“But you didn’t?” Claire asks.
Tess shakes her head. “I didn’t think so. Suz was kind of crazy, you know? Way too intense for her own good. And we all went along with her, never reined her in.”
“So you drugged her tequila. Then what?”
“Suz went first, staggering down the path, reciting the damn manifesto she’d come up with: Dismantlement equals freedom; to understand the nature of a thing, it must be taken apart.
“Behind Suz was Spencer, then Winnie, the barrel of her rifle jabbed into his back. Henry and I were trailing along at the end, and we were still fighting about whether or not we should get married.”
“What was the hesitation?” Claire asks. “Didn’t you love him?”
“He didn’t really love me,” Tess says, wincing a little at the pain of it even now, after all the years she’s had to accept it. “Not like he loved her.”
“Suz?”
Tess nods. They were all a little in love with Suz. Even Tess herself, who was sick with envy. Maybe that was its own form of love.
“The shit hit the fan once we got to the lake,” Tess remembers. “Suz was serious. She was really fucking serious. All the joking and holding forth was done. She told Winnie to shoot him. And when she wouldn’t, Suz took the gun to do it herself,” Tess says. “She had her finger on the trigger. If Henry hadn’t tackled her…” The words fade away. She can’t go on. She can’t tell how it ends.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” Claire says, lying back and closing her eyes, like a child at bedtime.
“I can’t.”
“It’ll be like confession. At the end, I’ll absolve you of your sins.”
Tess bites her lip. “I don’t think I can.”
Claire strokes Tess’s hair, rolls over, whispers in her ear, “Yes, you can. Whisper it to me, Tess. Tell me what happened next.”
If she tells, it will be over. There’s no way Claire could absolve her, but maybe, just maybe, the weight of what she’s done will lessen.
“The gun went off. It was so loud. I turned to see if Spencer had been shot, and he was crouched down, covering his head with his hands. But he was fine. She’d missed. She and Henry started struggling for the gun. He got it away from her, but then she grabbed his shirt and ripped it, clawed the shit out of his arm. She just went nuts and he hit her across the face with the butt end of the gun, then turned it on her. Aimed at her chest. That’s when she told us. ‘You don’t want to shoot a pregnant woman, do you?’ she said. ‘You’d be killing your own child.’ And I was so confused because I thought she was talking about me. Like he had the gun pointed at me.
“Henry threw down the gun and lunged at her. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the lake.”
Tess’s voice breaks. “He was so drunk. We were all so drunk.”
“Go on,” Claire whispers.
“I can’t.”
What if it’s too much? How could Claire ever look at her in the same way again?
“Wait here,” Claire whispers. She rolls over, gets out of bed, and goes into the hall. Tess hears her padding around downstairs.
If only Tess hadn’t given Suz the Vicodin. If only Henry hadn’t dragged her into the lake.
Claire comes back. “Have a little of this,” she says, handing Tess a glass of wine. “It’ll help you finish.”
Tess puts the glass to her lips and drinks; not little sips, but desperate gulping swallows, burning her mouth, tasting of regret, of failure, of unspeakable loss.
If only…
Claire is running her fingers over Tess’s body, whispering, “Go on, tell me…”
Tess drains the glass, asks for a refill, stalling until she comes up with either a plausible excuse for stopping or another ending altogether. A lie.
“Be right back,” Claire takes the glass, kisses Tess on the ear, running her tongue along the inside folds. Tess shivers, lets her eyes close.
She’s so tired. So very tired. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. She keeps her eyes closed, lets herself drift. She hears something downstairs, a crash, and tries to surface, to sit up, but finds she can’t. She opens her eyes, but her vision is blurred. The world is fuzzy, as if she’s looking at it through a thick layer of Vaseline.
Where’s Claire? How long has she been gone?
“Cclrrr…” The name comes out a drunken slur.
There’s movement in the hall. Tess tries to focus, to keep her eyes open and make sense of what she’s seeing, but it’s no use. She gives in and lets them flutter closed.
