Rhonda turned from the memory, made her way up the front steps onto the porch of the old house. The floorboards sagged beneath her weight. Paint was peeling. The corners were full of spiderwebs. To the right of the door, an enormous orb weaver was making its way to the center of the web, where a fly had become entangled.
Rhonda knocked. There was no answer. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
How many times had she come through this door, running, laughing, chasing after Peter and Lizzy, shouldering a knapsack full of Barbie dolls and pajamas, costumes from whatever play they were working on?
She stood in the front hallway, facing the closet. On a whim, she opened it. A few moth-eaten coats of Aggie’s. Daniel’s red-and-black checked hunting jacket. After all these years, his jacket hung waiting for him. Beside it, the matching hat that Peter had worn on that egg hunt long ago.
Where’s Lizzy? Aggie had asked.
Still in the woods with the rabbit.
Rhonda shut the closet door.
“Peter?” she called. She heard a bang upstairs. Footsteps. A dragging sound.
Something didn’t feel right here. She suddenly regretted not bringing Warren along. But it was, she told herself, simply being in the old house that put her on edge. “Peter?” she called again, her voice a little weaker this time. She made her way into the living room. Same plaid couch and matching recliner. A TV covered in dust. On the wall above the fireplace, the velvet Elvis painting Daniel was so proud of. She and Lizzy had played a game called “Elvis Is Watching You,” in which they tried to find hiding places where the all-seeing eyes of Elvis couldn’t find them, and would end up chasing each other around the room laughing hysterically. In the end, Elvis always knew just where they were.
Where is she now? Rhonda longed to ask the dusty garage sale relic. And what about little Ernie? Could Elvis’s all-seeing eyes spot her as well? Could he see all the way to Rabbit Island?
More dragging upstairs, this time just above her head. Lizzy’s old room.
She took the stairs slowly, quietly. Her body remembered where each squeaky spot was, and carefully avoided them. She got to the top and made her way down the carpeted hallway, past the collages of framed studio portraits and school photos of Lizzy and Peter. She passed Daniel and Aggie’s room. The door was open and she glanced in to see a mountain of clothing piled on the bed. Empty cardboard boxes scattered around the floor.
The next room was Lizzy’s. The door was open. Rhonda put her back against the wall and slid sideways, like a cop on television, thinking she could spin around once she got to the doorway, draw her gun, and yell Freeze! But this was no cop show. And she had no gun. And it was only Peter she was going to face, not some boxy-jawed criminal. She turned slowly and peeked into the room. Peter’s back was to her. He was doing something at the foot of the bed.
Rope.
He was coiling a long piece of coarse rope.
She inhaled sharply. He heard her and turned.
“Rhonda? What the fuck? You just about gave me a heart attack! Why’d you sneak up on me like that?”
“I called your name. You didn’t answer. I heard funny noises. I guess I was kind of freaked.”
“Well that makes two of us, now. Shit! What are you doing here?” He held the coiled rope in clenched hands.
“I thought I’d drop by. See if I could give you a hand.”
Peter tossed the rope down on the bed. “Maybe you can help me get this thing out of here.” He nodded at the immense dresser that had once belonged to Lizzy. “It’s oak. It’s been in my mom’s family forever. Tock thinks we should keep it. Pass it on to Suzy.”
Rhonda nodded, stepped into the room. She went toward the closet. The metal rod Lizzy used to hang from was gone and the frame had been repainted. But there, through the hastily applied coat of paint, Rhonda could still see the ghosts of Lizzy’s pencil marks. Rhonda bent down to study them and saw the last date: August 10, 1993. The day they did their last performance of Peter Pan. It was as if Lizzy had stopped getting taller, refusing to grow up along with Peter and the lost boys.
“It’s a bitch though,” Peter said, slapping the top of the dresser with his open palm. “Weighs ten tons. Come on, grab a side.”
Rhonda went around and grabbed the left side of the dresser. It was nearly five feet high and four feet wide. She lifted with a grunt, and got it about an inch up, then set it down. “We’ve got to get the drawers out,” she said.
