Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Arguing earlier that the book would be a burden in his backpack and that he probably wouldn't have time to read, Wendy had tried to talk him out of it. Tyler had been adamant. And then, like the typical ten-year-old that he was, he'd forgotten to take it, anyway.

  She decided to walk the book over to Josh's mother, who could present it to Ty to take or not. The one thing Wendy would not do was offer to run the book upstairs to him herself; her son would die on the spot of mortification.

  She strolled down Bluff Road, exchanging good-evenings with an occasional neighbor walking her dog, and breathing in the scent of beach roses and honeysuckle. Yes, she mused, waterfront living had a lot to recommend it. She loved the starry nights and the bracing smell of the ocean—loved even the overripe smell of low tide. She loved the sound of the crickets and the absence of traffic and the sweet-smelling screens of hedges and shrubs.

  All of it was easy to love—but home was still home. Eventually, down the road, someday, if she lived that long: Wendy would be in her own house again.

  Wendy dropped off the Harry Potter with a few friendly words to Josh's mother, and then she retraced her steps, stopping at one point on the sandy lane simply to take in the sky. It was a moonless night, and infinitely starry. She would have liked to just lie in a chaise longue, counting shooting stars and thinking about words of love, but she had promised Zack that she'd stay safe.

  And besides, she was too exhausted even to count the toes on her feet, much less the stars. There had been too many sleepless, restless nights lately, each of them with a different crisis to consume her. Her eyes burned, her heart ached, and her mind was turning to pudding. Maybe that's what it took to be able to sleep. She meant to find out.

  She locked the windows and shut off the hall lights, then plodded tiredly into the guest room where she'd set up camp, locking the windows there as well. She was too tired to move all of her things back to the master bedroom; tomorrow was another day. Rejecting her earlier thought of taking a second shower, she fumbled in the dark for her nightgown, the straps of which were somehow tangled on the door hook.

  She considered wearing nothing at all—with all of the windows closed, it was bound to be uncomfortably warm, and she hated central air—but the thought of having to run out into the street stark naked and yelling, "Help, help!" in an emergency made her feel unusually modest.

  Smiling grimly at the success that Zack had had in spooking her, she undressed with her eyes closed, relishing the thought of the sweet oblivion that was soon to come. Sleep, blissful sleep. The blanket and matching matelassé coverlet were far too heavy; she pulled them back, flipping them over the iron footboard of the bed and letting them puddle on the needlepoint rug. A sheet tonight would be more than enough.

  Her head was inches from the pillow when she realized that she hadn't bothered to brush her teeth.

  So what? Who's going to smell your breath?

  The tooth fairy, if her mother was right. Wendy made herself get back out of bed, Gracie Ferro's good little girl, and dragged herself out to the bathroom, wondering whether she could put toothpaste on a brush without turning on the light.

  She didn't get the chance to find out.

  In the bathroom she was grabbed from behind and pinned to a body that felt twice her size, a monster straight out of Grimm's. He loomed over her and around her, he was everywhere that she didn't want him to be, dragging her easily back into the bedroom. It was all happening so fast; her mind was wasting precious seconds in shocked denial.

  She shouldn't be surprised, she shouldn't be paralyzed.

  Do something, she told herself. Scream, shout, resist! But screaming, that was out; his monster hand was clamped over her mouth as well as her nose. She could scarcely breathe, let alone scream; she was close to a faint.

  His arm was massive, flattened against her breast with such force that it hurt. She tried to snap out of it, tried to kick. But she was barefoot, whacking her heel against steel. What were her options? What could she do? She tried to bite; she couldn't move her lips. She tore at his forearms, but her nails were trimmed short.

  He threw her on the bed. In the act, he lost his grip over her mouth. She bit down hard. He let out a yelp, then slapped her, making her see stars. She thought about Tyler, of how she couldn't have him go through the horror that Zina had, and that gave her a burst of strength almost to match the monster's. She rolled away somehow and landed a vicious kick to his groin, making him howl. It made her truly afraid, afraid enough to scramble off the other side of the bed and run for her life.

