She didn't actually hug me. She held my shoulders for a moment, then she turned to get the twins into the car.
"Hey," my father said. He looked at my grandparents, and then he took my hand and we walked down the driveway.
"I hope our coming did some good for you, Alice. I'm glad we had a chance to have that conversation in the attic, and we shared some very personal secrets."
"Me, too."
"I guess you know now that your grandparents put out an SOS on you. No one can blame them for asking for help, least of all me. They paid their parent dues when they brought up me and Zipporah. I guess all anyone wants for you is for you to give yourself a chance. Take a chance on yourself. Go out there and compete. You're too young to go into retreat. You have no reason to hide from anyone or anything
"I know it's easy for me to tell you all this. I have no right to tell you anything. I went into hiding in a sense and left you behind, but I'm trying to make up for it as much as I can. I promise I'll keep trying."
"Why was Rachel so nice to me this time?" I asked, looking back at the car. "I thought she was mad at you for spending time with me in the attic."
"She was at first, but . . . can you keep a secret?" I laughed at that and so did he.
"Your grandmother and I used a little psychology on her. We went to her for help with you, and there's nothing Rachel likes more than
responsibility. She's a bit of a control freak, but another secret is I need her to be. I'm not stupid. I recognize what her strengths are and how that helps us both be successful. Once you became her project, too, it put a new light on everything.
"So," he concluded, "you better not disappoint her. She's tough."
"Okay," I said.
"I have never really told you, Alice," he said, "but I love you and want only happiness for you."
I nodded, now squeezing my eyes to keep the tears imprisoned under the lids. They were determined to break free any moment.
He kissed me on the cheek and then hurried to the car.
My tears escaped.
He waved. They backed out, waved from the windows, and drove off, disappearing the way a dream might, the images of them lingering for a few moments, ghost memories, soon caught in the breeze and carried off, leaving us with empty eyes.
My grandfather put his arm around my grandmother, and she put her head on his shoulder and they started back to the house. In that moment I truly understood how hard it was to be a parent and a grandparent and put another good-bye in your pocket. Even though they had each other, they couldn't fill the emptiness in their hearts. It was at once the curse and the blessing such love brought with it.
Instead of following them into the house, I started a walk toward the village. I hadn't intended to go the whole way, but I was in such deep thought about everything that I wasn't paying attention to time and distance and suddenly realized that I had reached town.
I rarely went to the village alone. There wasn't much for me to do there, and I was especially uncomfortable under the gaze of some of the older residents who knew everything about my story. Some spoke to me, asking me how my grandparents were. Maybe it was all my imagination, but I sensed they were asking how they were holding up, having a granddaughter like me living with them. One of the houses in which I couldn't help but have interest was the one that had been my mother's. The people who lived in it now, the Harrisons, had owned the lumber company for generations. Recently, they had expanded it into a hardware supermarket as well. Now they were one of the wealthiest families not only in the community but in the entire county as well. Of course, even if they hadn't lived here, the Harrisons had to know the history of the house. I understood from my grandfather that the death of Harry Pearson had to be in the disclosure any real estate agent offered to a prospective buyer.
The house was a rich-looking home with brick siding and perfectly manicured hedges. My grandfather said Dan Harrison was obsessive about his lawn and insisted on having the greenest, richest grass in the community. His lawn did stay green longer than anyone else's. They made some changes in the windows, redid the roof and added a flagpole, but other than that, the house, at least on the outside, remained as it had been when my mother and my grandmother Darlene Pearson lived there with Harry. I couldn't help but wonder what it looked like inside and especially what my mother's old room was like. I had this overwhelming need to stand in that room and look out the same windows. That was my obsession.
The Harrisons' son Craig was a junior in my school and one of the most popular boys. In fact, he was currently president of our class, the captain of the baseball team, and one of the starting five on the basketball team. He was one of those people who seemed to have been blessed with everything. He was bright, good- looking and from a wealthy family. I couldn't help but wonder what it was that determined he would be born into the world he was in and I would be born into mine. Were we sinners before we were born? Or was that biblical phrase I heard true: the sins of the fathers would be visited on the heads of the sons, but in my case, the sins of the mother would be visited on the head of her daughter?
I sauntered up the sidewalk and paused in front of the Harrisons' house. I don't think I ever walked or rode past it without looking at it and thinking about it. The flag flapped and snapped in the breeze. I saw the lawn sprinklers go on and begin saturating some of the new seeds and the blades that were already starting the spring grasses. Mrs. Harrison had a row of multicolored flowers in front of the porch. It all looked picture perfect, belonging on some house and garden magazine. There was nothing to suggest its sordid past.
I started to turn away when I heard someone ask, "Is that you?"
I turned more to my left and saw Craig Harrison step out from behind a hedge. He had a pair of hedge cutters in his hands. He wore a very tight Tshirt, which emphasized his sculptured muscularity, a baseball cap on backwards and jeans. Some strands of his light-brown hair stuck out of the sides of his cap, and his bangs seemed to float over his forehead, not touching his skin. His eyes were light green, but in sunlight they became a richer emerald. At six feet two, with his broad shoulders and narrow waist, he looked like a prime candidate for Mr. Teen America. I always thought there was something impish about his tight smile. Although I tried to ignore most of the boys at school, especially the ones who leered and whispered when I passed by, I couldn't help but cast a glance at Craig.
