“The kids’ mom died last week. They need time. It’s barely a week,” he repeated. This woman clearly couldn’t see straight out of her lenses. “I need time to see what the best thing is for them.” He thought about Allison, her love, her strength. “I will help them cope.”
“I have a note here from Veronica’s social studies and gym teachers. Naturally, we understand they were going through a terrible ordeal with the illness, but now that…well, you understand, the children’s mental health is our utmost concern.”
Paul didn’t want to fight the principal. This was only the second time he was meeting her. The other time he was out one night at a local steakhouse with Allison and she was there dining with her significant other. Allison introduced them and he didn’t remember her first name. Aside from that, if she didn’t know the difference between clean and dirty spectacles, what made her such an expert on his children?
“I will see to it this week,” he responded. He had a strong family that never reached out for help. Always close, they had weathered many storms together. His parents, Allison’s parents were rocks. Even-keeled. How would he explain this to them? Would they think he was not up to helping his own children? Psychology was not in their DNA. Another problem landed squarely on his shoulders, weighing them down.
On the way out, he crouched and touched his son’s chin, pushing him to make eye contact. “You OK?”
“Great.” Jesse looked away.
“What do you want me to do?” Paul asked him.
“You can’t do anything. Are we done?”
“They said you can go back to class. I’ll see you at four.”
Jesse walked away without a reply, leaving Paul standing alone in the empty hallway.
====
It was just before two, and Paul knew he had to be home for Stella’s bus. There was no time to stop at the library, so he swung the car onto Route 25A and headed for the Stillwell estate. Route 25A was a state highway on Long Island. It served as the main east-west route for most of the North Shore, running for seventy-three miles from the Midtown Tunnel to Calverton in Suffolk County.
The route was known for its scenic path through decidedly lesser-developed areas such as Brookville, Fort Salonga, Centerport, and the Roslyn Viaduct. It was known by various names along its routing, the most prominent of which included Northern Boulevard.
He wanted to walk the grounds before he met with Melissa tomorrow. He felt outside his body, as if he was moving in slow motion. He knew that he drove but didn’t feel the passage of time. Still on autopilot, he was in a strange, suspended kind of state where things happened by rote. They got done, but he just couldn’t recall how. He reached out to the seat next to him and caressed the worn leather. It was Allison’s seat. His soul mate. She would know what to do with Jesse. His hand met empty air and closed into a tight fist. “Get your shit together, Paul,” he told himself. Hesitantly, he turned on the radio and felt a sense of relief when he heard Elton John singing “Yellow Brick Road.”
He pulled into the overgrown driveway surrounded by tall pine trees, just off the main road. Huge old gates that had rusted over years ago and were left open guarded Stillwell. Paul remembered they never closed them; they were broken at a wild party in the last century, by ancestors of the current owners that lived in the house. He had researched today on the Internet, learning the house was built by a prosperous farmer during the 1700s. This landowner was the first Andrews to arrive here from England. Craig had an attic filled with clothing belonging to different eras. Paul loved a Revolutionary War drum they had found there. Craig had made a wedding present of it and gave it to Paul and Allison when they married. He treasured it, and although it was buried under paper in his office, he liked to clean it off and bang on it with the children.
The house had a sorrowful reputation. Nothing tangible, just an overall aura of sadness that was often the subject of newspaper articles. He couldn’t recall any of the stories, only that there was something sad associated with the house. As if that wasn’t enough, now it could add a murder-suicide to its history, just for atmosphere, he thought ruefully.
