A figure moved out of her shed, and she felt the relief of recognition as their eyes met from across the yard. She smiled and lifted her hand in greeting. He smiled back and, like a pantomime, lifted his own hand the same way she had. They stood still for a moment, both grinning like idiots, and she wondered if he felt as happy at the sight of her as she did at the sight of him. She crossed the yard.
“Thanks,” he said when she reached him, lifting the sandwich and bottled water she’d left for him that morning as she always did. His face was dirty, his usual days-old stubble grown into a full-fledged beard since she had last seen him. She wondered how he shaved, where he shaved. She pictured him crouching over a mountain stream, using his reflection in the water as a guide, even though there was no mountain stream anywhere nearby, just a lake tucked back in the woods that kids around here went to fish in or park at.
She gestured to her house. “Want to come in?”
He shifted, considering it. Sometimes he said yes, sometimes no. But whether he came inside or not, they always stood and chatted. That was why she had first offered to let him in her house, because she didn’t want her neighbors to see them standing in full view, chatting. She didn’t want them mentioning the strange man to Steve.
“There might be a cookie in it for you,” she teased. The first time she had caught him sneaking out of her shed last spring, she’d attacked without thinking, her newfound self-defense skills wielded impulsively, and badly. He’d laughed at her in spite of himself, and she’d frozen in mid-strike, which had made him laugh harder. That had been the beginning.
“I did kind of want to talk to you about something,” he said.
With practiced nonchalance—no sudden or overeager movements, or he shied away—she gestured for him to follow her inside, feeling the corners of her mouth turn up reflexively as he fell into step behind her. It was crazy, she knew this. Casey could be home at any moment, and what would she think if she happened to find her mother entertaining a homeless man in their kitchen, feeding him at their table?
“Mind if I wash up first?” he asked, as he always did.
She nodded and watched as he moved to the kitchen sink, soaping his hands, then his arms up to his elbows, like a surgeon scrubbing in. Soon, the scent of soap replaced the scent she’d come to associate with him. He smelled of outdoors and dirty clothes. It filled up their house as soon as he entered. Once Nicole had come home moments after he’d left and asked about the smell. She’d told her a worker had needed to check the thermostat, the lie coming to her effortlessly.
He took a seat at the table, the same one he always did. The one usually occupied by Steve, which always gave her a sadistic little thrill. Steve would die a thousand deaths if he knew a homeless man sat in his chair, ate at his table with his wife. If he knew the things Bess had shared with this stranger, how natural it had become to talk to him, how she’d come to need the unburdening he offered her. He had, as he always said, nowhere else to be. She was the one with the schedule, the obligations. He had all the time in the world.
He unwrapped the sandwich she’d made and left for him after Nicole and Steve had left that morning. The shed had become his shelter. No one had thought a thing of her installing the dorm-size fridge in the shed. She got thirsty when she gardened. No one knew she’d hidden a bedroll out there, for nights when he needed a place to get out of the cold or rain. At night she’d look down from her bedroom window, the moon shining on the shed, and wonder if he was inside. He came and went at will, so she never knew.
At first it was just good deeds done in kindness, her civic-mindedness in action, something she did as much for herself as for him, like making a meal for a family or volunteering at a shelter. It was her service to humanity, she reasoned; she would do it for anyone. But as their polite exchanges stretched into actual conversations, he had become not just anyone. He’d become Jason, a former resident of this neighborhood who’d abused drugs and thoroughly trashed his relationships.
Though he was clean now, Jason’s family didn’t trust him and wouldn’t allow him to come back home. One cold, dark night, as he had feared freezing to death on the city streets, he’d resolved that if he lived through the night, he’d return to the suburban enclave he’d fled as a young man. It was safer there, he’d reasoned, with more resources. He’d mapped out an existence, stealing food and drinks from garages and outbuildings like hers, sleeping in the same forts he’d once camped out in as a kid. It wasn’t ideal, he knew that, but it also wasn’t forever. He’d made some decisions recently. He was going to make his way back to real life, or at least some semblance of one, he’d quipped.
