katy was better off without him, so what was the point of even thinking about her existence? The technique worked. He’d have a brief flash of “I have a daughter,” but it never lasted more than a few minutes. He’d get back to work, or call up a friend and suggest a beer: he could always figure out a way to walk away from being a father.
He wouldn’t call it a revelation, exactly. He wasn’t St. Paul on the road to Damascus—or was it some other saint on the road to some other city? He couldn’t remember. In any event, that wasn’t what happened. He wasn’t struck dumb with the desire to find his daughter and be a father. More like it crept up on him. He began to notice women pushing buggies. When he’d go running in the park, he’d see children in the playground and stop for a minute or two to watch them. He didn’t think Katy. Not at first, anyway.
But as time went by, he stopped noticing and began to look. Especially in restaurants. He had a female friend who wouldn’t go into a restaurant unless she was sure they had a chocolate dessert on the menu. Gradually he started to judge the suitability of restaurants by how many kids were in them. Other people, normal people, hated screaming, loud, messy kids when they were trying to have a nice meal out. Billy wanted them there. He loved to watch mothers and fathers trying to negotiate the problems of feeding toddlers in a public place, silently congratulating the ones who showed their love and attention, scolding the ones who didn’t seem to give a damn. It got to the point where he once went over to a man who was being mean to his little son and told him he should treat his child better.
The scene that ensued from that was a fiasco. The father yelled at him, told him to mind his own business; the whole restaurant turned to stare as the man screamed, “You can tell me what to do when you have a kid yourself. Like you know one thing about being a parent. You don’t know jackshit.”
“OK, OK.” Billy had backed off quickly, his palms in the air. When he got back to his table, a male friend who was with him said, “Jesus, Madison, that was a whack-job thing to do. Are you on something?”
Not long after that, he decided he needed to find Katy. Or he’d be doing whack-job things more and more regularly. The way he watched children in playgrounds, he’d probably get arrested for being a pervert.
He couldn’t kid himself any more. It was all about Katy.
After forty-five minutes, he turned off the cartoon he was half-watching, stopped himself from calling Anna to discuss the weirdness of Jack’s story again and decided to go down to the Back Beach. He wasn’t going to swim, just get some air and stretch his legs. On the way down, he tripped, swore and swore again. Chances were he’d brushed into some poison ivy and would be sporting a killer rash by the end of the day.
There is no mastery without ease.
Sure. But how am I supposed to be easy about some supposed Mafioso being my child’s stepfather? Tell me that, Mr. Barrett.
The tide was coming in, he could see. If he hadn’t had such a bad night’s sleep, he would have jogged, but he didn’t have the energy for anything more physically strenuous than a walk. As he made his way across the beach, he heard barking.
Bones must have found a skunk or something.
He kept walking. The barking didn’t let up.
Is Bones trapped somewhere? And Henry can’t get him out?
Billy turned left, started to climb the path that led to Henry’s house.
When Holly woke up and looked at the bedside clock, it was twenty past nine—she’d slept almost an hour. All the anxiety she’d felt the night before had evaporated; she jumped out of bed, went to take a shower, and found herself singing “Dancing in the Moonlight” as loudly as she could. She used to sing along to the car radio, too, but now she felt self-conscious about it: not only because Jack never joined in but also because on their trip back from Vermont he’d said, “Oops—a little off-key there, Holly.”
It didn’t matter if she was totally off-key in the shower. Jack was in town with Katy and she had the house to herself. If she wanted to, she could sing and dance and yell. Scream with this happiness that was feeling uncontainable. She hadn’t dreamed it—Jack had come back and told her they didn’t have to leave. She didn’t have to try to imagine herself and Katy in some cabin in a strange place, or their life without Henry. Everything was going to be fine.
“Everybody’s feeling warm and bright. Everybody’s dancing in the moonlight . . .”
After the shower, she toweled herself dry, put on a pair of blue jeans and the Lobster Pot T-shirt Jack had given her on their first date, brushed her hair and decided she would try actually skipping to the kitchen. “Grown-ups don’t skip, Mommy,” she could hear Katy say. And she would have replied, “But right now, I’m five years old too, chicken. So I’m allowed to skip.”
The entire morning was a special one. She wasn’t cooking the usual breakfast, she wasn’t making sure Katy finished her orange juice, she wasn’t even having coffee with Henry. Everything about the day was different.
“Slow down, you move too fast. You’ve got to make the morning last . . .”
A Simon and Garfunkel song her mother had liked popped into her head; she forgot the rest of the words, but hummed the tune as she made a cup of coffee and peeled a banana.
Fish for lunch. How should I cook it? Grill? Bake? Maybe grill it—put some bacon on top.
We can stay. Nothing has to change. We can work things out with Billy better now that he knows the truth. It wasn’t a mistake to tell him. He’ll be more reasonable with Jack now.
Jack talking about Katy growing up was weird. What does he think? She’ll be a mall rat with dyed hair and a nose ring? I wonder if she’ll find someone like Anna for a friend. She’s starting real school in September. How crazy is that? She’ll be in first grade.