  But not fast enough. He caught her again and knocked her to the floor, then rolled her over and sat across her belly: a huge, repulsive, terrifying, alien blob of flesh.

  She was witless with fear, unable to breathe; he was crushing her.

  "That spitfire shit don't work with me; where'd you think you'd get? Ah, ow ...!" Still groaning in pain from her kick, he slapped her again for good measure, then said, "Where is he? That's all I wanted to know, you dumb—"

  "I don't know, I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "He left right after you did."

  "Bullshit. How will you reach him?"

  "Him?" She snorted weakly, despite her blind fear. "He said he'd call."

  "Fine. This is what you tell him when he does. You tell him what happened here. You tell him to call. You tell him I'm, y'know, waiting to hear. Can you do that?"

  She nodded. "But—"

  "No buts. You know them TV commercials? Just do it."

  "He might not call, he might never—"

  "What'd I say? Okay? I have to go now," he said in an odd, sing-song voice that she remembered all too well.

  He lifted his hand and brought it down: more stars, more than in the lane, and hovering over a far blacker night.

  ****

  By the time the police arrived, Wendy had a plastic bag filled with ice and wrapped in a dish towel planted firmly against her chin. It wasn't vanity that made her want to keep the swelling down, but a sense of outrage at Jim. She had endured her last trauma because of him. The very last.

  While one of the men took her statement, which didn't include any mention of the word "bigamous," the other officer did a quick sweep through the house and over the grounds. Wendy was able to describe the car that she remembered from the night before, although it obviously had been nowhere in sight when she'd re-entered the house. But it had been too dark for her to give any but what she considered a vague description of her assailant.

  She had been roughly handled by a man wanting to know where Jim was; that was the situation, simply stated. Wendy found herself feeling actually grateful to the brute that it hadn't gone any further than that.

  The police, however, treated the matter like the felony it was. They called in a description of the car, as well as what she remembered of her assailant, for intercity broadcast to the police departments of surrounding towns. They summoned detectives and also a photographer who immediately took Polaroids of her bruises, a process that Wendy found intensely embarrassing.

  The detectives began dusting for prints. The doorknobs, the path of entry, even the handle on the toilet of the guest bath where he'd grabbed her, all got the treatment.

  The detectives interrogated her even more thoroughly, eliciting details she didn't realize she knew. She remembered, in answer to one of their questions, that the man's arms were hairy, for one thing. The recollection of them wrapped around her body was suddenly so vivid that she had to excuse herself and go throw up. But she came back with new determination to have the evil blob thrown in hell: she answered the detectives' questions with as much grim detail as she could call up.

  The detectives were sympathetic, which made her want to hug them. They asked her if she had family in the area, and when she answered, "Yes, lots of it," they advised her to call someone. Wendy thanked them politely and said she'd consider it.

  As soon as the first police car left, Joshua's father came over for news.

  Mo
re humiliation. Wendy could see it—or maybe she just imagined it—in the young CEO's face as he stood in the front doorway: there goes the neighborhood. She told him that it was a case of mistaken identity—which in a weird way, it was—and that he very definitely should take Tyler to the Vineyard as planned.

  "I'll be going to the station in the morning to look through mug shots," she explained. "I'm assuming you won't mention any of this to the kids. If by chance they do hear something, please just say that the burglar alarm malfunctioned and that's why the police came."

  She could see that he wasn't happy about being drafted as a co-conspirator, but he said reluctantly, "Sure. Just let us know what else we can do."

  Wendy thanked him profusely and then went back inside. The detectives were concerned about her. She promised them that she would put the alarm on. "Even if it's only to walk across the lane."

  "At the least, lock the door," the older detective said. "It only takes a few seconds to gain access. Anywhere—even if the neighborhood's safe."

  "I know; I've read my 'Dear Abby,' " she quipped, trying to sound strong.

