Jane thinks of him as she makes some pea soup with ham. She remembers how the ferret would chew on her father’s earlobe. Jane could never look. Right now, she can’t bear to look at artichoke and sausage soup so popular on the coast, a poisonous green with pink chunks of flesh floating in it. That’s how she thinks of it now, flesh, since Angela was taken.
Her father would pick these pieces of meat out of his soup and feed them to his ferret. Liberty was her name. She was devoted to him. He clipped her nails every week. He cleaned out her ears every other day (ferrets are prone to ear infections). They brushed their teeth together every night. Her father’s toothbrush was red, Liberty’s blue. First, Jane’s father would attend to his own teeth, mostly intact. Then he would put a little toothpaste on the blue toothbrush and Liberty would bare her teeth (ferrets are very intelligent), and he proceeded to scrub them. Liberty would stick her tongue out to taste the toothpaste. Her tongue was long, and extended a full inch past the opening to her mouth (ferrets don’t have lips). Jane shudders at the memory. Her father died last winter, five months after Jane’s mother, his wife; six months after Angela. Good riddance. Jane didn’t go to the funeral.
Jane was the third child of what her father called the litter: a family of ten children: eight girls, two boys, all born within thirteen years. Her parents didn’t get their first boy until Number 7. Then there was much rejoicing, for unto us a child was born. Jane’s father purchased and consumed two bottles of wine, and of better vintage than his usual one, to celebrate accordingly. The Number 9 male was duly welcomed. An heir and a spare. Then a caboose, another girl of course.
To her younger siblings, Jane was a second mother. Someone had to do it. Their real mother wasn’t up to the job.
As siblings, the girls were both extremely close and extremely cruel to each other. The affection was bountiful, and it was real. Cry out in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and a warm body would edge its way into your bed, an arm thrown around your shoulders for comfort. Have trouble with a bully at school, and that kid would have the entire O’Malley clan to contend with.
But the cruelty. That was real too. Perhaps because of the closeness, because you knew exactly where to thrust the knife to inflict the most grievous harm. Outsiders might say the boys were the worst—the worms in the cereal, the dog shit between the sheets—but there’s a peculiar brutality between sisters close in age that, although nearly physically invisible, is infinitely more toxic.
Depending on the father’s mood, punishment for misdeeds (eating an extra cookie, playing too boisterously near his bedroom window) could be quick and relatively harmless, or it could send a bloodied daughter to the ER. Back then, nurses and doctors weren’t trained to look for such things; there were no social workers to alert. So all the trips to the emergency rooms went unremarked.
The house was bloody in other ways too. Once they reached adolescence, the daughters’ menses were all in sync, and every month there was a run on the Kotex in the hall closet. Bloody towels, bloody messes in the toilet, blood everywhere. The girls would steal their father’s razor to shave their legs and it would dull the blade. He’d pull it across his unsuspecting face and cut himself. Blood again! All in all, it was a violent household.
They were equally antagonistic to each other, of course. Alliances could form and be torn asunder in a millisecond. Jane did her share of being aligned with tormentors, of being a tormentor herself. But her alliances would dissolve, her allies would turn on her in half a second, at any opportunity to inflict pain. Black Heart! Black Heart!
* * *
Jane goes for long walks. She ignores everyone else in the nursery, does her work, and leaves as soon as the nursery closes for the evening. Adam is heartbroken, but she has no time or energy for him. She goes on long rides on her motorbike. She stops going into YourBeaches.org. By unspoken arrangement, she meets Alma in the morning for coffee. They don’t discuss Edward. They don’t discuss the children—any of them. The air is charged between them. Jane can barely keep her eyes from Alma’s, she who is oh-so-beautiful. They talk about the weather. They discuss the quality of the coffee today, or the texture of the croissants. They speak in code. They don’t sit on opposite sides of the table of each other, but right next to each other, their thighs touching.
* * *
Alma’s and Edward’s presences are now all Jane desires. Her beauty. Her scent. His way of laying a light finger on Jane’s shoulder as she passes. One finger, as if pointing to Jane, claiming her. It’s not necessary. Jane has been claimed by them both.
