by Landon Houle
Lucy hadn’t meant to say what she said, or at least she hadn’t meant to stop. She’d only hesitated, considering how best to tell the truth. But in the pause, the half-lie formed, and when the stranger looked at her through rheumed eyes, the correction didn’t seem worth the effort.
A girl, she said.
The old woman smacked and clucked. Girls are a trial.
Lucy smiled. They were up in the air now, and in that new pressure, the woman had a hard time hearing. Lucy tried to say something, but she just patted a floppy ear and shook her head.
A dingy haze moved past the window. Down below, Lucy could see the city, cars snarled in traffic. She wrapped the hem of her shirt around her finger. She wondered how long before the drink cart.
Only a few minutes passed before she felt the weight of the stranger’s head. The woman had been thumbing through OK! magazine, and held it still, even as she nodded off. She was a small woman, but the head on Lucy’s shoulder was tremendously heavy and seemed to get heavier by the second.
Lucy stared down at the woman’s hair, at the bald spot the woman could not see to fluff and cover. She was staring at this hole, at this patch of pink skin when she jerked her shoulder and shifted away.
The woman stirred but didn’t wake. Her chin rested on her chest. She must have been in her eighties. The way she slept, she might have been dead. Certainly, she would be soon. Lucy watched. Somewhere in the back, there was the rattle of ice, the crink of plastic. Lucy tried to swallow and couldn’t. Her mouth was dry, and the old woman next to her went blurry.
I would have walked right past you, Ann said.
They were driving the twelve miles from the regional airport to Black Creek. The road was smooth, but Lucy gripped at the passenger side door. The sisters hadn’t seen each other in more than two years.
You look, Ann said, different.
Thanks, Lucy said. I think.
Ann seemed like she might smile, but she scratched her face instead.
The car wasn’t new, but it was vacuumed and dusted. The engine was quiet. A man was talking on the radio. The volume was turned too low to hear anything specific.
I wanted to tell you in person, Lucy said. I’m sorry.
What? Ann said. She looked at Lucy. Oh, right.
Ann turned her focus back to the road. They were coming up on one of the developments. Against the low sun, the wooden frame of a house turned black, and the boards stood out like bones.
Every time I come this way, Ann said, there’s another one where I least expect it.
Lucy’s head bobbed.
A lot’s changed, she said, but you wouldn’t know it.
What Ann said was true. Lucy wouldn’t know the difference. This was her first time coming to Black Creek.
I knew you, Lucy said. You look just the same.
There was a cat in the ditch, and Ann saw it but didn’t brake. No, I don’t.
When Rob and Ann first got together, seven years ago now, Lucy couldn’t get over the fact that Rob was a traveling salesman. She couldn’t believe that such a person still existed, and even now, Rob seemed like a phantom, some character Ann had seen in an old Turner Classic. He was never home, and he wasn’t now, and Ann said she couldn’t really remember where he was—California or Oregon or somewhere over there. She gestured vaguely. I don’t keep it straight, she said.
Primarily, he sold clocks—expensive exact clocks to schools and jails and hospitals, places where time really mattered.
When’s he coming back? Lucy said.
A few days. A week maybe.
Ann was carrying Lucy’s bag into the house, and even when Lucy tried to wrestle it from her, Ann jerked away, said, I got it.
But—Lucy said.
I’m fine, Ann said, and Lucy knew better than to argue.
Like Ann’s car, the house wasn’t new. In fact, like almost all the houses in the neighborhood, it was more than a hundred years old, but the floors were redone, the windows were new, and Ann kept the place spotless. It smelled like lemons and floor wax, and when Ann opened the bedroom door, there was the heavy smell of fresh paint.
Ann set Lucy’s bag on the floor. So you can stay in here.
She looked down at the bed, and though the comforter was clean and laid flat, Ann slapped at it, hard, as if to shake something loose. When she turned back, Lucy tried to stand straighter. She held up her chin.
You probably want to rest, Ann said.
Something to drink?
Water.
