The Marriage of Sticks (21 page)

Baffled, I asked whom he was talking about. He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “The Salvatos: Al, Christine, little Bob. Hell of a nice family. All dead in one crash like that. Heartbreaker.

“Being on the fire department, we gotta be at most of the pile-ups. ’Specially the bad ones. But these are the hardest. You come onto an accident scene, which is bad enough, but then you look in the car for the first time and you
know
the people? Jesus, there they are, dead. I’m tellin’ you, sometimes it makes me think about maybe quitting.”

I turned 180 degrees in my seat and gaped out the rear window; then I turned back. “But did you look
inside
the car? Did you actually see your friends in there?” It was a demand, not a question, because I had seen it too,
them
—Hugh, Charlotte, the whole horror.

“Sure I saw it! Lady, waddya think I’m talkin’ about here? I pulled Al off a steering column that was about two feet deep up his chest! Damned
right
I saw. I was six inches away from his face.”

I watched him silently until it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else. I swiveled in the seat again to look out the back window. We were almost to Crane’s View.

When we drove through the center of town I remembered how excited Hugh and I had been the day we moved in. We wanted to do everything at once—unpack the truck, go into town and check out the stores, take a long walk to get a feel for what Crane’s View was really like. Because it was a nice day, we chose the walk and ended up by the river watching boats pass. Hugh said, “Nothing could be better than this.” He took my hand and squeezed it. Then he walked away. I asked where he was going but he didn’t answer. I watched as he wandered around, his eyes on the ground. Eventually he leaned over and picked up a small brown stick about the size and width of a cigar. Holding it up, he waved it back and forth for me to see.

“I’ve been waiting for just the right moment to look for this. Now’s the moment. Here with you, the water, the day…The perfect time to find my first Miranda stick.”

He came over and handed it to me. I rubbed my thumb over its surface and then impulsively kissed the stick. “I hope there will be a lot more.”

He took it back and slid it into his jeans pocket. “This is one of the big ones for me. I’ve got to take care of it.”

I got out of the car wondering where Hugh’s stick was. I waited until the car had gone around the corner before I turned to look at our house. I felt nothing—no dread or anxiety, not even the slightest shred of curiosity. Judging by the events of the last two days, there was no other option but to go back inside and face whatever was waiting for me.

Staring at the place I had so recently and happily thought would be our house, our
home,
for the rest of our lives, I remembered something Hugh had done that disturbed me.

One night in my New York apartment, he called to me from the bedroom. When I got there, he stopped me with an arm across the door.

“Do exactly what I tell you, okay? Look quickly and tell me what you see on the table next to the bed. Don’t think about it. Just look and say.”

Puzzled, I complied. Something dark and odd-shaped was exactly where my bedside lamp usually sat. I squinted once to see better but it didn’t help. I had no idea what it was. My wondering went on until he dropped his arm, walked to the bed, leaned over, and switched the lamp on. It
was
my lamp, only he had laid it on its side in such a way that it was impossible to recognize from a distance.

“Isn’t that strange? Just the smallest twist of the dial away from normal—one click—and everything we know for certain vanishes. Same damned thing happened to me this morning. There’s a vase in the office we’ve had for years, a nice Lalique piece. But someone knocked it over or whatever. When I saw it like that today, on its side, it was unrecognizable. I couldn’t tell
what
the thing was. I stood in the hall glued to the spot, wondering, What-the-hell-is-that? Then Courtney walked up, righted it, and there it was again—the vase.”

I wasn’t very wowed and he must have seen that in my expression. He put both hands on my face and squeezed my cheeks. “Don’t you see? Nothing is ever finished. It’s all evolving; everything has a hundred new angles we’ve never seen. We get jaded, but then something jarring like this happens and we’re bewildered by it, sometimes even pissed off, or delighted. That’s what I keep trying to be—delighted by what I don’t know.”

It was a sweet and very Hugh insight, but it didn’t do much for me. I kissed him, straightened the lamp, and went back to cooking our dinner.

