Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  The day had lost its pattern and its rhythm but Oscar had to think. He had to factor in the time difference. It was 8:10 P.M. here, so it must be 3:10 in the afternoon in New York. Helen would be at her desk downtown. He was finding it difficult to put a coherent shape on anything, to make even the simplest of calculations, as if the motor in his brain were stuck in quicksand.

  On the rare occasions he’d allowed himself some introspection, he felt unworthy of Helen. He’d even felt self-loathing for the way in which he treated her, more often than not dismissing her. For it was Helen who had stuck with him through thick and thin. In the cold competitive home of Jack and Estelle Harvey, it was to Helen that he turned for comfort. Helen had seen him through that first major trauma with Ike, his crazy cocker spaniel. That giddy, senseless, writhing mass of fun and energy. The best friend a six-year-old boy could ever have.

  He remembered it all so clearly. It had been a hot August day in Sag Harbor. Jack and Estelle Harvey had gone sailing, leaving their children behind with the housekeeper. Ike was good at playing catch. In the torpor of the afternoon, Helen sat on the porch eating strawberry ice cream and reading a book. Oscar was throwing a bouncy blue ball for Ike to catch and lay at his feet, panting, yapping, dancing forward and back, eager to go again. And again. His tongue lolling at the side of his mouth, dripping saliva everywhere. It was hot under the afternoon sun.

  It happened in slow motion. More than thirty years later, like a reel from an old cine-camera, it still played out in his head. Ike barking, insisting on another throw, eyes bright, nudging the ball with his nose, dancing backward and forward. Oscar sees something rounding the corner and pulling into their drive, but Ike is barking, louder now, going crazy. Oscar lifts the ball, raising it above his head. Aiming for the long reeds that separate the lawn from the dunes, he follows the path of the ball, but as it reaches the top of the arc, the brown of a truck comes into view. He didn’t see Ike disappear underneath. He only heard the thud, crunch, and screech of tires. Nothing for a moment, then a pitiful moaning like he’d never heard before.

  The driver was there before him, looking under the truck. He had swerved but still managed to hit him. There was nothing to be done. Oscar pushed the man away, screaming at him to get lost. Hunkering down, he stayed for what seemed like an age, smoothing Ike’s golden head until the whimpering became less and less. He’d seen the rip in his body but he couldn’t look again—Ike’s tummy open, twitching like a mass of earthworms.

  “There, boy. It’s okay. You did good. It was going to be a good catch. Your best one ever. There, boy . . .”

  “Oscar, he’s dead . . .” Helen was standing behind him. “Oscar, come with me . . .” she said. But it took Helen and the housekeeper and the driver, all three, to tear him away. The driver kept apologizing but what good were apologies? He and the housekeeper got Ike and put him into an old sack from the woodshed. They left Ike out back, there by the woodshed, for his dad to decide where to bury him.

  Oscar stayed for a long time looking at the lifeless sack. When he came back around to the porch again, he noticed that the deliveryman had left a box on the front step. It was addressed to Mrs. Estelle Harvey.

  Helen was sitting on the step, eating more ice cream.

  “I got two spoons,” she said. They both sat there, solemnly eating the bowl of pink ice cream, scraping the bowl clean. Oscar remembered its velvet sugary comfort, the salve of something sweet. They were still on the porch when his mother and father got home, ruddy faced and laughing. It was getting dark. Helen filled them in on the catastrophic events of the afternoon.

  “I’m not surprised,” his mother said. “That silly animal didn’t have a modicum of sense. I suppose we should look out for something sensible next time . . . Poor Oscar.” She touched his cheek. Then, bending down, she looked at the box on the step. “About time,” she said. “I wondered when that Panama hat would arrive.” She pulled open the screen door and went inside carrying the box.

  Later that evening, his father went to dispose of the body. His father would not entertain the idea of burying Ike in the garden. He drove off somewhere in the car with Ike in the trunk. Oscar was not allowed to go. The next day, when their parents went sailing once more, Oscar went to his parents’ room and found the Panama hat.