The last thing she sees is a blond woman in a flowing tunic, moving toward her.
“Hello, babycakes,” she says.
Chapter 69
HE WAKES UP GASPING, drenched in sweat, his heart thudding in his chest. His face is pressed into the back cushion of the couch. He rolls over, lets himself get a breath.
He’s had the dream again.
The TV is still on. Satellite imagery. The East Coast viewed from space.
He reaches for the remote on the table, turning a little, and that’s when he sees it: the Danner doll.
Sitting up in the rocking chair in the corner, arms and legs crossed, just watching him.
“Fuck!”
Henry falls off the couch, tangled in the covers again.
Sucking in air through clenched teeth, he moves to her, kicks her out of the chair. She slides to the floor, her body crumpled in an impossible way, a way only someone without bones could land.
Once more, he bends, slips his hands under her armpits (is she warm there? moist?), encircles her chest, and lifts.
Can she have gotten heavier?
Henry grunts, and walking backward, drags her out of the living room, through the front hall, out the door and to his truck, in the driveway. It’s a slow-going shuffle-walk across the gravel, over the shards of broken glass from the motion light.
He knows what he has to do. How to finish this once and for all. He’ll put the doll in the moose, float her out on the lake, and burn the bitch. Let her remains settle on the floor of that already haunted lake: scorched clothing and play sand right beside the bones of the real Suz. Rest in peace, you creepy, fucking thing.
He opens the back of the Blazer, dumps her in. Then he locks the car doors, pushes the child-lock safety button. He tucks the keys into his pocket and turns back toward the house.
The sky in the east is swirled with pink.
Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.
[ PART FIVE ]
DISMANTLEMENT = FREEDOM
Chapter 70
HENRY GLANCES OUT THE window toward the Blazer as he downs his third cup of coffee, stirs strawberries and brown sugar into the oatmeal.
“I still can’t find her,” Emma whines, trudging back into the kitchen. She’s been all over the house looking for the damn doll. When she first woke up, the searching was frantic, and Emma was bordering on hysterical. Now it seems she’s exhausted herself.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he says, handing her the bowl, watching as she adds spoonful after spoonful of brown sugar to her already sweetened oatmeal, turning it to sticky glue. “Maybe your mom put her somewhere.”
“Where is Mom?”
“A friend of hers is sick. She had to go help out.” Henry bites his cheek. He hates having to lie and is sure she’ll see right through it.
“Not Winnie, right?” Now Emma looks extra worried. Her big brown eyes search Henry’s face.
“No, sweetie. Winnie’s fine. It’s some other friend. Someone from the art guild.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.”
Emma frowns into her oatmeal. “She was in my room last night. I know she was.”
“Your mother?”
Emma rolls her eyes. “No, Dad! My sculpture. Danner. She was in bed next to me when I fell asleep. Maybe I can call Mom and ask her.”
Henry shakes his head. “Her phone’s turned off. You know your
mom. She never remembers to keep it on.”
How could Tess do this? Just leave in the middle of the night and not come back. Leaving him was fine. He understood that. But Emma? Did she deserve to wake up to lousy oatmeal and a bunch of piss-poor lies?
“I thought you could spend the day at Mel’s. I called her mom and she said it’s okay.”
She looks away, picks at the bandages across her knuckles.
Henry leans in, puts a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Em. I know you and Mel had some trouble at the movies yesterday, but I’m sure whatever the problem is, you two can work it out, right?”
Emma shrugs, still won’t look at him.
“Would it be okay to just spend today with her? Just so I can go to work if I promise to get out early?”
Emma shrugs again, looking forlorn.
“After breakfast you can get your things together. Mel’s mom will be here in another hour. I’ll pick you up when I leave work around four. We can do something special together then. Go out to the Tastee-Freez maybe. Would you like that?”
“Do you have to work today, Dad? Can’t you just stay home?”