That night I was awakened from a deep sleep by a touch—across my face, between my legs, up and down my side. My tingling body and foggy mind were rising in happy concert and I was moaning. When it happened, either the sound or the cause froze me and I threw my arm out to the side as hard as I could. It smacked Hugh on the forehead a great resounding
wap
! Crying out in surprise, he fell back holding his head. A moment later we were laughing and touching and then ended up doing what he had intended in the first place.

Afterwards, Hugh went back to sleep but I was marooned awake. In the silent boredom of three in the morning, I reran the events of the day, remembering what had happened earlier with the crooked bedside lamp and what he said about it. Waking to his touch was the same thing. Unlike him, I had not been delighted by what I didn’t know. On the contrary: unexpectedly caressed by my lover in the middle of the night, I had come awake swinging. Unable to stop the line of thought, I scrolled through other memories, realizing I could apply this dismal insight all over the way I had lived. I lay there feeling as stiff and inflexible as an old woman’s neck.

On the sidewalk in front of our house, I remembered this. What would Hugh have said? What would he have done if he’d been in my shoes the last few days? I didn’t know anything about what was going on in my life anymore. He was dead and that same crooked lamp sat by our bed upstairs. Such a nice house too—square and solid like a dependable aunt. With a porch that was perfect for a hammock and small talk, iced tea in the summer, a battered bicycle leaning against the wall. A porch for children to play on. If I closed my eyes I could hear kids chasing each other across the wooden floor. Be careful! Slow down! How many children would we have had? How many bikes would have been leaning against the wall, sleds?

I took a step toward the house, hesitated, then took another. Finally I took big fast strides. A car horn honked nearby. I jerked my head but raced up the stair. At the top I avoided looking in the windows. What if there had been something inside, something new that would deter me from going in again?

Jamming my hand into my back pocket, I pulled out the New York Mets key ring Clayton Blanchard had given me when I worked for him. Just thinking his name calmed me some. If there was still Clayton, then there was still New York and old books, some kind of order that existed, hot coffee and cold soda, a place where you could step and not fall off the edge of the suddenly flat earth. Love was in that place, sanity too. I needed to get back there both for myself and our child. Memories and this baby were Hugh’s legacy to me. Neither could function in the strange reality I had been shoved into.

I put the key in the lock and turned. Or tried. Because the key would not turn.
Could
not turn. I tried again with no success. I twisted the doorknob. It would not turn but it was warm. As if someone had been holding it just before I touched it. I shook it, pushed in and out, tried the key again, tried turning the knob. Nothing.

Leaving the key in the lock, I stepped over to one of the windows and looked in. Nothing. Inside, the house was dark. I could just make out the shadowy shapes of our furniture in the living room: Hugh’s new chair, the couch. Without warning I felt a sheer need to be inside the house, no matter what waited in there. I went back to the door and tried everything again, this time with the fury and strength of impatience—the lock, the knob, push, shake. Nothing.

“Temper, temper! What are you doing, trying to kill the door?”

Both hands on the knob, I looked over my shoulder. McCabe stood on the sidewalk with his arms crossed. He slipped a hand into a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“What are
you
doing here? I thought you had to stay…back there.”

“I did what was necessary. You tell what you saw; they fill out their forms….Only so much you can do. I was worried about you, so I thought I’d come by and see if you were all right before I went down to the station.”

“Thanks for your concern! Listen, did you know the people in that accident?”

“The Salvatos? Sure. She and the kid were sweet, but Al’s no loss to mankind.”

“Salvato? That was the name? They’re from Crane’s View?”

“Yeah. Al owned a couple of stores downtown. Green Light Al Salvato. We grew up together. Why?”

“I…don’t know. When I looked in the wreck, I thought I knew the people.”

McCabe took a deep breath and let it out quickly, his cheeks puffed out. “That’s a tough moment for anyone. Especially if it’s your first time. I never get used to it. I guess you were confused.”

I knew full well it
was
Hugh and his family in the silver car. There was no doubt about it.

“I saw you fiddling with the key. Is there a problem?”