  The other detective said gently, "The trick is to listen to 'Dear Abby.' "

  "I have Mace," she offered. "If I can figure out where I put it."

  "That would be helpful."

  The Mace was a gift from a cousin who now lived on a farm and had views about cities. Wendy had laughed when she opened the box. It seemed funny at the time.

  At last the detectives packed up their equipment and left. Wendy activated the alarm, took off the jeans and top that she'd pulled on over her nightgown, and threw them all in the wash. With the bathroom door locked and her newly found Mace planted not far from her shampoo, she took a quick shower and then pulled back the covers again, this time of the master bed.

  And there she lay, eyes wide open, starting at every sound, feeling alone and betrayed and abused. Tears rolled out, but she wiped them away. She was going to have to be stronger than that. This was no big deal, just one of Jim's deals. They never worked out. And Jim was not going to call. Ever. He was leaving her with heartaches all around and—for all she knew—no money, which she didn't want anyway because it was his. Or, soon, the assailant's. Either way ... not for her, she decided with loathing.

  One thing had become clear in the murky pond that was her life. She understood, now, why she had been so doggedly determined to believe Jim and not Zack: she had been afraid that she was falling for Zack, and the guilt about it had made her stupid.

  Guilt. What a useless, wasted emotion. She lay staring at the ceiling, fearing the past, dreading the future, searching for something that would help her to sleep.

  I love you. Does that explain yesterday?

  His words had been tolling back and forth through her head and heart all evening long. She had relished them, cherished them, felt sure that she was going to reciprocate them—but she still hadn't been convinced that they explained yesterday.

  Now she thought that maybe they did.

  ****

  When his cell phone rang, Zack was in his mother's rocking chair and watching over his sister, asleep on her couch and snug under her tablecloth quilt. Next to her was an assortment of luggage and paper shopping bags, all of them filled. Zina was ready to roll.

  Zack had dropped into a catnap himself and wasn't as quick as he should have been in fishing his cell phone out of his front pocket. Zina stirred, then shifted position.

  Zack glanced at the kitchen clock: it was three in the morning.

  He flipped open the phone to stop the ring, and at the same time whispered, "Shh, shh, go back to sleep, Zee. It's nothing."

  He murmured, "Yes?" to acknowledge the call and then stepped softly outside the house to hear what Wendy had to say.

  She downplayed what had happened, but as he listened, Zack's soul seemed to crystallize in place. No alarm ... alone in the house ... with a thug twice her size ....

  "Are you hurt?" he said, practically slurring over the words with concern.

  "Mostly my pride," she said ruefully. "I locked the front door but not all the windows when I decided to walk out with Ty's book. He punched out a screen in the guest bathroom window—which, by the way, I never did lock before I went to bed, or he wouldn't have escaped without setting off the alarm. On the other hand," she added with a pained laugh, "did I really want him stuck in the house with me?"

  "But are you hurt!"

  "I have a couple of bruises, thoroughly photographed. Mostly I'm shaken up. He was a little on the—"

  He heard her voice break as she said, "—horrific side."

  "I'll be there in an hour."

  "No, Zack," she said, suddenly firm again. "I shouldn't have called, but you're the only one who knows everything. Such excitement; I guess I just had to share."

  Her voice was wry and brave, but he wasn't convinced. In any case, it hardly mattered. He had to be there.

  "And Zina?" she asked him, going straight to the heart of his dilemma. "How is she?"

  "Better. We talked for hours. I definitely got through to her. She understands about Jim; the question is, for how long? I gave her an over-the-counter sleeping pill that I picked up on the way. She hasn't been sleeping, and I think at least part of her problem is exhaustion. You go too long without sleep, you become delusional."

  "Like a sailor caught in a storm at sea," Wendy murmured.

  She got it completely. It wasn't hard to understand why.

