All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  We grabbed the bags, and she followed me inside.

  Dusty ran to greet us, pawing at Rachel’s legs. “Down, Dusty!” I said as I walked in. “He loves people.”

  “And I love dogs.” She set the bags down and swiftly scooped him up, holding him to her chest.

  “Wow,” I said as he nuzzled her neck. “He doesn’t usually let people do that—not besides me.”

  “I grew up with dogs. No less than three at a time. On a farm up in Rochester. I swear to god they all think I’m one of them. That’s what my ex used to say, anyway.” As if on cue, Dusty licked furiously at her chin. She allowed it for a moment, then set him down and grabbed the bags again as her head swiveled back and forth. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said.

  I smirked. “Did you try to make it your own?”

  Rachel laughed. “Not really. Just embraced the woodland hippie chic,” she said. “Right down to the Buddhist tomes. I lived here while I was knee-deep in a divorce, so it felt easier than arguing with my husband about who was going to get the Eames chair that we never should have spent so much on anyway.”

  A chuckle escaped my throat. She was warm, cheerful, and impossibly down-to-earth, the last person you’d expect to get into any sort of feud with anyone. I walked to the kitchen. “You can just set the bags on the counter.”

  Dutifully, she did, and I followed her back out to the main room.

  She spun on her heel. “Watson, I think I’ve spotted something I left behind.” She walked toward the bedroom, and I pictured her opening the dresser drawer, pulling out the photos, tucking them into one of her dress’s oversize pockets.

  She stopped at the doorway instead. “The quilt,” she said, turning back to me. “Please don’t tell Maggie I abandoned it. Not sure if you’ve met her yet—older woman who lives next door. She gave it to me for Christmas. Got it at some antiques fair or something.”

  “I met her yesterday, actually,” I said. “Er, do you want it back?”

  She grimaced. “Not really. I’m going for a minimalist thing in my new place—turns out, I got the Eames chair after all—and that quilt looks much better here. I’m afraid it’s your cross to bear now.”

  I stifled a laugh, then took a deep breath. I should tell her about the photos, hand them over, I thought. I had the perfect opening. Only something stopped me. The way Vera kept looking to John every time she said Rachel’s name, practically poisoning the air between them . . .

  “Mind if we trade numbers?” Rachel asked. “Just in case any more of my important mail comes here? Not the junk, of course.”

  “Sure,” I said, pulling out my phone. She rattled off her digits, and as I keyed them in, a text from Vera popped up on my screen.

  So much fun last night, I hope you’re feeling okay today!

  I swiped it away quickly, like a child caught doing something naughty, then saved Rachel into my contacts.

  When I looked up, her face was momentarily unreadable, but quickly broke into a grin. “I should get out of your hair,” she said, walking briskly back to the living room. “Thank you so much.”

  “Anytime,” I said, turning to follow her. A thought occurred to me then, quick as a flash. “Oh, and Rachel?”

  She flipped around. “Yeah?”

  “This is kind of weird to ask, but I was just in town, and I went by the gallery, the one that John and Vera own. There was this awful graffiti on the window—kind of, well, calling one of them a pervert—do you know what that’s about?”

  Rachel’s eyes widened, then returned to normal so quickly I half thought I hadn’t seen a thing.

  “Sorry, I—”

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just teenagers, I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” I said, forcing a grin to ease the tension. “That’s what I thought, but I just wanted to ask.”

  She nodded again, and in a few quick steps, she was gone, Dusty whining as I closed the door behind her.

  Once her car was out of sight, I returned to the bedroom and carefully slid the top dresser drawer open. Beneath my underwear and my mother’s scarf, John was still there, tucked neatly away.

  I stared at the photos, all sorts of imaginings entering my head: clandestine portrait sessions, exchanged love letters . . . Something had happened to throw their friendship off balance, that much was clear. Was it your run-of-the-mill affair? Had it not been teenagers after all? Had someone found out, painted those words on their gallery? Had Vera done it herself, in a moment of wifely rage?

