by Lisa Lutz
When I circled the house again, I saw another plant clinging to life. Right inside the planter was a key, jutting out of the soil. There were no signs for an alarm company, so I wiped the key off on my jeans and stuck it into the lock. It turned.
I opened the door and walked inside. Wooden beams hung across the ceiling, low enough to knock a six-foot-two man unconscious. The architecture might come in handy. The furnishings were spare and disjointed. A matching wood-framed sofa and love seat dominated the living room. A bright red Formica kitchen table was surrounded by green metal folding chairs. A frayed Oriental rug lay in the center of the adjacent living room, clashing violently with the flowered pattern that upholstered the couch. The overall décor gave the impression that the furnishings had been culled from a collection of yard sales without a moment’s consideration. My first city couple were just visitors, trying to get away from it all. There was no way in hell those two had styled this house in this low-rent fashion.
Still, it was a house with a roof and a wood-burning stove and a working kitchen. I continued my inspection until I saw a laminated piece of paper with a calligraphed list.
House Rules
* * *
Make yourself at home.
Please do not leave any food crumbs out for the mice.
If you leave any food behind, please put it in the refrigerator.
Help yourself to anything in the house.
Please do not flush tampons or condoms down the toilet. We have a septic system.
When you’re ready to leave, please take the sheets off of the bed and put them into the washing machine. Our housekeeper will take care of the rest.
I had already determined that this house wasn’t a viable option. Unknown visitors mixed with an unpredictable maid were hardly a recipe for effortless squatting. I slipped out the back, locked the door, and stabbed the key back into the dirt. I got into my car and drove to the next house on my list.
The road leading up to the second house was about a quarter-mile long. When I reached the top of the hill, I practically plowed into an older gentleman on a John Deere riding mower. I slammed on my brakes and rolled down my window. He drove next to my truck and turned off his engine.
“Can I help you?” the man on the mower asked.
“I’m looking for the Bigelow house?”
“Who?”
“Don’t the Bigelows live here?”
“Don’t know the name. What’s their address?”
“I didn’t write it down, I was navigating from memory.”
“Women should never do that,” he said.
This got under my skin since I had an expert’s grasp of the US interstate highway system and an internal compass that failed me only on moonless nights. I probably shouldn’t have engaged in any further conversation, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Actually, I’m pretty good most of the time,” I said. “But all of these private drives look the same. I must have overshot it.”
“What town do the Bigelows live in?” the man asked. He wasn’t going to let up, and answering any more questions was foolish.
“Sorry to have troubled you,” I said. “I’ll be on my way.”
The man on the lawn mower remained parked in his spot, preventing me from making a U-turn. I put the car in reverse and backed the quarter-mile out of the serpentine drive as fast as I could.
Each house I went to that day presented its own set of challenges. The third house I visited shared a measly fence with neighbors, who seemed like locals based on the number of cars and bicycles in their driveway. No way could I come and go without their notice. The fourth house had several signs for a local security company perched in its yard. They might have been a bluff, but I didn’t see the point in spinning the roulette wheel.
I was like Goldilocks looking for the bed that was just right. It was long past nightfall when I found it. A small but friendly looking stone cottage, at the end of a long private drive, entirely obscured by coniferous foliage. After a half-hour hunt by flashlight, I found the spare key nestled between two loose pieces of stonework under the kitchen window.
I opened the door and found a light switch by the foyer. The house was clean and simple and spare. Most of these country homes had accumulated a certain degree of clutter that cramped city apartments won’t allow. I tried to remember what car/which people I’d followed to get to this place, but all of my marks had become a blur; they had no name, just a set of directions I’d jotted down on a cheap pad of paper I’d stolen from some motel.
It felt like the right place as soon as I turned on the lights. The air had a dampness, the way a house smells when it doesn’t get much of a cross-breeze, which meant the owners weren’t visiting all that often. I began looking through closets and cupboards. They were mostly empty, except for winter coats and canned goods. Some of the coats looked like they’d fit me. There was a television set but no cable, no Internet service. I picked up the phone and got a dial tone, but that was the only thing that linked this house to the rest of the world.
I checked the laundry room. It was clean, nothing left in the washer or dryer. The beds were made with military corners; there wasn’t even a hint of a recent fire in the wood-burning stove; the dish rack was empty; the refrigerator held only condiments and baking soda. Perhaps I was being optimistic, but I had a feeling these people weren’t coming back for a very long time. The thermostat was set to fifty-five degrees, which is a good number if you want to keep your pipes from freezing but have no interest in comfort. Early November, the pipes wouldn’t have much of a chance of freezing for at least six weeks. If they were planning on coming back before then, I couldn’t see why they wouldn’t turn off the furnace altogether.
I continued to scour the pantry until I found an open bottle of bourbon on a back shelf. I found a glass in the cupboard and poured myself a drink.
