The Things That Keep Us Here

by Carla Buckley

  She went to the phone and picked up the receiver. Silence.

  The rain slowed and at last ceased. She took the blanket from the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. She paced, going from window to window. What was taking him so long?

  The baby whimpered, and she went to check on him. He was sodden. Careful not to jostle the girls, she removed his diaper. He didn’t wake. Pulling the last diaper from the plastic wrapping, she slid it beneath him. She stretched the tabs across his hips and folded the covers back around him. Peter might have thought to pick up diapers. Back when the children were babies, buying diapers was one of the things they did every time they went to the store. The practice might have come back to him. If not, they could make do for a while, fashion something out of a washcloth and safety pins.

  She couldn’t possibly sleep. She needed to keep busy. The vacuum still sat in the middle of her bedroom. There were towels to put away, blinds to shut. She went upstairs, not even bothering to bring the flashlight or a candle. She’d gotten used to wandering around in the dark. It was amazing what she could distinguish now by moonlight. She stood by the bedroom window. A quarter moon peeped from between drifting clouds. She glanced at the street. Someone was walking down the sidewalk. She stared hard at the scene below. The moonlight faded, grew stronger. It was a man. He had his head down, but he looked like Peter. He had the same general build and way of walking. But it couldn’t be Peter. Where was his truck? The figure disappeared around the corner of the house toward the garage.

  She raced downstairs to the dining room and looked out the window there to see if whoever it was was coming around the house on the sidewalk. Then from the side of the house, she heard the telltale rumbling of the garage door going up.

  The sound froze her in place for an instant. She made her way into the kitchen and came up close to the door. “Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  Thank God. He was home. Her fingers closed around the doorknob’s smooth surface. It refused to turn.

  “Stop.” His tone was low and urgent. “Don’t come out here.”

  “What?” She stood there, bewildered. It was Peter and yet it wasn’t. His voice was wrong. Deeper.

  “Stand back from the door.”

  “But why? Peter, what’s going on?”

  “Stand back, Ann.”

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she insisted, not moving. “I’ve been exposed.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  SILENCE, ANGUISH ALONG THE LENGTH OF IT. AT LAST she whispered, “Peter.”

  His heart ached. For her, he realized with some surprise. The familiar feeling had slid in, unguarded. “Can you get me a blanket, some dry clothes?”

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  He’d never been colder in his life. All those predawn hours spent crouching in frozen fields, all that time standing on the shore as icy winds blew across the lake. He’d thought he’d been cold then, but now he knew what true coldness was. His teeth clicked so violently together his jaw throbbed. He’d lost all sensation in his feet. His hands pulsed. He leaned against the wall and felt as though he might fall down.

  “Peter?” Ann was back.

  “Yes.” He roused himself. “Set everything down, then back away. All the way into the kitchen.” Silence.

  “Ann?”

  “All right.”

  He counted to ten, then unlocked the door and swung it open. Moonlight shone through the laundry room beyond and illuminated the bundles of soft things lying just inside the door. Superstition, not science, kept him from turning his head and looking into the kitchen’s interior, where he knew his wife stood. He couldn’t see her, but he sensed her worry and fear radiating palpably toward him through the dark. It’s all right, he wanted to tell her, but she’d have seen right through him. They knew each other that well. He scooped up the bundle and shut the door.

  He stripped off his cold, wet things and dropped them to the concrete floor. He held up various garments, trying to sort through things. He tugged everything on, underclothes, sweatpants, a T-shirt, a knitted pullover, and put a hand on the wall to steady himself as he pulled on socks. “Are the doors locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t get any formula. I’m sorry. I tried.”

  “That’s all right. Peter, how did it happen?”

  “Go to bed, honey. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “But where will you sleep?” Her voice trembled.

  He longed to hold her. Another surprise, a welcome one. He drew the blanket around his shoulders. “I’ll figure something out. Good night, Ann.”

  A long moment before she whispered back, “Good night, Peter.”

  IT WAS DARK AND HE WAS COLD AND SOMETHING WAS JAMMED into the small of his back. He turned over. Why couldn’t he extend his legs? He stretched and his knees bumped something unyielding. This wasn’t his pillow against his cheek but something hard and scratchy. He opened his eyes.

  He stared up at a gray ceiling with a small plastic dome light embedded in its center. He turned his head. Now he saw a swoop of molded black plastic, a steering wheel protruding from the opposite end. He was in Ann’s minivan.

  Right.

  He lay on the passenger side. He’d pushed the seat back as far as it would go and reclined it to its limit. Not the most restful of circumstances, but it had been dry and out of the elements, and it had worked for—he brought his watch up to his face and peered at the dial—ten hours. He couldn’t believe he’d been asleep for so long. It was already midafternoon.

  He groaned and pushed himself up. His back ached from where the armrest had dug into him. His legs were stiff. One arm had gone numb. He opened the door and made his way out of the car, came to full height, and stretched.

  All was quiet. He wondered where everyone was. He came around to the back of the van. Bending down, he grasped the garage door handle and heaved it open. That ache in his legs. Was it anything more than overexertion? That clearing of his throat. Could it be the preamble to a cough?

