The Lovely Bones 6 страница

“I mean no harm. ”

“What is the man’s name? ”

“George Harvey. ” It was the first time he’d said it aloud to anyone but Len Fenerman.

She paused and stood. Turning her back to him, she walked over to first one window and then the other and drew the curtains back. It was the after-school light that she loved. She watched for Ray as he walked up the road.

“Ray will come now. I will go to meet him. If you’ll excuse me I need to put on my coat and boots. ” She paused. “Mr. Salmon, ” she said, “I would do exactly what you are doing: I would talk to everyone I needed to, I would not tell too many people his name. When I was sure, ” she said, “I would find a quiet way, and I would kill him. ”

He could hear her in the hallway, the metal clank of hangers as she got her coat. A few minutes later the door was opened and closed. A cold breeze came in from the outside and then out on the road he could see a mother greet her son.

Neither of them smiled. Their heads bent low. Their mouths moved. Ray took in the fact that my father was waiting for him inside his home.

At first my mother and I thought it was just the obvious that marked Len Fenerman as different from the rest of the force. He was smaller than the hulking uniforms who frequently accompanied him. Then there were the less obvious traits too – the way he often seemed to be thinking to himself, how he wasn’t much for joking or trying to be anything but serious when he talked about me and the circumstances of the case. But, talking with my mother, Len Fenerman had shown himself for what he was: an optimist. He believed my killer would be caught.

“Maybe not today or tomorrow, ” he said to my mother, “but someday he’ll do something uncontrollable. They are too uncontrolled in their habits not to. ” My mother was left to entertain Len Fenerman until my father arrived home from the Singhs’. On the table in the family room Buckley’s crayons were scattered across the butcher paper my mother had laid down. Buckley and Nate had drawn until their heads began to nod like heavy flowers, and my mother had plucked them up in her arms, first one and then the other, and brought them over to the couch. They slept there end to end with their feet almost touching in the center.

Len Fenerman knew enough to talk in hushed whispers, but he wasn’t, my mother noted, a worshiper of children. He watched her carry the two boys but did not stand to help or comment on them the way the other policemen always did, defining her by her children, both living and dead.

“Jack wants to talk to you, ” my mother said. “But I’m sure you’re too busy to wait. ”

“Not too busy. ”

I saw a black strand of her hair fall from where she had tucked it behind her ear. It softened her face. I saw Len see it too.

“He went over to that poor Ray Singh’s house, ” she said and tucked the fallen hair back in its proper place.

“I’m sorry we had to question him, ” Len said.

“Yes, ” she said. “No young boy is capable of …” She couldn’t say it, and he didn’t make her.

“His alibi was airtight. ”

My mother took up a crayon from the butcher paper.

Len Fenerman watched my mother draw stick figures and stick dogs. Buckley and Nate made quiet sounds of sleep on the couch. My brother curled up into a fetal position and a moment later placed his thumb in his mouth to suck. It was a habit my mother had told us all we must help him break. Now she envied such easy peace.

“You remind me of my wife, ” Len said after a long silence, during which my mother had drawn an orange poodle and what looked like a blue horse undergoing electroshock treatment.

“She can’t draw either? ”

“She wasn’t much of a talker when there was nothing to say. ” A few more minutes passed. A yellow ball of sun. A brown house with flowers outside the door – pink, blue, purple.

“You used the past tense. ”

They both heard the garage door. “She died soon after we were married, ” he said.

“Daddy! ” Buckley yelled, and leapt up, forgetting Nate and everyone else.

“I’m sorry, ” she said to Len.

“I am too, ” he said, “about Susie. Really. ”

In the back hall my father greeted Buckley and Nate with high cheers and calls for “Oxygen! ” as he always did when we besieged him after a long day. Even if it felt false, elevating his mood for my brother was often the favorite part of his day.

My mother stared at Len Fenerman while my father walked toward the family room from the back. Rush to the sink, I felt like saying to her, stare down the hole and look into the earth. I’m down there waiting; I’m up here watching.