She starts spending all her spare time with them. She is like a besotted teenager with her first crush.
She even begins to spend the odd night at their house. Perhaps once a week. They’ve given her one of the many spare bedrooms. The same lacquered funereal furniture as the rest of the house, a huge bed with a shiny black headboard, a slab of what looks like plastic but which Alma tells her is lacquered teak. Jane feels like a child in her parents’ bed.
It seems to be an unspoken rule that Edward will not come to Jane while Alma is in the house. Only when she is over the hill teaching or at a faculty meeting or seminar. It all melts together for Jane. She can’t tell where the experience begins or ends. It is all one. She is engulfed. Now when she shows up at the Three Sisters for her morning coffee, she sometimes arrives from the opposite direction, from Pescadero. She wonders if anyone notices that her motorbike now faces the wrong way on Main Street. She finds she doesn’t care. She nurses her coffee at a table by herself as usual, nodding in a friendly way at everyone but not committing herself to words. She has nothing but Edward and Alma. She is full to bursting.
At work she throws herself into planting. She takes a trip over to Berkeley and accepts as a gift from her former colleagues some cuttings of the rarer plants in the arboretum. The person who took over her job is happy to let her. They do it after hours so regular visitors won’t get any ideas. Helen is delighted. Adam enters into the spirit of the things. He accompanies Jane on scouting expeditions to various beaches for cuttings of native flora. His hummingbird garden has now been deserted. The earth is going into hibernation. It grows cold. The walls of the greenhouses go opaque with condensation. While at work, Jane feels enclosed in a warm green bubble. She laughs and jokes with Adam without giving up any of her secrets.
One evening she and Edward are in bed together. They are naked. The lights are on, as Edward insists when they are at his house. My rules, he says. Jane has grown less shy about her body. His body. The surfaces, hard and soft, the feel of bone softened by skin, of muscles taut underneath. Jane could cry from the awesomeness of it all. Lips against skin, warmth, drowsiness, sleep.
Then the door to the bedroom opens.
It is Alma. Class was canceled, she says casually. She starts unbuttoning her coat, the red woolen retro one that Jane admires. Jane shrinks, pulls the sheet over her body. Edward merely stretches out his long frame, completely exposed in the light, seemingly comfortable with that. He even rolls his hips and groin toward the ceiling. Jane recoils. He just as casually answers, That gives you some extra time for that report.
Alma finishes unbuttoning her coat and tosses it on a chair. She observes Edward, seemingly dispassionately. You’re looking better, she says. The running is slimming you down. Sitting at the desk wasn’t doing you any good. She sits down on the corner of the bed. For the first time, she looks at Jane directly. Jane has the sheet pulled up to her chin. She blushes.
Don’t be a fool, Alma says. The words are harsh, but the tone is affectionate. Amused and not at all angry. Playacting. Don’t we all know each other better than that?
Jane does not feel she knows anyone that well. She feels exposed and is uncharacteristically suspicious. Why are both Edward and Alma so calm? How are their words and actions so perfectly choreographed? Could they have planned this? Jane finds that she is frightened.
Edward reaches over and pulls Jane to his chest. He runs his finger
s through her hair. He does this while continuing to chat with Alma. You look tired, he says. Jane expects them to discuss the week’s shopping. Don’t forget the toilet paper. The toothpaste.
I am. And cold. Alma surveys them both. You look so cozy. Do you mind?
Jane decides she’s gone into a state, a state when nothing makes sense, or else it makes beautiful sense. She watches, as if disembodied, as Alma undresses. Edward now has his arms crossed behind his head, like he’s enjoying the view. A pasha with his women. Alma is as lovely undressed as she is dressed. Her skin so soft as she sidles up against Jane. Edward reaches over Jane and puts a hand on Alma’s flank. He has both women encircled now. He reaches out with the other hand and fumbles for the light switch, turns it off. Nothing but slow measured breathing. Heartbeats. Hers or theirs? Jane can’t tell. Astonishingly, she finds herself dozing, her eyes closing, she is so warm, so protected between the two bodies, Alma’s slow breath against her neck, Jane’s head under Edward’s chin, her cheek on his chest. Jane sleeps, and dreams.
