Beating Heart (6 page)

A
nd then, in the dream, in the quiet, he hears something
; he's alert with fear, listening: someone is coming and he's about to be caught, caught with this girl and he's perfectly, utterly still, straining to listen into the silence.

 

 

 

I
n the morning, Evan wakes to a slight uneasiness
, a sense of dread that doesn't fade when he opens his eyes. He can't remember why he feels this way. All he remembers is the sex.

He rolls over to sit up on the edge of the bed. The box is exactly where he left it last night. The lid is still shut. He doesn't know why he can't shake the feeling that the girl in the box—the girl he's never seen before—is the one in his dreams.

What a creepy idea, considering she probably got old and wrinkled and spotty and became somebody's grandma. And there's no reason to think that the girl in the letter is the one in the picture. And why does he think she's hot anyway, in that dress with the collar up to her chin?

It's sick, that's what it is.

 

It's a few days later when Carrie comes to see the house for the
first time. Evan has not invited her before because, quite simply, it did not occur to him. He would not have thought to do it now, a month after moving in, if she had not asked.

When the doorbell rings after dinner, Libby, excited to have company, appears at Evan's side.

He ignores her—Libby is one reason it never occurs to him to have Carrie over; Mom is another—and opens the door.

Sometimes, like today, it hits Evan all at once how lucky he is to have Carrie. She's totally hot, with a great body; Evan is the only one who knows
exactly
how great it is. Her makeup is subtle and perfect. Her brown hair is freshly brushed and shining. Any guy would be lucky to have her.

But not just any guy does.
He
does.

“Hi,” he says to her. “Come on in.”

Carrie comes in and cranes her neck, looking all around at the airy hall, the ornate stairs leading to the landing. The stained glass makes it look like an altar.

“Wow,” she says, impressed.

“Your hair looks like Winnebago's,” Libby tells her solemnly.

“Winnebagos,” Carrie repeats. Evan can't tell what she's thinking. Sometimes Carrie is easily hurt; sometimes she takes things in stride.

“It's supposed to be a compliment,” he informs her. “Just take my word for it.”

“Okay.” Today must be a taking-in-stride day, because Carrie turns to Libby and gives her a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

Evan is relieved. “Are you ready for the tour?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Libby bounces along behind as Evan leads Carrie through the downstairs. “This used to be a parlor,” he says, showing her an empty room off the hall. “Mom says someday she's going to get a piano and put it in there.”

They move from room to room: the TV room, the dining room, the kitchen. Outside his mother's office, he whispers to Carrie, “Don't ask her when she's going to finish unpacking, because she already has.” Then he steps into the open doorway. “Hi, Mom,” he says. “Carrie's here.”

Mom actually turns away from her computer. “Hi, Carrie. How have you been?”

“Fine, Ms. Calhoun.”

“Come on,” Evan tells Carrie, “I'll show you the upstairs.” He's already moving away.

“Remember the rule,” Mom warns him.

“I know.”

As they head for the stairs, Carrie asks, “Which rule is that?”

“The ‘doors are to remain open at all times' one. Mom thinks that will keep us from”—he glances at Libby, who is running to catch up—“doing certain things.”

“Well, it'll keep me from doing certain things, that's for sure. I could just see your mom or sister walking in on us.”

“It
could
depend how fast we were, though, couldn't it?”

“No, I'm serious. Don't even think about it. I really do want to see the house, anyway.”

“Don't even think about what?” Libby asks, tailing them up the stairs.

Evan sighs. He can't ask Libby to leave them alone,
because Mom relies on Libby, as well as the open-door rule, to be a deterrent to premarital sex.

She's a good one, too. “Carrie! Carrie! See my room?” Libby darts ahead, leading the way. “Want to see my pictures? Look, I drew this one of a butterfly. He's eating the flowers, see?”

“Oh, yes. It's very colorful,” Carrie assures her.

“And here he's pooping them out. That's colorful too, isn't it?”

“Yes,” says Carrie weakly. “Colorful.”

Evan groans. “God, Libby!”

“Oh.” It dawns on Libby. “I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about poop to company,” she explains to Carrie.

“Hey, Lib,” Evan says quickly. “Why don't you dress Lucinda up in that bride dress so you can show Carrie?”

“Oh! Okay!”

Mercifully, she starts digging in her doll bin. Evan knows it will take her a few minutes at least to get that dress on. He pulls Carrie across the landing. “This is my room,” he says, walking in. He's actually made the bed for once, in honor of company. The bedspread is
folded back over white sheets; the pillow is white, lying neatly on top. For a second he flashes on his dreams, the closest thing to sex he's ever had in this room, and for one knee-trembling second he allows himself to think of ripping the covers back and flinging Carrie onto the bed, onto those white sheets.

Of course he can't. Still, he keeps Carrie's hand in his.

She turns her head, looking around the room. “Um. It's very—what's the word?”

“Homey?”

“Spartan.”

“Is that bad?”

Her gaze falls on the Budweiser Girl. “I really don't care for your choice of artwork.”

Evan doesn't want to get into a “discussion.” He gives her hand a little squeeze. “It's okay. It reminds me of you.”

“Me with about twenty pounds of silicone, you mean.”

Evan glances over to the door. They're alone. He steps closer to Carrie, close enough to feel her hair
against his nose and lips. It's dark and it's not fine, it's wavy and thick, but he says, very low, “No, just you.” If nothing else, he's going to get at least a kiss before Libby comes back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

C
arrie pulls back suddenly, looking at the open door.

“What's wrong?” Evan asks.

“Libby,” she whispers.

Evan walks quickly to the doorway. He steps outside.

No one is there.

He looks across the landing to see Libby in her room, still struggling with Lucinda's dress. “I don't think it was Libby,” he tells Carrie, coming back in.

“I thought—I thought I saw somebody. I saw—I don't know.”

“Was it purple?”

“I don't know. It was too quick. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye.”

“Libby's wearing that crappy old purple T-shirt that was mine about a billion years ago. God, I hate that thing.”

“Maybe it was—maybe I imagined it.”

“Sometimes, when a car drives by, light gets reflected in weird ways through that stained glass.”

“Okay. Well. Do I get to see the rest of the house?”

“Sure.”

Evan takes her hand again. As they walk across the room, Carrie says, “Hey, what's that?”

“Old letters and stuff. It was in the attic,” Evan tells her without looking around. Only then does he glance over his shoulder at the slightly rusted metal box on his desk. “You mean that box, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think it belonged to the lady that used to live here,” he adds, as they walk out the door.

Carries follows him onto the landing. “The one that went into a nursing home?”

“No, the one before that.”

“Lots of old ladies.”

“No, there's only been two owners. And then nobody lived here for a long time.”

Evan shows her the other bedrooms, and the unfinished third floor. Libby joins them, eliciting satisfying oohs and aahs from Carrie over Lucinda's gown. They
all end up downstairs, watching a movie, with Libby popping in and out just often enough to keep Evan from trying anything. Finally, when it's almost Carrie's curfew, Evan walks her to her car. He kisses her good-bye.

When he stops, she keeps her arms fastened around his neck. “I love you,” she says into his ear.

“Me too.” His hands are on her waist.

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” she says, still clinging.

“Me neither,” he agrees, looking into her eyes—but what he's thinking is that he never finished going through that box with the pictures. Finally she lets go and gets into her car. He waves as she backs out; then he walks into the house.

Now that Carrie's safely off, Evan goes up to his room. The metal box is still there, the lid still shut. He hasn't looked at her in several days, and now the thought of her draws him.

He puts on a CD, and then sits at the desk and opens the box. A newspaper clipping now lies on top: