DO IT! a male voice boomed from the other table.
Jane felt a hand grab her shirt on her left side, yanking it up so her belly was exposed. Then on her right side, another yank by a second hand, this time so violent that it pulled the shirt over her head, catching her arms in it, the cotton fabric covering her head so she could neither see nor breathe. She struggled to pull it down, but the pressure was relentless. Her shirt was dragged over her head, catching her long hair in its decorative buttons. It hurt. She was sitting in her bra and skirt. Tree tossed her shirt onto a puddle of spilt ketchup on the table, but before Jane could escape, he had her by her bra strap, fumbling with the clasp, grunting with frustration until he finally gave up and with a mighty effort ripped the bra off. All Jane could think of was her mother saying Always wear clean underwear as Tree ran off whooping triumphantly, waving Jane’s bra above his head like a captured flag.
What size? cried a girl’s voice.
This made Tree stop and look.
34B.
What a loser.
Totally.
A roar of derision as Jane, naked from the waist up, covered herself with her arms. She would not cry. She would not. Instead she laughed. She began slowly and softly, but got louder and louder. She laughed and laughed. What a fool. She deserved the ridicule. She laughed at her shame.
Look at the cunt. She doesn’t even know she’s been humiliated.
That’s because she’s a natural slut. Invite her to the postgame party, Tree. Bet you get past second base next time.
Bitch. This was Jane calling it out, hardly able to get the words out because she was laughing so hard. Moron. Still holding her arms to her chest, she retrieved her shirt from the ketchup pool and put it on, the red stain covering her chest and belly. She ran from the room still laughing.
Why is Jane thinking of this now? She is a grown woman. Much worse things had happened to her, to the world. She had borne, and buried, a child. Wars had been started, and continued, displacing and killing hundreds of thousands of people. She herself is in a safe place now. She is lying naked in her bed, naked by choice, and she is happy. She is. Edward has just left, and she is alone, but it doesn’t matter. She pushes all other thoughts away.
* * *
People are gossiping. About Jane. Somehow the word has gotten out. About Angela. About the incident with the roses. About the wrecked car, although it’s apparently interpreted as attempted murder with a vehicle but they didn’t charge her.
Now instead of ignoring her and giving her the space she needs at Three Sisters, at the Safeway, at the Rite Aid, Jane finds herself being scrutinized around town. People smile at her and say hello and look her up and down as she wheels her cart through the frozen food aisle. She leaves the half-filled cart in the dairy section and goes home to eat cereal out of the box.
How are you today? people ask, so solicitously! Foot traffic at the nursery increases. Jane is barraged with requests to be friends on Facebook, gets texts from numbers she doesn’t recognize. She ignores them all, stops logging on to her email, turns her cell phone off. The only people she can bear are Helen, Adam, and the three sisters at the café. They treat her just the same. And, of course, Edward and Alma. Her saviors.
One incident occurs in the Three Sisters. Jane is having her morning cup of coffee, idly flipping through the Moon News (Supervisors say water rationing will start this month. Feed and Grain says prices of puppy chow to go up) when Fred Barnes, the one who was the subject of gossip after the second disappearance, of the Ames girl, walks in. He was cleared because he had an alibi for the disappearance of the third girl, Amy.
Hi, Jane, he says. May I? He points to the empty seat across the table from her. Taken by surprise, she nods. They don’t really know each other. Before his wife left him, Jane had paid a visit to their home in Montara as a courtesy consult visit, to see why their garden wasn’t thriving. She found they had planted their expensive purchases in the wrong places, in the wrong soil, and were watering them way too much. He hadn’t shown much interest at the time, except to upbraid his wife on how much she had spent on the garden.
He sits there in silence for a moment. He orders a beer. At 8:00 a.m. He follows her eyes down to his glass, and laughs.
Don’t worry, I’ll be sober for my first class at ten, he says. Just a little pick-me-up.