* * *
Jane is at home, which she rarely is these days, in between work and the time she’s spending at Edward and Alma’s. The place looks deserted. Lonely. She feels lonely when she’s here. Bereft. It is only here that she thinks about Angela. Somehow she has managed to compartmentalize. For now, thoughts of Angela belong here in this dusty, forlorn cottage. Jane goes into a different space when she leaves here. She shuts the door on pain.
She takes a hot shower, turns on the heat, which grumbles before warm air starts coming out of the vents. She is in her robe and bare feet, wet hair, when the knock comes at the door.
It is the same FBI agent who interviewed her. Ms. . . . Tempe? Tompo? No, Thompson, accompanied by another, a rather short man. He barely reaches Ms. Thompson’s nose. They are serious. No smiles. No niceties.
Ms. Thompson puts her briefcase on the coffee table. She doesn’t ask permission. She has barely nodded hello at Jane. She seems angry. It seems personal.
What is this? She holds out a photo.
A car. Jane tries to remain calm, but her voice catches. She is embarrassed to be in her robe in front of these suited officials.
Just a car?
So it seems.
Ms. Thompson nods and fishes a piece of paper out of her briefcase. She hands it to Jane. It is a printout from the DMV. At the top of the page is her name, Jane Mary O’Malley. It is a registration form for a car, a Subaru Outback wagon, ten years old. It shows serial numbers and license plate numbers. It has Jane’s old Berkeley address on it. Registration expired is printed in red letters across the bottom of the paper.
It’s funny. What you find when you pop a person’s name into various databases, says the detective. We were doing random searches on you. Call it a hunch. So we checked out the DMV database. Your motorbike is registered to you at this address. But we found this. A car. You listed the car as out of action and didn’t pay for registration this year. But the funny thing is, we found it parked right around the corner.
Jane is silent. There is nothing to say.
Why did you lie to us? This is the man, he hasn’t bothered to introduce himself.
I didn’t. I don’t drive that car.
The neighbors say different. They say they see you getting into it and driving off. Or returning, sometimes late at night.
I’m only moving the car to avoid getting a ticket, Jane says, trying to sound reasonable You get towed if you’re parked for more than thirty-six hours on Princeton streets. So I have to move the car every three days.
The man and the woman just look at her.
Sometimes I forget until it’s late. So I move it then. I’m an insomniac. I have trouble sleeping. So sometimes that’s 3:00 a.m. Sure. But that doesn’t make me guilty of anything.
It means you not only had the opportunity, you had the means. You didn’t have that before. We had eliminated you. Because of the motorbike. Because of the lack of a car. This is the short man talking.
What about motive? Jane asks. Why would I kill four little girls?
We figure we don’t need one, says the man. We figure we’re dealing with an unbalanced individual. Someone who doesn’t think or act the way everyone else does.
By the way, he continues, we’ve impounded the car. One hint of DNA and your ass is ours.
The woman stirs at this. She points to the sofa.
Can we sit down? She doesn’t wait for an answer, but settles herself on the right-hand side.
Jane doesn’t move. She tightens the belt around her robe.
Jane. Please. Some of the warmth that Jane remembers from their past meeting has returned to the woman’s voice. She smiles. Jane doesn’t trust her, but sits down on the edge of the couch.
Isn’t it better to tell us the truth? Her voice is soft. Jane can barely see her face. Dusk has fallen, and she hasn’t bothered to turn on any lights in the cottage.
I have. Over and over. But Jane’s voice sounds unconvincing. Of course she hasn’t told them the truth. Why should she? She would only be punished.
Why didn’t you tell us the truth about what happened in Berkeley?
What do you mean?
I mean we now also know about the girl. About what you tried to do to the daughter of the woman who killed yours.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Yes, you do.
Jane is agitated. Those records were sealed. They cannot be used in court. There was an agreement. A legal one. Who has breached it?