Of course she’d promised to help make it happen. What else could she do?
He took his last bite of sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. She didn’t look at him as he ate, gazing instead at a hummingbird at the feeder just outside the kitchen window. Soon the tiny birds would disappear and she’d have to wait till spring to see them again. Soon it would be winter, and what would he do then? She didn’t like to think about the cold nights ahead.
He took a sip of his water, set down the bottle. At the sound, she looked back at him. Sometimes when she looked at him, she saw the man he could be. The man he would be, with her help. She’d told him he could take a shower there, but he never took her up on it. She resolved not to offer this time.
“You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked, prompting him. Sometimes he lost track of his thoughts, he had told her, as if someone had lowered the volume in his brain. She assumed it was from all the drugs. Bess had never done illegal drugs, even as a teenager or young adult. The idea of putting something in her body that wasn’t regulated by the FDA had always made her nervous.
He grinned, and the effect on his face was like a light coming on in a dark room. He had a great smile. But his teeth could use whitening. She wondered if he would take offense to her putting a toothbrush and toothpaste by the bedroll in the shed. She’d just read about a new brand of whitening toothpaste that was supposed to work miracles.
“I applied for some jobs,” he said.
This was good news. This was a positive step. “Wow,” she said, nodding her affirmation as she spoke. “I . . . wow. I never . . .”
His grin stayed in place. “I know. I can’t believe it, either. It feels . . .”
“Good?” she ventured.
He thought it over. “Strange.”
“How did you . . .” She didn’t know how to tactfully ask the question on her mind. She tried to picture him going into a workplace, asking for an application. They would think he was just any homeless man off the street. They wouldn’t want him, because they wouldn’t know him.
“I went to the library, applied online. They have computers you can use for free.”
Pleased with his resourcefulness, she nodded a little too enthusiastically. “That’s so good that they have that,” she said, sounding stupid.
He held up the cell phone she’d gotten him, the prepaid kind. She had one, too, one Steve and her girls didn’t know about, her own private thing. She’d given him the number. “Now that I have this, I have a way they can contact me.” With the beard, she couldn’t tell if he was actually blushing, but she thought she saw his cheeks redden. “I have you to thank for that.”
She ignored his thanks, changed the subject. “You’ll need interview clothes,” she said.
She could tell from the look on his face that he hadn’t thought about that. He looked down at his worn, unwashed clothing. The shirt was a castoff from Steve. Shortly after she had met Jason, she’d convinced her husband to weed out his closet, going on and on about the KonMari method until he did it just to shut her up. She’d told him she’d take the discarded clothes to Goodwill. But first she’d offered them to Jason. She’d been surprised how Jason had sorted through them with care, as if he were purchasing them instead of taking a handout. She had admired the way he’d somehow retained his dignity.
&
nbsp; “Do you know your measurements?” she asked, a plan formulating in her mind. She would buy him an interview outfit. Not a suit, of course, that was too much for the kinds of jobs he would be applying for. But some nice pressed khakis, a button-down shirt, a tie. She’d buy a blue shirt to match his eyes, which were now sparkling with excitement. She tried not to make eye contact for too long, looking instead at her hands resting on the table.
He shrugged. “I used to know all that, but I’ve, uh, kinda lost weight since then.” Before meeting her, he’d gone hungry a lot. “I do remember my sleeve length is thirty-three. I guess that doesn’t change.” He chuckled, but there was wistfulness in the laughter. “Funny, the things you remember.”
“I’ve got a measuring tape!” she blurted out. “I could measure you!” Too late, she thought better of her offer. Measuring someone required getting close. Touching them. “I mean,” she said, “I could let you use it to, you know, measure yourself.”
Seemingly unfazed, he nodded in agreement. “I guess I could do that.”