I’m not worrying, it’s none of my business, says Jane. She waits to hear what he has to say.
He seems loath to start talking. He sips his beer, gazes over at the paper, attempts to read the headlines upside down. More water troubles ahead, I see, he says.
Good for my business, says Jane. People replace the silly things they’ve planted with drought-resistant native varieties. We do our best business during droughts.
Guess ill winds do blow some good.
You could say that.
He clears his throat. Here it comes, thinks Jane.
So, he says, how does it feel to be in the hot seat?
And what seat might that be? Jane keeps her eyes focused on the paper. She reads, Water rationing will take effect November 15, and people exceeding the levels established by the council will pay fines.
You know. The goddamned hot seat I was in myself three weeks ago! As if I could do such a thing! I have three daughters of my own.
And a painted doll collection.
Fred’s face flushes red. His hand clenches around the handle of his glass. Jane remembers he has a reputation for temper. Once after a bad call during a football game, he picked up the school mascot, an undersize freshman in a fox’s outfit, and threw him three feet into a crowd of fans. Luckily, no one was hurt, not even the mascot.
That’s nasty gossip. I kept my girls’ dolls after they outgrew them. I kept them safe. I thought they’d want them for their own daughters.
And you painted them?
To keep them fresh! They were fading! I went over all of this with the authorities!
Slow down, Fred, I’m not the police. You’ve got nothing to worry about, is what I hear.
Yes, but you do.
Me? Jane is startled, not at the news, but that someone would state it so bluntly. She wonders if it’s his first beer.
I hear you have no alibis for any of the nights in question. I hear that people do mighty strange things when they lose a kid.
I have nothing to say to gossip.
Well, I do, having been the butt of it. I almost lost my job. Which would have meant losing my house. As it is, I’m left with almost nothing. No wife. No kids. Just a stupid job and an empty house.
Fred, I’m sorry, but I don’t see what this has to do with me.
If it turns out that it’s been you. Or that you had anything to do with it. I swear to God I’ll impose the death penalty on you myself.
He has said this last sentence loudly enough for coffee drinkers at tables around them to hear. They are waiting to see what Jane will do, what she will say.
She says nothing. She looks down at her paper again.
* * *
Jane has a weight within her chest. She carries it at all times. A tumor, a malignant one, that appeared the minute she got the news about Angela. It impedes her breathing. She has not taken a clear, deep breath in more than a year. According to Sartre, though, she is free:
He was free, free in every way, free to behave like a fool or a machine, free to accept, free to refuse, free to equivocate; to marry, to give up the game, to drag this death weight about with him for years to come.
Deadweight. That’s what it was.
But she wouldn’t be entirely truthful if she said it started with Angela’s death. It started, in fact, with Angela’s birth, with the knowledge that she, Jane, was inextricably tied to someone else for life—or, rather, until death. Her marriage vows of till death do us part had been a sham, said in church, in front of a priest and witnesses for the sake of Rick’s family and her family. All wacko Catholics, Rick and she agreed. But the words had no weight for Jane and, sh
e suspected, little for Rick either. Did they love each other? They did—up to a point. Either, in retrospect, would have loved anyone kind to them. And Rick was kind. He valued Jane, once. He valued her keen mind, her curiosity, her quirkiness. And Jane valued that Rick valued her. She admired many things about him too: that he was hardworking and as honest as he needed to be, which meant he wasn’t above lying when it suited his purpose. To her relief, it rarely did, and only for small things. Did you take out the garbage? Did you really pay the utility bill? Such things she could fix. It seemed a small price to pay for security, for good enough sex, for not returning to an empty house after work. Then she got pregnant with Angela. An added bonus, and a burden. A real commitment this time.