Holly picked up her coffee mug, wandered into the living room.
He hasn’t talked about it, but I bet he wants a baby.
Her hand went up to her mouth, she stared out the window.
A baby. How amazing would that be? To have a child, with someone I love who loves me? Katy would love a little brother or sister, I know. She wouldn’t be jealous—she knows how much Jack loves her, how special she is to him. Maybe I should talk to him about it—tonight. Why not? Or maybe I should wait for a while. We’ve been through so much in the past forty-eight hours. It might be better to wait. I’ll play it by ear.
The drizzling rain had stopped. She went out onto the deck, sat in a chair, pulled her knees up to her chest.
Four children. A big family. I’m young—that’s the advantage of having a child so young. I can have more. I can have three more, definitely. Kids running all over the house, playing. God—it would be so perfect.
Putting her mug down on the deck, she noticed that the wood needed repainting.
We can trim some of the trees to get a better view, we can clean up the deck, sand it down, repaint it. There’s so much to do. I should make a list.
The air had a quiet heaviness to it. Not muggy, exactly, but damp. Holly was about to get up and go back into the house to get a pad of paper and pen when she heard barking.
Bones is back from the vet. So Henry must be back—I guess he didn’t have as many errands to do as Jack thought.
She picked up the mug and walked down the porch steps, heading to Henry’s, singing.
“Dancing in the moonlight, everybody’s feeling warm and bright. It’s such a fine and natural sight
. . .”
Chapter 28
As she walked up the drive to Henry’s house, Holly was surprised to see Billy coming around the side, heading for the porch.
“Billy? What are you doing here?”
“I was down on the beach and I heard the barking. I thought Bones might be stuck somewhere, that he might have gotten under the porch somehow, but the noise is coming from the house. Where’s Henry?”
“He must be inside with Bones. Hey—what’s with the old shorts? Are you losing your branded look?”
Seeing Billy didn’t upset her; she could even joke with him. Nothing could upset her, not today.
“I’m trying to lose it, you know, become one with the ethos of Barrett Point.” He smiled. “I’m surprised Henry hasn’t helped Bones out by now; he’s been barking for a while.”
Climbing the porch stairs and opening the screen door, she said, “Bones has probably found a mouse and he’s scared to death of it. Henry might be scared too. Maybe he’s standing on a chair, cowering.”
Billy, a step behind her, laughed.
Who knows? Maybe this will all work out now. Maybe Billy will be civilized and, OK, we won’t be best friends, but we can get along with each other. This may be the day for new beginnings for everyone.
“Henry?” she shouted amidst the barks, which were clearly coming from above them. “Where are you? What are you doing up there?” She headed for the staircase.
“Holly.” Billy’s voice was low, urgent. “Wait.”
“What?”
“The floor. There’s something strange on the floor here.”
“What do you mean?” She looked down, saw large dark red splotches, small dark red speckles. “Henry must have spilled some paint. Bones, shut up! Henry?”
“Holl—I’m not sure—”
But she was already heading upstairs.
“Holly.”
He took the stairs two at a time, clearly determined to get in front of her. When he was a few steps up on her, he turned to face her and took her by the shoulders. “Look—just let me go first, OK? Stay here and let me get the dog and Henry.”
They heard it simultaneously. Bones’s bark suddenly switched, became a high-pitched moaning whimper. An unearthly sound; a bad, desperate sound.
They looked at each other, unease mirrored in each other’s eyes.
Holly was swamped by an attack of the same sick feeling she’d had as soon as she’d answered the phone both those times her parents had died and heard the authoritative, serious voice on the other end. The harbinger of bad news. Bones’s whimpering made her want to run out of the house and hide.
Bones is dying. It’s a whimper of death, I know. How will I tell Katy? Poor Katy. This will hurt her so much. And Henry. He loves that dog so much. Where is he?
“You stay here—I’ll go,” Billy said, but she had already pushed past him and was rushing to Henry’s bedroom door.
When she opened it, the first thing she saw was Bones on the bed, lying stretched across Henry’s chest, his nose pointing toward her. He had stopped whimpering; his eyes were closed.
Henry was lying face up, a sheet covering him up to his neck. His eyes were closed and his face was pale and his nose looked different: longer, thinner.
“They’re both asleep,” she said in a hushed voice. She stared at Henry’s nose. Why did it look so different? “They’re taking a nap together.”
“Holly.” Billy had come up behind her. “Holly. I don’t think Henry’s asleep.”
Of course he’s asleep, you idiot. There’s no other possibility. He has to be asleep.
She took a step toward the bed, and as she did, Bones opened his eyes.
“Why are Bones’s eyes so sad, Mommy?”
They were looking at her now—the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. Deep, dark circles of ineffable sadness.
Henry’s eyes didn’t open. Henry didn’t move.
“You know, sweetie, I heard once that in World War Two, the RAF fighter pilots were allowed to bring their dogs with them to their base camps. And the dogs would go out at the end of the day and stand on the runway waiting for their masters to fly back from their bombing missions.
“But sometimes a dog wouldn’t go to the runway. A dog would stay in the barracks.
