The Burial Society

by Nina Sadowsky

He longed to reverse time itself, dial it back a week to when the stress of midterms and whether he would get to bone David, the hot sophomore from North Dakota, were his most pressing problems.

  Jake unfurled his body. As he entered the house, he called, “It’s just me.”

  After all, why let the creak of a door hinge lure Natalie to false hope?

  His father, on the other hand, could go fuck himself.

  The fucker was just where Jake had left him. On the sofa, head in hands, cellphone by his side. Natalie was curled into a corner of the loveseat, wrapped in an afghan, chewing raw the skin bordering her left thumbnail.

  “Call.” Jake was surprised venom didn’t spill from his mouth as he spoke. “It’s twenty-four hours. Call the cops.”

  Brian raised his head. His eyes were glassy.

  “Do it,” Jake spat.

  Brian’s eyes locked on Jake’s stony face. Drifted to Natalie’s wide-eyed stare. Finally, Brian grabbed for his cellphone and nodded. Stood. Hesitated. Then he picked up the blown glass hummingbird from the coffee table. It was Mom’s favorite, a birthday present from Jake and Natalie. “I’ll call from the kitchen,” Brian said, pocketing the glass figurine.

  “It’s his fault, you know,” Jake muttered as much to Brian’s retreating back as to Natalie.

  “Don’t,” his sister shot back. “Just don’t.”

  Brother and sister. Closer than many. In fact, closer than most. Three years and two months younger, little Natalie had worshipped her big brother from babyhood. Toddled after him. Played with trucks because he played with trucks. Cheered herself hoarse at his Little League games. Tailored her Halloween costumes to his whim. And of course, in return, he abused her. Teased and tickled her mercilessly. Shut her out of his games. Played pranks and pulled her hair. She had adored him throughout it all.

  As they got older, though, Jake became protective. Dad was away all the time. Mom was unhappy and distracted. Jake had felt too responsible for Natalie these last few years. She was fragile and Jake felt both responsible and burdened.

  It had been a relief to start college, to move to New York City, to get out of this house. He came home often enough. And Natalie had spent a weekend with him in the fall term. It was all right. She was all right. She was. Until last night. Until today.

  He’d been about to go out last night when he heard his parents fighting. It would have been impossible not to, what with the volume at which they were going at it. They fought a lot, they always had, so Jake had learned to tune out much of it. But last night, his mother had sounded different. Jake had hovered by the garage door, arrested by her tone and words. She wasn’t angry. She was afraid. She had said as much, out loud. She had actually uttered the words, “I’m afraid for my life!” as she slammed out the front door.

  Afraid of his father? Jake could believe it. Everyone thought Brian was such a paragon of virtue. A pillar of society. The respected architect with the international career, the gorgeous wife, and the two picture-perfect children. A staunch supporter of the fashionable charities (and even of one or two more personal projects, just to prove how individual and forward thinking he was). A handsome, affable guy, a rock star in his field, blessed with the ideal family, the ideal life.

  He was also the guy who had backhanded Jake across the mouth so hard he had sent him flying to the floor and knocked out a tooth.

  True, it had only been the one time, and Brian had sprung tears of apology even before Jake was back on his feet. But Jake couldn’t forget it. The incident festered and smoldered. From that day forward Jake knew his father was capable of sudden, terrifying violence.

  Mr. Brian Fucking Perfect Burrows wasn’t perfect after all.

  Frank Burrows’s life was literally one of buttons and bows. With a wife and twin daughters of the girliest sort, as well as a job selling beauty supplies, Frank was surrounded by the accoutrements of female adornment. He sold hairbrushes and ponytail holders, barrettes and bobby pins, combs and clips for a company called Good Hair!! (two exclamation points included on every package). He had risen through the ranks and was the manager of a tristate sales staff, so all good there, but the unvarnished truth was that Frank hated his job. How could he get excited about moving flimsy pieces of plastic and rubber encrusted with cheap rhinestones and plastic beading? He couldn’t.