Once she caught Rick in one of his lies when his mother was visiting, after his father passed away. They’d had a pleasant enough day, taking Angela to the Oakland Zoo—she was five at the time, and crazy for the monkey house—and then out for some Mexican food. Back in Berkeley, they sat on the front porch of their bungalow, enjoying the parade of students, professors, and hipsters walking by. While they were lazily sipping their wine and chatting about Rick’s job, Jane’s job, Angela’s alternative kindergarten, Jane remembered she had an appointment the next day to look at some native plants that had been discovered in Gilroy. She asked Rick if there was enough gas in the car. This was not as simple-minded a question as it might sound. The gas gauge in their aging Subaru was unreliable, and they had to keep careful track of when they’d filled it up and what the mileage was when they did so. It was one of the basic tenets of their household, as serious as going to Mass on Sunday when Jane was growing up, because so much of their lives was choreographed over who needed the car. Mostly they got around by bicycle, both working in Berkeley. They had an attachment to their bikes that included a seat and wheels for Angela to pedal behind them when they dropped her off and picked her up from day care.
Plenty, Rick had said. I just filled it up. On the surface, this lie made no sense, as it was one that was bound to be caught. Rick’s lies were like that. They were plausible enough when he told them, but there was no way he was going to get away with them—the situations of the lies themselves ensured he would be busted. Did you change Angela’s diaper? Did you buy milk? Did anyone call me while I was gone? This put Jane in an odd position. Unsure of whether she could trust his answers, she took to verifying, always, what he said, or find out the electric bill hadn’t been paid, or, in this case, run out of gas on the Peninsula, right off the San Mateo Bridge. Rick’s mother was with her and calmly took charge of the situation, calling roadside assistance and arranging for gas to be delivered, and getting them out of the car and well away from the cars streaming past on the busy highway. You can’t expect people to change, she says. Richard always was an optimist. He would imagine the world was the way he wanted it to be and forgot it might inconvenience other people if it turned out not to be so.
You’re saying he’s delusional, Jane had said flatly, and Rick’s mother had mildly reproved her. Wishing things are the way you want them to be is the way to make the world a better place.
Wishing the car had gas in it didn’t do us much good, Jane says, but let it pass. Still, on the whole, she believed it was better than being alone.
You might wonder—Jane did, frequently—why it was worth it for her. Why continue? With the night terrors and the crushing weight on her chest. It was a valid question. Why suffer so miserably? Because Jane feared what was next. She didn’t believe she’d see Angela, or her mother, or her father—the latter of which she was glad about. But she did believe she would be punished. More pain awaited. That she knew for sure. That’s what kept her alive: the fear of what was worse.
* * *
Later that night, a knock on the door. A strange woman stands there. Strange as in both unknown and odd; the woman’s hair is disheveled, her eyes wide with madness. Jane recognizes herself. Somehow she knows. You’re Amy’s mother, she says.
And you found her.
Jane nods.
May I come in?
Jane is uncertain about this, but the woman steps forward confidently, so she moves to the side and allows her to pass. She’s picking up on something, but she’s not sure what it is. It isn’t grief, or, rather, it isn’t only grief.
The woman sits down on the couch.
What’s your name? Jane asks. She can’t keep calling her Amy’s mother. Besides, she isn’t anymore, and that would rub it in. Jane knows this.
Anne.
Anne, how can I help you?
You can’t.
Jane understands. She almost reaches out to touch Anne’s arm but thinks better of it. Touch can be lethal. She understands that too.
Let me phrase it another way, Jane begins carefully. What do you want from me?
Jane is assuming that Anne wants to hear firsthand how Amy was found, what she looked like. Although all that would have been clear from the crime scene photos. Jane hadn’t touched anything except to lightly feel the little hand that had hung down. It had been cold. Jane had withdrawn her own hand quickly. She had told no one about that quick gesture.
I hear you were unaccounted for the night she was taken.
I was in the city.
Alone?
No, Jane says. With a . . . she almost says friend, then changes to acquaintance.
But you can’t produce him or her.
No.
The police say you don’t even know this person’s name.
Not for certain. She called herself Sheree.