Lucy nodded.
Ann pointed toward the bathroom. There’s towels in the cabinet. Soap and all.
Right, Lucy said. She waited for Ann to say something else, but instead Ann moved toward the door.
I’m happy, Lucy started and then stopped. Her voice sounded so loud. She was yelling even though Ann was just out of arm’s reach. She tried again. I’m glad I’m here.
Ann stood there. Her head might have moved or maybe it was only a muscle flinching. I’ll make us some soup, she said, and then she pulled the door shut behind her.
Lucy was alone in the room. She looked at the new white walls, at a patched place where something had hung. She wanted to take a bath, but instead, she was pushing off her shoes. She was lying back on the bed. She was pleating the edge of the bedspread as was her nervous habit. There was something hard there beneath her thumb. She pulled the fabric closer and saw it was the plastic cord that held the tag. She ran the plastic up under her nail. She drove it down until it hurt, and in the changed evening light, she believed she could see the walls turn the faintest shade of pink.
Why do they do that? Lucy said.
It was the next morning. She’d fallen asleep the night before, and when she woke up, it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. Ann was in her bedroom with the door shut. In the kitchen, Lucy found a ham sandwich mummified in Saran wrap and a bag of potato chips on the counter. Soup’s in the fridge, a note said.
Now they were sitting at the dining table drinking coffee and watching the brown birds that kept throwing themselves up against the bay windows. They’re hurting themselves, Lucy said.
Ann held her coffee cup. I guess they’ll learn. Or they won’t.
Lucy stared at the window. Maybe you could get one of those owls, she said. The kind that scares things away.
Ann took a drink. Maybe, she said.
The bird hooked his claws in the screen. He turned his head, and Lucy could see the black eye jerking.
Lucy blinked like she might fall back asleep. I was just thinking, she said, about Mama wearing all those awful wigs.
The bird tapped its beak, like a thin fingernail, against the window.
She had cancer, Ann said.
That red one, Lucy said as if Ann had said nothing at all, was the worst.
The bird flapped its wings and flew away.
She did the best she could, Ann said.
Let’s go someplace, Lucy said.
Ann set down her coffee cup. There were red and green cows painted on the side. I’m not going to a bar with you.
I’m not talking about a bar. Who said anything about a bar?
Ann looked up at her.
I’m talking about outside. It’s a nice day.
Ann turned her head. Her skin was very pale, and around her nose, it was flaking in rough raw patches. I don’t know.
There’s got to be some place, Lucy said.
There’s the park.
The park, Lucy said, and she actually clapped her hands. Ann jumped. Perfect. The park.
The park was more than seventy acres of cypress forest located in the floodplain of Black Creek. Most of the park was swampland that, on account of the mosquitoes, was unbearable during the summer months, but now, in December, there had been a frost that killed almost everything.
You must come here a lot, Lucy said. She was trying to keep up, but Ann was moving fast.
Not really, Ann said. She trudged ahead.
Lucy heard something above the
m. She was looking up at a bird in the sky—a hawk—when Ann slipped on some leaves. Lucy saw her reach out and grab at the air. Ann tried and failed to catch her balance, and before she could do anything else, she landed hard on the damp ground.
Lucy rushed to catch up. She was asking what happened, was Ann okay, was anything broken, what could she do?
Nothing, Ann said. I’m fine. Just tripped is all.
Here, Lucy said. She grabbed Ann’s arm, but Ann shook her off. Let me help.
Don’t, Ann snapped. You can’t.
Lucy had crouched over Ann, but now she took a step back. Her mouth was open, but she said nothing.
I’m too heavy, Ann said. Then she pushed herself up off the ground and dusted her pants. You wanted to get out. So, she gestured for Lucy to walk in front, get out.
Don’t do that, Lucy said.
Do what? We’re doing what you want just like always.
Lucy stood in the trail, but Ann brushed past her, spinning her around. What you’re doing, Lucy said, and she worked her way to yelling because Ann was getting further and further away. What you’re doing is playing tough.