Len Fenerman had been the one that first asked my mother for my school picture when the police thought I might be found alive. In his wallet, my photo sat in a stack. Among these dead children and strangers was a picture of his wife.

If a case had been solved he had written the date of its resolution on the back of the photo. If the case was still open – in his mind if not in the official files of the police – it was blank. There was nothing on the back of mine. There was nothing on his wife’s.

“Len, how are you? ” my father asked. Holiday up and wiggling back and forth for my father to pet him.

“I hear you went to see Ray Singh, ” Len said.

“Boys, why don’t you go play up in Buckley’s room? ” my mother suggested.

“Detective Fenerman and Daddy need to talk. ”

Seven

“Do you see her? ” Buckley asked Nate as they climbed the stairs, Holiday in tow.

“That’s my sister. ”

“No, ” Nate said.

“She was gone for a while, but now she’s back. Race! ” And the three of them – two boys and a dog – raced the rest of the way up the long curve of the staircase.

I had never even let myself yearn for Buckley, afraid he might see my image in a mirror or a bottle cap. Like everyone else I was trying to protect him. “Too young, ” I said to Franny. “Where do you think imaginary friends come from? ” she said.

For a few minutes the two boys sat under the framed grave rubbing outside my parents’ room. It was from a tomb in a London graveyard. My mother had told Lindsey and me the story of how my father and she had wanted things to hang on their walls and an old woman they met on their honeymoon had taught them how to do grave rubbings. By the time I was in double digits most of the grave rubbings had been put down in the basement for storage, the spots on our suburban walls replaced with bright graphic prints meant to stimulate children.

But Lindsey and I loved the grave rubbings, particularly the one under which Nate and Buckley sat that afternoon.

Lindsey and I would lie down on the floor underneath it. I would pretend to be the knight that was pictured, and Holiday was the faithful dog curled up at his feet. Lindsey would be the wife he’d left behind. It always dissolved into giggles no matter how solemn the start. Lindsey would tell the dead knight that a wife had to move on, that she couldn’t be trapped for the rest of her life by a man who was frozen in time. I would act stormy and mad, but it never lasted. Eventually she would describe her new lover: the fat butcher who gave her prime cuts of meat, the agile blacksmith who made her hooks. “You are dead, knight, ” she would say. “Time to move on. ”

“Last night she came in and kissed me on the cheek, ” Buckley said.

“Did not. ”

“Did too. ”

“Really? ”

“Yeah. ”

“Have you told your mom? ”

“It’s a secret, ” Buckley said. “Susie told me she isn’t ready to talk to them yet.

Do you want to see something else? ”

“Sure, ” said Nate.

The two of them stood up to go to the children’s side of the house, leaving Holiday asleep under the grave rubbing.

“Come look, ” Buckley said.

They were in my room. The picture of my mother had been taken by Lindsey.

After reconsideration, she had come back for the “Hippy-Dippy Says Love” button too.

“Susie’s room, ” Nate said.

Buckley put his fingers to his lips. He’d seen my mother do this when she wanted us to be quiet, and now he wanted that from Nate. He got down on his belly and gestured for Nate to follow, and they wriggled like Holiday as they made their way beneath the dust ruffle of my bed into my secret storage space.

In the material that was stretched on the underside of the box spring, there was a hole, and stuffed up inside were things I didn’t want anyone else to see. I had to guard it from Holiday or he would scratch at it to try and pry the objects loose. This had been exactly what happened twenty-four hours after I went missing. My parents had searched my room hoping to find a note of explanation and then left the door open. Holiday had carried off the licorice I kept there.

Strewn beneath my bed were the objects I’d kept hidden, and one of them only Buckley and Nate would recognize. Buckley unwrapped an old handkerchief of my father’s and there it was, the stained and bloody twig.

The year before, a three-year-old Buckley had swallowed it. Nate and he had been shoving rocks up their noses in our backyard, and Buckley had found a small twig under the oak tree where my mother strung one end of the clothesline.