“And that’s how they knew who wasn’t coming back that day. The pilots whose dogs didn’t go out to meet them had been shot down. Somehow the dogs knew.
“They’re loyal as hell and they’re smart fuckers. They know when something’s wrong.”
“Holly.”
She felt sick: sick in her stomach, sick in her mind, sick in her heart.
“Shut up. Just shut up.”
She closed her eyes because she knew when she opened them, she’d see Henry sitting up in bed. Sitting up saying, “Shit, sweetie, why are you looking so goddamn scared? I’m fine, for Christ’s sake.”
She opened them.
“Holly, the sheet’s covered with blood. Something bad has happened.”
“All you have to do is love Katy. With all your heart. Stop worrying. You worry too much. Listen to an old wise man and take a chill pill.”
“Someone has killed him. Look at the blood. This wasn’t an accident or a hemorrhage—someone killed him and wrapped him up in the sheet.”
“Red Slobs are playing this afternoon. You and Katy come over here and let’s listen to them beat the crap out of the damn Yankees.”
“Holly. Come away from the bed. Don’t look at the sheet. Please.”
“You’re not supposed to get over death, sweetie. You don’t forget and you never stop feeling the loss. You never make peace with grief, you just work out a way to live with the war grief wages in your heart.”
Her eyes moved down from his face.
Blood was splattered all over the white sheet that covered his body. So much blood. Too much blood.
It’s not your blood, Henry. This can’t be your blood. It’s like some kind of bad modern painting, the ones you hate so much. It’s not real.
“Get off the bed, Bones.” Billy was at her side now; he was taking Bones by the collar, forcing him to get off the bed. “Down, boy.”
Bones barked once, turned his head to look at Henry.
“Down.” Billy dragged him to the floor.
She had to get rid of it. The sheet. The terrible bloody sheet. She couldn’t let Henry lie under this sheet.
“Holly, you can’t. Don’t touch any—”
She took hold of it, swept it off the bed, threw it on the floor.
“Because it’s closer to the heart. I shake hands with my left hand because it’s closer to the heart.”
Your chest. Oh, my God, the blood. That knife. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.
Oh, Henry, what have they done to your heart?
Winds of rage and torrents of tears were swelling in her, a hurricane about to hit land and wreak havoc. She doubled over, threw up on the floor. When she stood up again, wiping her mouth, she turned away from the bed.
I can’t look. I don’t understand. This isn’t happening.
Billy was staring transfixed at the terrible, bloody mess which was Henry’s chest and the blood-soaked knife which rested on top of it.
“We need to call the police. Right away. Now. We should go downstairs. You shouldn’t look at this, Holly. Go downstairs.”
“I’m not leaving him alone. No way.”
But I can’t look at you again. I can’t see it again. Where are you? Where have you gone? How can you leave me like this? I can’t leave you. I’ll never leave you. I’m going to be sick again. I have to—
“Holly—where’s Katy?”
“Katy.” A jolt of terror stopped her rising nausea. “Oh, my God. What if she comes back and comes over here? What if she—? I have to go home and see if she’s back. If she’s not, I’ll call Jack. Make sure she doesn’t come over here. Then I’ll come back.”
“I’ll call 911.”
“I’ll be back . .
.” She was talking to Henry, she was promising Henry; knowing he couldn’t hear but not believing it, not really. Henry wasn’t really dead but still—Katy couldn’t see this. The two thoughts were flipping back and forth, paralyzing her with their contradictory messages.
None of this was real. It couldn’t be. But Katy couldn’t see it. This had to be a nightmare but she had to control this nightmare somehow, she had to make sure she kept Katy out of it.
Holly turned from the bed, broke into a run; when she reached the bottom of the staircase she tore out the door, the screen banging with a crash behind her.
OK, OK, call 911, Billy told himself, as he ran downstairs and into the living room. He had tried to bring Bones with him, but the dog wouldn’t leave Henry’s room. Find something to pick up the phone with so you don’t mess up any fingerprints. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? It’s a crime scene. Think Law & Order, think like a lawyer.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head and used it to lift the phone on Henry’s desk, then punched in 911 with his covered fingertip.
“There’s been a break-in, there’s been a murder. My name is William Madison. The man murdered is Henry Barrett. On Birch Point Road in Shoreham, at the very end of Birch Point Road. Please send the police and an ambulance as soon as possible.”
The woman on the other end of the line made him repeat what he’d just said, took the details, then told him she’d get the police there immediately.
When Billy put the phone back down, his stomach began to roil.
Don’t. Stay calm. Stay focused. Pull yourself together. Get a glass of water. Can you touch a glass? Drink from the tap. Just get some water. . . . What’s that? Henry must have spilled a cup of coffee over his desk. Why? Was he at his desk here when whoever broke in came? Sitting here having a cup of coffee before . . . all that blood. That knife . . . Jesus. His chest . . .
His stomach churned again, and with it came a fuzzy feeling clouding his head. Yellow and black circles flooded his brain and he swayed forward, threw his hands on the desk to stop himself from toppling onto it.
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