Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  It’s too much. I think of Miss Talbot, her expression when she saw the boys pinning me against the library shelves; her complete and utter silence. How desperately I needed her to cry out for me. I turn back. “Helping? How, by lying to the police and to me? By letting a little girl continue to live in that hellhole with that monster? And you’re no better.”

  Reverend Greene is incredulous. “That’s not how it was. You know that!”

  The wind freezes the sweat that forms on my brow, but I’m too hot to be chilled. “I spoke to Trecie, I saw that room.” I choke, not wanting to say the rest. “Alma said it was unnatural.”

  Reverend Greene stares at me, his mouth open and his eyes even wider. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul, is that what you think?”

  I can feel the pull of my cottage, of my garden. I should just walk away, but stronger is the urge to stand my ground, for myself, for Trecie, and Doe, for all the children who were never loved enough. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He takes a step toward me, reaching for my shoulder, but I push his hand away. Still, he tries. “Each time that girl came to him, told him something new, he let me know straight away so I could call Mike. Linus didn’t know everything, Clara. She only told bits and pieces at a time.”

  “Why didn’t Linus just call Mike himself? Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Things were complicated, Clara. You don’t understand.”

  I start to leave, but he doesn’t stop.

  “Have you ever asked yourself why she didn’t tell you?”

  His words pummel me, leaving me breathless. I’m forced to confront him. “What?”

  He smile appears mournful and crushed. “Have you? She told Linus it was because you didn’t believe her.”

  I clench my jaw, refuse to blink, pinch my palm; anything not to cry. “She told me things.”

  “Did she tell you she was trying to save her sister, the littlest one?”

  I think of the youngest girl, Inez, how Adalia sought to protect her too. When Mike and I went to her apartment, Adalia insisted: “Inez stays here.”

  “You didn’t know, did you?” Reverend Greene says.

  My cottage is calling me. I have to water my garden, gather seeds to carry with me to my next life. “I know enough.”

  “No. You don’t know.” He laughs, a soft, melancholy sound. “You’ve got to have faith, Clara.”

  He is staring at me, his eyes alight. I shake my head and begin backing away.

  “Look to your heart, Clara, have faith—if not in something bigger than yourself, then in Linus. Trust in Linus.”

  He finally stops, muttering to himself as he walks back to the suitcases. As he picks them up, he begins to sing, low and soft, a hymn from church. When he opens the door to Alma’s, he doesn’t look back. Still, I hear him, “was blind, but now I see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The moon is near full, illuminating shadows the streetlamps along Washington Street never touch. Passing under Alma’s window, I see her there in the kitchen, her mouth moving, her face slightly animated as she washes something in the sink. When she stops speaking to the figures behind her (more family and friends in from out of town), I notice she drops the facade she’s wearing for them, and for a moment I inhabit her grief.

  But my legs keep moving me forward, toward the street. A few yards down and across is Colebrook Cemetery. I have to make sure the grave is ready for Linus’s casket to fill it. That won’t be until after the holiday, of course; barring inclement weather, he’ll be laid to rest December 26. I’ll stay for the wake on Christmas Eve, sure to be a townwide affair, but be gone before the funeral. My train leaves at dawn Christmas Day, just two days away. Feeling the cold burn through my boots, I allow myself an opportunity to consider what awaits me: constant warmth, the freedom to work outside, an entirely new category of flora. And, of course, the promise of peace. I’ll forget this life and all its betrayals the way I’ve forgotten the last.

  Tonight the only sound among the dead is the wind whistling through the outstretched limbs of a split oak. Linus’s plot—bought alongside Alma’s long ago—isn’t far from the street. The gravediggers had the sense to move the backhoe out of sight, even storing the piles of disturbed earth in the dump truck and parking both behind the maintenance shed. It seems everyone loved Linus.

  It’s time to go; things are just as they should be. First, though, there’s one good-bye I want to make. It won’t take but a minute. I’ve brought the terra-cotta pot filled with young daisies. I know they’ll die before morning, but the last I see of them, they’ll be alive. Something will.

