Authors: Sarah Langan
selor accusing me of child abuse
.
This was bad. She and Maddie had just entered a new and grotesque realm of cruelty toward each other. She wanted to take it back. She wanted to make it un- happen. But it
had
happened.
“Maddie . . .” she said, but she wasn’t sure what else to say. Should she cave, and let her see Enrique? That’s what the fight had been about, hadn’t it? Or had it started with the clown belt? She couldn’t remember for sure.
The radio was tuned to NPR’s morning edition, and the host announced that American deaths in Iraq had officially surpassed four thousand. She let out a sigh. All those boys. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if one of them was David. What a terrible thing, to lose someone you love. Next to her, Maddie sniffled. Then she wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She was looking out the window at the perfect, cloudless day.
A thought occurred to Meg like a bolt of lightning. She could have kicked herself for not having guessed it before. She pulled to the side of the road and turned to her daughter. “Maddie,” she said. “He’s a sharp boy. He’ll be fine.”
Maddie let out a ragged breath and pressed her nose against the window. Outside, the sun shone bright. The grass on all the freshly mowed lawns was green. “How do you know?” she whispered. In profile, Meg could see the blood drain from her face, so that the handprint became more prominent. It drove home the point that Meg had been avoiding: She’d hit her own kid.
She often wished for an extra day, or month, or year with Maddie and David as children, because they re- ally do grow up too fast. Even when you’re paying at- tention, there are things you miss, or weren’t smart enough to understand the first time around. She loved Maddie, David, and even Fenstad so much she didn’t like to think about it, because it frightened her. She would do anything for them, and not because they were her blood. Even if Maddie wasn’t hers, even if she was a stranger wandering down Micmac Street in lace garters and purple hair, she knew she’d be charmed. She’d smile and think:
That girl’s all right
. So what was it about the two of them that made them tear each other to pieces?
“He won’t get hurt,” Meg said. “Hardly any of them do. This is good for him. He’ll go to college now.”
Maddie wiped the hair from the side of her face where Meg could make out the indentation of her wed- ding rings. The diamond had cut Maddie’s skin, and Meg bit her lip to hold back her own tears: She’d made Maddie bleed.
“I’d run away with him but I don’t think he wants to,” Maddie said. All traces of her pruned ugliness were
gone. “I love him more than he loves me,” she said, and Meg knew that David wasn’t really her favorite. Her girl was so brave to say such things.
“He’s a boy. He loves you differently. He wants to provide.”
Maddie nodded. “I guess . . . Mom?” “Yeah?”
Maddie dragged her hand against the closed window so that it left a streak. Cars slowed as they passed, curi- ous as to why the Wintrob family Saab was parked in a tow-away zone near the hospital, with its hazards flash- ing. “He’s never had fun . . . That’s why he’s going. He wants to drink beer and meet girls on leave. He’ll do all the things he couldn’t before, when he had to take care of his family.” She didn’t look at Meg when she said this. Instead she traced the steamy trails she’d left along the window.
Meg frowned. Enrique wasn’t the type to run away from anything, and he adored Maddie. But then again, he was only twenty, and his whole life he’d worked the counter of a convenience store. Maybe Maddie was right. Poor kid. As if being dumped for the army wasn’t bad enough. “Come here,” Meg said.
Maddie didn’t comply. Instead she rubbed the mark on her face as if she expected Meg to give her another one. The gesture wasn’t for show, and for a brief mo- ment, Meg saw herself through her daughter’s eyes: a capricious tyrant whose purpose was not her daughter’s well-being, but her obedience. Just like good old Dad.
“I don’t want to fight,” Meg said, and in response, Maddie sniffled. The sound was shameful, because with it Meg understood that Maddie was frightened.
“I’ll tell you what. You’re still grounded, but if En- rique gets his leave orders, you can spend the day with him.”
Maddie burst into tears.
“What is it? What’d I do now?” Meg asked.
Maddie shook her head. Then she scooted over and flopped into Meg’s arms. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. Her weight pressed against Meg’s bad leg, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment so she gritted her teeth through the pain and let her daughter cry. “I’m so mad at him. I’m sorry I said that stuff. He’s the one I hate,” Maddie’s voice was muffled by Meg’s blouse. “Daddy never did this to you. Daddy never left you.”
