Wrong.
Jerry and Ann sat in silence. He didn’t try to talk; could tell that his wife wouldn’t respond even if he did. And before he knew it the doorbell rang, startling him. He looked at Ann. She didn’t seem to have noticed the sound.
“Must be the food,” he said. “You want to get the kids, or take care of the food?” His wife said nothing, just continued tracing those circles around the rim of the glass. He moved it away from her. Her eyes moved away from the picture she’d been staring at, but didn’t quite manage to focus on him. “I’ll get the kids,” he finally said.
She nodded. Again, the movement was slow. He wondered if she was like this for everyone. Or was it just for him?
He stood and headed for the front stairs. The house had two sets, one that led up from the foyer, and another that ended in the back of the kitchen. As he stepped toward the hall, Ann spoke.
“Jerry?”
He turned. Hope bloomed. He didn’t know what he was hoping for, exactly. Maybe that she’d run to him, that she’d hold him, that she’d tell him it was all going to be okay; that they’d get through this and survive.
None of those. “How’d he get up?” she said.
Jerry blinked. “Huh?”
“How’d he get through the gate without ringing?” Her brow furrowed in irritation. “Did you leave it open?”
Jerry tried to think. He remembered griping out Ted, remembered Socrates barking like crazy. Remembered the rake in the mechanism and Rosa screaming at him. And, of course, he remembered his reluctance to come home, the melancholy he’d felt all day on this worst of anniversaries.
But had he closed the gate?
He shrugged. “I guess I must not have.”
Ann sighed, as though she had to put up with horrors like this on a regular basis, and only her supremely charitable soul kept her from lashing out and doing something terrible. Jerry had to fight to keep his eyes from rolling. To remind himself that they were all hurting, and getting into a fight right now wouldn’t help anything.
“You gonna get the food?” he asked.
She nodded and moved toward her purse, which was on the counter near the opposite end of the kitchen.
Jerry nodded and ran up the steps. Or rather, he started to run. But with every tread his feet slowed a bit. Because he knew that Ann wasn’t going to be the only one who was difficult to handle today. Not the only ghost in this huge tomb masquerading as a home.
No, there were still the kids to deal with.
9
Because he was moving slowly, he was only halfway up the front stairs when Ann emerged from the kitchen. The roof was vaulted high above them both, with some naked beams showing, adding a rustic look that was both incongruous and strangely compatible with the rest of the modern house.
Jerry watched as his wife moved to the front door, holding three twenties in front of her. She moved with a shuffling, almost stumbling gait. If he hadn’t known better he would have guessed she was drugged. And now that he thought of it, maybe she was – melancholy, grief, denial, anger… they could all affect the mind as potently as any man-made pharmaceutical.
She passed the baby grand piano that sat at the edge of the living room, and Jerry saw his wife touch its keys. She used to play. Not anymore. Music was gone from the house. Music along with so many other things.
He saw it for a moment in his mind. The thing that had killed the music. The green. The jewel-green with streaks of red reaching through it and a dark form at its edge.
Then Ann opened the door, and Jerry was grateful for the interruption to the memory.
He couldn’t see the delivery man. The angle was wrong and the porch light must have burnt out, because though Ann flicked the switch no light flooded in when she opened the door. So all he saw was a dark form and the shape of a baseball cap with the Chinese restaurant’s logo on it. Still, the figure seemed unfamiliar to him, and he thought they knew all the delivery people.
A sobering thought itself.
When did we start eating exclusively takeout food?
“Hey,” said the delivery man. He held out two white plastic bags, knotted tightly at the tops. “That’ll be forty-nine fifty-two.”
His voice was strange. Nothing wrong with the tone, but it was oddly emotionless. Or no, that wasn’t right, Jerry realized. It was more… contained. Like he was trying desperately to hold himself back, like he was on the verge of flying to pieces. As though if he let himself show the slightest trace of emotion, even vocally, he might completely lose all control and God only knew what would happen then.
That’s ridiculous, Jer-Jer. Get a grip.
Red on green. Tendrils in the light. Beauty and death.
Ann took the bags, handed him three twenties. Then she frowned. “I thought I knew all the delivery guys at Chang’s.”
The man shrugged, the dark shadows of his shoulders going up and down once. “It was my turn to come out,” he said. “My turn,” he added. He giggled, then turned away before she could say anything else.
Ann watched him go, clearly confused, then swung the door shut behind him and went back to the kitchen. Jerry watched her go and felt like calling out to her. He suddenly wanted company. Something about what he had just seen had… disquieted him.
Admit it, Jer-Jer. That weirded you out.