She nodded along. “Measure your waist and your neck, I guess?”
He continued nodding.
“And I’ll get you some, what, khaki pants? An oxford shirt maybe? For interviews?”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said. He grimaced. “I hate to keep taking your charity.”
She waved her hand in the air, dismissing his gratefulness. “I like doing it. It makes me feel good to help other people.”
He started to say something but stopped. The look on his face told her it was something she both wanted to hear and didn’t.
“What?” she asked, and felt her heart rate increase.
He gave her a rueful grin and shook his head. “Nothing.”
She was about to press, to insist he tell her what he was going to say. But something told her to leave it alone. Instead she said, “I’ll go find that measuring tape.”
She rose from her chair and went off to find it, coming back a few minutes later to hand it to him. She went to drop it into his hand and walk away clean. But when she reached out, he wrapped his fingers around her hand, holding her in place. Alarm bells went off inside her. He’d never gone so far as to make physical contact with her before. Eating in front of her was the most intimate thing he’d ever done. She met his eyes, and her elevated heart rate turned into a full-fledged pound. Had she made a mistake letting this stranger into her house? Was he going to do something to her? She tried, and failed, to remember the move they’d learned in class. What to do to throw off someone who has hold of your hand?
They blinked at each other, her breath gone thready in her throat. She felt the warmth of his hand holding hers, and realized that, though he was still touching her, he had relaxed his grip. He was not holding her in place; she could freely move away. But she stayed.
“You’re the only friend I have,” he said. “The only friend in the world.”
She thought about this. Their encounter in the spring, her resolve to help him, the conversations that resulted, each of them lingering longer and longer just to keep talking. Hers was the only number in his phone, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like that. Sometimes he called her just to talk. Sometimes she called him for the same reason. There was something about talking to her secret friend on her secret phone that made her feel more alive, her blood pounding in her veins with new fervor.
“Yes,” she said back to him. What she meant was, You are that for me as well. But she didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. He nodded his understanding, as if a bridge had been crossed over in that moment, but a bridge taking them to where, she couldn’t say. She didn’t dare try to guess.
Polly
She pulled into the driveway, noting that the number on the mailbox at the curb matched the house number that the detective had given her. He’d been here earlier to officially release the house so they could return. He’d left the back door open and a key on the kitchen table for her, he’d said so in a voicemail he’d left her when she had somehow missed his call. From the sound of his voice, he could just as well have been ordering a pizza instead of explaining how to get back into her daughter’s home after it had been cleared. Polly wasn’t sure that leaving the door to a potential crime scene unlocked was very wise. But she wasn’t one to question authority. And this cop in particular considered himself an authority. She could tell.
She let Barney out of the car and waited in the backyard as he sniffed around, then peed. She took a moment to orient herself, her eyes scanning the decent-size backyard, looking for a swing set, a playhouse, something that her granddaughter might’ve played with. But the yard was devoid of evidence that anyone lived there at all, save a half-empty water bottle that likely had fallen out of someone’s bag and been forgotten. There was an ornate cement bench that looked better suited to a cemetery than a yard, and several manicured areas, giving it a parklike feel. But a park no one ever came to. Completely encircled by woods, it was peaceful and secluded. Which was, Polly guessed, the draw for Norah. Barney flopped down in front of her, and she reached down and gave his ears a quick scratch. “Come on,” she said, and moved to the back door with her dog by her side.
She turned the knob and, sure enough, the door swung open. She let herself into her daughter’s kitchen and stood for a moment, looking around. Instead of a home kitchen, the room looked more like a set for a cooking show. Polly searched for something familiar, something that said her daughter lived there. She scanned the large austere kitchen once, then again, but nothing emerged. There was nothing homey or quaint or sentimental. Not a cookbook with a title she recognized, not a framed painting she’d seen in Norah’s old house, not even a name-brand food item that was familiar. It was as if her daughter had completely replaced the past with all new things, things that had nothing to do with her.