At the end of a two-mile gravel driveway, the house stood proudly, surrounded by ancient trees that were lush with the beginning of fall colors. It was a two-story colonial, seventeen bedrooms, he recalled, and with seven or eight bathrooms. Maybe more. There were parts of the house he had never seen. There was a ballroom and a servants’ wing. It was locked up. A lone band of ripped yellow police tape floated on the crisp early fall air; it was attached to one of the wrought-iron railings. The word “caution” on the police tape waved on the breeze as if beckoning him to enter. He had no key, so he parked the car on the top of the gravel driveway and walked through the dense overgrowth toward the back terrace. He’d have to tell Melissa to have a gardener clean it up. It was silent there. He couldn’t hear any traffic from the main road, only the gentle chirping of birds and the trees swaying. There was a wall of French doors. It was beautiful. He knew the ballroom was here. A lone dove called gently for her mate, breaking the silence. Overhead two Canadian geese honked loudly, flying low. He recalled that they mated for life and found a well of jealously rearing its ugly head. He had mated for life. What do they do when one partner is taken away?
The terrace red bricks were broken and sprouting weeds poked through. Walking slowly, he peeked through one of the many panes of wavy glass at the light blue ballroom. Counting three Schonbek chandeliers, he calculated their worth, whistling softly.
He passed the big room and realized it was the family’s library. Still packed with books, it would be a nice touch for the open house. A roaring fire would really help when he did the showing. Pictures hung on green, blasé walls; overall, there was a feeling of faded wealth. Here and there were empty spots on the wall where he supposed Craig and his brothers took a family memento or portrait.
He sat abruptly on the first step, tears welling in his eyes. The bleakness of his life stretched before him as anger surged through his veins like hot lava. “You left me alone,” he choked to the empty yard. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered, feeling so small, adrift, and unhappy. His thoughts wandered to his kids again, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness surrounded him.
Sighing, he wiped his cheeks, ashamed of the tears and surprised he had this incredible supply of them, and ambled over to the last set of French doors. The bedroom. The master bedroom. It was the crime scene; he had read the report on his computer. He saw the dusty outline of the grand furniture and wondered how well they were able to clean it. He rubbed a small circle in the glass, pressed his eye, and blinked.
“Oh my God!” Bile rose to burn his throat when he saw the carnage inside. Guts and gore splattered the room. Streaks of blood and holes from the shotgun pellets peppered the white walls. Bits of brain and decaying flesh decomposed on the floor.
A chair was overturned, its brocade drenched with stains of violence. The carpet was black with dried blood. A lone slipper, a pink thing doused in blood, lay abandoned by its wearer on the floor. Reeling away, he wondered if Melissa knew it hadn’t been cleaned yet.
He started to run and fell into the bushes vomiting what little he had in his stomach. How was he going to look at that room with Melissa tomorrow? Stumbling to his car, he knocked over a planter with a dead bush. His breathing sounded harsh in his ears; he fumbled for his phone and dialed Melissa, his fingers shaking. It rang four or five times before she answered.
“Melissa?” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Have you been to the house?”
“Paul? Are you OK? Why?”
“I thought you said they cleaned it up.”
“They did, Paul. I inspected it yesterday. It’s all good, I promise.”
“Um...you sure?” He blinked hard.
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He dropped the phone in his pocket and sat in the car, stunned. Putting the ke
ys into the ignition, he thought to drive away but stopped. He got out and warily went into the yard again. Wanting another look, now that he calmed his beating heart, he saw the small circle he’d cleared on the window earlier. Tentatively, his heart started pounding again as he approached the doors. Stupefied, he peered in and saw a stripped bed, wooden floors, and pristine walls. He shook his head then left quickly, wondering what the hell had just happened to him.
====
“I don’t want it.” Veronica’s rotisserie chicken lay torn to small bits on her plate. Jesse at least had eaten his chicken but nothing else. Stella noted that everything on the plate was beige or yellowish. The kids bickered, fighting over everything from who got the drumsticks to who was using their personal utensil in the mac and cheese.
“It’s full of your spit!” Veronica lashed out at her twin.
“No, it’s not!” Jesse yelled back. Silver eyes glared at silver eyes, and Paul watched incredulously as Jesse prepared to hock a hunk of saliva into the mac and cheese.
“Don’t even think about it, Mister.” Paul stood up halfway from his seat.