“Sorry. No can do.” Another lie. He’s not going in to work at all. He’s spending the day moving the canoe to the lake, strapping the moose to it. And tonight…tonight he’ll put the possessed doll inside and watch it burn. Good-bye, Suz.
Tess will be home by then. If not, he’ll have to call Laura from down the road and see if she can come babysit. He doesn’t trust Laura, is convinced she smoked pot the last time she watched Emma, but Tess likes her, says she’s a good girl.
“Can’t I just stay here, Dad? I’m old enough. I’ll wait for Mom. I’ll just watch TV and read. I won’t even go near the pool. I promise.”
A chill washes over Henry. He shakes his head. “Sorry, Emma.”
“Maybe I can go to the cabin! Hang out with Winnie. I can call her right now and ask.”
“Not today,” Henry says.
“Is it because of Mom?” Emma asks. “She doesn’t have to know. It can be our secret.” She gives him a weak, pleading smile.
“No,” he says. “No more secrets. You’re going to Mel’s. It’s all arranged.”
MEL’S MOM HAS JUST pulled away, Mel and Emma tucked safely into the backseat, not talking or even acknowledging each other, which is troubling, but Henry’s got bigger concerns right now. He hustles over to the Blazer, checking his watch. The guys from the painting company are coming in forty-five minutes to help him load the canoe. He’s got to have the doll hidden in the half-ton pickup before they get here.
He approaches the Blazer slowly, worried that he might see a desperate hand in a worn gardening glove reach up and pound at the rear windshield. The windows are slightly fogged with condensation. Like someone’s been breathing inside.
He pushes the button on his key chain to unlock the truck. The lights flash. The truck beeps its mechanical hello. The locks open. Henry takes a deep breath, reaches for the handle on the rear door, pulls and yanks it open. He draws back the tarp.
Nothing.
No, not quite nothing.
Under the tarp is a small mound of sand.
The doll is gone.
“Fuck!”
He slams the door closed, goes back to the house and searches. Nothing. No doll. He looks around the yard. In Tess’s sculpture garden and the charred remains of her studio. Then, he heads into the barn. The Danner doll is just plain gone.
Henry checks his watch. Ten minutes until the two guys arrive. He’s got to focus. He grabs ropes, chains, a come-along, and his toolbox. Once he drives the canoe to the lake, he and Winnie have to be able to get it out, slide it into the water, and attach the moose to it. A Herculean effort. He throws two two-by-tens into the bed of the half-ton DeForge Painting pickup truck to build a ramp from the truck to the water’s edge.
He’s trying not to think about the doll, but she’s there, in the back of his mind, grinning her scarlike grin.
He hears tires on the gravel of the driveway, then remembers the journal and jogs over to the toolbox to retrieve it. If he can’t burn the doll, he can at least torch the notebook.
But it’s not there. Left in its place at the rust-flecked bottom of the box is a dusting of fine white sand.
Chapter 71
EMMA HAS MADE A sculpture of herself this time, a dummy, scarecrow girl out of pillows piled under her comforter. She rummaged around in the closet and found an old dolly that pees and put it up at the head, with just a tuft of its hair sticking out, the same light blond color as Emma’s. She knows that dumb babysitter, Laura, won’t even check. She’ll just stay downstairs all night flipping through channels on the satellite TV and smoking cigarettes. In between each cigarette, she sprays perfume into the air. Emma knows. She’s seen her. She also knows that Laura will pick her toes all night. Sometimes, she’ll lift a foot to her mouth and chew her toenails. She’s very flexible, Laura is. She can wrap her leg around the back of her neck. Her mother is a yoga instructor and Laura has been taking classes since she was two. She’s like a human pretzel.
Why does Emma even need a babysitter, anyway? Mel’s parents leave her alone all the time.
“Well, your mother and I aren’t Mel’s parents,” her dad said earlier when she tried to persuade him to forget about calling Laura.
Being at Mel’s today was a total disaster. When they got there, she followed Mel down into her basement bedroom and watched her light candles and incense, then smoke a gum-wrapper cigarette. Mel acted like Emma wasn’t even there.
“What do you want to do today?” Emma asked.
Mel just stared at the smoke she blew out of her mouth. When she finished her cigarette, she climbed up on a milk crate, opened one of the little rectangular basement windows, pulled herself up, and wriggled through it. Emma got up on the milk crate to follow, but Mel slammed the window closed and disappeared into the woods at the edge of her yard.
Emma stayed down in the basement all day, sneaking up around lunchtime to make a sandwich in the kitchen.
“Isn’t Mel hungry?” Mel’s mom asked when she found Emma spreading mustard on rye bread.
“She asked me to bring her down a sandwich,” Emma said. “She’s working on a new invention.”
Mel’s mom winked. “Let me guess…it’s top secret, right?” Emma nodded. Mel’s mom made a ham-and-Swiss sandwich, threw it on a plate with some chips. Then she got two cans of root beer from the fridge. “Even a mad scientist has to eat,” she said, handing Emma the plate.
Emma left Mel’s lunch on the table next to her bed, thinking Mel might show up any minute. She didn’t. Emma stayed alone in the basement until her dad came to pick her up at four.
EMMA ADJUSTS THE COVERS over the dummy in her bed. She knows she doesn’t have much time. Her dad is talking with Laura in the kitchen. He’s already tucked Emma in and said his good nights. Now he’s telling Laura to help herself to the chicken shish kebabs in the fridge.
Emma sneaks down the stairs and through the front hall, past the painting of Francis.
“Nine,” she whispers, then opens the front door gently, quietly, careful not to let it squeak, and pads out to the big company pickup her dad has been driving all day. She climbs up on the bumper and lifts herself over the gate, into the bed of the truck, where she scuttles all the way back against the cab and hides under an old painting tarp that smells of mildew and turpentine.
Earlier tonight, she picked up the phone to try her mom again (her cell’s been off all day), and caught her dad and Winnie. Her dad was saying, “Are you sure we should be doing this?” and Winnie said, “It’s too late to back out now.”
Emma couldn’t believe it: Mel was right. Her dad and Winnie were having an affair! It was all so obvious. And her mother must have found out and left him. Left them both.
The worst part of it is, it’s all Emma’s fault. She sent the stupid moose postcard to Winnie. It was Emma who brought Winnie back here. If she hadn’t be
en trying so hard to get her parents back together, she wouldn’t have done the thing that would tear them apart.
There’s only one thing left to do—stop them.
And that’s just what she’s on her way to do: to crash her father and Winnie’s little rendezvous and find a way to make them see that this thing between them is a horrible mistake. That it throws everything out of balance. And how that lady Suz was all wrong: art is not all about chaos, about taking things apart. True art, Emma will tell them, is about finding a way to make what’s broken whole.
Chapter 72
RUNNING LATE, HENRY HEADS for his workshop to grab the gas can. As he approaches the barn, he realizes the lights are on, which is odd—he hasn’t been out there since this morning, and he’s sure he turned them off then. He slides the door open slowly, stepping inside. The bright white halogen bulbs illuminate the empty wooden frame where the canoe had rested for over a year.
But the frame is not empty.
Lying there, faceup in the middle, like she’s been caught taking an innocent little nap of the damned, is the Danner doll.
Henry makes a strangled sort of gasping sound.
He circles around the doll to the workbench, walking on tiptoe, as if he might actually wake her. There, he finds rope. Bright yellow, thick-braided nylon. Knowing it makes no sense, it’s a ridiculous waste of time, but still unable to stop himself, he ties her. Henry lifts her arms, crosses her wrists and wraps the rope around tight.
Tighter, Henry. Tie it tighter.
Then, he does her ankles.
For the sheer fuck of it, he uses all hundred feet of rope, wrapping up her entire body, from his old Danner boots to the top of the blond wig, until she resembles a bright yellow chrysalis.
“Henry?” A voice in the dark outside. A man’s voice. “You in there?”
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