The notion made her melancholy, and she spent a good deal of time smoking and staring out the windows at the lake, deep in thought.
• • •
More than once during the wedding reception, Silja caught Henry and Paul huddled together, glancing her way. She tried to pass it off as a silly paranoia, but she couldn’t deny what she saw. She couldn’t even say they were trying to hide it.
What in the world is that about? Silja wondered that night as she tossed in bed restlessly, careful to keep to her side. She didn’t want to disturb Ruby, with whom she was sharing; Henry slept alone in the room’s other bed.
As always, she wondered if Henry had any inkling at all about David. But no; she knew he didn’t. She and David had always been discreet.
The next day, she chose not to confront Henry about his odd behavior at the reception. On the long drive back to the airport, the wait in the terminal, the ride on the plane—through all that, through gathering their luggage at LaGuardia, hailing a cab, and riding home to Stonekill, getting in long after dark and dragging themselves to bed—she said nothing to Henry. They talked about how vast and treeless the scenery was along Lake Michigan. They discussed the pros and cons of airplane travel, and speculated about what the weather would be like when they landed in New York. Safe topics that Ruby could converse with them about.
They did not talk about those glances, those shared words between the brothers.
Because if Henry did suspect? Well, on the one hand, Silja didn’t want to know.
But on the other hand, she wished he did. Sometimes she wished the whole thing could finally come to a head. Could be resolved once and for all.
No matter the consequences.
47
* * *
Angie
Perched on the davenport, my half-finished cup of coffee growing cold on the side table next to me, I scanned the black-and-white photographs in Silja’s album.
All the photographs seemed to have been taken on the same day, in the same location—on a small motorboat, it looked like, similar to the one my parents had at home on Lake Michigan. I could tell, by the vastness of it, that the water I saw in the background must be the Hudson River. There was some mass in the distance on the water; I squinted to make it out, and realized it was the fleet of unused ships I’d seen when we drove to the funeral home the other day.
The first group of photos showed Silja and Ruby. They were recent; Ruby looked as she did now, and Silja seemed about the same as I remembered from my wedding day. Both mother and daughter were in casual weekend wear—Silja in a pair of slacks and a sleeveless blouse with ballerina flats; Ruby in pedal pushers, a short-sleeved top, and sandals.
There were four photos of mother and daughter. In each one, Silja and Ruby sat close together on the motorboat’s bench. The first showed their heads bent toward one another, as if sharing a joke. In another, they looked straight at the camera, smiles on both their faces. Yet another was profiles—Silja and Ruby facing each other with their large noses touching.
I turned to the next photograph. They had switched photographers. Now the person holding the camera must have been Silja, because she was no longer shown.
Instead, the photograph showed Ruby with a man. A sleepy-eyed, stocky man with a kind expression. He sat next to Ruby in the spot Silja had vacated.
It was Dr. Shepherd.
He wore chinos, a golf shirt, a tweed cap. His hands rested lightly on his knees. His cap was pulled down over his brow, but both he and Ruby looked directly into the camera, smiles on their faces. It was unmistakably the same man who had been at Henry’s funeral.
There were four photographs of Ruby and Dr. Shepherd. In the second picture, Ruby was pointing across the water at a sailboat in the distance. In the last two, they seemed to be in friendly conversation.
Holding my breath, I turned the album’s pages once more.
The last set of photographs—three this time—showed Silja and Dr. Shepherd.
In the first photo, Dr. Shepherd had a hand on Silja’s arm, but at a slight distance; between their bodies, I could make out the side of the boat and the river in the background. In the second, they sat closer together, and Dr. Shepherd looked at Silja while she smiled at the camera.
The final photo showed Dr. Shepherd’s arm around Silja’s shoulder, and her head nestled against his collarbone.