  I don’t need the moon to guide me; I could walk there in my sleep. In the beginning, many people would visit here. They’d leave teddy bears and hats, cards and photos of their trips to Disney World, as if Precious Doe could share in the memories of such a happy place. Soon their attentions petered off, as did the media’s. It’s as if mourning her were a trend now passed. The last item left, too many months ago to count, was a stuffed cat with yellow fur and green marble eyes. It looked well loved.

  I should never have listened to Mike, should never have become involved. I buried her three years ago. It was easy for me to accept her death then when she was a stranger without any sense of a life lived. But now I know too much. Now it’s as if she’s reaching out to me through Trecie, begging for my help, but I’ve failed her. And Trecie. We all have. I wish Precious Doe could be dead again. There was some peace in that.

  I’m within several yards when I see him. He’s bent over Doe’s grave, shining the beam of his flashlight on a small potted Christmas tree wedged into the snow. A glass ball is askew and he pushes it back into the tiny evergreen branch. As I pass the ground where his wife and child are buried, the moon illuminates another potted tree there. Tucked under its miniature branches is a wrapped box with red and green ribbons tied around it.

  I think I’ve been quiet, my approach soundless, but Mike senses me. Without turning, he says, “Do you think they know? Do you think any of them can see this and know?”

  I want to tell him, yes, of course, they’ll love it. I want to but can’t.

  Mike straightens, clicking off his flashlight. Shadows resume their posts and I wait until my eyes adjust to the moonlight before taking another step. I wonder how long he’s been here, how long he knew I was walking toward this spot, a stop on my journey away from him.

  “I was looking over the pictures we took from the tapes and it doesn’t add up, you know?” Mike says, transfixed by Precious Doe’s headstone, blooming—tripping—flowing. “Most of the pictures are of Trecie, and we think the other girl is Adalia, right?” His voice is hollow, as if he’s lost in a fugue far away from this place.

  My steps are careful as I approach her grave. The pot is heavy in my hands; the muscles within my arms throb and my hands ache for my wool pockets. I crouch, my head alongside Mike’s legs, and place the pot to the side of the little evergreen, the clump of daisies suddenly lifeless next to the cheerfulness of the tree.

  “But I was looking at them and looking at Adalia in person, and I realized there has to be another girl. Adalia is nine; the girls in the photos and in the videos don’t look more than six and seven. Inez isn’t one of them, not with that birthmark on her face. But all three look so much alike. That’s what you said, right? That you thought Trecie was about seven, eight?”

  I stand, trying to get my footing on earth that continues to shift beneath me. Please, not another. “Yes.”

  “And Linus.” Mike’s gaze remains steady on the headstone. “He said in one of his anonymous tips that Precious Doe was connected to this, that she was in the videos.”

  “Yes.” My hands want to find the comfort of my pockets but somehow can’t move.

  “But the ages don’t add up. The M.E. determined Doe was approximately seven when she was killed, so either we have a bigger problem involving more girls or Linus was wrong—”

  “Mike, stop—” I c
an’t bear any more of this. I can’t live within other people’s lives.

  “Or maybe the girl in the video isn’t Trecie. Something just isn’t right.”

  He seizes my arms, squeezing too hard, his face twisted in thought—he’s still lost in his head. “Come back to my car with me. I have some photos there.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please, just once more. I promise.”

  He must feel the shudder that rolls through my body, because his eyes suddenly snap back to the present. His face and hands relax, and he embraces my cheeks within his hands. “I know, I know.”

  It’s when his thumb slips along my cheekbone, caressing the rise there, that I relent. It’s the last thing I’ll do before I rest. One picture. I nod and he releases me.

  He’s hard to keep up with, his legs so long and his stride purposeful. I’m breathless when we finally reach the green Crown Vic. He opens the trunk and rummages through the same cardboard box I’ve come to dread.

  “I had some blown up to see if we could identify a scar, birthmark, anything about this guy, but all we have is his hand and part of his forearm.” Mike’s voice isn’t weary the way I’ve come to expect. Instead it’s quick and jumpy, energized by some spark.

