by Amy Stuart
In the backseat Ginny’s thumbs dance madly on the screen of her phone. The road narrows from eight lanes to six, tall buildings giving way to warehouses and subdivisions, roadside fast food. Clare watches the changing landscape with her mind on all that transpired this morning, the interview with Rourke and Somers and the scrutiny she felt under Rourke’s regard. And after that, Malcolm’s voice in her head. We agreed. You promised. His appearance, the anxious air that surrounded him. Then the hour in the glass case of Jordan’s office, her skin bumpy with the cold of its air-conditioning, the exchanges between Philip and Jordan too cryptic to decipher.
“So what’d the cops ask you?” Ginny asks.
“Routine stuff. About Sally.”
“Did they ask about me?”
Clare shifts to face Ginny in the backseat. “No.”
“What questions would they have about you?” Jordan asks.
“Who knows?”
Ginny’s cheeks have reddened. She lifts her palm to one as if expecting to find it hot.
“How long did they interrogate you for?” Jordan asks.
“An hour, maybe,” Clare says.
“Then you went to the park,” Jordan says.
This had been her story, but now Clare registers that Jordan might have means of knowing her true mission. Might have had her followed. There were so many people at the park that someone watching would have easily blended in. Or, Clare thinks, Jordan might know of Malcolm because he might be the one who hired him to take on Sally’s case. She has to measure every word.
“Like I told you,” Clare says. “It was too hot at the park. I didn’t stay long.”
“It’s disgustingly hot,” Ginny says. “Did you walk up Young Avenue to get there?”
“I did,” Clare says.
“Did you shop? I really need a new jean skirt.”
Something in the banality of the question makes Clare queasy. To imagine a life so unencumbered as to be about trying on skirts in stores when a woman has just disappeared. But with Ginny the nonchalance seems forced. She is working hard to detach herself from the terrible things unfolding around her.
“No,” Clare says. “I didn’t have time to shop. I was trying to get my bearings. I’m not used to cities, really.”
“That’s pretty obvious.” Ginny unlocks her seat belt and pulls herself forward, one elbow on each of the front seats.
“Do up your seat belt,” Jordan says.
“I feel left out back here,” Ginny says. “Just don’t crash, okay?”
It is striking how flawless Ginny is up close, how young, her hair swept aside on her forehead in a perfect pixie. She studies Clare too from only inches away.
“You’re kind of . . . boyish,” Ginny says.
“My mom used to say the same thing.”
“Nice hair, though. Eyes too. You’re actually really pretty.”
Clare flushes. She can sense Jordan glance her way.
“Stay away from Markus,” Ginny says.
Too late, Clare thinks, the details of their encounter at the bunker blurry in the haze of the pills wearing off. But she clearly remembers his agitation, the way Markus fidgeted, the stains on his clothes. The look of a man coming undone.
“Why stay away from Markus?” Clare asks.
“Rebecca has serious jealousy issues. She thinks every woman who shows up at High River is after her man.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Jordan says.
“Oh, it’s true,” Ginny says. “She’s like a crocodile. Eyes above water, quietly watching. Ready to pounce. Even me, and Markus is my uncle. Don’t mess with her perfect little life.” Ginny claps her hands flat to mimic the snapping mouth. “Or she’ll snatch you by the legs and break your neck.”
“Ginny!” Jordan scolds.
“They met on some new age dating site,” Ginny says. “Got married after about a week.”
“It was two months,” Jordan says.
“Yeah, well. Not quite enough time for Rebecca to pick up on what a doozy she was landing.”
“I assure you,” Clare says. “I’m not interested in anyone else’s husband.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re prettier than Rebecca and that’ll make her insane. Trust me.” Ginny puckers her lips in a whistle. “What about Rourke? You interested in him?”
“What? No. Why would you ask that?”
“He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“I wasn’t paying attention to how he looks,” Clare says.
“Come on. He makes you pay attention to how he looks. And you’re pretty. As if he didn’t notice that.”
Clare shakes her head, bewildered. Ginny’s boldness astounds her.
“Don’t tell me you never cared about that stuff,” Ginny continues. “Pretty women always know they’re pretty.”
Of course. In high school it followed Clare like a scent, and she feigned indifference in part because it seemed to heighten it. Any time Grace would mention a boy’s name Clare would feel herself circling, however subtly, laughing a little harder at his jokes as Grace hovered shyly nearby. Be careful, Clare’s mother would say as she combed out her hair. Those looks of yours will bring you trouble. You don’t realize it. They’re a weapon you’re not trained to use. Now Clare thinks of the long hold in Rourke’s glances. Could it be only that? That he finds her pretty?
“You must have been a hotshot in high school,” Ginny says.
“I don’t know,” Clare says. “I was more into—”
“Please don’t say sports,” Ginny says.
“I was going to say guns.”
Ginny squeals. “What? Tell me more!”