  But Frank had a way with people; he could bullshit with the best of them, always found a conversational way in. And his staff loved his “low-key yet supportive brand of motivation.” If only they knew it was simply the path of least resistance. Remembering a wife’s name or that a kid just got an orange belt in tae kwon do went a long way in the world of sales. This, Frank was willing to do.

  As he piloted his Volvo closer to his brother’s place, Frank tamped down the rage that had simmered during his entire drive to Westport. Frank knew he had to let go of the argument that had erupted when he told Della he was using his vacation days to be with Brian and his kids. Had to forget her flashing eyes, the smack of her hand on the kitchen counter, the way she came at him with the poultry shears she plucked from the center of the butcher’s block. Even more frightening, how her mask of adoring mother, normal person, dropped into place when the babysitter came into the room with the girls. Della would never hurt the girls. Never. He believed that much at least, but her lightning-fast ability to swerve from harpy to happy was unnerving to say the least.

  He tried to remember a time when he’d loved Della, or even lusted for her, and failed. Instead he conjured the swelling bubble of pride, love, and anticipation that had consumed him when his newborn daughters were placed in his arms. Frank sighed.

  That delicious bubble had popped pretty quickly under the relentless pressure of his wife. More, more, more, she demanded. The best doctors, the certified nanny, the luxury double pram she’d seen in a celebrity magazine. Then on to the best toddler programs, private music lessons, Japanese classes. His girls would want for nothing even if it killed him. Some days he thought it might. Frank had to admit he never would have risen so high at his company without the cattle prod, but he also had to admit he wouldn’t have cared.

  Mallory had been missing for three days. Frank needed to get his head on straight. He was needed here.

  Turning the corner to Brian’s street, Frank was struck by the real/unreal quality of the vibrating pack of reporters and cameramen lurking across from the Burrows house. Of course there would be reporters. Why did he feel so shocked?

  Frank sucked in a nervous gulp of air as he pulled his car over to park.

  Reporters surged toward him. Frank slung his duffel bag over one shoulder. Patted his pockets. Keys? Yes. Wallet? Yes. Good to go.

  Frank opened the Volvo door. Lights flashed in his face. The air thrummed.

  As Frank slid from the car and slammed his door shut, he was swallowed by a surging mass of bodies. Cameras whirred to life. He raised one hand, shielding his face against the thrusting microphones, and muscled his way through the crowd. Questions were shouted. “Who are you?” “Are you Brian Burrows’s attorney?” “Did Brian kill his wife?”

  What? Brian kill Mallory? Completely absurd. Frank’s shoulders rose indignantly. Brian would never. Not Mallory. And he wouldn’t be capable anyway. It just wasn’t the way Brian was made.

  Frank wheeled around sharply. “Have some respect! Their children are in this house!”

  The flash of a camera caught Frank mid-yell, one eyebrow raised, so vitriolic he looked like a comic book supervillain in the resulting snap.

  Jake was spying.

  His perch on the second-floor landing was the same one he had picked since he was a little boy. To the left of the sightline of anyone seated in the deep burgundy leather sofa that anchored the living room. Behind the backs of those occupying the facing pair of cushy upholstered armchairs.

  His father and his uncle were on the couch. A pair of detectives occupied the chairs, their cheap, somber garb forbidding against the cheerful geometric design of ochre,
orange, and egg-yolk yellow.

  Jake had trolled the Westport Police website. Seen the statistics. Traffic accidents, vandalism, burglaries, bar fights, and noise complaints. Kids smoking pot. The occasional domestic disturbance. Not a hotbed of criminal conspiracy, his hometown.

  This domestic disturbance, this missing woman, his mother, the whole of it, seemed beyond them.

  They had no leads they said, no new information. They’d conducted local door-to-door inquiries, checked area CCTV footage, spoken to the employees at the women’s shelter where Mallory volunteered, interviewed all her friends. They’d deployed the department’s two K-9 officers with their dogs. But it was as if Mallory Burrows had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

  “We want to go over the night your wife disappeared one more time.”