  He pulls out a couple of photos and passes them to me. In the semilight, they’re grainy and blurred, but still I know the older girl is Trecie. “It’s her.”

  In the next moment, Mike’s flashlight is on them and I can see more clearly. The two girls, yes, Trecie, and a younger version of Adalia. So there’s another sister, another victim. And then I notice the man’s hand. The ragged nails, the cuticles around them inflamed, minute scabs rimming the middle finger. The hand is splayed, bony white, and I think of that time I saw a man eating chicken wings.

  My knees begin to buckle and the photos flutter to the ground. Mike’s hands are instantly on me. He guides me to the passenger side of the car, opening the door and lifting me in one motion. Then he kneels beside me. “I’m sorry. I’ve put you through enough.”

  “No,” I try to say, but my breath is gone, smothered and wispy. He’s rubbing my back, reassuring me “It’s okay.” I didn’t guess there would be such comfort in those words, in the strength of his hand pressing against me. “It’s him,” I manage.

  Mike becomes motionless, his hand limp. “What?”

  “The hand. Look at the nails, it’s him.”

  The only sound other than the wind is of my teeth clacking against themselves. Mike doesn’t notice; he’s returned to the fugue, staring at the photos. After several seconds, his voice catches me and I jump.

  “Vic-tor-y.” He draws out the word in a hushed whisper.

  He lunges across me, leaning his body against mine, his hand seeking out something on the driver’s side. Beneath the scent of cold is Mike’s own, and for the briefest of moments, I allow myself to rest my cheek against the back of his shoulder. When he straightens, I see his cell phone in his hand.

  “Hey, Andrew, are you on the desk?”

  I hear the hint of a voice on the other end, but nothing more.

  “Can you look up a 911 call for me? It was about four years ago.”

  A pause.

  “I think it would have been a domestic. The address is 452 Clarendon Street.”

  Mike nods. “Yeah, that’s right, the Vanity Faire. Apartment 316.”

  It seems time has slowed as he waits for Andrew and the computer to call to the present voices from the past. His eyes never leave the photo.

  “You got it?” His other hand finds the spot just above my knee and squeezes. “Who responded to that call?”

  When Mike’s eyes find mine, I already know what he’ll say. “Ryan.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It’s near midnight and we are two days past winter solstice, the longest night of the year; it’s the day before Christmas Eve, before Linus’s wake. In ancient days, it was a time to celebrate life’s renewal and hope. If I could muster the spirit, perhaps I’d view my leaving as a sort of rebirth, a new life. First, I’ll need to let go of this one.

  Mike’s house is like the others on this side street, a white Cape among the blues and grays. His is the only one without Christmas lights or even a simple wreath nailed to the front door. If he weren’t framed in the bow window, a single floor lamp backlighting the living room, one could be forgiven for thinking the house abandoned.

  I intended only to drive by, a final silent farewell before I leave. When I noticed that the sole streetlight across from his house was out and there wasn’t another in sight, I thought it safe to park here, for just a minute or two. Even if he doesn’t see the hearse through the pitch, a neighbor could, one who might call Mike to ask who on their street had died.

  He’s talking on the phone, a carton of milk seemingly forgotten in his hand. Behind him, above the fireplace, hangs a portrait. I imagine it’s of him with Jenny, their baby safe within her womb. A family portrait. A television’s blue light flashes from an unseen corner, the rise of a chair and love seat just visible: room enough for three.

  He walks the length of the living room, pivots, and then walks back again. He stops when it’s his turn to speak. He raises his hand above his head, appearing to shout into the phone, shaking the carton until he throws it against a wall I can’t see, just the splatter that leaves dark streaks along a corner. Mike’s standing directly in front of the window now, leaning his forehead against a single rectangular pane, the phone still pressed to his ear. He must think he’s alone in the darkness or, like so many who’ve lost loved ones, that he’s invisible.

  But I see him. I’ve always seen him. There may even have been days when I thought I could see deep within him. Until the other night, I never expected he would see me too.