He put the stick in his mouth like a cigarette. I watched him from the roof outside my bedroom window, where I was sitting painting my toenails with Clarissa’s Magenta Glitter and reading Seventeen.

I was perpetually assigned the job of watching out for little brother. Lindsey was not thought to be old enough. Besides, she was a burgeoning brain, which meant she got to be free to do things like spend that summer afternoon drawing detailed pictures of a fly’s eye on graph paper with her 130-pack of Prisma Colors.

It was not too hot out and it was summer, and I was going to spend my internment at home beautifying. I had begun the morning by showering, shampooing, and steaming myself. On the roof I air-dried and applied lacquer.

I had on two coats of Magenta Glitter when a fly landed on the bottle’s applicator. I heard Nate making dare and threat sounds, and I squinted at the fly to try to make out all the quadrants of his eyes that Lindsey was coloring inside the house. A breeze came up, blowing the fringe on my cutoffs against my thighs.

“Susie, Susie! ” Nate was yelling.

I looked down to see Buckley on the ground.

It was this day that I always told Holly about when we talked about rescue. I believed it was possible; she did not.

I swung my legs around and scrambled through my open window, one foot landing on the sewing stool and the other immediately in front of that one and on the braided rug and then down on my knees and out of the blocks like an athlete.

I ran down the hall and slid down the banister as we’d been forbidden to do. I called Lindsey’s name and then forgot her, ran out to the backyard through the screened-in porch, and jumped over the dog fence to the oak tree.

Buckley was choking, his body bucking, and I carried him with Nate trailing into the garage, where my father’s precious Mustang sat. I had watched my parents drive, and my mother had shown me how a car went from park to reverse. I put Buckley in the back and grabbed the keys from the unused terracotta pots where my father hid them. I sped all the way to the hospital. I burned out the emergency brake, but no one seemed to care.

“If she hadn’t been there, ” the doctor later told my mother, “you would have lost your little boy. ”

Grandma Lynn predicted I’d have a long life because I had saved my brother’s. As usual, Grandma Lynn was wrong.

“Wow, ” Nate said, holding the twig and marveling at how over time red blood turned black.

“Yeah, ” said Buckley. His stomach felt queasy with the memory of it. How much pain he had been in, how the faces of the adults changed as they surrounded him in the huge hospital bed. He had seen them that serious only one other time. But whereas in the hospital, their eyes had been worried and then later not, shot through with so much light and relief that they’d enveloped him, now our parents’ eyes had gone flat and not returned.

I felt faint in heaven that day. I reeled back in the gazebo, and my eyes snapped open. It was dark, and across from me stood a large building that I had never been in.

I had read James and the Giant Peach when I was little. The building looked like the house of his aunts. Huge and dark and Victorian. It had a widow’s walk.

For a moment, as I readjusted to the darkness, I thought I saw a long row of women standing on the widow’s walk and pointing my way. But a moment later, I saw differendy. Crows were lined up, their beaks holding crooked twigs. As I stood to go back to the duplex, they took wing and followed me. Had my brother really seen me somehow, or was he merely a little boy telling beautiful lies?

Eight

For three months Mr. Harvey dreamed of buildings. He saw a slice of Yugoslavia where thatched-roofed dwellings on stilts gave way to rushing torrents of water from below. There were blue skies overhead. Along the fjords and in the hidden valley of Norway, he saw wooden stave churches, the timbers of which had been carved by Viking boat-builders. Dragons and local heroes made from wood. But there was one building, from the Vologda, that he dreamed about most: the Church of the Transfiguration. And it was this dream – his favorite – that he had on the night of my murder and on the nights following until the others came back. The not still dreams – the ones of women and children.

I could see all the way back to Mr. Harvey in his mother’s arms, staring out over a table covered with pieces of colored glass. His father sorted them into piles by shape and size, depth and weight. His father’s jeweler’s eyes looked deeply into each specimen for cracks and flaws. And George Harvey would turn his attention to the single jewel that hung from his mother’s neck, a large oval-shaped piece of amber framed by silver, inside of which sat a whole and perfect fly.