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  He squinted, poked out his head from the garage’s dim interior into sunshine. It was Maddie, and she was running toward him across the yard. Ann was right behind her, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. “Remember what I told you.” Then Ann looked at him and smiled, a hopeful look. “Hi.”

  Kate came up behind them, the baby on her hip, and stood there, biting her lip.

  They all looked so wonderful. Watery sunlight shone on their hair. Their cheeks were pink from the cold. They stood together, ranging in height, different versions of the same model, impossibly beautiful to him. He smiled. “Hey, you guys. What’ve you been up to?”

  Maddie said, “We put Jacob on the trampoline.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Peter leaned against the doorjamb. “How’s he doing?”

  “Holding his own,” Ann said. “Turns out he likes cracker mush.” Kate lifted Jacob higher on her hip. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “I feel fine, honey.”

  Ann said, “Girls, take the baby in and change him, okay?”

  Without a word of argument or disagreement, they traipsed away. Peter watched them go in amazement. He looked back at Ann. “I’m going to take off. It’ll be a hike, but—”

  She was shaking her head. “You can’t go now.”

  “Now’s exactly when I should go.”

  “What happens if you get sick, Peter?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No.”

  They looked at each other across the span of driveway and grass. She’d locked the door on Libby. He couldn’t understand why she was opening it wide for him.

  “Please,” she said.

  A gust of wind blew her hair across her face. She was wearing one of the girls’ headbands, a pink elastic thing. She looked so young and earnest, just like she had when they’d first started dating. He couldn’t help it. He grinned. She blushed, then smi
led back. The long years of strain between them wavered. Something else began to grow in their stead, something that didn’t yet have a name.

  “All right,” he said.

  She let out a breath. “How are you? How do you really feel?”

  “Thirsty. And I have to use the bathroom.”

  “I’ll keep everyone outside. I’ll wipe everything down afterward.”

  “Make sure the girls are washing their hands.”

  “What happened, Peter?” She looked beyond him into the garage. “Where’s the truck?”

  “They took it.”

  She looked back to him. “Who?”

  “A bunch of kids ambushed me. One of them coughed on me.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “A little shook up, that’s all. It’s just a truck.”

  “He coughed?” Her voice was a whisper.

  He could barely hear her across the distance that separated them. It seemed like they were standing miles apart. “He wasn’t that close.” A small lie. The boy had been plenty close enough. He imagined he could still feel those moist droplets on his face. He pushed the thought away and looked around. “Where’s Shazia?”

  Ann’s face changed. “She’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “She left a note. I read it before I realized it was intended for you.”

  “That’s all right. What did she say?”

  “She wanted to thank us for letting her stay, but that she needed to be with her friends now. I really don’t understand that. I’ve been so worried about her. I didn’t go after her. I wanted to, but I couldn’t leave the girls alone.”

  She was looking at him, asking him to forgive her. Well, there was nothing to forgive. “She knows where we live. She’ll come back if she wants to.”

  Ann drew her brows together. “I think she might have gone to be with her friend on the farm, the one who emailed her.”

  “Harold? That makes sense. They’re in love.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “They hit it off the minute they met.” He shrugged. “No one else can stand the guy. Hard to picture the two of them together, but what do I know?”

  She was giving him the weirdest look.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing.” The wind lifted her hair from her shoulders. “Did she tell you where that farm is? Is it in Ohio, or—”

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t want to talk about Shazia anymore. “She’s a grown woman. She knew what she was doing when she walked out. She knows the risks as well as I do. She’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so. I really do.” She looked away, then back at him. “I’ll move the kids upstairs so you can come in, then I’ll get you water and something to eat.”

  It was strange, though. He wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  PETER KICKED OVER A BUCKET AND SAT DOWN. PEELING BACK the wrapper on the granola bar, he took a bite. Water dripped leisurely from the eaves and trickled down the street. Fat white clouds mounded in the northern sky.

  One cough.

  Peter had scrambled out of the truck, stood well back as the boys shoved past him and climbed in. He’d lifted his face and let the rain sluice across his skin. He’d scrubbed his mouth and nose and cheeks with his coat sleeve, bent and spat onto the ground. Whatever the boy had coughed on him couldn’t have made it into Peter’s respiratory system. But they’d know for sure later.

  He couldn’t wait for later to arrive.

  An angry shout from down the street brought him to his feet. More shouting, then a high-pitched yelp, the sound of an animal in distress. He strode out onto the driveway. A man stood in the middle of the street, hands on his hips.

  “What happened?”

  The man turned and glared. Stan Fox, the Hummer dealer with the perfect lawn and the neatly tied trash bags. “Goddamned dog stole my stuff. I came out onto my porch to get something and found him digging around.”

  Barney? The man had probably thrown something at the dog, maybe gotten close enough to kick him. “Where’d he go?”

  Stan jerked a thumb in the direction of Finn’s house. Barney had headed home. “Goddamned dog. Goddamned dog owners.”