He shook his head. Started to climb and as he climbed he even managed to convince himself that he was shaking his head because Ann would have been angry to discover he was watching her and not to deny how terribly frightened he suddenly was.
10
Jerry turned down the hall. Three enormous rooms up here, all interconnected with jack-and-jill bathrooms. He had loved that fact when he had first seen the house. It seemed fanciful, whimsical. Like a labyrinth in a fairy tale, and when they moved here the plan was that every single room would hold a treasure, would be the end of the maze, the gold at the end of the rainbow.
Now, though, the magic seemed to have leached out of the house. The bright colors of his life had dimmed to faded pastels, here as everywhere else.
Jerry went to the first door. Knocked on it.
Drew answered. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” said Jerry.
There was a pause, long enough that Jerry started to get irritated. He believed in giving the kids their space and a sense of privacy, but it was rude to just leave him out here like this.
He was at the point of saying something when Drew’s voice came again: “Come on in.”
Jerry opened the door. Stepped in.
His son’s room was huge. That was what always hit him when he came in. So much bigger than anything Jerry had ever had as a kid, but he was glad of that. Glad that his son could enjoy nice things, could enjoy life.
The walls were papered haphazardly with pin-ups (none too risqué, thank goodness) and posters of rock groups that all looked like they were in serious needs of a good stylist and someone to wash their clothes on at least a semi-annual basis. But his son didn’t take after them. Drew was fifteen and had that fresh, well-scrubbed look that Jerry knew would stand him in better stead than trying to be on the cutting edge of fashion. Fashions changed, trends moved too fast to keep up with, but cleanliness and good grooming never went out of style.
Jerry loved his boy.
(Your remaining boy.)
He felt tears threaten to rise up behind his eyes at that thought, and as much to avoid them as to salute Drew he walked to where the kid sat. Drew was at his desk, feet propped up on it while he read a school book and enjoyed a nice breeze coming in through his open window behind the desk.
“Hey, kid.”
“Hey, Dad,” said Drew. He didn’t look up from his book. He studied hard and got almost straight As, though things had dipped a bit in the last year. Hardly a surprise. “What’s new?”
“Not much,” said Jerry. “Just a long day of ‘stickin’ it to the man.’ You?” He was joking.
Drew answered. He wasn’t joking. “Despair a
s corporate America becomes more and more faceless.” He sighed. “I really wonder what I’m going to do after high school, since it’s less and less likely that a college education is going to help me out in the job market.”
Jerry kept his face impassive. That was a conversation for another time. Though he was concerned his son might be right: college was turning more and more into an extremely expensive babysitting experience, after which most graduates emerged without their virginity (those few that still had it going in), with an extremely high tolerance for low-quality alcohol… but with no marketable skills whatsoever. Jerry thought education should teach a person something that would benefit them in real life and not just serve to put real life off for another four years. But he didn’t want to tell his son that; at least not now.
Drew saved him from dealing with the issue, though at the cost of dealing with something else Jerry didn’t want to face tonight: “How’s Mom?” said the kid.
Jerry shrugged. “How are you?” he finally said.
Drew was quiet for a long time. He stared at nothing, reminding Jerry of Ann. Would the whole family look like that soon, capable of vision but unable to see anything of value in their lives?
“I miss him,” Drew finally said. He hesitated, and Jerry saw his cheeks color as if the kid was embarrassed. “But I can’t remember what he looked like. I see his pictures, but it’s like looking at pictures of someone I’ve never met.” He looked up, his eyes boring into Jerry. “It’s only been a year, Dad. Shouldn’t I remember him better?”
Jerry didn’t know what to say. That was one of the things no one told you about becoming a parent: that it was the thing that would make you feel stupider than anything else. So many questions, so many important questions, and the only constant in all the answers was that you knew as a parent that your answer was likely the absolute worst one possible.
So Jerry didn’t answer. Not today. It was too raw, too real. Too hard. He just looked at his son, his beautiful, only remaining son, and said, “Dinner’s downstairs. We’re going to watch some TV while we eat. Just the family.”
Drew nodded. He looked like he understood why Jerry couldn’t answer. Looked like he understood… and hated Jerry for his weakness.
That was okay with Jerry. Because he knew he deserved the hatred. That was the one answer he could confidently give his children.
Go ahead and hate me. Hate your old man. Because any hate you have for me is earned.
He forced a smile onto his face.
“See you downstairs in five.”
11
Jerry felt like he had been through a five-minute round with a heavyweight MMA fighter. He wondered if things would ever get back to normal, if talking to his children would ever just be something he did, ever be something that simply happened again.
Probably not. Not since what had happened. Not since a year ago.
