* * *
• • •
The move to Hawthorne Court had been a long time coming. We bought the Tudor in spring and renovated all through summer and finally, a week before school was to start, we moved in. The renovations had taken much longer than we anticipated—I had the kitchen countertops replaced because the color wasn’t quite the shade I had picked out, which in turn delayed the backsplash installation, which in turn delayed the cabinets and to Edward’s dismay it was a costly affair for which I was solely to blame—and though we hadn’t unpacked all the boxes yet, the main part of the house, the first floor, was perfect. Edward had just opened his practice and I looked at the housewarming party as the debutante ball of our family and so we invited the who’s who of the medical community.
The invitations were a piece of art. We are home! it said in an elegant cursive font. I had pondered over the invitation for days—6 pm to 9 pm or Six to Nine o’clock—and the quote took me a long time to select. Bread, that this house may never know hunger. Salt, that this life may always have flavor. And wine, that joy and prosperity may reign forever, from It’s a Wonderful Life. I had an oversized invitation framed and displayed on a floor easel, had staged a table with a loaf of bread, a bowl of salt, and a bottle of merlot at the entrance. There was champagne, valet parking, bartenders, and servers, we had spent a fortune on the catering though I no longer recall the menu.
We were off to a rocky start. The gardener, a haggard and sunburned man who often smelled of alcohol, was still attempting to create lined lawn patterns with the mower. I had made a sketch for him but the stripes were crooked and I told him to just store the equipment away in the pool house, where lawn furniture was stacked in corners and pool chemicals and paint cans sat forgotten. The pool had been cleaned and filled with water but we hadn’t bothered beyond that. I scratched the outdoor bar at the very last minute.
Inside, everything seemed to go well. The servers were swift, the party planner made sure glasses were full and appetizers circled around. Children ran around in the backyard, an unfenced lawn bordering the neighbors’ property, a farmhouse that could only be seen from the road. It was a beauty with regionally quarried stone, white fiber cement clapboard siding, and horse stables. Between the gardener running late and hunting for the box which contained the punch bowl, I was distracted.
I can’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t insisted on so many intricate details, I could have paid more attention to what was really happening.
Guests came and left and if anyone had asked me later about faces and names, I would’ve drawn a blank, that’s how much coming and going there was. I frequently checked up on the children running around in the back. The fence around the pool was sturdy and the gate was locked—I shimmied it twice—and I didn’t give it a second thought after that. None of the parents voiced any concerns, and at some point children tossed toys over the fence into the pool. Penelope was there in the midst of the laughter and screaming and I made a mental note to have a talk with her about that.
Later, as I stood in the kitchen and beheld the empty trays and bowls and the kitchen staff buzzed around me, I thought how odd, it’s so quiet out there. All the children must have left and Penelope was nowhere to be seen and as quickly as I thought there was something amiss, I just as quickly was distracted by the caterer coming up to me with a question or Edward wanting me to see someone off. I didn’t have time to hover over Penny, had given her clear instructions, and we were at home, literally the invitation stated We are Home! and I did see a glimpse of her long hair at some point, by the back door or in the butler’s pantry, just a hint of her like you see someone in passing and you think I’ll talk to her later, but instead I chatted with Edward’s colleagues and their wives and tried to remember everybody’s name.
It wasn’t until later, after it was dark and the dirty dishes were packed away and the trays sat stacked in the catering van, when I handed the caterer the check in the driveway, that I saw the shattered window on the east side of the pool house. I still didn’t think much of it, I assumed the children had played around with a bat or a ball and broken the window and I wasn’t going to dwell on it and call up the parents to get to the bottom of it the next morning. I’d just get it taken care of and never mention it again.
I was still staring at the shards when a couple approached me. He was a plastic surgeon and his wife a philanthropist for children’s causes—muscular dystrophy, I believe—and they looked around with worry.
“Have you seen our son?” the wife asked, and I tried to remember her name but my mind was blank.
“What’s his name again? I haven’t seen any of the children, I thought everyone had left,” I said, and I attempted to lead them toward the French doors into the house.
“Gabriel,” the mom said, as she scanned the yard. Then she eyed the pool.
We stepped up to the fence, my heart beating a thousand miles a second, as I remembered headlines of children drowning. How often had I heard about drowning accidents with adults literally feet away? Nothing but toys floated on the water’s surface.
We searched for Gabriel, we called out his name into the dark toward the black stretch of grass leading to the neighboring estate. I thought about mentioning the stock pond past the trees but then I didn’t. I had only been there once since we bought the property, and it was nothing more than a watering hole used for livestock long before Hawthorne Court was built, and I couldn’t imagine anyone walking all the way across the lawn and past the trees and through such a heavily wooded area.
I made idle conversation to keep it light, didn’t want the parents to worry, but more than once Doug, the father, all but pushed me out of the way as if I was a hindrance in the search for his son. I might have been too slow and when I remarked on the plans of renovating the pool house he looked at me with disdain, his eyes narrow, and he grabbed me by the shoulder and moved me aside to look into the broken window. It was too dark to see inside though there was accent lighting around the pool, and he didn’t mention the shards in the grass.