“A builder” was all Mr. Harvey said when he was young. Then he stopped answering the question of what his father did. How could he say he worked in the desert, and that he built shacks of broken glass and old wood? He lectured George Harvey on what made a good building, on how to make sure you were constructing things to last.

So it was his father’s old sketchbooks that Mr. Harvey looked at when the not still dreams came back. He would steep himself in the images of other places and other worlds, trying to love what he did not. And then he would begin to dream dreams of his mother the last time he had seen her, running through a field on the side of the road. She had been dressed in white. White capri pants and a tight white boat-neck shirt, and his father and she had fought for the last time in the hot car outside of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. He had forced her out of the car. George Harvey sat still as stone in the back seat – eyes wide, no more afraid than a stone, watching it all as he did everything by then – in slow-mo.

She had run without stopping, her white body thin and fragile and disappearing, while her son clung on to the amber necklace she had torn from her neck to hand him. His father had watched the road. “She’s gone now, son, ” he said. “She won’t be coming back. ”

Nine

My grandmother arrived on the evening before my memorial in her usual style.

She liked to hire limousines and drive in from the airport sipping champagne while wearing what she called her “thick and fabulous animal” – a mink she had gotten secondhand at the church bazaar. My parents had not so much invited her as included her if she wanted to be there. In late January, Principal Caden had initiated the idea. “It will be good for your children and all the students at school, ” he had said. He took it upon himself to organize the event at our church.

My parents were like sleepwalkers saying yes to his questions, nodding their heads to flowers or speakers. When my mother mentioned it on the phone to her mother, she was surprised to hear the words “I’m coming. ”

“But you don’t have to, Mother. ”

There was a silence on my grandmother’s end. “Abigail, ” she said, “this is Susan’s funeral. ”

Grandma Lynn embarrassed my mother by insisting on wearing her used furs on walks around the block and by once attending a block party in high makeup. She would ask my mother questions until she knew who everyone was, whether or not my mother had seen the inside of their house, what the husband did for a living, what cars they drove. She made a solid catalog of the neighbors. It was a way, I now realized, to try to understand her daughter better. A miscalculated circling, a sad, partnerless dance.

“Jack-y, ” my grandmother said as she approached my parents on the front porch, “we need some stiff drinks! ” She saw Lindsey then, trying to sneak up the stairs and gain a few more minutes before the required visitation. “Kid hates me, ” Grandma Lynn said. Her smile was frozen, her teeth perfect and white.

“Mother, ” my mother said. And I wanted to rush into those ocean eyes of loss.

“I’m sure Lindsey is just going to make herself presentable. ”

“An impossibility in this house! ” said my grandmother.

“Lynn, ” said my father, “this is a different house than last time you were here.

I’ll get you a drink, but I ask you to respect that. ”

“Still handsome as hell, Jack, ” my grandmother said.

My mother took my grandmother’s coat. Holiday had been closed up in my father’s den as soon as Buckley had yelled from his post at the upstairs window –

“It’s Grandma! ” My brother bragged to Nate or anyone who would listen that his grandmother had the biggest cars in the whole wide world.

“You look lovely, Mother, ” my mother said.

“Hmmmm. ” While my father was out of earshot, my grandmother said, “How is he? ”

“We’re all coping, but it’s hard. ”

“Is he still muttering about that man having done it? ”

“He still thinks so, yes. ”

“You’ll be sued, you know, ” she said.

“He hasn’t told anyone but the police. ”

What they couldn’t see was that my sister was sitting above them on the top step.

“And he shouldn’t. I realize he has to blame someone, but …”

“Lynn, seven and seven or a martini? ” my father said, coming back out into the hallway.

“What are you having? ”

“I’m not drinking these days, actually, ” my father said.

“Now there’s your problem. I’ll lead the way. No one has to tell me where the liquor is! ”

Without her thick and fabulous animal, my grandmother was rail thin.

“Starved down” was how she put it when she’d counseled me at age eleven. “You need to get yourself starved down, honey, before you keep fat on for too long.