“Veronica said I spit, I’ll show her what—”
“No, you won’t. Sit down.” Paul spoke through his teeth. He was tired. How did Allison do this? His mind was still reeling from the bloody room he saw at Stillwell, so he missed the growing tension between his children. He had picked up prepared food on the way home, shuttering every so often, as the remains of the murder kept popping into his thoughts.
“I said,” Veronica spoke more calmly, “use the serving spoon. Your fork is full of saliva—”
“It’s enough!” Paul shouted. “You know behavior at the table. This is not going to be mob rule.”
“What’s ‘mob rule’?” Stella was never one to let something interesting pass her by.
“Mob rule is anarchy, total anarchy,” Veronica explained politely.
“Anarchy!” Jesse was white with rage. “I just wanted some macaroni. I am done.” Throwing his fork down, he ran to his bedroom.
Stella looked at Paul wide eyed, waiting to see the nuclear explosion at her misbehaving older brother. Veronica sighed and got up, ready to comfort her twin. “I really didn’t mean anything. It’s just disgusting. He was drinking milk straight out of the container this afternoon.”
Paul stopped her with his hand. “Let him cool off. I’ll talk to him later. It’s not your fault,” he assured her.
The girls chatted and he let the conversation wash over him. Though he heard every word, none of it registered. He would deal with Jesse after he had some time to cool off. He had missed all the cues when they got home from school. Locked in what he thought he saw this afternoon, their squabbles were mere noise. Stella poked him out of his reverie, and he looked down at his own plate. Mac and cheese, rotisserie chicken, and corn bread was not what Allison had in mind for a balanced meal. He didn’t recall when he last saw Roni eat anything more than a slice of bread and butter. Stella had peeled a banana and told him that from now on, she was only going to eat foods in this color palate. Things were going to shit fast and somehow he didn’t know where to start to make it better. And on top of everything, he was hallucinating bloody crime scenes and channeling creepy radio voices.
The phone rang, breaking the silence, and all three of them jumped. Paul started clearing the table, the phone propped against his ear.
“Hi, Mom. Just finished. No, she didn’t eat much. OK, I’ll try that. I’m fine. I said I’m fine,” he repeated a bit too forcefully. “What did the doctor say? Of course it’s no big deal, no, I don’t want you to wait…” He watched Veronica sneak out of the room, leaving the mess to him. Only Stella stayed behind, her big brown eyes looking to him for direction. He smiled and motioned to the den, giving her permission to leave as well. “I know it will be fine. Yeah. OK, gotta go. Yeah, love you too.” He hung up with a sigh then cleaned the rest of the kitchen in silence. This time he chugged Maalox right out of its container, just like his ill-mannered son.
He resolved to come to some sort of understanding with his children. Divide and conquer. Jesse’s room was locked, so he jiggled the doorknob. He heard a muffled “night.”
“Open up, son.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Open up.” Then he said gently, “Please.” He rested his head against the door.
It opened slowly and his son’s tear-stained face met his. Sitting on the bed together, they enjoyed each other’s silence. It was different between boys. They didn’t have to state the obvious. The TV was on. His breath smelled sweet from toothpaste, and a smudge left a trail on his top lip. Paul bent over and stroked his head.
“You done with that stuff in school?”
“I dunno. It happens. I get so mad.”
“You were unreasonable at the table.”
Jesse shrugged his thin shoulders. “Sometimes I think it feels better when I yell.”
“I know. But it won’t change anything and it just gets you in trouble.”
“Mom wouldn’t like for me to be in trouble,” Jesse admitted, his eyes downcast.
“No, son, she wouldn’t be happy about this.”
Jesse grunted and settled under his covers. Paul sat on the edge of the bed.
“Do you want to talk to someone? You know, like a counselor?”
Jesse thought and then shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to anybody right now. I don’t feel like talking. It’s like the words are stuck, here.” He gestured to his throat. “You know what I mean, Dad?”