She resolved not to take any of this personally, not to make this about her. She was here for Violet. Her falling out with Norah long ago had nothing to do with her granddaughter’s need for her now. This was a new thing. That was old and best forgotten. And besides, Norah wasn’t there, so it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to think of her at all. Norah could deal with her own poor choices. And Polly would help Violet deal with what those choices had meant for her.
But first she had to hide the money she’d withdrawn on her way out of town. “Wait here,” she instructed the dog, then darted back out to her car. She rooted around in the back seat for the bag of cash she’d stowed out of sight, just in case. She couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that nagged at her for taking the money and leaving town, but it was her money. She’d done nothing wrong, though she doubted Calvin would see it that way. Calvin, when he discovered she’d nearly cleaned out their bank account, would be unhappy. He’d be furious. She braced herself for that call and wondered how long it would be until he figured out he was dangerously close to being broke.
She’d considered turning off her phone, putting it into one of Norah’s drawers, and forgetting about it entirely. Letting this stay with Violet be a fresh start, hiding out here at this suspected crime scene. She could leave her old life behind, use the bag of money to start a new one. Hire an attorney to sort out a divorce from Calvin. Once her other money—the account she was pretty sure Calvin didn’t know about—was safely moved to a new and even more secure account, she might just do that.
She walked quickly through the house holding the bag, feeling the weight of the cash growing heavier with each room she passed through. In each room, she contemplated hiding places, somewhere nondescript, somewhere Calvin—if he ever found her, God forbid—would not look. In the den, her eyes came to rest on the fireplace, a massive stone-tiled display that took up most of the wall and looked like it belonged in some Tuscan vineyard, not a suburban McMansion. On the mantel were two gigantic urns meant to look like wine casks. Polly set down the bag and walked over to the front windows to make sure that Violet’s stepmother had not arrived to drop her off early. She saw
no cars in the driveway and none approaching the house.
Satisfied, she scurried back to the mantel and stood on her tiptoes to reach one of the urns, which looked heavy but was surprisingly light. She pulled it down and set it gently on the floor. She attempted to lift the ornately carved lid from it, but it was stuck. She tugged harder, to no avail. She tried turning it, in case it was screwed on, but it didn’t move. Curious as to what she was doing, Barney put his nose on the lid. She gave the dog the side-eye. “You’re no help,” she said, and pushed his wet nose out of the way.
She was wrestling with the urn, her determination overriding her common sense, when she heard a car pull into the drive. She leapt up and put the urn back where it belonged. She frantically searched for somewhere—anywhere—to stow the money before her granddaughter walked into the house and found her holding it. Desperate, she shoved the bag underneath an overstuffed leather recliner in the corner of the room and raced out the front door, coming to a stop just beside a large pumpkin on the front porch. She attempted a pose that looked rested and serene, instead of frenzied and fearful. She held the pose as she waited for her granddaughter to say her goodbyes. She could just make out a little hand waving from the back seat and recalled Allen’s comment about Violet’s presence disrupting his happy little second family. What a douche.
When Violet turned away from the car, Polly got the first glimpse of her granddaughter’s face in fourteen years. The last time Polly had seen her, she’d been a chubby toddler with grubby hands. Now she was a slender wisp of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Though they shared some features, she did not look like Norah. When Violet was a baby she had looked exactly like Norah’s baby pictures. Polly would’ve bet she’d grow to be the spitting image of her mother.
But instead Violet looked like someone else, someone also familiar to Polly, someone she barely remembered: herself at fifteen years old. She recognized the burgeoning beauty that was not quite there yet and the uncertainty in her eyes that Polly recalled in an instant: the fear that she was never going to get there. That she would always be skinny and gawky, unsure of the right things to say or do around a boy, and overwhelmed by a world that seemed to come at her instead of waiting until she was ready to come to it.
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