  The small house stood at the bottom of the street, awash in clumps of melted snow. The drapes were drawn tight. No smoke puffed from the chimney. No sign of Barney anywhere, but he was probably curled up somewhere nearby, licking his wounds. Dogs were solitary creatures when they were injured. But where? One quick glance at the handkerchief porch and the scrawny azaleas fronting the house told Peter the dog wasn’t anywhere out here.

  Maybe around back.

  The side gate stood ajar. Peter pushed it open and stepped into a small walled garden. There was an amoeba-shaped swimming pool, covered for the season, a big barbecue grill, also covered, a tidy stack of outdoor chairs. Picture windows along the back of the house overlooked the pool. Nice. Who’d have known this was here?

  A bug buzzed. He absently swatted at it, eyeing the potting shed in one corner, the burning bushes that had dropped their magenta leaves and were now a web of straggly branches. He could see right through them to the brick wall behind. No dog hunkered down there. Pacing the perimeter of the yard, he came full circle and stopped beside the lounge chair standing in the shadows beneath a window. He crouched. “Barney?” Soft panting.

  Peter brushed aside another insect, then gently lifted the chair and set it down a few feet away. The dog lay pressed up against the side of the house. He didn’t raise his head but rolled his eyes to watch Peter.

  “It’s all right, fella.” Peter extended his hand and let Barney take a tentative sniff.

  A weak thump of tail.

  Without moving closer, Peter examined what he could see of the dog. Barney’s eyes looked clear. That was a good sign. His coat was matted and stiff with mud. His ribs protruded, and his abdomen was arched. Poor fellow had starved down to muscle and bone. No rash or infestation along the rib cage or on this flank, but there on his hindquarters was a streak of something dark and crusty. Old blood.

  “What happened here, boy?” Peter moved around to get a better look.

  Barney watched him warily.

  A two-inch gash had split the skin. The flaps on either side were swollen and angry. The injury wasn’t recent, maybe a day or so old. The redness indicated that infection had already begun to set in.

  “Looks like I found you just in time.” He rocked back on his heels and regarded the dog. “What did you do, wedge yourself into a tight spot? Duke it out with a raccoon?”

  Barney had his head down now. Weariness had made him submissive. He’d be receptive to the granola bar Peter was still holding on to.

  “All right, boy. You’d better let me take care of that.”

  He stood and saw through the glass into the room on the other side. The padded hump of a green sofa, a matching chair angled beside it, the corner of a fringed Oriental rug. Nice bachelor furnishings. Something black and tiny crawled along the glass—a fly. In the middle of winter? But then he remembered. Finn had heat. Inside, it wouldn’t feel like winter.

  The insect swept up, then lighted onto the floor, just out of his range of vision. His gaze followed it and sharpened.

  A red and black plaid bedroom slipper lay on the rug just beyond the curve of the chair, a cuff of blue material curving over the rubber heel. Peter moved down the glass and saw the rest. The cuff became pajamas. The slipper matched the bathrobe. Beneath them sprawled something brown and viscous, covered with writhing white worms. Knobby yellow bits protruded from the ends of the sleeves. A larger rounded part lay at the farther end. He recognized them, pale bones and a skull. Walter Finn. The brown mass must be what remained of his flesh, and it swarmed with maggots and buzzing flies.

  Peter took a step back.

  The man had collapsed alone in his fortress of a house. Despite all his precautions, the virus had still found a way in.

  For the first time, Peter felt truly
afraid. They were on their own. Nothing was going to save them. They had to save themselves.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ANN OPENED THE CABINET IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM AND looked at the pile of canvas bags, freebies that Peter had brought home from conventions. How many should she take? She held one up by its straps. It looked awfully small. She brought down the whole pile.

  “Don’t worry about Shazia,” Peter had said. Ann still couldn’t believe it. She’d been entirely mistaken. He and Shazia were just colleagues. The relief was enormous. She didn’t know why she felt so happy.

  She lifted the key from where it hung on the brass hook beside the back door and went into the family room. Maddie was on the floor, kneeling on her sketchbook to hold it open. She pinched her nose with her other hand.

  Ann stopped. “Where’s Kate?”

  Maddie jerked her chin toward the closed powder room door. “Washing her hair for like the millionth time.”

  Poor Kate. The water was freezing, but she’d persisted in the process, dunking her head into icy sinkful after icy sinkful, emitting little shrieks as she did so. She refused Ann’s help, emerged red-faced and shuddering, her hair piled into a towel. Silence came from there now, so maybe she’d reached the towel part. Or not.

  Ann strode over and rapped sharply on the door.

  “What?” came Kate’s irritated response.

  “Nothing,” Ann said. She looked down at Maddie. “Why are you doing that?”

  Maddie glanced at Jacob, who lay on his tummy beside her. He’d risen up on his forearms to watch her work. “What if he goes?”

  Ann bent down to pull the covers back up over the baby’s bare legs. She’d smeared him with Vaseline and was letting him go bare-bottomed in the hope he could heal from the hideous case of diaper rash that had bloomed across his bottom and thighs overnight. Washcloths were a terrible substitute for diapers.

  “Try and keep him covered up.” She stood, tugging on a pair of latex gloves. “I put Daddy’s lunch on the back step. He might knock to let us know he’s finished, but don’t answer the door.”