• • •
PJ let out a long, lonely-sounding wail. With a start, I realized I’d been completely ignoring the baby; he’d rolled himself under a side chair and couldn’t get free. The chair, with a sleek wooden frame and aqua-colored fabric, was almost big enough for me to crawl underneath myself. It must have been frightening for PJ to look up and see the dark underside of the chair, instead of the beamed ceiling the baby had become accustomed to in the past few days.
I set down the photograph album and picked up PJ, holding him close. “It’s all right, little one,” I murmured. “Mommy is here. You’re fine.”
PJ was covered in dust. When I had vacuumed the other day, I’d given it a lick and a promise, ignoring the furniture’s undersides. I should have been more thorough, I scolded myself—but then again, I wasn’t the one living in a filthy house.
“Disgusting,” I muttered, carrying the baby to the kitchen and wiping his face and hair with a damp dishtowel.
What kind of homemaker was Silja, anyway, to let her house get into this kind of shape? Paul said that Silja lived opulently—well then, why didn’t she have help? Even if Silja refused to clean her house herself, she must be able to afford a cleaning woman.
I took PJ to the guest room and changed his clothes. I smoothed his hair and studied his face. He looked back at me with dark, sparkling eyes. I pulled him close and kissed the sweet-smelling top of his head.
• • •
I put PJ down for a nap and returned to the living room. I looked through the album’s pages one by one. I studied the nuances of each photograph. Traced my index finger around the three faces, puzzling over their connection.
Dr. Shepherd was not Ruby’s father—of that, I was certain. Ruby’s eyes were an exact replica of Henry’s. And her long, lean body was all Glass. The short, stocky professor with the down-turned eyes looked nothing like her.
But clearly, something had been going on between Dr. Shepherd and Silja—something that Silja had drawn her daughter into.
Abruptly, I tossed the album on the couch and hurried down the hall. In the master bedroom, I rushed to the dresser, fumbling with the clasp on Silja’s jewelry box and lifting out the necklace tray.
I stood back in shock. The jewelry was all there. Silja’s fine bracelets and rings and earrings. All the expensive pieces.
But no envelope.
I pushed everything aside, looked for a false compartment on the bottom. I looked under the jewelry box and rifled through Silja’s dresser drawers.
As I did so, I caught sight of myself in the mirror over Silja’s dresser. For just a moment, I thought I saw someone else in the mirror: a woman taller than me, older, with blond, elegant upswept hair and deep hazel eyes.
I backed away, slamming the dresser drawers closed. Then I took a breath and smiled at my own foolishness. It was just my mind playing tricks on me.
As I looked around the room, the desk in the corner caught my eye. Long and sleek, its surface was supported by spindly metal legs. Its only two drawers were on the right-hand side, below the desk’s surface. I opened the drawers and began pillaging the contents. The lower drawer contained hanging files; I pulled out a few folders and saw that they appeared to be related to Silja’s work. In the upper drawer, a plastic desk organizer held paper clips, rubber bands, a stapler.
Avoiding the mirror over the dresser—looking anywhere but there—I continued searching the room. I rummaged through Silja’s closet racks and shelves, but all I found were the fancy clothes and stacks of shoe boxes I’d already seen. I looked under the bed, coughing at the dust and filth. There was not
hing there but grime. I wondered if anyone had vacuumed under that bed since the house was built. I doubted it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d torn the room apart. But if the envelope was there, I failed to find it.
• • •
Carefully, I put everything in Silja’s room back as it had been before my search. And then I went into the hallway and stood still, considering.
I was certain the envelope contained a clue of some sort. Did Ruby take it? She must have. Thinking it through, that made more sense than the envelope being in Silja’s room anyway. Why would Ruby move it from the jewelry box to another location in Silja’s room? She wouldn’t, of course; she would take it to her own room. If I hadn’t been so rattled by the figment in the mirror, I’d have realized that sooner.
I was wasting time.
