“You’re just upset,” he said more to himself than to her. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll figure this out. I’ll take tomorrow off so you don’t have to be here alone. We’ll get a security system installed and the locks changed. It’ll be fine. I promise.”
“No. It’s not going to be fine. What are we going to do about this house, Myron?”
“Hey. According to Glenda, stigmas on properties usually vanish after a few years. It’s going to be okay. All of that is ancient history.”
He patted her knee, and she gave him an unconvinced smile for the effort, which fell the instant he looked away. She stared blankly out the window into the backyard and saw the white cat perched on a fence post.
It was watching the house.
36
Later that night, Hunter still hadn’t come home. Myron fed his wife another martini and headed up the back stairs to investigate what she’d found and ferret out any intruders—real or imagined.
There was no sign of damage to the attic door hardware. There was no sign of anyone lurking in any of the rooms or closets. Myron studied the attic lockset again, wondering if Margot was being entirely honest about what had happened. Is she taking her meds? Is she losing it?
Still, he called a locksmith and left a message. “We need an estimate to change out the locksets for a 1922 house. Please give me a call so we can schedule something in the next few days. It’s urgent.”
The newspapers up in the attic proved Margot wasn’t being hysterical, at least about one part of her story. Myron stared at the dark stain on the bathroom floor where little Walter had died and shook his head. Six years old. Memories of Hunter at that age ran through his mind. Hunter laughing. Hunter playing with toys. Hunter beaming with all the golden starlight promise of the very young. Heartbreaking in every way.
Myron found the gun right where Margot had promised it would be. Lifting the silver-plated pistol into his hand, Myron aimed it at the far wall, squinting one eye down the sight, imagining what it would be like to pull the trigger. The chamber turned out to be empty. He counted the four loose bullets and put the gun back into the cigar box. He’d promised Margot he’d “take care of it.” All she’d done was nod. It was an act of wifely submission so rare he’d blinked twice.
As he stood there at the top of the attic steps with the cigar box in hand, a faint melody drifted toward him. It came from two stories below. He followed the phantom sound down to the front entryway, but it slipped away from his ear.
“Hon?” he asked softly.
There was no answer.
The muffled voices of the television in the den muttered softly back and forth. He turned a slow circle and noticed the bleeding roses on the hall table, their perfume thick and heavy. He flipped on the chandelier overhead and examined the red petals more closely.
Margot sat curled in a corner of the couch, nursing her drink, ignoring the home-improvement show glowing in front of her. Hunter, where are you? Are you okay? We have to get you out of here before something happens to you. My God, that poor little boy . . .
Myron set the cigar box and the gun inside it down on the built-in mahogany shelf and poured himself another scotch. After downing half of it, he pulled open one of the drawers and placed the box inside. Until I can figure out what to do, he told himself.
He settled down on the other end of the sofa and patted Margot’s knee. “So . . . who were the flowers from?”
The haze cleared from her eyes. “What?”
“The roses. In the hall. They’re pretty. Secret admirer?” He raised his eyebrows at her. He didn’t mention what he’d seen on her laptop or any of his suspicions. He kept all that hidden as he waited for her answer.
The question gave her a moment’s pause, but there was no knowing twinkle in his eye to tell her he’d sent them, just a vague sadness and a touch of something else. Jealousy? she wondered, then quickly dismissed the thought. She let out a cheerless laugh. “I wish. My mom. I guess she felt bad for not sending us a housewarming gift.”
“That was nice of her.” He smiled for her benefit. If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have noticed his jaw tighten ever so slightly.
“I guess.” She downed her martini and set it on the coffee table. With her other hand, she disarmed him of his drink and then buried her face against his neck. “Will you hold me?”
He opened his arms and kissed the top of her forehead. She nestled in where she couldn’t see the hard line of his mouth or the anger flashing behind his eyes along with images of Margot’s naked flesh on a computer screen. I’m a married woman.
After he’d locked all the doors, after he’d assured her that Hunter would come back, after Margot had passed out from her third martini, after Myron had taken the last of his white pills and drifted into the abyss, a shadow crept into their bedroom. It hovered over them, watching them sleep.
Margot’s brow furrowed, but the alcohol kept her from waking.
Myron didn’t feel a thing.
37
The Klussman Family
September 15, 1990
Frannie Klussman slept through the flashing lights that came in the early hours that morning and the sound of police cars gathering across the street. The sounds bled into the white noise of the ambulances and buses that passed along Lee Road day after day.
Hours later, she sat at the kitchen table with Bill, drinking her morning coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen from the night before. The fine lines of her hands and the gaps under her fingernails were stained red and black with Benny’s blood and dirt from the front yard. The memory of her son banging his head against the sidewalk outside replayed itself in her tired gaze over and over.
He had a pretty bad seizure last night, was all she’d told the home health aide. She’d said nothing about Benny’s escape from the house.
Bill had assured her when he arrived that morning that stitches weren’t necessary, but he’d recommended she take him to the hospital just to be sure. Frannie’s lips had pressed together at the advice. The hospital would ask questions she didn’t want to answer. Let’s see how it looks tonight.
After a few prolonged moments of silence, Bill said, “I’m real sorry I wasn’t here last night. I should have stayed.”
“Oh. It’s not your fault.” He would surely have called the social worker if she’d told him the whole story. “He just had a bad dream.”
“You don’t have to do this alone.” Bill patted a spot on the table next to her hand. “There’s places he can go. Places that will keep him safe, Ms. Klussman.”
She shook her head violently. “They’ll keep him drugged up like a vegetable. They’ll keep him in restraints. That’s what they did to him the last time. You’ve seen what they do. I can’t just let him live like that . . . what kind of mother would leave her baby in a place like that? I can’t! I just—”
A knock at the door cut her words off. She stood up, and so did Bill.
“You want me to answer it?”
She wiped the tears from her swollen eyes and shook her head. “No. You drink your coffee. I’m fine.”
On weak legs, she staggered through the kitchen to the dusty foyer and looked out one of the tall leaded glass windows flanking the front entrance. A police officer stood on the other side. Frowning, she opened the door.