  He remembered it smoldered at first but after a few moments it took hold. He remembered the housekeeper trying to put out the flames, but it was too far gone. She never told his mother what had happened to the hat. And for the rest of that summer he spent a lot of time with Helen. Eating ice cream.

  • • •

  He had just finished the call to Helen when the doorbell went. He heard a key turn in the lock downstairs. Spike.

  “Up here,” he called from the hallway outside the kitchen door.

  Spike was taking the steps three at a time.

  “Jesus Christ, what went on out there?” The drizzle glistened on his motorbike leathers. “There’s stuff everywhere. Some maggot up to Halloween high jinks?”

  “Didn’t you see the car?”

  Maybe the rain had washed the blood away.

  “Yeah, I saw it in the drive. Is the windscreen smashed?”

  “Come with me,” said Oscar, steeling himself for what he had to do.

  “Curiouser and curiouser . . .” said Spike.

  Oscar had to warn him.

  “I told you there had been an accident. This is serious.”

  “Yeah, serious. I get you,” Spike replied.

  Outside now, the roaring water hadn’t abated. Oscar noticed that the group in the park was still there, drinking. And yet they hadn’t raised the alarm. It seemed unlikely, but it was possible that they hadn’t noticed anything.

  “Take the car keys.” He handed them to Spike. He pointed at the trunk.

  “What’s this about, Oscar? Why don’t you just tell me?” Spike was looking at Oscar as he released the catch of the trunk with the key. The door of the trunk sprang open and slowly hinged up.

  Spike recoiled.

  “Fuck! Oh Jesus, oh fuck!”

  He stepped back in horror.

  “Jesus, is that . . . ? Is that . . . ? That’s your wife, isn’t it?”

  Oscar felt Spike’s shock. Standing at a distance, he was unable to see into the trunk. But he could see it through Spike’s eyes. Spike was the first outsider to see and Oscar wanted to gauge his reaction. He knew he’d have to go through this many times.

  “Oscar, Oscar!”

  His mind had wandered but Spike spoke sharply now, wanting his attention.

  “Yes?”

  Oscar felt a sense of detachment, as if it didn’t matter if he were there or not, if he answered Spike or not.

  “It is your wife, isn’t it, Oscar? Please answer me,” he said softly now.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s Hazel. My wife. She’s dead.”

  “I see that, Oscar. She’s very dead,” said Spike, staring back into the trunk.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Oscar.

  Oscar wanted someone to tell him what to do. Helen couldn’t be here before tomorrow, but in the meantime, he wanted someone to tell him what to do. And then he saw the spade again. Still lying on the ground among the spoiled groceries. He should really move that spade.

  “Christ, is that a spade?” asked Spike as Oscar bent to move it out of sight.

  “Yes,” said Oscar.

  “You know what, Oscar? I really think we should leave all this. Just leave it where it is, okay?”

  With the heels of his arms Spike pushed down the hood again, careful not to touch it with his hands.

  “Have you phoned the guards?” he asked.

  “Phoned the guards?” repeated Oscar. The cops. Of course, that was the third phone call. He knew there were three.

  “Okay, Oscar. Look, come inside. Not my favorite pe
ople in the world—but for this, we really need to phone the guards.”

  “I know that. I just hadn’t got around to it.”

  “Of course not. You’re in shock. I can see that,” said Spike.

  “What happened, exactly? If you can tell me . . .” Spike said once they were back in the kitchen.

  “It’s a bit confusing. I remember standing here at the window . . .” Oscar tried to start at the beginning.

  “The kids?” interrupted Spike suddenly. “Where are the kids?” He looked suddenly panicked.

  “In their rooms. Jess and Elliot are in their rooms,” said Oscar.

  “Do they know?”

  “They know.”

  Spike relaxed. “So, can you tell me how this . . . how this . . . accident happened?” He looked pale against the black leather.