Ann stopped. The seat of her pants was filthy with leaves and mud. She turned around, pointed at Lucy, and said, The only person who ever gets to play anything is you.
Above them, the hawk whistled. The hawk whistled and circled.
That’s, Lucy faltered. That’s just—crap, and you know it.
But Ann was already moving down the trail, and Lucy should have run to keep up with her, but she was scared, and so instead, she did a kind of stutter step. Ann, she said, not unlike she’d said so often as a kid when Ann ran away from her. Ann, wait up!
They were coming up on the creek and a wooden plank bridge that arched up and over the water.
Ann had been marching along, but now that she got to the bridge, she slowed and finally stopped. She seemed to glance over the side of the bridge, and a hand drew up and covered her mouth, then moved to her belly. She sort of staggered backward, hunched over herself.
Ann? Lucy said. Annie?
Something was wrong, and Lucy ran now. She ran the rest of the trail, and though her feet slid under her, she kept her balance and kept on, and when she hit the boarded bridge, it was with the force and the weight of a spurred horse. Ann. Annie, I’m here.
Lucy reached out toward Ann’s belly. It hadn’t been that long—a few weeks since the baby. Since the last baby. Ann was older. There could still be complications. Cramps. Pain. Hemorrhages. Lucy just touched Ann’s hand, which was cold and dry, but Ann waved her off. Ann gestured as she had when talking about Rob. Over there, she’d said. Somewhere. But now, she meant over the side of the bridge, in the water.
What? Lucy said. Though she knew it must be something, she couldn’t see it just yet, and from the look on Ann’s face, she might never want to see it, but still, like the girl in the horror movie who opens the door, who goes in the barn, who takes the first step down the stairs toward the basement, so often in life it seemed to Lucy that despite what Ann thought, she rarely had any choice. Life, for Lucy, was a series of compulsions, and even though stepping forward would become so much more than an urge or an impulse, it was, in that moment, that simple. A force and an action on that force, and she was taking a step forward, and she was looking down, and she was seeing the girl under the water.
Both women had cell phones in their pockets, but Ann reached for hers first. She dialed 9-1-1. She listened to the line ring twice. When a voice said, What is your emergency?, she stuck a finger in her other ear, and said, Yes, my name is Ann Murfin. I’m with my sister, Lucy, at Black Creek Park, and we’ve just found a girl. A body.
But no. This was not what happened. This was what Lucy saw in her mind, what she expected before the phone dropped from Ann’s shaking hands, and it was so long, it seemed, that the phone hung in the air and above them, the hawk still whistled, and Ann’s mouth hung open, and Lucy reached for the phone, but her arms were heavy and like everything, so slow, and then it hit the boards with a racket that made Lucy shake her head.
We’ve got, she said, to do something.
This was the part when Ann should have said just exactly what they should do, or—more often—she was already doing it, but now she just stood there, frozen in time, and some part of Lucy’s mind flashed to an exhibit she’d seen in San Francisco, the people of Pompeii, eyes and mouths agape at what could only be described as awesome—dread, veneration, wonder.
She did not feel like herself but rather an impersonation of Ann as she dialed the number, as she answered the questions, as she described the situation. But still, it was her finger. It was her voice. It was her name she gave the woman on the other end of the line.
Police are on their way, the woman said, and Lucy said, Okay, thank you. She ended the call. She thought to hand the phone back to Ann, but instead, stuck it in her own pocket. Ann, she said, are you hurt?
Ann’s eyes fluttered. She was very pale, and Lucy thought she would say yes, that she was hurt. She was, in fact, hurt very badly, but after a minute, Ann shook her head. She stared at the body, and Lucy said, Come on. Let’s go over here.
She tried to steer Ann away, but Ann said no. Her voice was a burst, a puncture in the woods. I’m staying, she said, more quietly.
All right, Lucy said. Okay. She reached out. Under her hand, she felt the bones of Ann’s back. She felt the quick rise and fall of her breathing. In the distance, a siren.