Don’t lie to yourself, Jer-Jer. It wasn’t a year ago. It was before that. It was since the girl. Since you –
He knocked on the next door. “Round two,” he said under his breath.
“Hold on,” came Sheri’s voice. “I’m not dressed!”
Another wait, though this one was much shorter than the one he had endured outside Drew’s room.
“Okay, it’s safe!” she said.
Jerry opened the door and walked into another large room.
A computer sat on a small desk near the door. Off. Not surprising. Jerry had bought the thing for her several years ago and near as he could tell Sheri hardly ever used it.
His eyes went to her. She was sitting in bed, her blankets pulled up to cover her up to her neck. She was clearly getting ready to go to sleep. And even getting ready for bed, even as merely a floating head against a backdrop of bedding, Jerry could see – as always – that his seventeen-year-old daughter was what the kids called a “hottie.” He went through the usual ritual of convincing himself he didn’t have to worry about her. She rarely went out, she never partied. She was almost always in her room, and when she did go out it was with her girlfriends, usually shopping, and always back at a decent hour.
Another thing no one told you about being a parent – specifically about being a dad – was how many different homicidal urges sprang to life around the time your daughter started wearing a training bra.
He sat down at the foot of Sheri’s bed as she scooted her feet up under the covers to make room for him. “Hey, Princess. Hitting the hay early?”
She nodded. “I’m tired. Studied my behind off today.”
“Test tomorrow?” Another nod from his daughter. “Well, don’t work too hard. You know what the doctor said.”
Sheri rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah: I gotta take it easy.”
Jerry smiled. “Just trying to watch out for you.”
“And I keep telling him – and you – that I’m not made of spun sugar.”
Jerry nodded but didn’t address the statement. Sheri’s condition was something she had to live with, whether she liked it or not, and he didn’t want to have the usual circular argument with her about it. So he sidestepped. He rubbed her feet through the blanket and said, “Anyway… the family’s doing dinner and a show.”
Sheri yawned widely. “Not really interested, Daddy.”
“I know you’re tired, Princess. But you know what day it is. And I think we should do this for your mom.”
“I think she’ll be okay.”
Sheri wasn’t going to budge, he could tell. Jerry stopped rubbing her feet. He kept his voice even but firmed it up around the edges. “This isn’t really a request,” he said. “We should be together.”
Sheri glared at him. Jerry let her glare for a while, hoping she would get tired of it. She didn’t, so he got up and walked to her door.
“If we should be together today, then why’d you disappear?”
Jerry stiffened. He felt his face twist, felt the pain of well-earned guilt writhe across his features. He didn’t turn around. Just resumed walking.
“I’ll expect you in five minutes.”
He left. He thought he heard her say something. Maybe not.
Or maybe she said, “I hate you.”
And that would have been more than he deserved.
He was barely two steps down the hall when he heard Sheri cry out. All thoughts of what was happening to the family fled in an instant. Her voice was startled – no, panicked – and he turned and bolted back through her door.
She had been facing her window, but when Jerry barreled into her room Sheri whipped around to face him, yanking the blanket that she had half-wrapped around her so that it completely covered her from neck to ankle. Her face reddened.
“Geez, don’t you knock?”
“I… I heard you yell.”
The flush in her cheeks died. The flare in her eyes faltered as well, and she glanced back at the window. Jerry stepped farther into the room. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was small, and Jerry was suddenly reminded of the little girl who had run around the yard in nothing but a pair of shorts and a sunbonnet. She needed him again, just like that four-year-old had needed him.
Jerry looked out the window. “Did you see something?”
“Maybe.”
“What?”
Sheri was silent. She bit her lower lip. “I thought for a second that someone was watching.”
A taloned finger seemed to trace its way up Jerry’s spine in time with her words. “You sure?”
Sheri shook her head. “No. It was just a second.”
Jerry had a thought. “Could it have been Ted?”
“Our neighbor?” Sheri thought about it. “I don’t know. I don’t know for sure if I saw anyone at all, Dad.”
Jerry reached out and touched his daughter, almost hugged her. But didn’t. Not quite. Not because he didn’t think she wanted a hug, but because a part of him thought – a part of him knew – that she deserved better than that. “Well, maybe we should call the police. Just to
be safe.”
“No,” she said. She seemed to gather strength from his willingness to make such a call. Or maybe it was just the fact that the shadow she had seen apparently wasn’t visible anymore.
The pale lies we tell ourselves in order to sleep better at night, Jerry thought. And for a moment he thought how much Sheri looked like another young woman he had known in the not-too-distant past.
He looked away from her. Don’t go there, he thought.
Strangers Page 5
