war-zone cacophony of radio static and belch. Tomlinson shifted gear into park. And suddenly I was home.
Burke, in the passenger’s seat, slid an arm along the seat back, turned, and regarded me with what I took to be intended kindness.
“You’ll be okay?”
How to answer? The question not a question but a generic encouragement, a euphemistic hand on the shoulder; not at all, really, about revelation. And so, hunched like a felon in the dim backseat of the cruiser, I nodded. And then I opened the door and got out.
“Mr. Learner?” Burke was getting out, too; with a little sigh, he rested his hand on the top of the open door and looked at me earnestly. Then he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and offered it across the roof of the cruiser. I took the card but did not look at it. “We’re on the case here, sir, I want you to rest assured of that,” he said. “And if at any time you feel like getting in touch with me, you can give a call over to the station. I’ll get the message and get right back to you. That’s a promise. We’ll be in touch.”
He stood waiting for some response, but when I remained mute, he seemed to come to some decision about me. With a nod of his head, he murmured, “Good night, sir,” and ducked back into the cruiser.
I watched them drive off.
I didn’t go in right away. I stood at the edge of the lawn, by the split-rail fence and the mailbox, looking at our house. The night was warm, moonless dark, and still; the crickets had stopped singing. In the air was the damp, lush, private scent of the garden without the sun: lilac, lavender, mint, thyme. I saw the lighted windows of our house—this which was to have been our place of permanence, our home and hearth inviolable: Build and it will last, was the idea; reap and ye shall sow. This place to which we’d moved ten years ago, with Josh still in his bassinet; this sagging old house we had lovingly shored up and restored; where, bit by bit, Grace had made this garden. She had planted trees— dogwoods, junipers, Japanese maples, peach, apple, cherry. Carrying Josh with her wherever she went, pointing out plants and flowers to him, talking to him, sometimes voicing ideas aloud as they came to her. On the western side of the house, where the land climbed to a rise, she had stood one day imagining a garden of perennials. At the end of every summer they would bloom, she had promised him, and the butterflies would flock to them, wave after wave of monarchs. She said she could see it all as if in a dream: it would be Josh’s garden.
Upstairs, a window was opened: Grace stood on the landing, in the artificial light, cupping her hands against the upper panes and squinting, like someone looking into the sun. For perhaps a minute we simply stared at each other. Then she went down.
Grace
She had the impression, when he first came through the door and put his arms around her, that he was embracing her simply because she was standing there, because she would do; that he did not recognize her. But the feeling passed. His grip on her tightened with a sudden and awful need; he seemed to come apart in her arms, and then she felt herself holding him together in some way she’d never imagined would be necessary. She could feel his heart beating violently against her breast. He smelled of vomit. There was nothing to say.
Wordlessly, like a woman with her tongue cut out, she made him a drink and another for herself. Standing in the living room by the sideboard, she heard a rushing sound in her ears and pressed the cold sweating glass against her forehead. Then she gathered herself and the glasses and joined him in the kitchen, where he had wandered listlessly, like a ghost. The kitchen: butcher-block table, two chairs, two stools.
Stools for the children,
she thought, watching him sit down heavily, selfishly, on Josh’s stool, and felt a bright star of outrage burst in her chest:
How dare he
. But then she retreated, telling
Burke, in the passenger’s seat, slid an arm along the seat back, turned, and regarded me with what I took to be intended kindness.
“You’ll be okay?”
How to answer? The question not a question but a generic encouragement, a euphemistic hand on the shoulder; not at all, really, about revelation. And so, hunched like a felon in the dim backseat of the cruiser, I nodded. And then I opened the door and got out.
“Mr. Learner?” Burke was getting out, too; with a little sigh, he rested his hand on the top of the open door and looked at me earnestly. Then he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and offered it across the roof of the cruiser. I took the card but did not look at it. “We’re on the case here, sir, I want you to rest assured of that,” he said. “And if at any time you feel like getting in touch with me, you can give a call over to the station. I’ll get the message and get right back to you. That’s a promise. We’ll be in touch.”
He stood waiting for some response, but when I remained mute, he seemed to come to some decision about me. With a nod of his head, he murmured, “Good night, sir,” and ducked back into the cruiser.
I watched them drive off.
I didn’t go in right away. I stood at the edge of the lawn, by the split-rail fence and the mailbox, looking at our house. The night was warm, moonless dark, and still; the crickets had stopped singing. In the air was the damp, lush, private scent of the garden without the sun: lilac, lavender, mint, thyme. I saw the lighted windows of our house—this which was to have been our place of permanence, our home and hearth inviolable: Build and it will last, was the idea; reap and ye shall sow. This place to which we’d moved ten years ago, with Josh still in his bassinet; this sagging old house we had lovingly shored up and restored; where, bit by bit, Grace had made this garden. She had planted trees— dogwoods, junipers, Japanese maples, peach, apple, cherry. Carrying Josh with her wherever she went, pointing out plants and flowers to him, talking to him, sometimes voicing ideas aloud as they came to her. On the western side of the house, where the land climbed to a rise, she had stood one day imagining a garden of perennials. At the end of every summer they would bloom, she had promised him, and the butterflies would flock to them, wave after wave of monarchs. She said she could see it all as if in a dream: it would be Josh’s garden.
Upstairs, a window was opened: Grace stood on the landing, in the artificial light, cupping her hands against the upper panes and squinting, like someone looking into the sun. For perhaps a minute we simply stared at each other. Then she went down.
Grace
She had the impression, when he first came through the door and put his arms around her, that he was embracing her simply because she was standing there, because she would do; that he did not recognize her. But the feeling passed. His grip on her tightened with a sudden and awful need; he seemed to come apart in her arms, and then she felt herself holding him together in some way she’d never imagined would be necessary. She could feel his heart beating violently against her breast. He smelled of vomit. There was nothing to say.
Wordlessly, like a woman with her tongue cut out, she made him a drink and another for herself. Standing in the living room by the sideboard, she heard a rushing sound in her ears and pressed the cold sweating glass against her forehead. Then she gathered herself and the glasses and joined him in the kitchen, where he had wandered listlessly, like a ghost. The kitchen: butcher-block table, two chairs, two stools.
Stools for the children,
she thought, watching him sit down heavily, selfishly, on Josh’s stool, and felt a bright star of outrage burst in her chest:
How dare he
. But then she retreated, telling
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