"No," I said. "It's someone else."
I started to walk away.
"Hey, wait a minute," he cried and came hurrying around the hedges to the sidewalk. "What's the rush?"
"I have a dental appointment," I said.
"Huh?" He stared at me a moment, and then he laughed. "Okay. Sorry. I just didn't recognize you. Nice outfit," he said, letting his eyes move slowly up from my feet to my head, as if he had to capture me in some memory bank forever and ever. "I knew there was a pretty girl in those potato sacks you wear."
"They're not potato sacks."
"Whatever." He drew closer. "Never saw you wearing lipstick and stuff. What's up? You have a birthday or something?"
"No. Why would that matter anyway?" I asked, smirking at him
He shrugged. "I heard some mothers don't let their daughters wear makeup until they're a certain age."
I didn't want to point out that I didn't live with my mother, but I could see the thought registering in his mind.
"Or grandmothers," he quickly added.
"No. I just decided myself," I said.
"Good decision. So what are you up to?"
"Nothing. I just took a walk."
He nodded, glanced at his house and then at me. "I've seen you looking at the house before, you know." -
"Great. Have a nice day," I said and continued down the sidewalk. He quickly caught up.
"Take it easy," he said. "I wasn't complaining about it."
"I don't care if you were."
"Jeez."
"What?" I said, spinning on him.
"I heard you c
ould be pretty nasty for no reason." "I'm not pretty nasty."
He laughed. "If you're not nasty now, I'd hate to see you when you are."
I stared at him a moment. "Okay," I said. "I'll admit it. So I have looked at your house before."
"It's only natural you'd be curious about the place. I was when we first bought it. You ever been inside?"
"No."
"Would you like to go inside?"
"What do you think?" I fired back at him. I imagined he was teasing me and having some fun that he would brag about later, but I didn't really care.
"I think yes. I have to warn you, though. It's nothing like it was when we first bought it. My mother redid it from top to bottom. She even changed the kitchen, ripped out counters, expanded it, put in new cabinets. We didn't move in for nearly eight months after we bought it."
I didn't know what to say. I did think anyone would have changed it. That was no surprise.
"There was nothing left in it that belonged to your mother and grandmother," he continued. "Don't think I didn't look in closets and cabinets."
"What did you expect to find?" I was going to add "dead bodies" but didn't.
"I don't know. Hey," he said, "we have something in common."
"And what would that be?"
"We both live in houses where a murder took place."
I didn't respond. He was right, if the legendary story about the Dorals was right.
"So?" I finally replied.
"So nothing. C'mon. I'll show you the place."
"Maybe your parents wouldn't like it," I said, hesitating. Now that he was really inviting me, I felt nervous and even a bit afraid.
"They're not here. They're in New York seeing a show. I've been left to do chores. C'mon. Don't worry about it."
He started away, expecting me to follow. After another moment, I did. He waited at the entrance to the walk, and then we started for the front door together.
"You sure?" I asked when he opened the door.
"What's the big deal? You're not going to do something evil to me, are you?" he joked.
"I haven't decided yet," I told him, and he laughed.
"You know, I've always wanted to talk to you, but to be honest, I thought you'd insult me or embarrass me," he said.
I smirked skeptically and pulled my head back.
"No, I'm serious," he continued. "I mean it. I came close to starting a conversation with you a few times in the hallway when I thought you looked my way, but I wasn't sure if you were looking at me with interest or disdain."
The way he was still standing in the doorway made me think that my answer would determine whether or not he would let me in.
"I don't know you well enough to dislike you," I said. The answer pleased him He smiled and stepped back. "Come in."
I walked in slowly, pausing in the entryway. The floor had a very pretty cocoa tile, and there were mahogany coat hooks and a hat rack on both sides. There was a rich-looking wood floor down the hallway, and the stairway was carpeted with a thick dark brown to match the balustrade. Everything looked brand new, spotless and immaculate. Right above the entryway hung a chandelier with teardrop crystals.
"The kitchen and dining room are to the left," Craig said. "This is the living room," he said and continued walking down the hallway. I gazed in at the furniture, paintings, beautiful marble fireplace and mantel.
"What kind of furniture is this?" I asked. I hadn't been in many houses other than my own, but I had never seen such elegant sofas, chairs, tables and lamps.
"It's all imported from France," he said. "That took almost a year, too, but it was what my mother wanted. Their bedroom is the same furniture style. Mine's a lot different, but the guest rooms are the same decor, as are the dining room and my father's office, which is really our den. As you can see, there's no television set in the living room. I've got my own set, and so do my parents, but our biggest screen is in the den. That's 'where Dad and I watch all the sports. It's also the only room in the house where my mother permits smoking. I don't smoke, do you?"
"No."