They turn off onto a four-lane road. For years, Clare’s mother called her boyish because of how well she took to her father’s shooting lessons, outdoing her older brother in no time at target practice, her father encouraging her despite her mother’s protests. Clare’s muscle memory can still call up the feeling of her father’s shotgun in her hands, the barrel pressed into her shoulder, cheekbone resting close to where her finger grazed the trigger. She will paint this picture for Ginny and Jordan, their own histories marked by guns, a telling of Clare’s truth that may incite them to share.
“I grew up on a farm,” Clare says. “My dad taught me to shoot when I was young. I took to it. I’m good at it.”
“A markswoman. That could have come in handy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were Sally’s friend,” Ginny says. “You knew what she was up against. Why didn’t you just sniper off her husband for her?”
“Ginny!” Jordan cranes to her, the car reacting with a small swerve.
“It’s okay,” Clare says. “It’s actually a very valid question.”
“She could have claimed self-defense.” Ginny swats Jordan on the shoulder. “You need to watch the road!”
“Maybe,” Clare says. “But there’s more to it than that.”
“Listen,” Ginny says. “A lot of the women who show up at Helen’s house seem perfectly normal. I know it’s supposed to be about empathy. I took Psych as an elective and the prof was always waxing on about not judging people’s lives, because you never know the whole story, examine your own position first, blah blah blah. And this is a terrible thing to say, but part of me just wanted to yell at them. The women. Why didn’t you just leave? Or fight back? I’m practical that way, you know? That’s why I’m studying engineering. Why I can’t handle things like Psych. Because if it’s not working, fix it.”
Clare looks to the roof and blinks fast.
“You were her friend,” Ginny continues, quieter. “Why didn’t you help her?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
“You could have gone in and shot him when he was sleeping or something. The two of you could have hatched a plan. When he wouldn’t see it coming. Like poetic justice. You could have helped her out. Helped her fight back. You don’t even need to be a markswoman to shoot someone when they’re sleeping. They w
ould have made a movie about you.”
“It’d be pretty hard to claim self-defense,” Jordan says.
“I’m sure you’d figure out a way, Jords. That’s your thing.”
Tension hangs between them as they wait for Clare to speak. She takes a few controlled breaths.
“Can I give you some advice, Ginny?” Clare asks. “I get the impression that you care about seeming older than you are. Mature or worldly, or whatever. So what you just said? About fighting back? Don’t say things like that. Because your Psych prof was right. Empathy isn’t about feeling sorry for people. It’s about recognizing that you don’t always understand what people are going through. That sometimes you can’t possibly know. And you, Ginny? You really, really don’t get it. What you just said about killing Sally’s husband? You sound naive at best. At worst, catastrophically stupid.”
Ginny recoils to the far side of the backseat, burned. Her face sours when she notices Jordan nodding.
“You said yourself it was a valid question,” Ginny says.
“You’re young,” Clare says. “You can’t possibly understand.”
“I hate it when people say that.”
“But you can’t,” Clare says. “I remember exactly what it’s like to be your age. You look at the adults around you and swear you’ll never end up like them. I used to do that with my parents all the time. It never occurs to you that your own life might turn out worse than theirs did.”
In Jordan’s profile Clare is certain she catches a wince, a frown he quickly corrects, gripping the wheel tightly. The road narrows again to two lanes, bare fields marked by billboards heralding future development. Clare breathes deeply and turns to look out the window, squeezing her eyes shut. How different life had been the summer Clare was twenty-two, her mother in remission, her bags packed to leave for college. The early days of Jason. The drugs and the drinking still at the edge, encroaching too quickly. No wonder that era remains so clear to Clare. Everything that’s unfolded since can be traced to a handful of choices she made that summer, at Ginny’s very age. A life laid out by choices she was too young to make wisely. She opens her eyes. More billboards. PAVING THE WAY TO YOUR FAMILY’S DREAM COMMUNITY, one reads. JJ & SONS, the developer’s name at the bottom, the same one Clare remembers from the sign for the Margaret Haines shelter. She peers over to Jordan but his eyes are locked to the road.
“It only turns out worse if you make the wrong choices,” Ginny says, flopping into the backseat. “You don’t have to be so dramatic.”
“No one makes the wrong choices on purpose,” Clare says.
“You don’t think so? You should talk to Rebecca.”
“Ginny,” Jordan says. “Stop it. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Willow is always sick. Markus wants to take her to a real fucking doctor and Voodoo Rebecca, the nature freak, won’t let him. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Don’t you think that’s a wrong choice?”
“It’s just not true,” Jordan says. “Any of it.”
“How do you know? When’s the last time you and Markus actually spoke?”
They pass the gas station where Malcolm dropped Clare off days ago. Ginny opens her backpack and pulls out a travel mirror, circling her lips with a shade of lipstick to match her nails. Clare shifts in the seat to watch her. The lipstick makes her eyes pop.
“You know what, Clare?” Ginny says. “All I meant to say is you’d be pretty if you put in a little effort.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Clare says. “It’s fine. I didn’t mean to be so harsh with you. The stress is getting to me.”
“Whatever,” Ginny says. “Is Rourke going to be there when we get back?”
“You need to find friends your own age,” Jordan says. “And no. He isn’t going to be there.”
