She couldn’t make herself move. Couldn’t speak.
“I’m not sure what you heard. But you’re not a mistake, Evangeline. I worried that I was the mistake for you.”
She wanted to throw off the sails and go to him, tell him, I know, I know, but found herself battling anger. Why had it taken him so long to get there? Why had he made her suffer like that?
He spoke as if reading her mind. “I should have been here before. I just couldn’t . . .” He was quiet a long time. Finally, he said, “I’m here now.”
The words were like Isaac himself, unprotected yet firm as steel. Those three words unfolding into so much more: I have found you once again, but this time you will have to take the final steps. Yours is not the only heart that has ever been broken.
She thrashed around a little to confirm she was there, to give him one more chance to come to her. When he didn’t move, she found her voice. “I’m in here.”
The boat rolled, something big going by. “I know where you are.” He waited a moment. “And you know where you can find me.”
This was no idle power play. She knew that. He needed her to prove that what they had—whatever this new family was—could go both ways. That she could learn a new approach to dealing with problems other than running from them.
A foghorn sounded in the distance. Loose halyards jangled a few boats down, and the fresh sea air that had entered with Isaac swirled into the berth. The boat was rocking ever so gently. She knew that Isaac could sit there forever if that’s what it took for things to right themselves.
Suddenly the berth brightened as if a switch had been thrown. Peeking from under the sail, she saw the dark walls shimmering and reached out, sparks trailing her hand as if with phosphorescence. “Wish you could see this, baby,” she whispered. “It’s kind of crazy!”
She wrestled out of the berth then, telling herself she’d have to get up at some point anyway. As she walked into the salon, Isaac stood, gazed at her steadily a moment, then picked up her two bags.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT AS SHE LAY IN WHAT HAD to be the softest possible bed, Rufus cuddled by her side, she kept thinking of Isaac’s smile as she’d walked into the salon. His mouth had not changed, but his whole face and body had glowed.
57
The day after I found Evangeline, I called George. I told him what had happened, that I wanted to compensate him for the food she’d eaten, for any additional utility costs.
“And, if in studying your boat—because, George, she was reading the manual on the engine, if you can believe that—if she messed something up or caused damage—”
He cut me off. “There’s no damage. I was down there this morning and could tell someone had been on board. I assumed it was a transient, so I did a pretty thorough check. Nothing missing or amiss. Well, except for some empty cans of stew.”
That news was more a relief than expected, and I realized I’d been concerned she’d pocketed souvenirs from the boat. We talked a bit longer, and then George said, “No worries, Isaac. Evangeline’s going to be all right. She’s whip-smart and motivated. Maybe not always in the right direction.”
We both laughed, and I think he was waiting for me to say good-bye. When I didn’t, he said, “There something else on your mind?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I’d like to reconvene the clearness committee if you think the group is willing.”
“They’re willing,” George said. “I’m certain of it.”
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER, when I arrived at the meeting hall, it was as if we’d continued uninterrupted—the same chairs and lamps and extension cord, though a new lavender candle had been placed near my seat. George and Ralph and Abigail were already seated when I arrived, and our greetings were subdued. Some new shyness there.
George had been right to question my prior work in the committee. I’d wasted those early sessions distracting myself with false guilt. I’d never perceived Jonah as dangerous. Not really. I’d slanted those normal boyhood stories because it was easier to feel guilty about missing a danger no one could have foreseen than to face the larger role I’d played in my son’s death.
After an opening silence, I said, “I want to talk about my son.”
After some minutes, George said quietly, “Of course.”
I couldn’t find any words, so we sat in that still room, a frog croaking outside. Ralph cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as if his back were bothering him.
Out of this strained silence, I finally said, “Daniel could be cruel.”
I saw on their faces how they knew this to be true, and I almost cried out for the pain of it. I swallowed. “I’d see him at times, taunting boys less powerful than himself. I’d tell myself it was good-natured teasing or blame the other boy. I refused to recognize this quality in him, refused to see the bully in my son.”
Proper silence was allowed, and then George asked, “Do you have any idea why you would choose not to know this?”
The obvious answer was that it’s never easy to think ill of one’s child. But George knew I’d always assessed my son’s errors of moral judgment as a fact of youth and attempted to address them. I was less judgmental and thus clearer eyed than most. We are all the time battling the beast. There is no disgrace in it. Why did I have such a blind spot here?
I thought of my own father, the shame I felt for his passivity. The shame I felt for my own: watching Katherine save Daniel from the sea lions, refusing to know that my wife was cheating or that Peter needed help, avoiding my family in the guise of discernment. Katherine had betrayed me. My son was murdered. Even God, it seemed, had abandoned me. I was life’s prey.
“Because then I’d have to admit that I admired this trait in him.”
I felt it clearly now. My son was everything I was not. He was an alpha animal, a strong, muscular being who took what he wanted. He fought with everything in him on the football team, wrestling, at the gym. He battled for primacy in all aspects of his life. When I’d witnessed him exerting dominion in small, cruel ways, I saw him as one would a panther, beautiful and powerful and fierce, taking what was his.