They pulled out empty drawers. Found a mothball. A couple of pennies. A single brown button. Rhonda picked up the button and held it, thinking it was the saddest, most lonely object she could imagine. A lost button from a lost girl. Rhonda slid it into her pocket when Peter wasn’t looking, then went back to her side and lifted again, nodding at Peter.
“So what did you want to talk to me about so bad?” Peter asked, lifting his own side. Together, they did a slow shuffle walk with the dresser, Rhonda going backward, aiming for the doorway. With the dresser raised, they could barely make eye contact over the top.
Rhonda took in a breath, unsure of where to begin. She’d rehearsed in the car on the way over and she decided to stick to her script. Begin with the motel, with Lizzy. Then show him the keys. But when she opened her mouth, that’s not what she started with.
“The night we did Peter Pan, you and Lizzy had a fight. You asked her to do something she didn’t want to do. She was scared. What was it?” Rhonda set her end of the dresser down. A few more steps and she’d be to the doorway.
Peter narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember.”
He was lying.
Rhonda picked up her end and lifted again. Peter followed her lead and they resumed their shuffle walk.
“I went to the Inn and Out Motel,” she told him, her eyes meeting his over the flat surface of the dresser. It was time to stop playing games. Throw something at him that he couldn’t lie his way out of.
They were at the doorway now and Rhonda backed herself through. It was tight fit, and when they got to the middle, the dresser jammed. They wiggled it, but it wouldn’t squeeze through. Rhonda caught the back of her hand on a jagged edge of the metal strike plate on the doorjamb, ripping the thin skin there.
“Jesus Christ!” she said, dropping her end and pulling her hand up to inspect the cut. Peter, still in Lizzy’s room, set his end down as well.
“Shit,” he mumbled. “If it came in through the door, it’s gotta come out.” He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Rhonda, who had brought the hurt hand to her mouth, was determined to stay on track.
“Peter,” she began, the taste of blood fresh on her tongue, “I know you were at the Inn and Out Motel the day Ernie was kidnapped. And I think you were there with Lizzy.”
He looked disconcerted. “I was hiking in the state forest.”
“No,” she told him. “You were there. The license plate of your truck is listed on the registration for the room. You were there with Lizzy—or some other young, dark-haired woman from out of state who happened to register as C. Hook, for God’s sake—and a little girl. A little girl who I think may have been Ernestine Florucci.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Just tell me the truth, Peter. It’s time.”
“But I am telling the truth,” he insisted. “I had nothing to do with what happened to Ernie. The first I even heard of it was when you called me that day.”
“But you were at the motel,” Rhonda said.
“Shit, Ronnie. Let’s not do this. Just let it go, okay?”
Rhonda turned and walked down the hall toward the bathroom.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To wash out my cut.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” he asked, peering at her over the jammed dresser. “I’m kind of stuck here.”
“I don’t know, Peter—figure out how we’re going to get the dresser out. And while you’re at it, you can think about telling me the truth when I get ba
ck. This is me, Peter. The one you used to tell everything to, remember?”
The cut itself wasn’t too bad, but the metal strike plate had been covered in some kind of black grease that Rhonda assumed probably didn’t belong in an open wound. She turned on the hot water and found a cracked sliver of soap. The water stung, and she watched it turn pink in the bowl of the sink as it mixed with her blood. Then she looked down and gasped.
There, resting on the floor, tucked against the cabinet the sink was mounted on, was a pair of tiny red sneakers. Rhonda turned off the water, dried her hands, leaned down, and picked up one of the sneakers. It was dirty, the boxy white rubber toe scuffed to gray, the untied shoelaces broken and tied back together haphazardly. Ernie’s sneaker. Rhonda’s hands began to tremble.
“You okay in there?” Peter called from the bedroom. “You’re not bleeding to death or anything, are you?”
“I’m fine,” Rhonda said. “The soap stings, that’s all.”
Think, Rhonda, think.
If her shoes were here, then that meant Ernie was. Or had been at some point.
“Oh my God,” she mumbled as the reality of the situation finally hit her.