  "Right now, she's out like a light," Zack explained. "I think what I'll do is leave a note with her landlady to call me if she sees any urgent movements over there. And I'll get in touch with the shelter, come morning. Zina has friends there; one of them will be wilting to stay with her until I figure out the next step."

  There was a pause, and then Wendy said firmly, "I don't want you to come down here, Zack. It was good just to hear your voice. After you get things worked out with Zina ... that's soon enough."

  "No. I love you."

  "And you love your sister. Which is why I—"

  Say it, he thought. Please, just say it.

  "Come when you can, Zack—but not before. I'm fine, now," she said softly, and she hung up.

  Zack folded his phone and stood in the yard under a fading canopy of stars. It would be light soon, and he'd be able to implement his plan to surround his sister with people who cared for her enough to keep her safely inside.

  But just for good measure, he decided to take her car keys with him.

  Chapter 28

  It wouldn't have been so bad if it had happened on the way back, at least. But no-o-o ... the guy had to hit them before they were barely away from the house. Before they were on the highway, even. But that's because Joshua's mother was trying to be so careful that she came to a dead stop, instead of just merging into traffic the way people are supposed to do. Plus, the guy who smacked into them was talking on his cell phone, the cops said. He got an extra ticket for that, Joshua's mother said. Good.

  Joshua's mother was really shook up, even though the bumper was only a little smashed in. None of them even got hurt. (Actually, Tyler had twisted his finger because he was goofing off, trying to get the stuck coffee holder in the back unstuck—but no way was he going to tell anyone that.)

  "You could have been killed, you could have been killed," she kept telling them all the way back home, and she was actually crying. And Joshua was, like, "Get a grip, Mother." Tyler was embarrassed for Josh. His mother would never have lost it like that.

  So they drove back home, and Joshua's mother started calling everyone's moms to come pick them up. Joshua said his birthday was a total disaster, and Tyler definitely agreed. He was so bummed out.

  They were all in Joshua's room, playing video games but not really, when Joshua's mother came upstairs.

  She said to Tyler, "I've called your mother, but she's still not home. Does she have a cell phone?"

  Tyler said yes, but then he couldn't remember the number. It was so embarrassi
ng. "It's a brand-new one," he said, but of course, he still looked like an idiot. And why couldn't he have his own cell? Just because he lost two of them was no reason. He was supposed to get a new one last week, but then there was all the commotion.

  "Well, I'm sure she'll be home soon," Joshua's mother said, but Tyler didn't think that she looked sure about anything. "In the meantime, you can just stay here with Josh."

  But he didn't want to stay there! He wanted to go to Martha's Vineyard. Tyler had only been there once, so at least he could say he'd been there, but he had been only three years old. His mom had bought him a Black Dog T-shirt; at least, that's what she'd told him. What good was a Black Dog T-shirt if you were only three?

  Two of the kids got picked up super-fast: Michael and Jeremy. That left Andrew; his father picked him up a little while later. As for Tyler, he would rather have gone home and read his Harry Potter if they weren't going to Martha's Vineyard.

  It would have been rude, though, to read in front of Joshua, who hated reading, so Tyler went downstairs when Josh was in the bathroom and asked if he could wait for his mom at home.

  "Absolutely not," Joshua's mother said. "You're staying here."

  By then he felt like a prisoner. "Can we go outside, at least?"

  "Yes, of course. Just don't you two go wandering off too far."

  Josh was a real jock; he had a garage full of mountain bikes. He ran in to tell his mother that they were just going for a ride around the house.

  "What did she say?" Tyler asked as he rolled out a really cool bike: fifteen speeds, and with a lower top tube that he could just straddle.

  "Nothin'. She was on the phone."

  They rode around the block a couple of times, and then around the next block, past Michael's house. He came out on his bike, and then they all three decided where to go next.

  "Let's go past my house," Tyler suggested. "I'll see if my mom's home yet."

  Off they went. Tyler was happy to see, as they rounded the corner, that his mother's Taurus was parked in front of the house. She must have just gotten home.