  No, I thought. It didn’t make sense. It was probably just a portrait session. I was getting ahead of myself.

  I nestled the photos back into the furniture brochure, then froze.

  One, two, three, four.

  I flinched. There had been five yesterday. I swear to god, there were five photos.

  Pain seared my chest as I rushed from the closet, practically pouncing on my notebook. I’d written the words clearly: Bedroom closet: Five photos in top drawer of dresser (all of one man).

  What the ever-loving hell?

  You won’t leave, Lucy, you don’t have the guts.

  Returning to the closet, I counted them again. I checked the other drawers, finding nothing. A feeling so real and physical, it was etched into my brain. Of knowing it had been one way, knowing the invoice had been right there on my desk, the scarf tied around my side of the headboard, but staring at a reality turned ever so slightly off-kilter.

  I sank onto the bed and stared at the wallpaper—it looked like the pattern in my childhood bedroom in Seattle.

  I didn’t need Ellie or even Vera. I needed my mom. My body ached for her, the phantom limb that was my mother once again making itself known. The one you needed when shit hit the fan, when you had the flu, when you didn’t get that promotion, when you ran out on your boyfriend and felt like you were losing your mind.

  The one you’d never stop craving, no matter how often you told yourself to stop.

  My phone rang, and I jumped, the sound still foreign, intrusive.

  It was Vera.

  “Hi,” I managed.

  “Hey, neighbor.” Her voice was bright. “I was going to text you again but I thought it would be easier to call. We’re going on a hike in twenty minutes or so, want to come? I’ve filled the CamelBak and we’ve got granola bars and dark chocolate. All you have to bring is your lovely self.”

  In the background, I heard John’s voice. “Tell her it’s a relaxed hike. Not too hard. No need for gear.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, hands shaking. I couldn’t leave before finding that photo. What if Davis had somehow, inexplicably, figured out where I was already? My stomach twisted, and I imagined the gelatinous hollandaise coating my stomach as my headache reminded me that it had never fully gone away.

  Vera laughed. “That’s what you said yesterday about dinner, and don’t tell me you didn’t have fun.” She seemed to have written off the discovery of my bruise completely. I was grateful for that, but I still needed to figure out what was going on. “Besides, it’s the most gorgeous hike. I know you’ll love it.”

  I was about to mutter an excuse—rain check, work to do, overindulged at brunch—when my eyes caught a slice of something glossy, peeking out from beneath the dresser. I rushed into the closet and grabbed it. The fifth photo.

  “Lucy?” I heard on the other end. “You still there?”

  Relief flooded me so wildly, I almost wanted to cry.

  NINE

  We made our way to the trailhead in John’s truck.

  It was dirty, dust caked on its silver exterior, likely from driving out to his studio in the woods. Through the back window, I saw two-by-fours, bits of plywood, and a huge roll of fabric wrapped in plastic, jostling every time John stepped on the gas. He’d told me that he made his own canvases—so much more af
fordable, so much more control. As I sat there, smelling stale coffee from tossed-aside to-go cups and the naked stink of weed, I tried to imagine Davis in a pickup—he’d always wanted a VW, that was his dream car—or him with two-by-fours, or a circular saw.

  No question, Davis knew how to work with his hands, but not to make things—to break them instead.

  As we rode along, Vera switched songs like a DJ in one of the clubs Ellie and I used to go to in Bushwick, moving on after forty-five seconds or so, taking only the verses she wanted—croony Dinah Washington, bouncy Katy Perry—and leaving the rest. She sang loud and slightly flat, John’s head turning toward her as frequently as safety allowed, his fingers always twisted through hers, the two of them knit so tightly together.

  “Slow down,” Vera said, as a turnoff came into view. “I want to go by the cabin. My hiking boots are there.”

  John nodded, making the turn, and we found our way to a dead-end road.

