by Deb Caletti
That afternoon with my father, he’d grinned at me across the table at lunch. Daddy’s little girl, huh? he said. And I liked that so much. It made me feel really special. That’s who he wanted me to be in relation to him. Little, and his. A daddy’s little girl, the doll with the adoring eyes he occasionally played with, but only when nothing else seemed more fun.
What was I supposed to do, though? How many options did I have?
His phone rang and rang. Not available, his voice on the message said, which was true in a million ways. You know what to do, but I didn’t.
I hung up. It was just as well. Lila would never forgive me if he acted like a father. I called Edwina.
“They’re fighting,” I said. “It’s bad.”
“It’ll blow over.” Edwina didn’t sound too sure. That fire in the city way back in 1906—it blew over, all right. And over, and over, until the city was consumed.
“She had a black eye. Things are breaking. They’re screaming.”
Edwina didn’t say anything.
“Why is she with him? Why doesn’t she leave?” I wanted Edwina to do something, even if she was old and two states away.
Edwina sighed, as if there were things I’d never understand. And she was probably right, but I was beginning to form my own understanding.
It looked like this: no more. No more, no more, no more.
* * *
“Mer?” I said through the door.
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
The fighting had calmed down by then.
“Sure.”
“I called my grandmother. If they start up again, if we ever feel in the least bit scared, we’re supposed to call the police.” Edwina never said that. But it seemed like what an adult should say, so this was what I told her.
“Okay.”
“I can just stay here with you.”
Meredith’s arms looped around her knees. She looked so young. She looked the kind of young you could look when you came from a family like hers.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m going to try to go to bed.”
“All right. Mer, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t all the way believe it.
When I went back to my room, I felt sick. I’d wanted to show off all the great things we had. But the awful parts were mine too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Exhibit 57: Recorded statement of Sydney E. Reilly, 2 of 5
The next morning, I was still half asleep when I heard a tap on the door.
I sat up.
“Syd?” Meredith called. She didn’t just knock and then come in, like she would have at Academy. Knocking and waiting was what we did with people we didn’t know that well.
When I opened the door, she was standing there with her roller bag. She had her jacket on.
“What are you doing?” She wasn’t supposed to go home for three more days.
“My mom got me a flight. The taxi will be here any minute.”
“Mer, why? Don’t go.”
It was confirmation of my utter failure. She’d seen who I really was, and now look. She had always loved me, but not anymore.
“Syd. This is not good. None of this feels okay. This is all… dangerous.”
She was right, of course. It was, it was.
“Syd? Did you hear me? This is dangerous. For you, too. My mom said to call her if you want to come with me. She said she’d have a ticket in two seconds.”
I briefly imagined it—flying home beside Meredith, staying in their guest room, which also held Ellen’s sewing machine and craft bins. There was no way I could leave Lila, though, not now. There was no way I could leave Nicco, either. But even more—it was hard to remember the girl who used to hang out with Meredith and her family, watching movies and making sundaes. That girl was like a town I’d once been to but would never see again. “No, Mer. Everything’s fine now. I promise.”
“You really should come with me.”
“I can’t do that! We’re having our vacation, Mer, jeez.”
“Okay. I’m going to wait outside.”
“Mer, please.”
I followed her down the stairs. When she opened the door, I could see her taxi already at the curb. That taxi was a sickening sight. If she actually got in it and drove away, it would mean that all of this was real. Serious and real.
“Mer, come on!”
“I don’t feel safe,” she said. “Something bad is going to happen. Something worse.”
The taxi driver hauled Meredith’s bag into the trunk and then slammed it shut. She got in the back of the car. She wouldn’t look at me.
And, you know, I didn’t realize it then, but I do now. In spite of everything we had, in spite of where we lived, and Lila’s fame, and beauty, and money, and soaring views, and fancy cars, Meredith had something I didn’t. She could use her voice. People had protected her and seen her and listened to her, so she could protect and see and listen to herself.
It was Tuesday morning. As the taxi drove off, Shane and one of the other guys, an older, heavyset man, took some orange cones out of the back of a truck and set them in a large rectangle in front of the property. Later, a big cement truck would come to pour the driveway. But right then, they just dropped the cones in various places, marking territory.
Shane looked at me and then made a gesture involving the finger of one hand and the cupped palm of the other.
“What’re you doing?” the other man said. “For God’s sake! Don’t do that shit.”
But Shane only smiled. He winked at me, as if we were playing that game together, the one you were supposed to play, where he chases and you say no until you finally give in.
I wasn’t playing that game, though. I wanted to claw his eyes out. I wanted to yell and shout in his face. I wanted to put my chest right up against his and scream my outrage. But I could also imagine his voice. Back away! All he’d have to do was put one hand against my chest and shove.
* * *
I heard the garage door lift. The Lamborghini roared out. I was glad I didn’t see Jake. I didn’t want his approval anymore. I just wanted him gone. I was scared of him and scared of those paintings. I wanted to turn their faces to the wall, starting with Jacqueline and moving to Crying Girl and moving, maybe especially, to that poster of Lila.