A few days passed. They identified the girl but would not release her name. She was a minor, they said. They were working to contact her parents. The supposed cause of death was drowning, though, the coroner allowed, it was difficult to say whether it was accidental or not. If someone else was involved. Or not. A full autopsy was pending.
Lucy sat at the dining room table. She read the article out loud. When she finished, she looked over the top of the newspaper. Ann was in the armchair in the living room. It was almost noon, but she was still in her bathrobe. She was staring out the window.
Lucy held the newspaper. Then she folded it, placed it on the table. I think those birds have quit, she said. They just gave up.
The house was so quiet, Lucy could hear it settling beneath them. Somewhere a clock ticked. You want to turn on the TV?
Then Ann said, I’d like some flowers. I’d like some flowers to take.
Lucy looked at her. She watched her. She saw, in Ann, their mother. She saw time passing. She said, I’ll drive.
They weren’t the only ones. It seemed that all of Black Creek had thought to bring flowers or stuffed animals or candles with the names of saints. The little wooden bridge, carved with the names of lovers and curses and numbers to call, had turned into a kind of shrine. An old woman left just as Lucy and Ann arrived, and then they were alone. They sat down on the bridge, and for a long while, they were quiet. For a long while, there was only the sound of the water passing beneath them.
The candles burned and most were saints in various poses of pain and affliction, but one showed Mother Mary herself. She wore the blue and white cloak, and her arms opened toward them, and Lucy thought of the girl. The creek was just the creek again, as if the girl had never been there, as if she were some sort of apparition, a fleeting vision.
I never saw her, a voice said, and at first, Lucy took it for a stranger talking about the girl in the river. The voice was so unsteady, so uncertain, she wouldn’t have known it for Ann’s except she saw her now. She saw her speaking. They wouldn’t let me, she said, and her hand was on her belly. They said there was nothing to see.
Lucy opened her mouth and shut it again. Most of her life, she’d wanted Ann to talk to her, to open up like other sisters she knew, and now that it was happening, she didn’t know what to say or how to act. She couldn’t even look at Ann, and so she stared at the candle, at Mother Mary, and the flickering flame that seemed as out of balance as everything else. Finally, she said, It happens more than we know. Women just don’t talk
—
Because what good does it do? Ann said, and her voice was her own again. Lucy would have known that edge anywhere. Words don’t change things.
What I mean is, Lucy said, forcing herself to look at Ann, I’m here.
Ann blinked. She snorted, and her lip flapped. No, you aren’t.
Lucy studied her sister. She wanted to argue, to say that Ann was wrong, that they had each other, but there was a dull certainty in Ann’s eye, a confidence that could not be swayed, and, in fact, made Lucy wonder if this was another time when Ann knew something she didn’t.
Lucy turned back to the water. Night came faster to the swamp. Already, it was getting dark, and off in the woods, a flash caught Lucy’s eye.
She drew in a sharp breath and without thinking, she grabbed for Ann’s hand. You see that?
Ann sniffed. She squinted at the lengthening shadows. What?
Lucy searched the woods. Whatever she’d seen was gone. There aren’t wolves here, she said. Right?
Ann shook her head. Must have been something else, she said, but she kept looking in the trees.
Yeah. Must have been.
Lucy had grabbed Ann’s hand, but Ann held on, and they stayed like this until there was almost no light left.
THERE YOU ARE
In the first place, Jill didn’t want the baby, and this surprised everyone except for Jill. I never wanted kids, she told Cathy, and this wasn’t exactly true, but it was true enough.
Even some of their closest friends couldn’t understand. When Jill complained about the baby crying or spitting up on itself or pooping its diaper again, they gaped at her like she was some sort of monster. They told her she couldn’t keep calling the baby it. That’s how kids develop complexes, they said. That’s why they grow up and kill their teachers.
Jill had heard the word complex, but she wasn’t exactly clear on what it meant. It made her think about apartments, and apartments reminded her of a sticky hive crawling with thousands of buzzing bees.