“Friends.” Ginny drawls the word. “Who said anything about friends?”
Jordan sighs, exasperated. They turn down the High River driveway. Jordan parks and gets out of the car, heading to the house, eyes on his phone. Clare goes to open the door, but Ginny has already bounded from the backseat. She blocks Clare’s exit from the passenger side, lowering close to whisper.
“You might think I’m naive.” She points to the bend in Clare’s elbow. “But I’m not that naive.”
“Excuse me?” Clare says.
“I know where those kinds of scars come from.”
Clare crosses her arms, resting her palms on them to cover the tiny dots. “I quit a long time ago.”
“Did you quit? Really? Because some of those holes look pretty fresh.”
“That’s from an IV. I was in the hospital recently.” But as Clare runs her fingers over the scars, she can’t be certain the freshest one is from the IV they’d given her in the Blackmore hospital before Malcolm sprung her. Could it be more recent?
“I know how hard it can be to kick it,” Ginny says. “I have friends, you know. Who are into it. I’m not beyond the odd recreational dabble myself. So, if you needed a little something, I can get you anything you want.”
“Like I said, I quit.”
“You have the shakes. Your hands are trembling like an old lady’s.”
“My friend is gone,” Clare says. “I just finished interviewing with the police. I’m tired. I’m worried. You’re blocking my way. My nerves are a little worn.”
“Well, either way. There’s a guy in my program. We’ll be in the same dorm this semester. He’s got a thing for me. I can get anything you could ever dream of.”
“No,” Clare says.
The car is sweltering but Ginny has not cleared the way to let Clare stand.
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” Ginny says, finally backing up. “I swear. I’ll keep it between us.”
There is a squeeze in Clare’s chest as she watches Ginny turn and bound to catch up with Jordan on the porch. I can get you anything. It always amazed Clare, the abundance of supply. In Blackmore it was too easy. It was always too easy. What good reason does she have to abstain, to endure the pain in her shoulder, the steady flow of all these revelations, too much coming at her at once? There must be a good reason. Clare slams the door behind her and looks to the house where Ginny and Jordan have gone inside. In the strong light of midafternoon she sees it, the layer of decay blanketing this place, the garden around the porch lifeless despite so much rain, the house large and eerie next to the rage of the river.
Clare and Raylene sit side by side on the porch swing, silent in the sticky heat. Clare found Raylene here after spending hours alone in their bedroom, fighting sleep, the events of the day so far swirling. Raylene bites her fingernails, the gnawing sound grating on Clare. As the sun sets the sky is awash with pink, the river silver against the earth it carves through. If not for its tragedies both recent and old, Clare thinks, High River would be a beautiful place.
A woman exits the house across the river.
“Who’s that?” Clare asks.
“Rebecca. Markus’s wife. Helen’s sister-in-law.”
Rebecca walks to the edge of the water and waves to them. Raylene drops her hands to her lap and exhales a long breath before waving back. Then Rebecca turns and heads towards the bridge, the same path Clare had watched Markus take with his flashlight before dawn.
“Oh God,” Raylene says. “She’s coming over here.”
“You’re not friendly with her?”
“She’s . . . fine. She tries. But she’s hard to like.”
“Are they both home all day?” Clare asks.
“Not normally Rebecca. She’s a teacher. She commutes to the city every day to teach high school Latin. Latin, for chrissake. She’s just off for the summer.”
“What does Markus do?”
“Good question. He’s full of big ideas, I hear. Plans to make himself rich. His next big push is organics.”
Clare thinks of the bunker, Markus standing at its center, hapless and nervous.
“They met online and married in short order,�
�� Clare says. “That’s what Ginny told me.”
“What I heard is that Markus took off for the coast in his twenties. Invested in some real estate with his share of the family money. Then the crash came and he lost everything. Showed up back here with nothing but the shirt on his back, begging his big sister to bail him out. She let him build that house on the property. Paid for it too, I’m sure. Now he stays home with his kid, making plans to rule the world while his breadwinning wife schleps ninety minutes each way to teach a dead language to teenagers.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Ginny. Helen. Rebecca.” She pauses. “And Sally. You hear lots of stories. You piece it together.”
They sit in silence and watch the line of trees until Rebecca emerges from it. As she approaches Clare can see what Ginny meant about her plainness, Rebecca’s hair a straggle down her back. In the photographs from the file Clare had been struck by Sally’s beauty, her face luminous even when unsmiling. Rebecca reaches the porch and climbs the stairs halfway.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” she says to Clare. “I’m Rebecca Haines. You must be Clare.”
“I am.”
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” Rebecca says. “Sally, I mean, of course. And her beautiful son. He was a wonderful playmate for Willow. Will and Willow. Like they were meant to be.”
Past tense. Some people here still speak of Sally and her son in present tense, Clare thinks. Like Helen. Somers. And then others speak as if they are gone.
“I’m sure Sally was grateful that William had a friend,” Clare says.
“Would you two like to go for a swim at the eddy?” Rebecca says. “It’ll cool us all off.”
Clare and Raylene can’t help but exchange a look, both confounded by the suggestion.