She bit back the response on the tip of her tongue (
Sometimes I wish he had
), and said, “Everybody’s not like Daddy.”
Maddie nodded like she thought Fenstad was perfect, and Meg felt that familiar tinge. But this time she tried to let it go. All girls deserve to think their fathers are divine, even if it makes their mothers that much more human.
“Maddie,” Meg said. “I shouldn’t have hit you. That was wrong. But what you said hurt me. You can’t say those kinds of things.”
Maddie cocked her head. “Yeah,” she said. “That was totally out of hand.”
A
fter dropping Maddie off at the school bus circle (she’d galloped cheerfully to the front entrance, oblivious of the handprint of her face), Meg opened the library. The volunteers had their own keys, but the parking lot was empty. Upon not seeing her at her desk, they’d probably declared a holiday and gone out for coffee. She entered the empty building, flicking over- head lights as she hobbled across the industrial blue carpet. There were no phone messages, and no one had returned a single book to the drop box since she’d left early yesterday afternoon. She wondered if the flu going
around had confined her regulars to bed.
The library was a wreck. She’d cleaned as best she could yesterday, which turned out not to be very much. Books and papers were scattered like snow. Albert’s bloody fingerprints were perfectly preserved on the iMac keyboard he’d thrashed against. The Plexiglas was scratched, and she couldn’t figure out where it came from until she saw the broken face of her three-year-old gold Seiko on the floor. She’d felt weightless as he’d thrown her. She hadn’t understood the sensation, but had still known to protect her face from the impact. She’d heard only the wind in her ears as she’d flown.
She lifted the keyboard where Albert’s sausage-sized fingerprints had dried. Then butterflies started drown- ing in her stomach. Was he really out there, in the woods?
She looked out the window, and that same unsettled feeling from breakfast returned. Something about the lawn, and the trees. The breeze was mild, and things were just beginning to dry up and die. A few cars were on the road, but not as many as usual. It was too quiet. Like one of those kid’s pictures from
Highlights
maga- zine that asked: “What’s wrong here?” while birds flew backward, and people had been drawn without lips or eyes.
What if Albert was right? What if something really did live in the woods, and it had somehow gotten inside him? In a way it made sense. He hadn’t really been Al- bert at the library on Tuesday. He’d been . . . someone else (
Where did I go wrong?
).
She knew she should feel sorry for him. He was prob- ably dead. But mostly she was frightened of this empty place. She wanted to go home.
The bloody smudge over the shift button was fine enough to show Albert’s fingerprint. She’d planned on washing the keyboard off, good as new. Instead she dumped it in the trash. Then she hobbled into the chil- dren’s room. The rainbow carpet’s fabric was gathered in the middle and stained with Albert’s blood. Specs of dust drifted against the light coming through the win- dows. The old clock ticked its seconds, half past ten. What if Albert came here today, looking for her? What if he wanted to finish the job he’d started, and break her neck?
Where did I go wrong
?
Her ankle hurt. Weak thing, it had betrayed her to break so easily. She leaned against a wall. The tears came
fast. Who was kidding whom? It wasn’t Albert’s eyes she’d looked into three days ago. Frank Bonelli had reached out from beyond the grave.
Where did I go wrong?
The phrase was haunting her, but then again, it always had.
She wiped her eyes. Another day with the library closed wasn’t going to kill the rich Barnes & Noble lov- ers of Corpus Christi. Nobody borrowed books when they could buy them instead. She was going home. She grabbed her crutches and started turning out the lights just as a red Porsche cruised into the library parking lot. Her pulse raced.
Oh, no
.
She looked fast in every direction. The office was transparent. He’d find her. The women’s bathroom? That might work. Then she shook her head. Forget it. He’d probably gotten lost on his way to the country club, and was looking for directions. She doubted he remembered that she worked here.
Just then Graham Nero strode through the library’s double glass doors. He didn’t stop at checkout, but in- stead wove his way toward her office. She’d never seen him here before, so it surprised her that he knew where to look. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the Plexiglas, looking for her. Then he coughed a few times. A gob of spit smacked against the plastic. It clung there, unmoving, and he didn’t clean it up. The sun shone brightly through the reference sec- tion. He turned and drew the blinds.