Gesturing toward the door, I gave a defeated laugh. “I can’t get into my house. Something’s wrong with the lock. The key won’t turn and neither will the doorknob.”

“Can I try?” Flicking his half-smoked cigarette away, he climbed the stairs to the porch, took the key, and tried it himself. Once. Nothing. It was a small gesture but I liked him for it. He didn’t try to be a
man
about it by fooling with the key for five minutes until the lock submitted and he had shown me up. He tried once, failed, handed back the key.

“You got two choices, then. We call a locksmith for, like, fifty bucks even though I know a guy who’ll give you a discount. Or you can pretend you don’t see this.…” He brought something out of his pocket and showed it to me. A lock pick—I recognized it from a hundred TV shows. “You want to give it a shot?”

“I’m happy to save fifty dollars.”

“Well, let’s see.”

He slipped the awl-like thing into the lock and wiggled it around a couple of times. He stopped, made one more small movement with his hand, and there was an audible click. He turned the knob and the door opened.

“Cha-cha-cha.” Standing back, he made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Open sez me.”

I started in but stopped. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got a million other things to do. But would you mind coming in with me just for a few minutes? I’d feel so much better if I had company in there awhile.”

He looked at his beautiful watch. “Sure, I got time. We’ll give the place a once-over.” Without waiting he walked in. A moment’s hesitation and then I followed.

“Uh-oh, did you leave something on the stove?”

“No.”

“We better look in your kitchen first.” He went right toward it. For a second that confused me until I remembered McCabe had often been in the house when Frances lived here.

As if reading my mind, he said, “This house used to be full of weird smells. You never knew what would hit you when you came in. Sometimes ambrosia, sometimes Perth Amboy. Frances ever make you pecan pie? Sometimes great, other times absolute dog food. You’d be cleaning your teeth for three days. She was the damndest cook. Great soups, terrible meat. Never let her cook you meat! Once for my birthday—” He shoved the kitchen door but nothing happened.

“You lock this?”

“No.”

We stared at each other.

“Interesting.” He pushed again, but nothing happened. Under his breath he began whistling the Beach Boys song “Help Me, Rhonda.” He slid his hands into his pockets and immediately took them out again. He gave the bottom of the door a small kick that sounded way too loud in the silent house. He whistled some more. “This is interesting. Maybe it explains why you couldn’t get in from outside.” Taking a magenta credit card out of his pocket, he slipped it in the crack between the door and the frame and slid it upward. There came a small metallic
tink
on the other side.

“There you go! I remember there’s a hook and eye on this one because I put it in for Frances years ago.” He pushed the door open.

First came the smell, then the smoke. Not much of it but enough to stiffen the neck and make you scared. Brave McCabe walked straight into the room. Seconds later there was a metallic scraping, a crash, and he fell down right in front of me.

“What the
fuck
—”

Pieces of metal covered the kitchen floor; glass too. Some were whole, others broken or in jagged fragments. Many were blackened, others actually smoking. The largest was immediately recognizable—a silver trunk lid from an automobile with the BMW insignia emblazoned on it. There were more silver pieces among the others—the silver of Hugh’s wrecked car.

McCabe stood up, hands bleeding. Dazed, he looked at me. “What is this shit?”

I knew what it was. I knew too well. I never should have brought him into the house. Whoever was in here, whoever was
in charge,
wanted me alone in the house. Without knowing it, I had broken the rules. Now poor McCabe and I would pay for my mistake.

I turned and walked quickly out of the room to the front door. Of course it was locked. I grabbed the doorknob and tried turning it, but nothing moved, not an inch. It felt welded shut. I knew it was useless to try finding another way out of the house.

I went back to the kitchen. McCabe stood at the sink washing his hands. He did it slowly and precisely. Despite what was happening, he appeared in no hurry. I couldn’t think of anything to say because whatever came out would sound absurd.

With his back to me, he murmured, “It’s here again, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about.” He took a red dish towel off a hook by the window. Drying his hands, he waited for my answer.