I roamed the house, trying to learn more about what I was beginning to conceive of as my new living arrangement. Despite the spare furnishings and general lack of decorative accents, a few personal touches were strewn about. A modest family portrait, taken on this very porch, rested on the fireplace mantel. A man and woman in their early fifties, who appeared both lean and vigorous, but without that shade of vanity that often accompanies the health-conscious. They both had gray hair, sun-lined faces, and warm smiles. Sitting between them were two boys, both in their early twenties. One was an exact replica of the father and the other, who looked about the same age, was a perfect composite of his parents. He had his father’s high forehead and square jaw, his mother’s big brown eyes, and the exact same gap she had between her two front teeth. Everyone had their arms around each other and they wore genuine smiles, as if they had just been laughing.
They looked happy in a way I had never known and probably never would. On the rare occasion my mother and I (and her man du jour) took a photo together, we’d all smile for the camera, but when you looked back at the picture, you never believed it. Even when I was young and had no concept of the limits that my future life would hold, whenever I’d see a happy family, a jealousy would overtake me that was so ugly, it felt like my soul was rotting. I had to train myself not to look at them. In stores, at the movie theater, outside schools, I’d avert my gaze.
I put the photo of my host family facedown on the mantel because it would break my heart whenever I saw it.
An old wooden desk stood in the hallway near the front door. A tan push-button phone, which looked like it had been stolen from an office, sat on the desk next to a calendar and a mug stuffed with an assortment of pens. I checked the calendar to see if they had marked the previous weekend’s visit and saw two Xs over Saturday and Sunday. I looked ahead and saw a question mark over Thanksgiving and another series of Xs over Christmas. I finished my drink and poured another. I was settling in for the night.
Inside the desk were a few files with numbers for utility services and old bills. I looked at the name on the phone bill. Leonard Frazier. I wondered
if he went by Len or Lenny. That might be important if a neighbor made a house call. I continued searching the desk to see if I could retrieve a name for the woman. In the bottom drawer was a small cardboard box containing a collection of letters and cards. Most of the cards were of the Christmas variety. Most were addressed to either “the Frazier Family” or “Mr. and Mrs. Frazier”; one or two were made out to only Gina Frazier.
The odd thing was that several, maybe a dozen, letters were unopened. They appeared to be personal notes, judging from the feel of the envelopes. I eventually found one that had a clean slice along the rim. Since I had already invaded this family’s home, invading their privacy didn’t strike me as a significant detour.
I plucked the neatly folded rice paper from the powder-blue envelope and read:
Dear Len and Gina,
We didn’t know what to write or if we should, if words even exist that can bring you comfort. We’ve struggled with this letter for days. I’m so sorry about Toby. He was a beautiful soul and he will be missed.
I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, but let us know if there’s anything we can do. It sounds so foolish to write that, but we mean it.
Love,
Tricia and Robb
I returned the letter to the envelope and sifted through the rest of the stack. I found another opened envelope. A Hallmark card. Many Sympathies for the Loss of Your Child. Inside were a few lines about people mourning with them and finding strength with each other. The sender merely scribbled at the bottom: My thoughts are with you, Diane.
I had no idea they made greeting cards for such specific, tragic events, but they seemed like a bad idea, and Diane struck me as utterly tactless. There were more letters, unopened. Perhaps after getting the first few notes, Gina and Len didn’t see the point in reading on. But I did. I found the letter opener in the middle drawer of the desk. I picked an envelope at random and sliced it open.
Dear Len and Gina,
Please forgive me for taking so long to write. I was in such shock myself I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry for your loss. Toby was a sensitive, fragile soul. He will be missed.
Of course, if you need anything, I’m here. Always.
Love,
Lynette
It was odd, the emotional shift from my first steps into the Frazier home to the point where I currently found myself. After I glimpsed the photo of the perfect family with their quaint vacation home I gave myself permission to trespass into their unused space. I resented all that these people had. But knowing what they had been through, an unspeakable loss, made me more comfortable in their house, as if I belonged here because we shared the common ground of misfortune.
It would be days before I truly understood how extreme my violation was. At the time, I just thought, I’m home. I poured another drink and took a seat at the foot of the desk, searching the letters for one that might hold more than generic sympathies. I picked up a small, plain business envelope; the return address was from a C. Larsen in Oberlin, Ohio.
Dear Gina and Len,
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I didn’t know. Believe me, if I had any idea what he was going to do, I would have said something, I would have done something. I really thought he was getting better. He seemed happy just the day before. Please forgive me.
Damn it, this letter is stupid. It’s about as useful as his suicide note.
Carl
I put the letters back into the box and closed the drawer. I crawled over to the corner of the room and sat there, listening to my heart beat so loudly I could hear it. For just a few moments, I didn’t feel as welcome there anymore. It was like the house was expelling me on its own, begging me to leave, the walls practically giving me a shove out the door. Yet I remained firmly planted on the floor, the heels of my shoes digging in for traction. There was sickness in this house, and that part felt right to me. I was determined to stay.
That night I took a hot shower, my first in over three weeks. It felt as decadent as eating caviar. I looked through the drawers and found an old Yankees T-shirt. It could have been Leonard’s or Gina’s. It might have even been Toby’s. I put it on and crawled into bed. I didn’t sleep that night, but I was warm and comfortable and I wasn’t sure what else I could hope for.