Baby fat is just another way to say ugly. ” She and my mother had fought about whether I was old enough for benzedrine – her own personal savior, she called it, as in, “I am offering your daughter my own personal savior and you deny her? ” When I was alive, everything my grandmother did was bad. But an odd thing happened when she arrived in her rented limo that day, opened up our house, and barged in. She was, in all her obnoxious finery, dragging the light back in.

“You need help, Abigail, ” my grandmother said after having eaten the first real meal my mother had cooked since my disappearance. My mother was stunned.

She had donned her blue dishwashing gloves, filled the sink with sudsy water, and was preparing to do every dish. Lindsey would dry. Her mother, she assumed, would call upon Jack to pour her an after-dinner drink.

“Mother, that is so nice of you. ”

“Don’t mention it, ” she said. “I’ll just run out to the front hall and get my bag o’ magic. ”

“Oh no, ” I heard my mother say under her breath.

“Ah, yes, the bag o’ magic, ” said Lindsey, who had not spoken the whole meal.

“Please, Mother! ” my mother protested when Grandma Lynn came back.

“Okay, kids, clear off the table and get your mother over here. I’m doing a makeover. ”

“Mother, that’s crazy. I have all these dishes to do. ”

“Abigail, ” my father said.

“Oh no. She may get you to drink, but she’s not getting those instruments of torture near me. ”

“I’m not drunk, ” he said.

“You’re smiling, ” my mother said.

“So sue him, ” Grandma Lynn said. “Buckley, grab your mother’s hand and drag her over here. ” My brother obliged. It was fun to see his mother be bossed and prodded.

“Grandma Lynn? ” Lindsey asked shyly.

My mother was being led by Buckley to a kitchen chair my grandmother had turned to face her.

“What? ”

“Could you teach me about makeup? ”

“My God in heaven, praise the Lord, yes! ”

My mother sat down and Buckley climbed up into her lap. “What’s wrong, Mommy? ”

“Are you laughing, Abbie? ” My father smiled.

And she was. She was laughing and she was crying too.

“Susie was a good girl, honey, ” Grandma Lynn said. “Just like you. ” There was no pause. “Now lift up your chin and let me have a look at those bags under your eyes. ”

Buckley got down and moved onto a chair. “This is an eyelash curler, Lindsey, ” my grandmother instructed. “I taught your mother all of these things. ”

“Clarissa uses those, ” Lindsey said.

My grandmother set the rubber curler pads on either side of my mother’s eyelashes, and my mother, knowing the ropes, looked upward.

“Have you talked to Clarissa? ” my father asked.

“Not really, ” said Lindsey. “She’s hanging out a lot with Brian Nelson. They cut class enough times to get a three-day suspension. ”

“I don’t expect that of Clarissa, ” my father said. “She may not have been the brightest apple in the bunch, but she was never a troublemaker. ”

“When I ran into her she reeked of pot. ”

“I hope you’re not getting into that, ” Grandma Lynn said. She finished the last of her seven and seven and slammed the highball glass down on the table. “Now, see this, Lindsey, see how when the lashes are curled it opens up your mother’s eyes? ”

Lindsey tried to imagine her own eyelashes, but instead saw the star-clumped lashes of Samuel Heckler as his face neared hers for a kiss. Her pupils dilated, pulsing in and out like small, ferocious olives.

“I stand amazed, ” Grandma Lynn said, and put her hands, one still twisted into the awkward handles of the eyelash curler, on her hips.

“What? ”

“Lindsey Salmon, you have a boyfriend, ” my grandmother announced to the room.

My father smiled. He was liking Grandma Lynn suddenly. I was too.

“Do not, ” Lindsey said.

My grandmother was about to speak when my mother whispered, “Do too. ”

“Bless you, honey, ” my grandmother said, “you should have a boyfriend. As soon as I’m done with your mother, I’m giving you the grand Grandma Lynn treatment. Jack, make me an aperitif. ”

“An aperitif is something you …” my mother began.