  “Well, the thing about it is . . .” Oscar hesitated. A lump swelled up in his throat. He swallowed. “As you’ll see, the thing about it is . . . it wasn’t an accident at all . . .”

  As best he could, Oscar tried to methodically describe the chain of events. Whatever Oscar said, he had little doubt he’d have to repeat it, he’d have to regurgitate it over and over again. He tried to remember exactly how it all unfolded, what had happened in the dark, the frenzied blow with the spade as Hazel was leaning over to repack the shopping. The flailing limbs. The precise sequence of what had happened lost in the frenzy. It was difficult to describe.

  “We have to tell the guards, obviously,” said Spike when Oscar finished talking. “What we have here is a crime scene.”

  “I know that,” said Oscar, quietly. “Will you tell them for me or at least call them?”

  “I’m making a 999 call now, but you’ll have to tell them all of this again when they come, Oscar. Do you think that you can manage that?”

  “I’ll try,” said Oscar, really wishing that Helen were here.

  He had a sudden flashback to Annabel Klein. Annabel Klein, whom he had punched in the stomach in fourth grade. It was Helen who had sorted all that out. He remembered the teacher screaming at him, Annabel screaming at him, the school principal shouting at him accusingly. Jack and Estelle Harvey looking at him in disgust.

  But none of them thought to ask. No one asked why. No one but Helen, that is. It was self-defense. Neither the teacher nor the school principal nor his parents knew about Annabel Klein and what she did. Jabbing him with her fountain pen. Jab, jab, jabbing him as he sat beside her. Under his school sweater, his side was blue with ink and red with blood.

  He’d told Helen. She was the only one who ever listened. He knew that she’d believe him. Helen wrote a formal letter to the school principal—Helen was good at letters—and then she marched him into her office with the letter. She made Oscar verify everything she’d written down. She made him pull up his navy sweater to show the puncture marks. Then she suggested that the school should take Oscar for a tetanus shot because they were the ones responsible. But Oscar balked at that. He wasn’t sure if salvaging his reputation was worth a needle.

  But Helen’s ploy worked. The school principal backed down in her threat to expel him. In a letter to Jack and Estelle Harvey, she said there had been “unforeseen mitigating factors.” Helen always looked out for him. He remembered celebrating his clean slate with her. They’d had a whole drum of fried chicken together. He learned again that food could be used to celebrate as well as to comfort.

  “Dad?” Jess had come into the kitchen. Spike was making tea.

  “Yes?” said Oscar.

  “I think the police are here. I can see flashing cars outside.” She was trembling, her eyes swollen from crying. But at least she was talking more than Elliot. He wondered if they needed a doctor. He wondered if they should be given a sedative.

  “It’s okay. I’ll go,” said Spike, looking with concern at Jess.

  “Come here, honey.” Oscar patted the sofa. Obediently, Jess sat down. He put an arm around her.

  “This is horrible. Unbelievable. The most horrible thing that has ever happened to you. But you are going to get through this, Jess. You’ll get through this. I’m here. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Oh God, Dad . . .” She looked at him with dead eyes.

  He felt her shoulders shake. Once again, she was convulsed by tears and anguished sobbing.

  “Shhh, honey. Shhh, the police are here. I’ll need to talk to them.”

  On autopilot, he found the strength to stand up and greet the officers. There were three of them but he had a feeling that there were more outside.

  “Detective James O’Rourke,” said the middle policeman, holding out a hand.

  “Oscar Harvey,” he said, offering his own. “And this is my daughter, Jess.”

  “There are two children, is that right, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Oscar. “My son is downstairs.”

  “I’m here, Dad,” came a small voice around the doorway.

  “Ah, Elliot, my son . . .” Oscar said, gesturing.

  “They’ve put a tent up over the car, I can see out the bedroom window,” Elliot said, his eyes glazed. “There are police everywhere,” he added, moving to stand next to Jess.

  Oscar felt a tightness at his collar. There were too many people in the room, too many people looking awkwardly at one another. He was starting to feel claustrophobic, hunted.