I’d been envious of him. And strangely grateful. The relief of it! Seeing some small portion of my own violence expressed through my son.
I’m not sure what I said after that or if I even spoke, but I remember the room felt alive with all that had been released.
58
Day of My Death
It’s been a week since that blade slit Daniel’s throat. Now it’s three fifteen on this last morning of my life.
I’m not scared. I died once already. When we buried Dad, I became a ghost floating. Then Red appeared in that late-summer park and performed a resurrection. Those eyes of hers, they dove into me and saw out through mine. They gave me back my life.
But Daniel took that life. And I took his. And now I keep thinking about the gun. The one Dad used. The SIG Sauer P226.
“Navy SEALs carry these puppies.” Dad was always saying that, proud, like he’d been one.
After Dad blew his brains out, Mom wrapped that gun in a worn blue towel, the same one she’d used to wipe up after Brody when he couldn’t make it out in time. She tucked that SIG in her nightstand with a fifteen-round magazine. You’d think it would be a reminder, but I guess it made her feel safe. Some people judge, a loaded gun in a house with kids. But that gun saved us all. Nells made me see that.
A few months after Dad died, I asked her if she thought it was weird, Mom keeping the SIG like that. She turned on me, superior and disdainful. Not quite thirteen and she thought she had it all figured out. “Holy shit, you’re actually buying that liberal crap Mr. Balch spews, like how guns go offing people all on their own.”
“But if he hadn’t had that gun, maybe—”
“Dad was batshit crazy. Bat. Shit.
Crazy.”
“Exactly. So if he hadn’t—”
“No! What difference does it make which gun? He’d have found one.” Her face twisted up, nasty, full of rabid hate. “If that gun did kill him,” she said, “I’m glad it did.”
I almost said, You don’t mean that, but I knew she did. Nells had reason to hate him, more than the rest of us even. It wasn’t his fault, though, what he put us through. His mind was messed up. It had to have been, right? She said it herself: you don’t do shit like that unless you’re crazy.
“Anyway, Mom needs the gun,” Nells said, switching to fake disinterest, acting bored. She was always practicing her attitudes. “Those people that call here? The ones trying to get money out of us? One left a message last week telling Mom she’d better remember to lock her doors and windows at night. It’s just intimidation crap, but Mom doesn’t know that.”
She was tough, Nells was. Maybe that’s why Red touched me so much. They had that same ferocious spark in their eyes. But Nells had only two stances: coiled up, ready to strike, or looking flat dead like roadkill. Red, whatever she’d been through, wasn’t completely chewed up. Sure, she’d hunkered down inside herself, hiding behind all kinds of protective bullshit, but she was there all right, peering out, seeing you clean through.
My little sister was plenty screwed up. But she was still young. She had a shot at making it out of this mess. Maybe if no more crap happened. Maybe if I made sure it didn’t.
* * *
—
YESTERDAY I CHECKED MOM’S NIGHTSTAND DRAWER. The old blue towel was there. The faded stains from Brody never came out, no matter how many times Mom washed it. That towel got me. More than the gun even. Brody was always so embarrassed when he couldn’t get outside in time. He’d drop his head and keep shooting looks at his butt like he couldn’t believe what it’d just done, all confused and alarmed.
I lost it then. Started sobbing like a little kid. I missed him so much. Stupid. Stupid. Everything there was to cry about, and thinking of my old dog made me blubber. I remember Mom saying, “That dog can love anybody to happiness.” And maybe he could. The last time I saw my father happy, or at least not sad or pissed, was when he was kneeling on the floor petting Brody’s head after one of his accidents, whispering, “Don’t worry about it, old man. It’ll happen to all of us at some point or other.” Brody braved eye contact with Dad, like he was thanking him, and laid his head on his lap. My father kept stroking that gray muzzle, and something like peace came over his face.
If Dad had lived, we probably would’ve gotten a new dog by now. He loved dogs. He became someone else with them. Sometimes I think it was losing Brody that bent his mind to that last violence.
After Mom went back to school, Nells wanted to ask her for a puppy. I wanted one too, but I talked her out of it. Dogs take time and money, and Mom had neither. Nells pouted, but Mom looked so sad and stressed that even Nells understood and let it go.
Mom would be home soon, and I needed to stop crying. I unwrapped the gun and held it. That helped. Guns often do. And this one was a beaut, black and angular, calming in the way anything that’s designed exactly for its purpose can be. A gun like that, it felt like a blessing. You wouldn’t think that after everything, but it was true. All that power right there. Once the metal reached skin temp, you were one with it, you became your own kind of god. Boom. Like that.
When I heard the kitchen door open and Nells sling her backpack on the kitchen table, I was in shooting stance, my arms locked in front, hands braced, the barrel sighted on the picture of my father on the dresser. I uncocked the weapon, threw the towel around it, and stashed it back in the drawer. Slipping down the hall to my room, I heard Nells scrounging in the fridge, muttering, “Why is there never anything decent to eat around here?”
* * *
—
That was yesterday. The day I finally knew what needed to be done.