“Don’t correct me, Abigail. ”

My grandmother got sloshed. She made Lindsey look like a clown or, as Grandma Lynn said herself, “a grade-A ’tute. ” My father got what she called

“finely drunkened. ” The most amazing thing was that my mother went to bed and left the dirty dishes in the sink.

While everyone else slept, Lindsey stood at the mirror in the bathroom, looking at herself. She wiped off some of the blush, blotted her lips, and ran her fingers over the swollen, freshly plucked parts of her formerly bushy eyebrows. In the mirror she saw something different and so did I: an adult who could take care of herself. Under the makeup was the face she’d always known as her own, until very recently, when it had become the face that reminded people of me. With lip pencil and eyeliner, she now saw, the edges of her features were delineated, and they sat on her face like gems imported from some far-off place where the colors were richer than the colors in our house had ever been. It was true what our grandmother said – the makeup brought out the blue of her eyes. The plucking of the eyebrows changed the shape of her face. The blush highlighted the hollows beneath her cheekbones (“The hollows that could stand some more hollowing, ” our grandmother pointed out). And her lips – she practiced her facial expressions.

She pouted, she kissed, she smiled wide as if she too had had a cocktail, she looked down and pretended to pray like a good girl but cocked one eye up to see how she looked being good. She went to bed and slept on her back so as not to mess up her new face.

Mrs. Bethel Utemeyer was the only dead person my sister and I ever saw. She moved in with her son to our development when I was six and Lindsey five.

My mother said that she had lost part of her brain and that sometimes she left her son’s house and didn’t know where she was. She would often end up in our front yard, standing under the dogwood tree and looking out at the street as if waiting for a bus. My mother would sit her down in the kitchen and make tea for the two of them, and after she calmed her she would call her son’s house to tell them where she was. Sometimes no one was home and Mrs. Utemeyer would sit at our kitchen table and stare into the centerpiece for hours. She would be there when we came home from school. Sitting. She smiled at us. Often she called Lindsey “Natalie” and reached out to touch her hair.

When she died, her son encouraged my mother to bring Lindsey and me to the funeral. “My mother seemed to have a special fondness for your children, ” he wrote.

“She didn’t even know my name, Mom, ” Lindsey whined, as our mother buttoned up the infinite number of round buttons on Lindsey’s dress coat.

Another impractical gift from Grandma Lynn, my mother thought.

“At least she called you a name, ” I said.

It was after Easter, and a spring heat wave had set in that week. All but the most stubborn of that winter’s snow had seeped into the earth, and in the graveyard of the Utemeyers’ church snow clung to the base of the headstones, while, nearby, buttercup shoots were making their way up.

The Utemeyers’ church was fancy. “High Catholic, ” my father had said in the car. Lindsey and I thought this was very funny. My father hadn’t wanted to come but my mother was so pregnant that she couldn’t drive. For the last few months of her pregnancy with Buckley she was unable to fit behind the wheel. She was so uncomfortable most of the time that we avoided being near her for fear we’d be thrown into servitude.

But her pregnancy allowed her to get out of what Lindsey and I couldn’t stop talking about for weeks and what I kept dreaming about for long after that: viewing the body. I could tell my father and mother didn’t want this to happen, but Mr. Utemeyer made beeline for the two of us when it was time to file past the casket. “Which one of you is the one she called Natalie? ” he asked. We stared at him. I pointed to Lindsey.

“I’d like you to come say goodbye, ” he said. He smelled of a perfume sweeter than what my mother sometimes wore, and the sting of it in my nose, and my sense of exclusion, made me want to cry. “You can come too, ” he said to me, extending his hands so we would flank him in the aisle.

It wasn’t Mrs. Utemeyer. It was something else. But it was Mrs. Utemeyer too.

I tried to keep my eyes focused on the gleaming gold rings on her fingers.

“Mother, ” Mr. Utemeyer said, “I brought the little girl you called Natalie. ” Lindsey and I both admitted later that we expected Mrs. Utemeyer to speak and that we had decided, individually, that if she did we were going to grab the other one and run like hell.

An excruciating second or two and it was over and we were released back to our mother and father.

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