"I mean cigarettes," he said, smiling wryly.
"I don't smoke anything," I emphasized. I knew what he meant. He shrugged.
"Ever try it?" he asked.
"I don't care to."
"You don't know what you're missing if you don't try it."
"I don't care."
He laughed and then turned serious.
"You know my bedroom was supposedly your mother's, don't you?"
"No, how would I know that?"
"I thought you might. You want to see it?"
A part of me wanted to simply turn and run out of the house, but a stronger part of me was drawn to those stairs. I glanced at them.
"C'mon," he said, not waiting for my answer.
Under the rug were the steps upon which my mother had walked many times. It was down these steps that she'd fled. I could almost feel myself falling back through time, watching her rush out of the house and into the darkness that would surround me as well.
He paused on the stairway and leaned toward me.
"I know all about the murder," he said. "I know exactly where they found Harry Pearson's body and exactly how it looked when they found it."
He continued up.
My feet felt frozen to the step. 1 thought there was something terribly morbid about the casual way he talked about it all, but something fascinating as well.
"Hey," he said, stopping again to turn hack to me. "I just realized something. You know what's amazing, incredible about your coming here, in fact?"
I shook my head. Suddenly, because I was here and literally a few feet from my mother's room, I felt too weak to even speak.
"Today. The date. Don't you get it?"
"No."
"It's the date of the murder!"
5 The Scene of the Murder
. I suddenly completely understood the concept of selective amnesia.
Of course, I knew the date of Harry Pearson's death, but neither my grandmother nor my
grandfather, no one in the family, as a matter of fact, ever mentioned it or acknowledged it in any way. Maybe they had selective amnesia as well, or maybe they just thought it was wise never to mention it, even to themselves. I had heard that when I was very young, not more than three perhaps, one of the local newspapers did a column on the murder and that had revived interest, but nothing had been written about it ever since.
"I thought that was why you had come around today," Craig said.
I shook my head. He looked skeptical.
"Are you telling me you didn't know what had happened today?"
"I forgot," I said.
"Wow. Interesting. Well, it is the date anyway. C'mon up. We'll be like historical detectives or something."
I continued up the stairs slowly, stairs my mother had climbed many times, my legs feeling heavier. It was as if l were dragging my grandmother behind me because she had seized me at the waist and was trying to prevent me from going any farther. I knew she would be upset to know I was in this house.
"Everything's changed up here as well." Craig explained when I reached the landing. "My mother put in all new lighting, including those chandeliers," he said, pointing to the two in the upstairs hallway. "She redid the flooring, covered the walls with this wallpaper, had doors replaced and redid the fixtures in the bathrooms as well. My room was changed from top to bottom, including the fixtures and the closet. She ripped out part of a wall to expand it. Then, she had the wall on the opposite side torn out and had a bathroom put in for me. That was a very big job. My father complained that it was costing as much to redo the house as it was to have bought it.
"But, being we could get all the materials wholesale and great deals on the labor, he didn't stand a chance." He leaned toward me to whisper, as if there were others in the house. "The truth was my mother wouldn't have moved in here if he didn't go along with all her changes. A dead body in your house is a dead body. For most people
it would give them the creeps, but this was too good a house to pass up, especially for the price."
"I understand," I said. "Your parents were smart to buy it, I'm sure."
He nodded.
"My dad's a good businessman. It's supposed to run in the family, so there's high hopes for me."
He went to his right and opened his bedroom door.
Then he spread out his arms and cried, "Ta-da. Here it is. The scene of the crime."
He stepped back. I hesitated. How many times had I imagined myself here, dreamed of looking into the room and envisioning Harry Pearson's body on this floor, my mother standing over him? It was the meat to fatten the bones of my worst nightmare.
"Harry Pearson's body was sprawled on the floor just inside the door. He was lying facedown, both arms out above his head." Craig looked down as if the body was really there. It gave me a surge of ice along my spine, and I actually shuddered. He turned to me. "You know how she did it, right?"
I nodded even though I really didn't know any of the gruesome details. I felt as if I had a heavy stone on my tongue.
"She stabbed him in the throat," he told me.
I didn't need to hear it. I didn't want to hear those details, and yet I did. I was caught in the web of that horrible contradiction. I was like a moth drawn to a flame. Get too close and you set yourself on fire. Craig smiled.
"I know the whole story, of course. I couldn't help but be curious about something like that, happening in the house we had bought and were going to live in and especially the bedroom I would sleep in," he added, as if he had to provide me with an excuse.
I nodded, but I couldn't get my gaze off the floor where Harry Pearson's body supposedly had been found.
"He wasn't half in and half out. He was fully in the room."
I looked up at him.
"So?"
"There were no pictures of your mother in the papers," he continued, ignoring my question. "She was still considered a juvenile, but I found her picture in one of the old yearbooks in the school library. You ever go in there to look at those?"
"No"
Since my father had graduated from a high school in Yonkers, New York, looking at his yearbook wouldn't have provided my mother's picture, and Aunt Zipporah had never shown me my mother's picture in a yearbook.
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