I sat at the table in the kitchen, my hands around a cup of coffee, petting Max with my foot. I was still in my pajama shirt and shorts. I don’t know how long I sat there. Long. Long enough that Lila woke up and came downstairs, her voice bright.
“What are the plans for the day, girls?” she said.
“Girl.” I kept petting Max. I was so angry. I was getting angrier and angrier. Inside, my temperature was going up and up and up. At this rate, a person could, you know, blow.
“Where’s Meredith?”
“She went home, Lila.”
“She went home? Why?”
“Uh, last night?”
She was turned away from me, toward the coffeepot. Her shoulders looked guilty. She was guilty of some things, true, but not of others. It occurred to me that sometimes the wrong people carried the biggest burden of a crime, and that the ones who should didn’t even bother to give it a glance.
When she faced me again, her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“She didn’t feel safe, Lila. And neither do I. Do you hear me?” I said it, same as Meredith. But it lacked Meredith’s certainty. It had no authority. Maybe because Lila wasn’t protecting me and seeing me and listening to me even right then. She was looking at me and talking to me, but I was that toaster again.
“Jake isn’t what he seems.”
“You mean violent? Among other things? I saw proof. Your eye? We heard proof. Something bad is going to happen, Lila. Something really bad.”
“I know he seems like this big, powerful guy. But he’s a little boy inside. God, Syd-Syd. His child
hood was a nightmare. His father used to beat him. He’s just…”
“A bully. A bully with a lot of money.”
I shoved my chair back and left the room. And I may not have had actual words for it right then, but I saw it. How men taught their sons how to be, and showed their daughters how much they were worth. How mothers could tell their daughters the truth about objects, if they knew it themselves.
CHAPTER FORTY
Exhibit 58: Recorded statement of Sydney E. Reilly, 3 of 5
The fog and the fog and the fog! Maybe it was every ghost from 1906 suspended above, hovering. Three thousand people died from falling structures and fire then. All those spirits, and no wonder they never left. Lost souls, so much trauma—every ghost around us and in us shares that particular history.
A few days later, I met Nicco at Ocean Beach after work. It was late. Dark. Up on its rock, the Cliff House glowed with yellow light through the still-clear night, and the water that pooled in the nearby ruins caught the golden shimmers of the moon. I waited. It was cold, and I rubbed my arms against the chill. And then there he was. In his work clothes. His eyes caught the shimmers too.
His arms went around me, and mine went around him. He smelled like charbroiled dinners and cocktails and night air. Overhead, the clouds looked purple and blue, and they turned the sea purple and blue too. Nicco took my hand. We walked toward the edge of the water. The edge—it could be some metaphor, but it was just what we did.
A few days before, I’d told Nicco that Meredith had gone home sick. He didn’t seem to believe me, but he left it alone. I didn’t say anything about the scary fight or the paintings. Maybe Meredith had taught me a lesson about revealing too much truth, but maybe I also just didn’t want to think about it for a while.
I slipped off my sandals. My feet sank into the sand, and I let the cold sea wash over my toes. Nicco kissed me and I tumbled into it. The cold didn’t matter, because IT made a circle around us, and I was hungry and full at the same time.
“Big sparkle,” I said, nodding toward the Cliff House. Even from there, you could see the candlelight on the tables, the flickering flames, the couples leaning in toward each other.
“Big night.” He grabbed my hair and kissed me hard.
“Tie loosened like a weary businessman,” I said when we broke away again. I scribbled in the air like it was something for his notebook. He had the knot of his necktie scooted down, the top button of his shirt undone. He had to wear a tie for certain catered events and he hated it.
“Who invented these stupid things?” he said. Then, suddenly, he whipped it over his head and tossed it, and a wave caught it and out it went. He didn’t have a lot of money. It was a frivolous and funny thing to do, a playful moment, and it was just another thing to love about him.
“There it goes!” I laughed. It went farther and farther out.
“Bon voyage, tie. Have an awesome adventure.” We watched it like a story. For a minute, it looked like it might come back riding on a wave, but no. It kept going.
“Send us a postcard, tie,” I said.
“Safe travels, pal,” he said.
The fog started to drift in. It got harder to see. We walked the beach. We didn’t get far. I told you, that crazy feeling between us was everywhere. It was a current and a tide and every other force.
“Oh, man,” he said. “Oh, man.” My fingers were in his hair and up the back of his shirt. His hands were cold on my sides.
We stopped. Not for long. We started kissing again. He took my hand. He walked me toward a cove of rocks, a dark and hidden cove. It was sheltered from the wind, but probably not from the patrols who strolled the beach with their flashlights. We were near the ruins. You could think about how the ruins had been destroyed, but you could think about how they’d lasted, too.
We dropped to the ground. The sand was damp and hard, but who cared? My hands were on the bare skin of his hips, jammed down his black pants, and then I popped the button. Hands had DNA, a history of their own. They knew what to do from years and years of being hands. Tongues did.