59
After Isaac found her on the boat, Evangeline made no further effort to escape, and he didn’t speak of it again. He wasn’t the sort of man who thought talk solved all that much. Instead, he brought home paint chips of pale blues and lavenders and soft yellows and asked if any of them pleased her. He found an old armoire at a secondhand store—“an antique,” he said—and suggested they convert the large walk-in closet into a nursery for the baby. Only then did Evangeline understand he intended her to stay after the birth. Together they painted her room a creamy lemon, Isaac insisting she wear a face mask though he’d bought the low-VOC paint.
In late April, Evangeline woke to a note from Isaac saying he’d left early for school and wishing her luck on her chemistry test. The past week had been gloomy with nonstop drizzle. But this morning, the sky glowed blue and gold and pink, alive, changing each time she glanced outside. The kitchen too vibrated with its stained laminate counters and chipped cabinets, the dirty bowl set by the sink, the gentle rattle of the heat vent and that note—a note a father would leave a daughter—Good luck on the chemistry test!
Every bit of it was a wonder to Evangeline. It spoke of family and home and affection. The exclamation point in particular moved her, the easy exuberance of it, the tender familiarity.
She’d showered and felt strangely beautiful despite a belly that far surpassed her breasts. She was wearing the black maternity leggings and cobalt knit dress Lorrie had helped her find in Silverdale back in January. Evangeline had worried the color clashed with her red hair, but Lorrie said, “The blue. It brings out the dark undertones in the red. Makes you seem quite mysterious.” Lorrie had blushed then, like she’d just confessed to a girl crush. Evangeline didn’t know what it meant to have mysterious hair, but she couldn’t help studying herself in the mirror each time she wore the blue dress, searching for a secret self.
Maybe that’s why Lorrie had stopped coming by. Maybe she’d been embarrassed. Months now, and Evangeline was still trying to figure it out.
But enough! She had Isaac’s note, and he’d even notched the heat up this morning. Besides, Rufus was there, sleeping in his chair, mouth breathing louder than ever. He was failing, the poor old guy. More and more, she had to help him onto the bed, and he hardly ate these days. When he moved, he looked like Isaac, his joints giving him grief. Worse, in the past week he’d started to have accidents in the house. Evangeline decided she’d better try to get him out one last time before heading to school. She hated to think of him lying in pee all day. She went to him. “Come on, boy.”
His eyes opened, but they were dull, like he was swimming out of anesthesia.
“Rufus. Come on. You can do it.” She tugged his collar. His head lifted and his hip muscles tensed, but his legs went slack and his head slumped back onto his paws.
She knelt before him and petted his head. As always these days, bloody snot drained into his open mouth. She stood and got a damp rag and a couple of tissues. It had to feel gross, snot coating his chin like that. The blanket he lay on was awful too, crusty with it. She would wash it as soon as she got home from school.
As she stroked Rufus’s face, he nuzzled her hand through the warm rag. But when she tried to dry him, he reared back in alarm, then jerked forward with a huge sneeze. Bright red splattered over Evangeline’s face and neck and hands, over her pretty blue dress, over the area rug and wood floors. Blood poured from Rufus’s nose, soaking into the arm of the chair. His eyes went wide, ringed white as if he were a horse in battle.
She pressed the rag to his nose, but the flow wouldn’t stop. She tried stuffing tissues up there, to put pressure on whatever had burst. It might have worked if he hadn’t kept sneezing, hadn’t kept spraying more blood into the room.
She had to get him to a vet. But how? Isaac had taken his car this morning. Were there ambulances for pets? There should be. There should. But she knew there weren’t.
“Stay there,” she said, though Rufus hardly seemed capable of escape.
She burst out the mudroom door, ran across the back field, through the border trees, holding her belly against the jarring of the earth, watching with all her might for roots and vines that could send her flying, because of everything that had happened in her life, the one thing that could not happen, that she would not allow to happen, would be to hurt the baby in her haste.
Then she was at Lorrie’s back door, pounding, pounding. And there was Lorrie, a miracle in her jeans and work shirt, swinging open the door, horror flashing across her face. How she must look!
“It’s Rufus. He’s bleeding. He’s bleeding so bad!”
Lorrie pulled her inside. “Slow down. Tell me, where is he bleeding?”
“It’s his nose. It’s so much blood.”
“Have you tried pressure? Packing his nose?”
Evangeline nodded, gulping air. “It’s not slowing.”
“All right. Take a deep breath. Now another. Good. There’s an emergency vet in Chimacum. I’ll take you.”
“That’s twenty minutes from here. He could be dead by then.”
“It’s what we’ve got,” Lorrie said. Her voice was firm, an authoritative edge of command that soothed Evangeline’s heart. “Go back. Pinch his nostrils until I get there. I have some nasal spray that might help. Go! I’ll see you in your drive in a minute.”
Evangeline ran back to find Rufus crumpled on the floor. He must have tried to get up and collapsed. Blood pooled around his face. She squeezed his nostrils together, but of all the asinine things the animal could do, he closed his mouth when she did that, used his little strength to struggle with her, his eyes bulging in alarm.
“Breathe through your mouth, stupid! That’s what you always do anyway.”
What Comes After Page 28