  “This is John’s studio,” Vera said as we pulled up in front of a small cabin, even tinier than what I’d imagined. Wooden siding painted dark gray, faded and eaten through by weather or bugs or who knows what. A roof that looked like it was barely holding up. Trees everywhere. Bushes and vines. The ends of summer’s growth.

  Vera flipped around in her seat. “I’ll just run in and get my shoes. Back in a sec.”

  I watched as she flitted across the dirt and into the cabin, not even stopping to unlock the door.

  “You don’t lock it?” I asked, hardly able to contain my surprise. I couldn’t imagine leaving anything unlocked—no matter how remote.

  “Not out here,” John said, matter-of-factly. “We used to, but then we got out of the habit. I was teaching these art classes, and it got easier for us to leave it open, in case students beat me here. There’s nothing valuable inside, just canvas and paints. I keep all my finished work back at the gallery anyway.”

  He retrieved his phone from his pocket, scrolling through news feeds as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. I found myself suddenly wondering what he’d say if I showed him that video from college, whether he’d pity me or judge me or accept it as one of those things. Then I remembered how Davis had reacted, despite my trying to convince him that it wasn’t that big a deal—You’re telling me these assholes have seen my girlfriend like that?—and I pushed the thought away.

  “So do you still do the classes?” I asked.

  John looked up, catching my eyes in the rearview, and shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Got tired of it?”

  The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “No, but like with the gallery, the market ebbs and flows. There’s not as much interest in them anymore. Haven’t done them since the spring.”

  I thought of that girl in the café—Al—locals won’t touch the place. And the graffiti—you fucking pervert. What had happened to turn their business upside down? Could an affair with a neighbor have had that much of an effect? Wasn’t Woodstock supposed to be progressive?

  Vera burst in then, a pair of muddy hiking boots in her hands. “Let’s go.”

  We wound back the way we’d come, made another turn, and I imagined John inside the studio, teaching classes, when people had still wanted to take them. Painting, drawing, what have you. It sounded lovely. Indulgent. The kind of life one was meant to live. The kind I’d dreamed of, after all was lost.

  Then, for the briefest of moments, I imagined Rachel in there with him.

  He eased onto the brake and made another turn. The road crumbled to gravel as gangly trees arched their arms around us, luring us into a bare parking lot, not a car in sight.

  “There’s no one here.”

  Vera turned around. “That’s why we love this trail,” she said. “We have it all to ourselves.”

  We unloaded the car, Vera looping the CamelBak over her shoulders, me grasping a metal water bottle they’d loaned me. John pulled on an old pack and retied his laces, then checked his phone, swiped away notifications.

  “This one’s always ultra-prepared,” Vera said, eyeing his screen.

  He tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I may have downloaded the entire area to my off-line Google Maps. It only uses your GPS coordinates, so we can’t get lost when the service goes out.”

  “We’ve done this plenty,” Vera said. “There’s no way to get lost.”

  John rocked back on his heels, looked at me. “My dad always told me it was better to be overprepared than under. It’s a hard habit to shake.” He was right. Your parents never left you; their little pieces of wisdom followed you wherever you went, like a cloud casting a shadow. I loved and hated that he knew that as well as I did.

  We paused at the marker for the trailhead, and Vera lifted the lid to a metal box marked PLEASE REGISTER. She retrieved a clipboard from inside, its papers ruffled like tulle. She signed her name on it, as well as John’s, and then handed it to me. “You should sign in.”

  My limbs tightened as I remembered the notice at the restaurant. It was silly, but the idea of signing my name, physical proof of my whereabouts, was terrifying. Only it didn’t matter, I reminded myself. I’d been careful this time. I’d taken all the necessary precautions. Hell, I’d gone above and beyond.

  Vera narrowed her eyes. “Is that a problem?”

  “See, now this is what I meant about being pushy,” John ventured, nudging her with his elbow.

  Vera rolled her eyes and I found myself wishing I’d known what it was like to bicker without fear.