I sprinted down the hall to Ruby’s room. I opened every drawer in the dresser and nightstand. I shuffled through the books on the bookshelf. Thrusting open the closet door, I plowed through mounds of clothes on the closet floor. A cardboard box of hairpins and barrettes. A loose stack of 45’s, their slippery black surfaces escaping my grip as I pushed them aside. A sloppy pile of school papers that I skimmed through. Ruby got all A’s, which didn’t surprise me. I glanced at the girl’s English essays and history papers, her math homework done in a neat, spidery hand.
And then, at the bottom of the stack, I found some papers that made me pause. I pulled them out of the closet and sat back on my heels, studying them in the light from the window.
They were construction plans of some sort. Not of this house, but of a smaller structure. The dimensions were noted—eight-inch-thick walls, an interior space twelve feet by ten. One drawing showed a tidy layout of shelving, bunks, a table, and a small closet-like space marked “WC.”
I turned to the next page. SITE PLAN was written across the top in block-shaped letters. The page showed the small structure and the area around it. I could plainly see where the structure stood in relation to Henry and Silja’s home—in the woods, at the far end of the property line.
Whatever could this thing be? Had it ever been built, or was it just on paper?
If it had been built, did Paul know about it?
And why did Ruby have construction drawings of it?
I dug back into the closet. If those drawings were there, perhaps the envelope was, too. I just had to look more carefully. I went back through the class work stack, and then took the clothing items, one by one, shaking them out before tossing them aside.
The first few items revealed nothing. And then, turning a denim jacket right-side out, I came across an envelope stuffed into the sleeve. Finally, I thought, here it is.
But it wasn’t. Unlike the envelope in Silja’s jewelry box, this one was not blank.
It was addressed from Paul to Ruby.
The postmark was from several weeks ago. I had no idea Paul exchanged mail with Ruby. She did not, to my knowledge, write back. Perhaps this was the first time he’d written her. Perhaps he was waiting for a reply.
I wanted to read his words, but doing so felt wrong. I placed the envelope carefully where I’d found it, turning the jacket back inside-out and inserting the envelope in the jacket sleeve.
I stood. I moved about the room, carefully restoring everything to the chaotic condition it had been in before I began my search. I hadn’t made it much worse; everything had been in a jumble when I’d opened the door to Ruby’s room. But I attempted to leave the jumble as close to its original state as I could.
I turned on my heel and went out, closing the door.
I heard PJ awaken, and went to the guest room to fetch him. Sitting on the bed, I regarded my son, taking in his small features—his soft hair, his round cheeks and fair skin. And, of course, those dark eyes. PJ returned my gaze with an open and sociable expression, as if I were an old friend he’d run into on the street.
I picked him up and held him close, rocking him against my breast. “Sweet little man,” I murmured. “I love you so much.”
The telephone rang, and I scurried to the kitchen. “Glass residence.”
“Angel, it’s me.” Paul’s voice sounded tense, exhausted.
“How are you? How’s Ruby? What’s going on there?” I swayed PJ, his back pressed against my stomach. “I’ve been so worried.”
Paul sighed. “I can’t go into details. But we’ll be here for a while yet, I think.”
I glanced at the wall clock; it was not quite noon. “Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?”
“You just sit tight, Angel.” Paul’s voice was low and soothing, reminding me of my father’s when I was a child and a nighttime thunderstorm would rouse my sisters and me. “It will be over soon.”
48
* * *
Ruby
Ruby is very, very tired by now of being in the little room. The wall is full of her scratches, barely a spot she can reach that hasn’t been gouged. She stands back in satisfaction. It’s a job well done. Her father always said no job was worth doing if you weren’t going to give it your all.
When will they return? Where is Uncle Paul? He didn’t abandon her here, did he? No, Uncle Paul wouldn’t do that. He’ll be back.
In theory, this room should feel solid, like the Shelter. It has no windows, just like the Shelter. It’s dark, just like the Shelter.
But it does not feel indestructible. Unlike the Shelter, this room feels like a place that could cave in.
• • •
Finally, the door opens, and Slater and Hill enter, followed by Uncle Paul and another man. Hill is carrying an extra chair, which he arranges at the table. Everyone sits.