She patted Peter’s keys in her pocket—the keys she’d found in the cemetery, which was only a ten-minute walk from here. And Aggie’s house was abandoned. He could easily keep a little girl in a place like this. The closest neighbors were Clem and Justine, and a quarter mile of thick woods separated them.
“Are you gonna help me move this thing, or what?” Peter called.
“Coming,” Rhonda shouted.
What next? She had to get help. Her cell phone was in the car. She’d get to it quickly, make the call, then come back in and stall for time. Ernie could be here, right here, somewhere in the house.
She went down the hall and opened the door to Peter’s old room. Checked the closet. Under the bed. Only dust bunnies. Had she seriously expected to find Ernie that easily?
“What are you doing?” Peter called.
“Looking for a Band-Aid! I think there’s one in my car.” She moved to Daniel and Aggie’s old room, throwing open the closet door. Nothing. Cardboard boxes and abandoned clothing.
“Rhonda, what’s going on?” Peter called from behind the dresser in the doorway down the hall.
“I’m just gonna run to my car,” she told him. She heard the scrape of a chair. Then a shuffle and slide.
Shit. Peter was scrambling over the top of the dresser.
She ran to the stairs and bounded down them, two at a time.
“Rhonda, slow down. Talk to me. Are you hurt?” He was after her now.
She got to the bottom of the stairs, tripped on the toy bear there. Hadn’t the rabbit given Ernie a white stuffed animal? A bear, right? No. It was a bunny. Of course it was a bunny. Rhonda picked up the plush animal. Tiny rounded ears. Big brown nose. Definitely a bear.
Peter was nearly at the bottom of the stairs, coming slowly, steadily.
“Why’s the garage padlocked, Peter?”
“I have no idea.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know, Rhonda—tools, coffins—the same shit that’s always been in there.”
She backed her way to the front door and put her hand on the knob and turned. She raced outside, Peter right behind. She got to the garage, pounded on the locked door. “Hello?” she called. “Can you hear me?”
“What do you think you’re doing, Ronnie?” Peter asked.
“Unlock the door, Peter!”
“I can’t. I don’t have the key.”
She reached into the front pocket of her jeans, pulled the key ring with the rabbit’s foot out, and tossed the keys in his direction. They landed on the front porch with a dull clank. He doubled back and picked them up.
“Where did you get these?” he asked. He looked horrified, as if she’d thrown a severed hand at him.
“Open the door to the garage,” she demanded, trying to keep her voice calm and level.
“I told you, Ronnie, I don’t have a key. Never had one. My mother must have put that lock on years ago.” He was talking slowly and calmly, as if to an unhinged person. He jogged down the porch steps and came toward her. She saw the old shovel leaning against the garage and picked it up, as Aggie had done to Daniel years before.
“Jesus, Ronnie! Put the shovel down.” He raised his hands in surrender but took another step toward her.
“Come any closer and I aim for your head,” she told him.
“I mean it, Peter.” Her hands were shaking. She backed up and slowly made her way to her car. Peter followed, making sure to keep just out of shovel range.
“You can’t leave here like this,” he said.
“Watch me,” she said, throwing the shovel at him. He dove and it missed him by an inch. She got in her car and locked the doors. He came forward, tried the door handle, pounded on her window while she fumbled with the keys in the ignition.
“Wait!” he yelled. She threw the car into reverse and Peter lost his balance, falling in the driveway. She peeled out onto the road. Checked her rearview mirror to see Peter running after her. She floored it.
“Fuck!” she screamed, pounding the steering wheel. “Fucking think!” She could go to her parents, but what would they do? The police. She had to call the police. She grabbed her cell phone, but dialed the Find Ernie hotline instead of 911. Pat picked up.
“Find Ernie hotline. Do you have a tip for us?”
“Pat, it’s Rhonda. I need to talk to Warren.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Rhonda’s voice was frantic.
“I don’t know, Rhonda. I haven’t seen him all day. Or last night for that matter. He might be at home with Jim.”
Rhonda turned left, toward town. Pat and Jim’s house was on the way to the Mini Mart. She’d stop by there first and find Warren.
“Pat, listen to me. I think Peter has Ernie at his mother’s house. Out on Lake Street. I think she’s in the garage.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I saw her shoes, Pat. I’m going to hang up and call Crowley right now. Peter knows I know. He may move her. Or worse.”