  The speaker had coarse black hair. He raked his fingers through it.

  Detective Benson.

  Uncle Frank spoke first. “Again? For god’s sake, what else could he possibly tell you? It’s been almost three weeks and you just keep asking the same damn questions. How about some answers?”

  Jake pressed his hot forehead against the cool wood of the banister. Everybody knew the statistics. After forty-eight hours the likelihood of Jake’s mother being alive was slim, so by now…

  There was always the possibility that Mallory had just taken a breather, the lady cop, “Call me Karen,” had assured Jake and Natalie. “It happens, sometimes even the best moms need a break,” but Jake knew that couldn’t be true. He had just come home for spring break. Mom wouldn’t have. Not now.

  “Just take us through it one more time,” Cop Karen wheedled.

  The detectives’ high beams were trained on Brian. This both sickened and thrilled Jake. If his father had done it—and he was only thinking if, mind you, he wasn’t sure—but if he had done it, Jake wanted him to fry.

  “No, it’s all right,” his father said. “Anything, if it will help.”

  Brian’s story had a weary cadence to it now, freighted by multiple tellings. He had gotten home the night before Mallory disappeared. The business trip to Barcelona had gone well, he’d been awarded the commission. He was jet-lagged, slept in late. It was a Saturday. He had lunch at home with his wife and daughter. Their son came back from the city for spring break later that afternoon. They all had dinner together. Jake and Natalie went out afterward to see friends. Brian was tired and admittedly short-tempered. He and Mallory had words. She slammed the door as she left.

  “And said nothing about where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t mention going over to the yacht club where we found her car?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why she would have gone to the club that night?”

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times. We keep our family’s sailboat there, but as to why that night I have no idea.”

  “What were her last words to you?”

  “As I’ve already told you,” Brian spat through a tight jaw, “she told me to go fuck myself. I’m being completely transparent with you. We had a bad argument, yes! But that’s all I know….”

  Brian’s face clouded over, his voice choked with tears.

  Either his father hadn’t done it or he was a damn good actor. But why didn’t Dad tell the cops that Mom said she was afraid? Afraid for her life.

  “What was the fight about?” Benson pressed.

  “I’ve told you. The amount of traveling I was doing for work.”

  “In the course of your argument did your wife tell you she was afraid of someone or something?” Benson’s tone was mild.

  Jake tilted forward in anticipation. Let’s see what Dad has to say about this.

  “What?” Brian’s face mottled red.

  “Did she?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t take her seriously,” Brian choked out.

  Frank put a consoling hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “Is there a reason you kept this information from us, Mr. Burrows?” Cop Karen’s voice was as creamy as butter.

  “I was ashamed.” The words caught in Brain’s throat. “Ashamed that I belittled her fears. And then, the longer I went without saying anything…” He trailed off. Shrugged.

  “Do you know who or what she was afraid of?”

  “No. I…I wouldn’t listen to her. I told her she was being ridiculous. Overly dramatic. That’s why she told me to fuck myself.” Shame and pain strangled Brian’s words.

  The two detectives exchanged a sidelong glance.

  “And then what happened?”

  “Like I said. Mallory left. The kids came home, Natalie close to midnight, Jake a little after.”

  “Kinda late for a fifteen-year-old, isn’t it?” Benson made the question an accusation.

  “What are you implying?” Dad’s face contorted.

  Cop Karen leaned toward him. “We’re just trying to understand the rules of your household. Does Natalie have a curfew?”

  “Of course she does.” It was Uncle Frank who answered. “It was the first weekend of spring break. Home by midnight as requested.”

  His father shot Uncle Frank a look, startled, grateful. It occurred to Jake that Brian didn’t actually know whether Natalie had a curfew or not. Why would he? He was never here to enforce it. And Uncle Frank was so quick to cover for him.

  “Please continue, Mr. Burrows.”

  “I told both kids their mom had gone to bed early. That was unlike her, Mallory was a night owl, but I didn’t want them to worry.”