Slater looks around. “I see you’ve been busy, Ruby.”
Ruby doesn’t answer, which is the right thing to do because the new man growls at Slater. “Please don’t address my client without addressing me first, Detective.”
The man turns to her. “Ruby,” he says. “My name is Mr. Kurtz, and your uncle has hired me to represent you. I want you to know you don’t need to answer any questions at this time. You’re not being charged with anything. You’re free to go whenever you want. And my suggestion is that you leave right now.” He glances at Uncle Paul. “Your uncle agrees with me.”
Uncle Paul says, “We can go to Mr. Kurtz’s office and speak further with him, Ruby.”
Ruby nods because she knows that’s the only way she’s getting out of this room, although she has zero intention of saying anything to this Kurtz character. She dislikes him even more than she dislikes Slater, which isn’t saying a lot.
Kurtz stands and tips his hat at the cops. “Gentlemen.”
Slater stands too, and you can tell he’s angry. “We’ll be in touch,” he tells Kurtz.
Kurtz ushers Ruby and Uncle Paul toward the door. “I’m sure you will.”
• • •
Outside the cop shop, in the parking lot, Kurtz tries to persuade Uncle Paul to bring Ruby to his office right then and there. “I want you to tell me everything, Ruby,” Kurtz says, turning to her. He touches her shoulder, and she flinches.
“I’m sorry,” he says, drawing his hand away. “I have a daughter just about your age.” He tilts his head, looking at her. “Ruby, do you know what attorney-client privilege is?”
Of course she does. Does this flake think Ruby doesn’t read? That she’s never seen Perry Mason?
But Ruby doesn’t say that aloud; she just nods. No reason to be rude, especially if she wants to get out of here.
“Well, then you know you can trust me. I’m your lawyer and I’m here to help.”
She turns to Uncle Paul. “Can we go now?”
Uncle Paul looks at Kurtz. “Let me talk to her. I’ll call you as soon as possible.”
Kurtz sighs. “The sooner the better,” he tells Uncle Paul. “This thing is a ticking time bomb.”
• • •
Uncle Paul holds the car door open for Ruby. He’s being very supportive, all things considered.
She slides in and pushes the cigarette lighter. Uncle Paul gets in the driver’s side just as the lighter pops out and Ruby reaches for it, Camel in her other hand. He watches her wordlessly, then takes out his Luckies and lights one.
They both sit silently, smoking. Ruby looks out through the front windshield at the parking lot and the road beyond it, watching the traffic buzz by.
Uncle Paul finishes his Lucky, then opens his window and tosses the butt onto the pavement. “Want to go for a drive?”
“What about Aunt Angie?” Ruby asks. “She’s got to be frantic by now.”
He smiles, but his look is grim. “It’s nice of you to think of her. But she’ll be fine.”
Ruby shrugs. “Okay, then. Let’s go for a drive.”
49
* * *
Silja
1959–1960
The truth came out in October, a few weeks after they got back from Wisconsin. It made so much sense, Silja had no idea how she’d missed it. The girl, Angie, was pregnant, expecting a baby in March. No wonder there was such haste.
Henry said Paul had told him while they were in Wisconsin. When Silja asked why Henry didn’t share the information with her, Henry said, “Because Paul told me in confidence. If he’d wanted you to know, he’d have told both of us.”
“But you’re telling me now.” She walked across the living room to the bar and began fixing herself a drink.
He smirked. “It’s not like you wouldn’t have found out.”
Silja knew she should let it go, but she couldn’t resist. “You’re the one who wants us to stay married, Henry,” she reminded him, adding ice and vermouth to her martini shaker. “Aren’t husbands and wives supposed to share this type of information with one another?”
Eyebrows raised, she glanced back to where he stood at the kitchen counter, thinning pork chops with a meat tenderizer. A pot of green beans simmered on the stove. It was an anomaly these days, Henry making a substantial meal like this.
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