  “Gimme,” I said, taking the clipboard and glancing over the sheet. Vera Abernathy and John Nolan. She hadn’t taken his name—I loved that. Quickly, I scribbled Lucy King on the clipboard in elaborate script. I added the date and time, just as Vera had done above. “I’ve seen these before,” I added as Vera looked at me, trying to read me like a book. “I just didn’t think anyone actually filled them out.”

  “We didn’t used to,” Vera said, a hand on the strap of her CamelBak.

  John took two big steps ahead, eager to get going, and she followed.

  “What changed?”

  Ahead of me, I saw Vera shrug.

  “A girl disappeared here last year,” she said, without bothering to turn around. “They didn’t find her body until weeks later, halfway down the river.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I was winded by mile two. It wasn’t the distance so much as the climbing, so steady and constant I could hardly appreciate the change from birch groves to ferns, storybook oaks to running brooks.

  Vera and John had told me this was a fairly easy climb, but I wasn’t exactly in the habit of hiking, and besides, my head still ached from the night before, the exercise only exacerbating it. They walked ahead easily, pointing out butterflies and chipmunks and other wildlife to each other, and to me.

  “You okay?” Vera turned, perching a hand on her hip. She had a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, whereas I was covered in it. “Want some water?”

  I nodded. The bottle she’d loaned me had long ago been emptied. She held the spout up to me, and I leaned down, drinking, as if she were the momma dog and I was the suckling puppy.

  John knelt to tighten his laces, then stood. “I hope we aren’t tiring you out,” he said. “We’re used to hiking now, and Vera here’s a runner, but I guess you probably don’t get much of that in the city. Apart from those goddamned subway stairs.”

  I was too tired to laugh. I finished drinking, and Vera offered the spout to John, but he shook his head. “Okay, big, strong man,” she said. Then, turning to me: “It’s the Wisconsin in him.” She laughed and he did, too, and I remembered how he’d used a similar line only last night. They were perfect for each other—weren’t they?

  Water sloshed in my stomach; my insides felt like jelly. “You guys should go ahead,” I said. “I don’t want to slow yo
u down.”

  “You’re not,” John said, though we all knew it was a lie.

  A prick of heat in my chest. I didn’t like the thought of them waiting; it would only add to the pressure to pick up the pace, and I hated feeling rushed. “Go. Just wait up at the summit, and we can hike down together.” My voice rose the slightest bit. “I’d rather be able to go at my own pace.”

  They exchanged a look.

  “Seriously.”

  Vera bit her lip, but her determination waned. “Take the CamelBak, at least.” She shimmied out of it and handed it to me, then linked her hand in John’s. Quickly, they disappeared out of sight.

  I’m not sure how much farther it was to the summit, but it felt like it took me ages to get there. Wet leaves and mossy rocks tripped me, my calves ached, and my breath came in short, angry bursts. My stomach seemed ready to empty itself at any moment, and my soul craved the safety my mother had once offered: protection from the dangers of hikes, the fear of being found, angry men swearing at me for daring not to be a local, the ache of loneliness I’d come to know too well.

  I found them at a clearing, standing close, talking among themselves like no one else existed. Vera’s lips were drawn into a thin, flat line as John said something I couldn’t hear.

  Her eyes caught mine, and her expression instantly brightened. “There you are,” she said, tightening her ponytail and grinning almost too wide. “We were getting worried!”

  I stumbled up the rest of the hill and sucked hard on the water from the CamelBak. “Sorry,” I said, practically wheezing. “Did I take that long?” My stomach twisted again.

  “Not at all,” John said, eyes flashing briefly to his wife. “We’re just used to this one. Old pros.”

  I stepped forward and took in the views. Mountains rolled on all around us, every shade of green, clouds skimming the horizon like a painting. I gazed down at a rushing river below. My throat felt thick and coated with mucus. It was so far down to the bottom. “Is this the summit?” I asked.