  I look beyond Mike and try to imagine what his life was like when this house contained life. How it must have smelled when Jenny was there to cook his dinners, her belly filled with their future, then after, the scent of colostrum and fresh laundry if life had been kind and their child had been allowed to be born. How their lives would have been. Every last corner of his whole filled with laughter, the swell of an infant wailing in the night, the murmur of his and Jenny’s lovemaking. I wonder if he whispered to her, something tender and casual, or if theirs was a passionate bed, never dragged down by monotony.

  I close my eyes and imagine what the rest of that house might have been like: a yellow kitchen dotted with whimsical ceramic roosters; a small sitting room with just enough space for a desk and a bookcase lined with true-crime hardbacks and the occasional Maeve Binchy novel; a nursery with fluffy pink blankets and a cerulean ceiling with painted clouds drifting high above a crib. There must still be pots and pans in that kitchen. If life were forgiving, I could learn to fill them with recipes from Alma. Perhaps there’s room on those sitting room shelves for my Sibleys and Woolf. A bare corner for my ficus. If life were kinder still, Trecie would be tucked safe within there, Adalia, Inez, and their brothers, too—a second chance for us all. What would it be to have that life, to know constancy and devotion? To walk through that door, fall upon that sofa, and into his arms? To read side by side or watch a movie, and when it grew late, to slip into bed, one of our own, and lie together without barriers. There would be no clothing, no words, no reticence. . . .

  Just the chasm of the past.

  I have nothing to fill that nursery; innocence cannot grow within me again. There’s not enough of me to satisfy the nooks of Mike’s life the way Jenny did. Nothing can save those children. There’s no place in that house for them. For me. He may see me today, want me to share his dinners and bed, but I expect he’d soon see through me, come to feel my hollowness and realize I’m too small to fill his void.

  I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My skin is a thin film over my skull, my chin and cheekbones too prominent. My eyes are so dark that a trick of the shadows makes them appear to be vacant sockets. Oh, and my hair. How skillful I long imagined myself to be, clever wi
th parts, the way I teased curls over the bald spots, obscuring them all with a ponytail. I touch the scars now. So many. They’re all there for anyone to see; only I was blind to them until now. The metaphor is not lost on me.

  I flip the mirror up and then start the hearse’s engine. Mike jerks his head. As if he can see through the dark, he meets my gaze and presses his palm against the pane. Before pulling away, I raise my own hand to the driver’s-side window and for one last time imagine the possibilities.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The window wells of my basement workspace are filled with snow. The sun’s morning light manages to crack through the crystal fissures, splashing prismatic colors across the glass.

  I can hear them above me; my ceiling groans with the combined weight of what seems to be nearly all the residents of both Whitman and Brockton, on Christmas Eve no less. Alma wanted to get an early start, knowing that most would be celebrating later today. She didn’t want to assume the entire day; they will have the late afternoon to put this behind them, to enjoy the holiday cheer. To make it easier for all, she cooked for two days, filling three buffet tables with various holiday platters, and at the center of each, her grandmother’s crystal punch bowls. That’s her way. She’ll keep the funeral home open late into the evening to welcome stragglers, those who have nowhere else to go and who are eager for a bite of the holiday. I know Linus would have been touched at the showing.

  Before I wheeled his body up to the mourning room, I wavered between the irises (faith, hope, wisdom) and a bouquet of hydrangea (heartlessness). It reminded me of the stories Linus liked to tell of Job, of how the man’s trust in his god was tested again and again. This morning I had my own crisis of faith; I believe I chose justly.

  I find my book of flowers in the cabinet, nestled beside the ivory tapers and my Mozart. I need only the book. My fingers run the length of the candles, and for a breath I think I can’t leave this place behind, this work, these people. But then the memory of Mike’s call, a shrill ring in the darkness before dawn as I lay awake wondering if Trecie was alive or dead, reminds me of what I already know: I can’t stay here surrounded by doubt, knowing that people who breed pain will never know it themselves.