“Syd, Syd, Syd,” Nicco said. His breath was hot against my cheek. I forgot about being cold. “Syd, are you sure?”
I was nervous and a little scared, but I was sure.
“Yes. But I don’t have anything.” It felt crushing, that we’d have to wait.
“I do.”
“You do?” What a relief, even though I had no idea how those things actually worked.
Nicco did, though. There was the funny smell of rubber, and then of us, and he lifted my hips and put his shirt under me. The ground was hard, and a shirt couldn’t keep away the sand, and I tried to concentrate on the feelings, but everything seemed squeaky and badly fitting and my mind kept up a running commentary, like, This is it. And, So that’s what it feels like, and, I’m not sure, but I think it’s over.
He lay heavy on top of me, and kissed my neck and my face, and then we rose, and brushed off and got dressed. It was so foggy white out there now, it was just us in a strange, unseeable world. And even though right then kissing might almost have been better than actual sex, hands and crazy desire more physically awesome, I was happy, and I felt close to him. I felt different, but a larger different. I was glad we hadn’t gotten caught. He held my hand. Our hips bumped as we walked. The fog had become so thick that I couldn’t see three feet in front of us, but it seemed like a mystery, not a haunting.
He led me back to his van. It was a seventies-song cliché. He set out a blanket, and we lay on the floor. We did it again much more slowly, and more of those songs made sense then.
* * *
Nicco drove me home. He was right, because sex did change things between us. I didn’t want to go.
I told him this.
“Me neither,” he said, and then I watched him drive away like I was some lovestruck heroine in a movie.
When I turned toward the house, I noticed that it was completely dark. I opened the door, and there was Max, waiting up for me like the worried mother I never had. He leapt on my legs and then dashed out to pee. He circled and circled and pretended to make a weighty decision and then just went on his same old bush he always went on.
There were no open guest room windows with nervous voices drifting down that night. I stood on the grass and let the moonlight shine on me. I felt longing, but it was the good kind of longing—a yearning for things that haven’t happened yet. I was happy, in spite of everything that was going on at home. I was so happy that I picked up Max. I picked his big, huge self right on up. He seemed a little surprised yet patient about being suddenly off the ground.
“Oh, big, giant buddy. I love you, you big, beautiful beast,” I said, and then I kissed his velvet head and set him down before I broke my back.
* * *
When I went inside the house, the little hairs on my arms stood up. That ghost—she blew her cold breath right down my skin. Something was wrong. I didn’t know what yet, but I could sense a change. The alarm had been turned on, so Lila and Jake were asleep in bed, I assumed, but I felt a strange absence. An echoey space. Something, someone, gone.
The house was quiet except for Max’s toenails in the kitchen and the slurp of him having a long drink of water, and the ticking of the clock in the White Room, and the roar of the sea outside.
The White Room pulled me forward. Tick, tick, tick. And then I saw what the absence was. I saw what was gone. The huge painting, Crying Girl, otherwise known as a woman, with her red lips and her finger wiping away that tear.
There was just a large, empty space on the wall. I could see the holes where the hanger had been.
I felt a curl of nervous fear. My mind tried to put pieces together, but I didn’t have the pieces. I had the words from the night before, though. Watching us. Stakeout. Prison.
In the dining room—Jacqueline. Gone.
I went upstairs to the guest room. I was scared to push open the door. And then I did. I looked. Crates—gone. The whole room was emp
ty.
There seemed to be only two possibilities. Either Jake had hidden the paintings, or the police, or whoever had been watching our house, had taken them, which meant they’d probably taken Jake, too. You know, off. Away. To jail.
I felt shaky and clammy. I started to panic a little. If that had happened, though, Lila would be awake, crying and hysterical, wouldn’t she? Maybe Lila’s friend Louise would be here too, her “crisis manager,” who always showed up when there was a problem. I’d have gotten calls from Edwina, wondering what was going on. But 716 Sea Cliff Drive was still and silent.
There was only one way to know for sure if Jake had been carted off. I crept upstairs to their room.
I listened. It seemed so quiet.
My heart was pounding. After that horrible fight that night, anything seemed possible. I didn’t know what I might find behind that door.
My hand shook. Lila’s room was strictly off-limits. I suddenly thought of that scene in Nefarious when Lila’s character goes to the home of her lover and his wife and sneaks into their bedroom, with plans to bludgeon them with a hammer.
I turned the knob slowly, slowly, slowly. I pushed the door open.
I peered inside.
Two lumps, two sleeping bodies. Lila on the far side, her blond head on the pillow, her breath raising and lowering the covers. Jake, closest to the door, the back of his head facing me, his body curved around hers.
The paintings hadn’t been seized by police.
He’d hidden all those women, I realized. The crying ones, the faceless ones, the beautiful ones, the ones without mouths to speak, the ones who were only bodies. He’d hidden them so no one would know what he’d taken.
I hated him then.
I hated him so much. For the bruises and the paintings and his ownership of that house and more. Honestly, for a moment I wished I were Lila’s character with that hammer in her hand, walking toward that bed.