  “Maybe we can get started, sir,” said the detective. “Detective Gary Burke here is going to assist me. The sooner we get started, well . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “The kids?” asked Oscar. “Not in front of my kids. Not yet . . .” He couldn’t bear that. To see the looks on their faces. He’d spare them that as long as possible.

  “That’s what Garda Dolan is here for,” said the detective. “Garda Dolan is our on-call junior liaison officer. Maybe the kids could go downstairs with him for now . . .”

  “Come on, Elliot,” said Jess, taking her brother by the hand, glancing back at Oscar.

  “Don’t worry, Jess,” said the detective in a kindly voice. “It shouldn’t be for long. Garda Dolan will take care of you for now.”

  “Spike, can I ask you to step outside a moment also?”

  So the detective knew Spike. Oscar thought he’d seen a flash of recognition pass between the two of them.

  Seconds later, there were only three of them in the room. Oscar, Detective O’Rourke, and Detective Burke. They sat around the small kitchen table underneath the HAPPY HALLOWEEN banner.

  “In your own time now,” said James O’Rourke. “Just take a run at it and tell us as best you can . . .”

  Digging his nails into his palms, Oscar recounted again what he’d told Spike. He imagined it was almost word for word. Not a detail more, not a detail less. The two men opposite nodded and wrote and nodded again. In a way it felt cathartic, telling it again. The suddenness of it, the fury, the finality.

  When he’d finished, the two men looked at each other as if satisfied.

  “Now, Mr. Harvey,” said James O’Rourke, “you do realize you’ll have to come with us to Henry Street Garda station?”

  “Yes, I thought as much,” he replied. He knew nothing of the Irish judicial system but he’d reckoned on this at least. He knew he’d have to make a formal statement.

  “Do you have anyone in Ireland? Any relatives? Anyone who can look after the children?”

  “I’m afraid not. Hazel, you see . . . well, Hazel was an only child, adopted.”

  “Pity.” The detective nodded.

  “But my sister,” he said hurriedly now. “My sister, Helen. She’s on her way from the States. Can’t it wait until tomorrow, till she arrives?” he asked. “My kids love Helen.”

  “I’ll need to check,” said James O’Rourke. “In the meantime, would you like us to contact the U.S. embassy in Dublin? Would you like some consular assist
ance?”

  “Yes. Do that, please. That would be good.”

  Oscar knew that he would need all the help he could get.

  Much later that night he’d lain on the bed, fully clothed in the dark. Jess and Elliot had sought the comfort of each other, both collapsed in the same room in a wretched slumber. Through a half-sleep Oscar gradually became aware of an awful sound. It was something deep and sorrowful and mournful and it frightened him. More lucid now, he listened again, and then slowly, horribly, it came to him. He knew where the noise was coming from—it was coming from himself. From deep within himself. His body was convulsed with pain. His face wet with tears. Oh, his poor, poor children. What were they to do? The chambers of his heart had emptied and the sound escaping from his body was the sound of his own heart breaking.

  Kate

  OCTOBER

  The sun had gone down completely when they stepped off the cruise ship again at West Forty-second Street. Kate had been glad to spend the afternoon outdoors. Sleep had not come easily to her last night and it must have been after four when she finally succumbed. Mannix lay beside her, having drifted off hours earlier, midconversation.

  All day, her heart felt heavy. The world felt like a different place today. She was struggling with Izzy’s confession of the previous night, trying to understand her drastic actions. What had driven solid, reasonable, cautious Izzy to such a violent attack? Disbelieving at first, the cold reality of what she’d done, with all its possible repercussions, had started to set in.

  “But why, Izzy? Why did you do it?” Kate had asked.

  “Are you really asking me that, Mum? Seriously?”

  Izzy’s tone frightened Kate. Izzy’s eyes seemed darker than ever. Was there something obvious that Kate had missed?

  “Yes, Izzy. Your father and I would really like to know.”

  “I can’t believe I really have to explain this.” Izzy shook her head.

  Kate was completely unnerved.