Let me get this clear: you were running around San Francisco in the middle of the night—a rainy night—on a motorcycle, with someone you didn’t even know the real name of?
Jane has to admit it sounds odd. Yes, she says, then adds, I do odd things sometimes.
I hear you also lack alibis for the other . . . disappearances.
Look, says Jane. Is it likely I could be the murderer? I don’t even have a car! How would I transport the girls? Keep them hidden after I took them from their houses?
It’s strange. The police think so too. And that you happened to lead everyone to the body—to a place off the track that everyone else had missed.
They can think what they want, Jane says, even though she goes cold inside to hear this. This was where she was supposed to be starting anew, with an unsullied life, with a clean reputation. This was her sanctuary. Would she have to move again? When would it end, the nightmare that is her life?
Anne is looking around Jane’s living room. Searching for something. What? Some evidence? What evidence could there be? Her makeup in the bathroom? A supply of woven blankets?
The police have searched, Jane tells her, remembering the feeling she had going back into her house afterward, after strange hands had picked up and touched all her possessions. They’d made themselves coffee, left dirty cups on the sink, a detail that stuck.
Anne nods. She seems distracted. Jane notices her eyes are wet. Jane understands, she truly does. But she doesn’t want this hostility and suspicion in her life. It is too much. She feels guilty. She looks Anne in the eyes, she makes sure not to cover her mouth or touch her face. I didn’t kill your daughter, she says. Let me get you a tissue.
She gets up and retrieves the box of tissues from where it lives, by her bedside, always. When she re-enters the room, Anne is standing by the door. At first Jane is relieved. Thank God, she’s leaving. Then she notices the gun. It is pointed at Jane’s chest.
Anne, Jane says. She says it softly. You’re making a terrible mistake. She sees Anne’s finger moving back and forth on the trigger. Jane recognizes what is in the room in addition to grief. Rage. Jane’s intimate friend.
I read about you on the Internet, Anne says. I know everything. You are a coveter. You are destructive. You are a killer.
Jane couldn’t deny any of those things. She didn’t try. If you only knew, she thought. She forced herself to stand up straight, her arms by her side. So this is how it e
nds. So be it. She closes her eyes and waits. The gunshot echoes in the small room. Jane can’t believe how loud it is. A hot flash in Jane’s head, and then nothing.
* * *
Jane opens her eyes. She is on the floor of her living room. Her head is burning.
She reaches up, and her hand comes away red. But she is alive.
Jane tentatively wiggles her fingers. She sits, then stands, leaning against a chair. Her legs are weak, but they are working. She lifts her right arm, then her left. Everything seems to be working. She has literally dodged a bullet.
The room is empty. The front door is open. Outside, she hears tires squeal as a car pulls away from the curb.
She slowly gets up—she is dizzy—and goes into the tiny bathroom, looks in the mirror. The bullet must have grazed the side of her head. She dampens a washcloth and cleans the wound. A surface scratch. Although it is bleeding profusely, and the hair matted with dark red liquid, it does not appear serious. She has been extraordinarily lucky. It won’t need stitches, even.
Back in the living room, she looks for the bullet. She finds it embedded in a book on the bookshelf behind where she’d been standing, in Jane Austen’s Persuasion. The bullet had reached page 276.
Jane takes the bullet in her hand, and weighs it.
Question: Does she call the police?
On the one hand, if she doesn’t, Anne may try again. Jane isn’t eager to encounter the woman after she realizes that she, Jane, is still alive.
On the other hand, hasn’t the poor woman suffered enough?
Jane is inclined to leave things be. She goes back into the bathroom. The bleeding has stopped, so Jane is able to soap her hair and rinse off the blood. She combs damp hair over the wound. No one will notice, especially if she wears her hair down.
Jane sets off for a walk on the beach. She will not tell anyone about this incident. She counts it up as her penance, as her mother used to say, for the poor souls in purgatory. God knows Jane will need similar help when she gets there.
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