The next day I remained housebound. Most of my worldly possessions were marooned at camp, assuming those hunters hadn’t pilfered all of my supplies. I didn’t feel like heading back to retrieve them. Besides, the Fraziers had all I needed for a while. They had canned goods and dried goods and some frozen vegetables, at least three jars of tomato sauce, and the rest of that bourbon to consume. They had books and music, but it was their movie collection that was the most enticing in light of my recent television-free existence.
Their assortment of DVDs had no common denominator, nor were they in any discernible order. Dr. Strangelove sat next to Better Off Dead, followed by The Philadelphia Story, then Die Hard, On the Waterfront, What About Bob?, Apocalypse Now, The Hangover. The rest of the collection of fifty or so titles followed a similar lack of cohesion. I sat in front of that shelf for about an hour, trying to choose a film, until I realized that I had nothing but time. I picked the first disc on the top shelf on the left—Dr. Strangelove—put it in the DVD player, sat down on the couch, and watched.
Three days and twenty films later, I had barely moved from that very spot.
September 3, 2015
To: Jo
From: Ryan
I know you’re on the run. How are you getting by? If you need money, don’t ask him again. I have some put aside for you. I always had it. I never mentioned it to you, because I thought it would make you angry. You can have it any time you want it.
Maybe you think it’s too dangerous to write back. I’m careful. I go someplace to do this and I’ve never told anyone.
I think you need help now. Let me help you.
R
September 16, 2015
To: Jo
From: Ryan
Look, there’s this writer coming around asking questions, I think because of the ten-year anniversary. She says she’s writing a whole book on the murder of Melinda Lyons and the disappearance of Nora Glass. She came to see me. I put her off. But she’s renting one of Mrs. Carlisle’s extra rooms. It looks like she’s staying for a while.
Here’s another thing, something that might make you happy. Edie left Logan. It’s over. If you’re still angry about that, about what I didn’t do, maybe you can let it go and write me back.
Yours, R
Chapter 20
* * *
THE television in the Frazier home held me captive. I found myself incapable of doing much other than sitting on a couch and staring at a screen. By the fourth day, after I’d eaten plain oatmeal for ten meals straight, I thought I ought to venture out and retrieve my belongings from Camp Wildacre.
I left my car half a mile away tucked under an evergreen. I wore one of Gina’s dresses and dotted my lips with a cherry gloss I found in the medicine cabinet. I didn’t look right, I knew that, but I didn’t look anything like the woman who’d had that run-in with the hunters. I could have just as easily been a worn-out mother looking for a sleepaway camp for her son or daughter. I found the camp just as I had left it, with the addition of the broken fender in the creek from the Ford truck I had crashed. The chain-link fence remained unsecured, and the hunters hadn’t even bothered to fill in my Apache foot traps for the next unfortunate pair of legs to stroll in that direction.
I checked my bunk. Muddy footprints covered the floor, but they hadn’t noticed all of my supplies tucked away in the cubbyhole. Perhaps it had never occurred to the hunters that I had been settling in for a long stretch. I shoved my clothes and food into my backpack and gathered my camping gear. I refilled the foot traps with the same soil I had removed from them. I lugged all of my gear back to my Jeep, sweating hard in that cold fall air.
As I drove away, I already felt nostalgic. Even be
fore I knew what was to come, I knew that Wildacre was the last place I’d find real freedom. Something was about to change. As the weather turned and my options narrowed, I might find moments of feeling safe, secure. But in general my life was like standing under a showerhead with the water heater on the fritz—ice-cold to scorching in two seconds flat.
I went to the store and purchased cheap produce, bread, peanut butter, and whatever was on special. I tried hard not to think about my dwindling savings. I tried not to think about the kind of work that the likes of me could get in this town, or any town in which I might remain anonymous. I wouldn’t need much to survive in the way I was planning, but I’d need something.
I thought about calling Ryan, but pride deterred me for the time being. It was easier to keep my distance. Besides, I still had $228 to my name and a roof over my head.
ON MY WAY home from the store, I drove past the no-name bar. I felt like company even if I wasn’t planning to talk to anyone. It was happy hour and drafts were only two dollars. The bartender nodded, as if he remembered me from last time. I decided this ought to be my last visit.
Someone had left a newspaper on the bar. I picked it up to avoid conversation.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Draft,” I said.
As he poured my pint, he decided to make friendly conversation. I wondered if I’d ever be able to engage in small talk without feeling like there was a lit stick of dynamite in the vicinity.
“You a local?” he said.
“Just passing through.”
“From where?”
“Everywhere.”
He looked at me, right in the eye, and then averted his gaze as if something about me troubled him. He served me without making eye contact again. I wondered what he saw. Would I see it if I looked in the mirror? Improbable thoughts bubbled to the surface. Could he see who I was, what this life had made of me? I hadn’t let myself linger much in the past. The best part of running full speed is not having time to look back. But even if I didn’t think about it much, I had felt a seismic internal shift after I had killed Jack Reed.