She swallowed deeply, even though this was just Gra- ham. But he’d made the place dark, and suddenly she didn’t like the dark. She limped through the side door and tapped him on the shoulder. “Looking for some- one?”
He turned. His breath smelled so strongly of pepper- mint Altoids that her eyes watered. Then he coughed.
This time he covered his mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief: GUN in big, gold letters. His hair was coiffed with pomade, and she thought it was less reced- ing than when they’d last met. She looked closer: a tou- pee! She rolled her eyes. The man was such a dandy.
“Caitlin told me what happened. I wanted to come to the hospital but . . .” He spread his hands open, as if the answer was self-evident. Then he smiled warmly, like the thing between them had been love.
“It’s fine. Thanks for the thought,” Meg told him.
Graham squeezed her waist in his hands. His soft fingers had never raked leaves or washed dishes. Even his chin was soft. Funny that for a while she’d imagined running away with him.
“I was so worried. You saved my family.” His voice was flat, like he was reading from a speech.
“Get your hands off me, Graham.”
He cocked his head and grinned. “I’m grateful to you, but I shouldn’t have expected anything less.” His skin was pale, and his eyes were lined with dark blue circles. His business-casual tan trousers were wrinkled, and upon his shirt pocket was a round, red stain. Frumpy attire for a man who primped in front of the mirror for an hour every morning.
She slapped his hands. He held her tighter, like this was all part of their foreplay. Through her blouse, his cold fingers chilled her skin. “Go home to your wife,” she said.
Graham frowned. He didn’t actually look sad. It was a handsome frown. “I can’t go home. Caitlin’s gone,” he said.
Meg slapped his hands again, hard, and this time he let go. Unfortunately he’d been holding her steady. She lost her balance and fell.
He caught her by the underarms. His fingers touched her breasts as he held her steady. “She figured out about you. And then she was gone. It was the attack that changed her,” he said. The Altoids on his breath were beginning to fade. In their place was something rancid.
Meg’s face got hot, and everything was spinning. She’d broken up a marriage, or at least helped it fray. Meanwhile, this jerk was copping a feel. She tried to pull away but he held her tighter. “Graham. I’m sorry to hear this.”
“Yes.” Graham affected a hangdog expression like his heart was broken. “I hate being alone. I keep think- ing about you. Caitlin knew that. That’s why she’s gone.”
Meg was flabbergasted. In the month they’d spent together, they’d never gotten past impersonal niceties like
please
and
thank you
. She didn’t know whether he believed in God, or just went to church out of habit. She didn’t know how he took his coffee. She didn’t even know whether he was any good at picking up large ob- jects with his toes. “Graham,” she said, “that’s nice. But be honest. I’m not the first woman you brought to a sleazy motel.”
Graham turned his head and coughed. Spit landed on the carpet. She saw a rash through his open shirt collar. In places, the rash had come to a head, and blood dot- ted his smooth, hairless neck. “Let’s get something to eat, Meg. I’m so hungry.”
A chill ran down her spine. She thought about sweet Albert Sanguine, and the monster that lived inside him. What if it was real, and now it was in Graham, too? Soon all the men in her life would turn on her. They’d hold her down and break her spirit like she’d always
expected. Like her dad had always wanted to do. Was this her dad, haunting her?
“Graham, I’m at work. This is where I work,” she said. “I’m not going out to eat with you.”
He tugged on a curl in her hair and she swatted his hand. His eyes narrowed. For a second she thought he was going to strike her. She flinched and he smiled. “You ought to be a good girl, and not make me angry,” he said.
Meg backed into the office wall behind her. What the hell was going on? Graham Nero was a vacuous dandy. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t care about anybody enough to have strong feelings, or even declare his love, unless she was really good-looking and willing to wash his sheets.
“Come on, Meg. A little drink. You and me. I rented the same room. I have the key.” He pulled it out. Just looking at the plastic keycard made her blush. What a Jerry Springer thing she’d done.
“You should go,” she said. Her tone was forceful, and betrayed nothing but a cool head. If he’d looked at her hands, though, he would have seen that she was shaking.