He stroked his son’s head, noting it was matted with sweat. “Yup, I know exactly what you mean.” He paused and crouched by the bed. “If you feel you want to talk, though, you know you can come to me.” His blond hair touched the collar of his pajama shirt and curled under. He needed a haircut. Add one more thing to his list. Sighing, he thought for a minute and said simply, “You can get mad, but you can’t take it out on others. Everybody’s been very understanding.”
Jesse looked down at his fingers that were pleating the blanket. “I just wish I could see Mom. I want to know if she’s OK.”
“Of course she’s OK.”
“How do you know?” Jesse whispered.
Paul looked at the ceiling wondering how to answer this, his heart breaking. Nothing in the books on parenthood he read prepared for these types of questions. Was she all right? He tried wrapping his head around the idea of Allison. Where was she? Could she be as brokenhearted as the rest of them? Was she resting in peace? How could she, really, when her life was here? Instead he assured his son, “She’s at peace. Father Thomas said so. You believe Father Thomas, don’t you?”
Jesse shrugged and replied, his voice small, looking so incredibly young, “What choice do I have? What proof do I have? I’m tired. I want to sleep.”
“She’s OK, I promise you, Jesse. I feel it here.” Paul pointed to his chest.
“Then how could she leave us?”
He kissed his son, backed out of the room, and shut the light.
Veronica was still in the bathroom, so he tucked in Stella.
“You’re up late, Stella Luna. Do you want a story?”
“Tell me about Mommy.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about when you met her.”
“I can’t tell you that. I don’t remember.” He had known Allison his whole life.
“Try. Please,” Stella pleaded.
He cleared his throat. “I never knew a time without your Mommy. If you are my stars and moon, she was my sun. You know, she lived next door to me growing up. We played together every day. Grandma and Nonni had coffee in the afternoon, and they would put us on the floor together and we would have adventures.”
“Were you her hero?”
“All the time. She was the princess and I saved her from the dragon.”
“Or an evil demon.”
“Evil demon? What are you talking about?”
“You could save
her from the evil demon who tries to take her away forever. You always save Mommy.” Stella turned her trusting face up to him.
“When we were little, not now, Stella. There are no such things as demons.”
“I don’t think so.” She looked up at him, her eyes earnest.
“That’s enough of stories for tonight. Time for bed.”
“Good night, Daddy. Now you are my hero.” She settled into her bed.
Last stop was Roni who was drying her hair in her bedroom.
If Stella was the moon and stars, Roni was a rainbow. Sweet with a peaceful disposition, she never gave him an ounce of trouble. Until now. His serene child was troubled and couldn’t find words to communicate.
“Ron, we have to talk.” He was exhausted already.
“I’ll eat more tomorrow. I promise.” Intuitively, she read his thoughts. Although she and Jesse were the same age, Veronica seemed years older. She was a steadying influence on her more impulsive twin. “Jesse is bothering me.” She looked at him with a grave face. “He is angry and it hurts me here,” she said as she pointed to her stomach. “I can’t feel anything else.”
“I know it’s hard.”
“He is tearing me up inside, Dad. Can I tell you a secret?”
He nodded and closed the door.
“I’m glad Mom is gone. It was too hard to watch her. She wasn’t the same person; she didn’t even know us in the end. Is it wrong to feel relieved?” Fat tears welled up in her eyes.
“No, honey. No. I...I’m relieved too. The sickness was eating her up. She needed to leave.”
“Why can’t Jesse see that? Why is he so selfish? It hurt her too much to stay!” Veronica was sobbing.
He gathered her in his arms and put his chin on her blonde head.
“I know, honey. I know. It’s hard to say good-bye.”
====
At last alone in his bed, Paul hugged Allison’s pillow close. Breathing in her light scent that lingered on the fabric, he didn’t want her to go either. His eyelids were heavy, but his thoughts were too active to rest. The bed felt vast, an oasis of loneliness, the house silent, still as death. The air was still, heavy. A loud boom rocked the air, reverberating throughout the house and shaking the walls.
Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island Page 4