People’s lips aren’t sealed. They have a way of talking about things they shouldn’t. Now the man has taken up the story.
Who could it have been? One of the lawyers? The woman? The police officers who were directly involved? Anyone. It could have been anyone.
So you know. So what, says Jane. That had nothing to do with what’s going on here. That was my problem, back then. We settled it.
Problems don’t suddenly go away. There are aftershocks, temblors that continue reverberating. Now it’s the woman’s turn.
Jane’s voice comes out sarcastic. That sounds positively poetic.
Talk to us, Jane. The woman’s voice still smooth, without edge. Tell us your side of the story. What we’ve heard sounds bad. Maybe you can change our minds.
Passing lights of cars flicker through the blinds. Jane feels lulled by the flickering lights, by the soft voice. She leans back.
I was distraught. I wasn’t myself. Angela was gone. My husband had left. I was alone. You don’t know what it’s like to be alone in a house that should have other breathing people in it.
Like this one? the woman asks, motioning around in the darkness.
No. This place was never anything but empty. But in a house that was full, you’re always waiting. For the door to open, for footsteps to come down the stairs. To hear Mom? or Honey? But it never happens, says Jane.
She continues, I was on leave from work. I took to driving around, just driving. The Subaru is a tank, hadn’t been damaged at all by the episode with that murderer’s, Hope’s, BMW. I found myself at the grammar school where her child attended kindergarten. How did I know? Because she was dumb enough to put her daughter’s photo on her goddamned Facebook page. So I started showing up at pickup time. I found out that Hope always came at the half-hour. The kids are paraded outside at quarter past. One day I just did it. Because I could. I called the girl over. I told her that her mother was sick, and I was going to take her home. It was so easy. Classic. The thing they tell kids to guard against. You’d think she’d have been more on guard. But no.
What were you going to do? The woman’s voice is so soft that Jane can barely hear it.
I didn’t know. It didn’t matter, anyway, since I got busted. Right away. Suddenly I heard shrieking. Hope had come early that day. I knew the game was up. I got in the car and hightailed it out of there.
But you didn’t get convicted.
No. I agreed to counseling and community service. Char
ges were dropped and the records sealed. The judge was sympathetic. She understood. Maybe she had kids herself, who knows.
What were you going to do? the woman repeats.
I don’t know. Take her home. Feed her milk and cookies. Be nice to her. Nothing bad.
Were you going to return her?
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I suppose. I was thinking of reciprocity. An eye for an eye. A child for a child.
The woman’s voice is softer still. Jane has to lean in to hear her.
A death for a death?
Jane doesn’t answer. She’s remembering finding little Amy dead in the tree. That nursery rhyme: Jane and Edward sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. She remembers the playdates from when Angela was three. Many of the children still calling any woman in sight Mom. She had loved it. She had indiscriminately kissed them. She had planted a kiss on the little girl’s blond head right before they were spotted.
I always treated my girl well, she says.
Yes? The voice is softer still.
I could never hurt her. Never.
Is that why you put makeup on them? Wrap them in blankets? To show you care?
Yes. I mean no! Jane is suddenly awake. I didn’t take those girls!
The spell is broken. The agent sits up. The man sighs and reaches over and flips on the light. Suddenly everything is too clear, too visible.
The agent stands up. Well, she says in a matter-of-fact voice, that’s that.
The next morning a Ford sedan is parked in front of Jane’s house. The two men in it deliberately stare at her as she exits her cottage, makes a point of locking it, and gets on her motorbike. They start their car and follow her to Smithson’s, staying right behind her all the way. They park in the handicapped zone, and the driver yawns and crosses his arms on his chest to indicate they are there for the long haul.
* * *
The police car waits all day at Smithson’s. Jane wonders at the patience of the two watchers. Not to mention their bladders. At least once an hour, the man in the passenger seat, stocky build, blond crewcut, goes next door to the Half Moon Bay Winery, open for tastings from 9 to 5, and comes back with plastic glasses filled with water. At least Jane assumes they are water. She wouldn’t have thought they would drink on the job. Adam is counting the cups.
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