During those wakeful moments, his resentment for Donna grew. She lived carefree and without responsibilities, tucked away at Shadow Garden, and he wanted nothing more but to wash his hands of her but there was something reminiscent of a debt he owed her. He paid her extensive medical bills, she wanted for nothing and he felt he owed that to her. He paid Marleen to care for Donna at Shadow Garden and every so often he stressed the fact that Donna couldn’t be trusted. He explained it just right so a possible confession would fall on deaf ears, about Donna’s situation, and her cognitive disabilities, and he was proud of himself that he had managed to leave it basic and open for interpretation.
“She might get confused about what happened,” he told Marleen. “She gets confused easily about Penelope and it would be best if you encourage her to stay busy and not ruminate too much. She makes up stories in her head. Wait until you hear the one about the Miss Texas pageant. She’ll show you the dress. It’s all made up, you can look it up. The sash. The dress, all of it. Just don’t argue with her, just give her time to get better.”
Not for one minute did he think about Donna returning to Hawthorne Court, for them to resume their marriage, their life together. But the cogs turned. In the back of his mind they turned and revolved around one thing: closure.
* * *
• • •
The grass had grown long, the seed stalks were higher than the turf by inches, and crabgrass had taken over. Mulch had been washed away by rain, the bushes impeded the view—not that Edward ever enjoyed the view anymore—the woodwork outside had begun to crack, needed a coat of shellac, but he couldn’t be bothered. He was aware of the decline, the moribund state of it all.
The neighbors seemed to be waiting for Donna to return, and when she didn’t, they began to talk. He noticed them disappearing into garages, stepping back into foyers, or hurriedly slamming car doors and spitting gravel as they sped away. When they saw him on the porch or on the lawn, they turned away without a nod or a greeting, unsure what to make of him, a man in faded pajama pants and a stained T-shirt, and a Scotch plaid flannel robe untied, two sizes too big for him.
Even the book club had moved on, no more selections appeared at the front door and two new houses had been built at the end of the cul-de-sac—New American style. Donna would have something to say about that. Builders had bought most of the parcels that were left and they had begun to divide the plats into smaller lots and cement trucks rolled in, and pneumatic staple guns echoed through Preston Hallow.
Once, at a gas station, he ran into a neighbor. He no longer recalled his name.
“How are things?” the neighbor asked, head cocked to the side, somber, empathetic.
“As expected,” Edward replied and looked the man up and down, couldn’t remember a single meaningful conversation they had had, though they had met frequently at parties and functions. The wives had their book clubs and lunches but what had the men really talked about? The brand of whiskey they were drinking? Sports wasn’t something that was interesting to him, maybe investments, taxes, the best accountant in town?
“How’s Donna?” the neighbor asked.
“As expected,” Edward said again, as if he had no opinion about anything. It was what it was, and as expected wasn’t far off.
Edward excused himself, cut the conversation short. “Run along now,” he added, as if the man was a child, but he didn’t care about him or the neighbors or the house or anything for that matter.
The weekly cleanings had ceased when Marleen left with Donna and though he meant to pick up the phone and hire someone else, he never did. Limbo was what he was in; he couldn’t sell Hawthorne Court, had neglected it. No, he had done more than neglect it; he had all but abandoned it, and the list of improvements he had made lay hidden in some drawer. He contacted a real estate agency but avoided the well-known ones that handled luxury homes, didn’t want word to get around, all he needed was to get a feel for what it would take to put the house on the market.
A real estate agent came by and as if fate wasn’t done handing out suffering, the agent, a young woman in a designer dress, reminded him of Penelope with her flighty way of walking through the house and her attempt to grasp the property and numbers of rooms, randomly asking questions and not taking any notes. The woman was young and inexperienced and nervous and he bristled on the inside and thought of Penelope, who had probably been worse at this job than her.
* * *
• • •
Before he arranged for Donna to move to Shadow Garden with Marleen, he watched Donna like a hawk. Once, he had coaxed her out of bed, had taken her by the elbow and somehow they ended up talking about that ridiculous light fixture she had insisted on, a “piece of art” she said, a sunburst pendant he’d always despised and which seemed out of place in the otherwise classical style of the home. Donna told him a lengthy story about their trip to Italy, how she had seen a similar piece, and Edward knew this story to be true and so he continuously jogged her memory, and there were things she’d divulge if he jogged her memory just right. It was more Donna letting her guard down than him being sly, and a plan formed in his mind.
That scheme he’d come up with, foolproof one day only to be full of flaws the next, gave him a moment of pause. He ought to try.
57
EDWARD
The plan was as bold as it was far-fetched: he’d surround Donna with things that had some sort of emotional significance attached to them, and eventually, when it all came back to her and all the tiny puzzle pieces culminated into the larger picture—what happened the night Penelope fell to her death—he’d swoop in and she’d come clean.
Marleen had developed a fierce loyalty toward Donna and he had to choose his words carefully so she’d go along with his plan.
“You know about Donna’s cognitive problems and the depression. Who could blame her, right, after all she’s been through? If we just surround her with things from happier times, she’ll perk up a bit. Make an effort to get better. Being here, where it all happened, it was just too much for her. You were right. But she’ll come around. I know she will. Just imagine what she’s been through. It’s such a blessing for her to be able to recover and your help is instrumental, Marleen. I’m so glad I found you.”
He began to pick furniture to send to Shadow Garden. Marleen planted items he gave her: a book, her vanity, silverware. A statue. He called them little seeds of memory and he hoped they would unsettle Donna enough to remember, and he thought of them like stoking a fire to get it to burst into flames. A slow but steady wearing her down, getting her to connect the dots, until the final breakdown when he’d finally know the truth.
Marleen was oblivious, thought his attempts to comfort Donna heartwarming. He’d let the phone ring twice then he’d hang up and later that night meet her by the door leading to the storage room, a room that she kept locked at all times. He showed up after Donna was asleep or had just taken her medication. He knew he had to be careful; if Donna ever saw him and Marleen together, she’d figure something was up. Donna was smart, she’d pick up on it, he knew that about her. She smelled rats everywhere.