  “But you were worried, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet when you spoke to us you didn’t think to mention that your wife expressly told you she was afraid for her life?” Benson pressed again, this time with a sharper edge.

  “I know I should have said. But I don’t know anything, so it can’t really matter, right? She never told me anything specific.” The naked desperation on his father’s face turned Jake’s stomach. “Where did you hear that? Please. What else do you know?”

  “We’d like to ask you the same, Mr. Burrows.”

  The air vibrated with an ominous silence.

  Jake was disgusted by his father’s needy weakness. It was almost as bad as believing him capable of murder.

  Uncle Frank rose, decisive. “You need to go now. We need to get the kids their dinner. We’ve given you all the information we can.” The finality in his voice was not to be denied.

  The detectives stood. Made a show of shaking hands. Said good night in tones that rang with warning as Frank eased them toward the door.

  Uncle Frank had earned Jake’s respect these last couple of weeks. He’d handled everything. Taken complete charge. Even helped Jake and Natalie post “missing” flyers emblazoned with Mallory’s photograph all over town while Dad stayed at home hunched by the phone. And Jake knew Uncle Frank was as worried about Nat as he was. Natalie just wasn’t right. She wasn’t eating much, sure, but Jake suspected that was the least of it. It was like there was something rotten festering inside her. It was the only way he could think to describe it.

  You heard about these stories, these horrors, all the time. Women abducted. Imprisoned. Killed and discarded. But it wasn’t supposed to happen to you. Not to your family. Never to your mother.

  Jake retched, coughing up a string of yellow bile that he caught in his cupped palms. He made it into the bathroom just as he heard the sound of the front door closing behind the cops.

  The longer it went, the more isolated Natalie felt.

  Jake thundered and glowered when he was around the house, but came and went as he pleased, often without even a word. Dad was slow to respond, a half-step off all the time, just missing the point.

  Uncle Frank took care of everything: the shopping, the cooking, the laundry, the press, the cops, the neighbors and friends, both nosy and concerned. He arranged a leave of absence
from NYU for Jake. Called Natalie’s high school and arranged to have her work sent home.

  How could she care about biology and English lit? Advanced algebra or U.S. history? It all was a crock of shit. Her mother was missing.

  She couldn’t face it, the sea of curious, salacious, pitying faces. The gossip and whispers. The crude remarks and sly, ugly jokes. Even her close friends didn’t seem to know what to say and that pissed Natalie off. Their hesitancy and recoil. Their skittish eyes. Even her best friend, Melissa.

  Natalie gnawed down the bloody, ragged side of her left thumb. She welcomed the metallic tang of the blood, felt a stinging relief with each shred of skin worried away by her nimble teeth. A stab of hunger hit and she tried to remember the last time she ate. This morning. Half an apple, sliced into delicate, paper-thin wafers.

  Her stomach clawed at itself, but she didn’t dare eat more, deeply convinced of the urgent necessity of self-denial.

  She curled into her window seat and watched as her cousins, Addy and Ana, set up a tea party in the backyard. Normally Natalie would have indulged them and played along, but.

  She hadn’t left the house in thirteen days. She hadn’t left her room in four.

  Aunt Della’s whiny screech disrupted the gentle murmurs of Addy and Ana pouring “tea” and sharing cookies. Della had brought the twins for a visit. Natalie got that Uncle Frank wanted to see his girls, but bringing anyone into the toxic cloud that had descended on their home felt like a bad idea, much less someone as already poisonous as Della.

  Uncle Frank’s voice rose in response. Natalie couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he was angry. Aunt Della’s strident reply was clear as a bell, though. “You just try it. You’ll never see the twins again!”

  How could she? How could Della even think about leveling that kind of threat, now of all times? There she went, expertly demonstrating her tone-deaf response to the emotional delicacy of any situation. Natalie despised her.

  Anger fueled Natalie downstairs and into the kitchen. Uncle Frank stood at the sink, hands gripping the stainless steel rim. Dad perched on one of the four stools lined up at the kitchen counter.