I tried to picture the boy but I couldn’t—was he old enough to stand in some dark corner kissing or making out with Penelope? That would be different than him being too young to be out here alone.
“Let’s check in the house,” I said and hooked my hand underneath the mother’s arm, Beatrice I think; I heard him say her name though I didn’t recall a formal introduction. She turned toward me and I saw the panic in her eyes and I wanted to reassure her, this is a good home, we’ll find him, please don’t worry. “Let’s go upstairs and work our way down,” I said and rushed ahead.
We passed by Edward, who was on the phone and his voice was loud and happy and I didn’t dare say anything about the missing boy and the broken window and we slipped by him, up the stairs.
The door to the playroom was wide open, the lights were on. The room was empty. Penelope’s bedroom was dark. The closet door was ajar and when I opened it, Penelope sat on the floor, leaning to the left, propped against the wall. She was asleep.
There was a rule, no children in the house upstairs during a party, there was a bar in the master bedroom, a small table with a mirrored top, a few decanters, and whiskey and sherry and bourbon, elderflower liqueur. There was also a balcony and though I had locked all the doors I didn’t know if children would think so far as to search for keys or use tools or anything like that to pry open doors. Between the broken window and the balcony it would be a lie if I said I wasn’t worried.
“Where is Gabriel?” the mother called out and Penelope roused.
“Where is your friend? Gabriel?” I asked and held Penelope’s hand as if to keep a grip on her. I smelled a floral sticky scent on her breath.
“Gabriel?” Penelope furrowed her brow. “I don’t know. Everyone left a while ago.”
The parents stormed by me, downstairs, and past Edward, who was still on the phone in the foyer. He threw
up his hand and waved and mouthed a thank-you to the couple, unaware what was going on.
“We can’t find our son,” the mother said out loud and I was glad the guests and caterers had left and I imagined this entire scene playing out in front of everybody, envisioned heads snapping around and people gasping.
“Have you seen a boy about Penny’s age?” I asked Edward and he stared right through me. “There’s a broken window in the pool house and Gabriel, their son, is missing.” We exchanged glances. “Penny is upstairs,” I added and he looked away and followed the parents outside.
I scanned the surface of the pool again and inspected the floating toys more closely. An inflatable beach ball bobbed on the surface and diving rings shimmered on the bottom rendering their shape distorted and warped. As I walked by the fence around the pool, I jingled the lock. The gate didn’t budge.
My thoughts tumbled: Should I have locked the pool house? Is there even a key; the gardener had stored the tools and he had just finished putting down the mulch and trimmed the bushes and tamed the ground cover, and I don’t want to make a fuss about this; there need not be a commotion. All this planning and here we were, a child gone missing.
The boy’s mother was in tears and though I wanted to console her, I felt frozen in place. Instead, I thought of Penelope upstairs in her room. How odd to fall asleep in the closet, she hadn’t done that in years. Edward held me around my shoulders to keep me from crying or from losing my balance, maybe both. I did what I do when I need to regain control of myself and I asked, “How do I look to a casual observer?” and that always allowed me to take a step back just long enough to reclaim my self-control.
We didn’t get anywhere with the search. The police were summoned, though I don’t remember who made the call. The many flashing lights were unnerving. As two officers combed through the house and the backyard, the energy changed. Police stopped dead in their tracks and huddled in a group. Between the crackling sounds of the shoulder microphones and the coded language, I couldn’t make sense of their conversations. The parents were rushed to a police car and I watched them drive off, my heart hammering in my chest.
Later, we received a call. The owners of the farmhouse heard noises in the barn and found the horses in a state of pandemonium. They thought a bobcat had gotten into the structure—there had been numerous sightings in the area, though I often wondered if it wasn’t just a stray cat, people loved the country setting but weren’t accepting of wildlife—but they found the missing boy, Gabriel, in a horse stall. He was unconscious. Barely breathing.
Edward rang Gabriel’s parents the next day. After he hung up the phone, I asked him how the boy was doing.
“Not good,” he said and ran the palm of his hand over his face as if trying to banish the memory of it all. “He’ll be in the hospital for quite a while.”
I thought how cruel for someone so young having to spend a long time in bed. I asked Edward what to tell Penelope but he was short with me.
“Did she ask about him?” Edward wanted to know.
“No,” I replied.
“Don’t say anything to her. Not a word,” he said with such an edge to his voice that it startled me.
* * *
• • •
Fall came and went. The Shumard oaks turned from dark green into a vibrant scarlet red color, yet the leaves remained, though dead and brown, but they hung on nonetheless. During the winter, whenever I was out back feeding the stray cats, I glanced toward the property. The farmhouse sat hidden behind the oaks, which were planted tight like slats of a fence. There wasn’t so much as a clapboard visible, not even the tip of a roof emerged from the wooded property. I wondered how Gabriel had ended up in that barn, how he even knew it was there. I had a hunch but I pushed that hunch into the shadows, where it remained with all the other monsters one prefers not to look at.
PART II
PURGATORY
No one thinks of how much blood it costs.