It’s all come crashing down. The rabbit suit is unpacked from its secret hiding place in a box at the back of a closet no one would ever think to look in. A faux fur pelt. Enormous ears, pink inside. Oh, the secrets those ears have heard! The heady secrets of little girls, whispered in soft, sugary breaths.
One last time, the rabbit suit will be worn. One last time, Peter Rabbit will come to life.
AUGUST 10, 1993
THEY HAD DONE the play the past two nights and tonight’s performance would be the last and greatest. Rhonda floated across the stage, saying her lines as if in a dream she hoped she would never wake up from.
“Do you know,” Rhonda, as the now elderly Wendy, said as she sat in the rocking chair by the window, peering out into the night, “I sometimes wonder if I ever did really fly.”
Over the past weeks, she had sensed change was coming. She sensed it each time she heard Peter speak, calling out directions, throwing them their lines. It was there in the way his voice was starting to crack when he let out his crow through the woods. She heard change in the tilt and tremble, the slight squeak of his call; felt its powerful presence looming like a monster under the trapdoor, waiting to ruin everything in the final act.
In the last days leading up to the play, they addressed each other in character all day long, losing track of their old selves as easily as Peter Pan lost his shadow.
But shadows, as Rhonda showed Peter on stage, can be sewn back. And after tonight, Rhonda wondered, would they put their old selves back on? Would it really be that simple?
“And I wonder,” Rhonda as Wendy said, “if I would now remember the way.”
The final scene in their version of the play, the one Peter wrote, had Wendy as an old woman (Rhonda wore a gray wig and drew wrinkles on her heavily powdered face) trying to r
emember just where it was Peter Pan lived and what it had been like there. Finally, after a great struggle, after trying to remember if Peter sang or crowed, if he had really taught them to fly, if he was even real at all, Rhonda, as Wendy, had a flash—a line that came to her, and it was the last line of the play. She stood up slowly from her chair, hobbled over to the window with her cane, pulled back the curtain, and remembered out loud, “Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.”
Rhonda, there on the stage that night, had a sudden vision of herself as an adult, saying that line quietly on some far-off night as she stared up at the sky, like it might help bring her back. Back to Peter, to that summer. To Lizzy, her once upon a time twin. To her character Wendy who she was afraid of becoming, because Wendy forgets, little by little, and Rhonda did not want to forget, not one tiny piece. Not the way Peter looked in his green outfit they’d sewn felt leaves to. The way he smelled green all summer, like trees and roots, like growing things. She didn’t want to forget Lizzy, who truly became Captain Hook, running through the woods with a bent wire coat hanger sticking out of her sleeve, a real felt pirate’s hat on her head, cocked sideways. The way Lizzy got to die at the end of the play, tossed to the crocodile, who gobbled her up as she screamed.
She did not want to forget the toothy crocodile, played by Tock Clark, who had been their worst enemy forever and then suddenly wasn’t anymore. Tock Clark whom they all had hated, Peter most of all, until something changed, as big things always do when you’re young, but as an adult, you can never remember just what it was. All you can do is pull back the curtain, thinking you half-remember the way back. Second star to the right, and straight on till morning. And there, through the window, at the edge of the horizon, is the crocodile’s smile, Peter’s crow, and his adamant line—I shall never grow up!—called out in a voice cracking with change.
“Second star to the right, and straight on till morning,” Rhonda said there in her Wendy nightgown, and she also heard herself say it in some alternate universe, where she was a grown woman trying to find her way back.
Rhonda spoke the last line and the crowd was up on its feet, applauding. Hooting, whistling, screaming, “Bravo!” Rhonda looked out into the rows of chairs set up in the clearing. Every one of them had been filled. There, in the front row, were her parents, and Daniel and Aggie. Next to them was Laura Lee Clark in a sequined gown. Some of the men her father worked with were there, and all of the parents of the lost boys, pirates, and Indians. There were children too young or too shy to have been given roles. Tinker Bell’s parents recorded the entire play with a video camera.
The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle Page 37