—DANTE ALIGHIERI
16
DONNA
I open a window. Shadow Garden lies quietly. The mowers and trimmers have fallen silent. The scent of just-mowed lawn in the air. I strain to see the buildings beyond, in the east, and I have to crane my neck to get a good look at a garden gate stuck in between brick walls. The brickwork is more substantial and the windows are covered with iron grates. I have yet to venture that far back into the property.
A woman, elfin compared to the building, walks into view. She plants herself on the walkway as if waiting for someone. It’s just a few minutes before five. More women spill from the doors. I can’t help but remember how they arrive in the mornings; their steps swift and their scrubs pressed clean and fresh, but in the afternoons, having spent hours cleaning and dusting and vacuuming, there’s a certain apathy about them as they walk toward the parking garage.
There’s no warning, no transition, just knowing now is the time. I put on the dirty scrubs from Vera’s apartment and gather my hair in a ponytail. I stuff money from the kitchen drawer into a purse: $184.
I step outside and join the women, carefully mimicking their steps. I keep my head down, my hands in the pockets of the scrubs from Vera’s house. If they were washed and pressed, it would be a dead giveaway, but there are stains across the front and they are wrinkled and I blend in. I’m one of them.
We take a breezeway between buildings and end up by a brick wall near the parking garage. I stand off to the side. The women’s hands are red from scrubbing and cleaning and polishing silver. I keep mine hidden in the pockets so my fresh Chanel Rose Caché nude manicure doesn’t show. The women chat away and eye me suspiciously but no one asks questions.
A vehicle approaches. It’s much larger than a van but not quite a bus, more reminiscent of an airport shuttle. I get in line and then step into the interior, the smell of pine needles and dankness overwhelming. A surge of panic—what if there aren’t enough seats for all of us?—but some remain empty. I don’t know if the driver takes count or if he relies on some sort of system but there doesn’t seem to be a method to all this. The sliding doors close.
I attempt to focus on what’s to come to get out of my own head but all I can do is sit tight and wait to see where the van is taking me. The driver turns on the radio. The noise level rises as if someone has given the women the go-ahead to come to life. They giggle and joke and there’s this overall cheerfulness filling the van.
As I’m twisting my diamond ring—it’s looser than it used to be and I fear it’ll slip off and get lost—I realize I absentmindedly put on a wide gold cuff bracelet when I visited Vera earlier. On my middle finger is a ring Edward gave me for an anniversary, a garnet surrounded by twenty small stones resembling the seeds of the pomegranate, Penelope’s birthstone. Don’t garnets bring misfortune to those who act improperly while wearing them? What an odd thought to have, I think, and slide the jewelry off and tuck everything into an interior pocket of my purse.
I fashion my behavior after the only other woman who isn’t talking—indifferent toward everyone, not making eye contact at all—and like her, I stare off into nothingness through the tinted windows. We sit and wait and then the van takes off down the long winding road leading away from Shadow Garden.
* * *
• • •
Leaving Shadow Garden behind, possibilities are opening up but I’m also reminded of my shortcomings. First, my vision is weak in dim light. How fast darkness has descended, how stubbornly my eyes fail to adapt, looking from the road up into a lit window my eyes don’t respond and for a few seconds I see nothing but vague floating spheres. Those sudden shifts from dark to light to dark, are those lights approaching cars or are they moving away? Secondly, as we pass street signs, names sound familiar, but I don’t recognize much else, not the roads, not the buildings, especially when we get into the city. I don’t put too much stock into this, not yet, I have always be
en directionally challenged.
A realization grows astronomically with every passing second: all this newfound confidence isn’t worth anything knowing I’m about to be confronted with my old life. All those months at Shadow Garden I have become invested in the past and maybe I’ve lost myself in memories that can’t be true? They can’t be true because—
A dip in the road sends me off my seat. The van’s movements rock me side to side, the driver brakes and the front dives, he accelerates and the rear end squats. I take long deep breaths and plant my feet on the floor of the van, where they stick to soda spills and popcorn remnants, but still my heart is whopping in my chest.
I sit paralyzed, want time to stop to get my thoughts together but that’s not going to happen. I can’t imagine what’s about to happen, there’s no way of knowing—I keep repeating it to myself I can do this I can do this I can do this—but I have hardly any time to figure anything out because the van merges onto the highway. Two exits and we turn into a grocery store parking lot. The doors open and two women get off. As quickly as the doors have opened, they shut and we merge back onto the freeway.
If I had been dropped in the middle of a foreign city, I couldn’t feel more disoriented. There’s no stopping this ride, there’s no getting out, and nothing I can do but hold on to my purse. Some street names seem familiar, but I can’t be sure. Memory can be faulty; as a matter of fact, memory is faulty, I know that much.
17
DONNA
I’m going back to Hawthorne Court. I repeat it to myself to make it sound real, I’m going back to Hawthorne Court. But there’s a feeling of paranoia accompanying me like some talisman I’m carrying in my pocket. I can’t resolve the memories, like two columns never adding up; regardless how often I go over the numbers, they just won’t reconcile. The gaps that need filling are like hollows, about what happened before I left the Tudor mansion. I didn’t trust myself then and I don’t quite trust myself now because there’s this sharp and clear understanding of a lack of credibility on my part.
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