Housebreaking (37 page)

Yes. You have to go. Go now!

* * *

SHE EMERGED
into brightness. The effort of waking was wrenching. She couldn't speak, couldn't cry out. Something was on her face, suffocating her. An interminable time passed on the cusp of consciousness, trying to surface. She fought to open her eyes, gasping and choking. She could see only the brightness, blinding her. At last, she could see beyond the light.

They were all around her.

A face appeared above her. He had no eyes, no mouth. Not a man but some devil. His voice came from elsewhere, the sounds guttural. Someone sliced her arm, opening her. She tried to scream, but the words turned to mush. She felt herself falling. Down, deep down, back into the sludge. Nothing here but blackness. Not water. Not air. Not anything.

She fought back to the surface. There was something in her mouth. She pulled the thing out and it kept coming, from all the way down her throat, deep down inside her, making her vomit. She spat a black sludge, the taste of death. The thing emerged, something foreign. A plastic tube.
She kept pulling until it was out and threw it or tried to, her hands were so weak, she could barely move.

She could hear them, understand them. But she couldn't speak to them. Bile came spilling out of her, black and thick. She fought to stay conscious even as she vomited. She wavered, falling back. It was impossible to come awake. She couldn't do it. It was an enormous stone on top of her. To struggle against it was pointless.

Wake up
, said the voice.
Open your eyes.

I can't.

Of course you can.

And somehow she did.

* * *

LATER
she would remember nothing, or almost nothing, of that night. Glimpses, that was all, like images seen while flipping television channels. She pushed it out of her mind, she did not want to recall what she'd done. She was too ashamed to remember; she would tell no one of her visit to the man's house, not even her mother.

All of that night, as hazy as a dream—all except the attic.
That
she remembered clearly, every detail—the sloped, soft-yellow walls, the bay-window seat looking out to the backyard. She not only remembered it but
felt
it—the sunlight, his presence—a feeling of pure goodness. It stayed with her, a gift she carried wherever she went. She told no one—not the hospital doctors or the therapists who pressed her during her seventy-­two-hour stay in the psych ward, not the shrink she met Wednesday afternoons for six months after that, even though she liked the woman and didn't mind sharing her every other secret with her. She told no one of the attic. That was hers alone, a constant, a feeling undimmed for years afterward—but never as strong as that next morning, waking in the hospital room at dawn with no idea where she was, and her mother sitting beside her. She told no one except her mother—the only person she could ever tell, the only person in the world who could understand.

She opened her eyes and looked around, registering the exhaustion in her body, the tiredness that comes after giving everything. It was like starting blank.
Where am I? How did I get here?
She felt the IV attached to her wrist, and she turned to see her mother, holding her hand.

“Mom,” she said, “I saw him. I saw Daniel.” She rushed to get the words out, but her voice was hoarse, no louder than a whisper.

“Emily?” Her mother's hand was warm against her skin. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you.”

“Emily, I'm so sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“Everything, honey. I'm sorry about everything.” Audrey was weeping, the tears running down her cheeks. Her face was pale and drawn. “You've been sick and I didn't do anything to help. Will you forgive me?”

“Oh, Mom. You look awful.”

Audrey laughed and wiped her eyes. “I forgot to put on makeup.”

“Did you hear what I said? About Daniel?”

“Yes.”

“You can't tell anyone. Not even Dad.”

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

Emily pushed herself up in bed. “Mom, you're not listening to me.” Outside the window, the sun was a red blob, rising over a line of trees. They were somewhere on the fifth or sixth floor, high above the city. “He's here. He's with us.”

She told her mother what she had seen. The attic room, how she had opened the tiny door to find him, the warmth and sunlight, like no other place. Heaven. It could only be heaven. “Do you believe me?”

Her mother nodded. She brushed her hair away from her face. “I see him every time I look at you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

That morning: It was like starting blank. She let the past refill her, choosing what to admit and what to banish. It would become her story to tell. Later, she would look back and say that when she was seventeen, she tried to commit suicide but ended up killing only the parts of herself she no longer wanted.

* * *

EIGHT YEARS LATER
, she will arrive in Berkeley, California, to attend graduate school. It is a late-summer day. She walks through town, seeing it all for the first time, this place she will come to know so well. In People's
Park, she finds a place to sit on the warm grass. She watches and admires the activity going on around her—boys playing basketball, students tossing Frisbees, homeless men sleeping in the sun, hippies smoking pot and strumming guitars. All this, she thinks, she could have missed.

A tall young man comes strolling across the grass, like an actor out of a play. He is dressed in a tuxedo coat with tails, wearing a purple top hat. He looks so elegant, so tall, so magical. As if on cue, as if he knows she is watching, the man in the purple top hat takes a few quick steps and throws himself onto his hands and cartwheels—three, four, five cartwheels in a row, a blur of arms and legs, with the top hat somehow staying in place—

Are you seeing this?

I am.

Is this amazing or what?

It is.

He lands on his feet, bows deeply, and doffs his hat in her direction. The kids with the Frisbees hoot and applaud, and she stands and claps with the others for the sheer grace and beauty of what he has done, so happy to be a part of it, this crazy park, this beautiful life.

Epilogue

The first day of winter, 2007

ON THE
TWENTY-SECOND
of December a heavy snow fell. Benjamin Mandelbaum closed down the business early to give his employees a chance to make it home safely. He was one of the last to leave. On the drive home the roads were clogged. On the interstate a few cars slipped out of control, smashing against the guardrails or other vehicles.

His cell phone chimed.

“Where are you?” asked Judy.

“Halfway home.”

“I need you to stop at Whole Foods in Wintonbury Center.”

“Give me a break, Judy. It's like the demolition derby out here.”

“It's for your daughter.”

He squinted at the swirling snow, riding the brake, barely moving. “Why didn't you go to the store earlier?”

“Because she didn't tell me earlier.”

He took a deep breath. “All right, fine. What do you need?”

She gave him a list. His daughter had gone gluten-free over the past semester; she needed items that Benjamin had never even heard of: amaranth, quinoa, arrowroot.

“And don't forget the brown rice pasta.”

His children would arrive that weekend on Christmas break. His family would be together for the holidays, despite all, unbroken.

“Right,” he said. “Got it.”

“Say it back to me.”

“Don't bust my balls, Judy.”

“And as long as you're in Wintonbury, drop off those presents at your dad's house. Hanukkah's over and you haven't even given him a card yet,” she reminded him. “I know that doesn't mean much to you, but for Leonard it's a big deal.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Don't wreck the car.”

He inched along with the traffic, the windshield wipers slapping away the snow. After he passed through Hartford, the lanes opened up. He exited in Wintonbury and made his way along the unplowed roads to the food store.

As he pushed the shopping cart down the narrow aisles, he noted two distinct types: the wild-haired bohemians who worked there and the middle-aged yuppies who shopped there. Organic food was healthy, yes? So how to explain the unsightly appearance of the patrons—their sallow complexions, their thin and frizzled hair, their shuffling gaits? Many looked like recent victims of accident or disease, limping and wheezing, loading their carts with every sort of vitamin known to the natural world. In Benjamin's opinion they would do better getting a steak and some frozen peas at the Stop & Shop down the street. How much granola and broccoli could one tolerate? Hitler was a vegetarian, he'd learned on the History Channel, and a compulsive farter.

He took his two bags from the cashier and was heading to the door when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Audrey Martin standing before him. “Oh, hey, it's you,” he said, startled, stumbling on his words. “Wow, what a surprise. I've been meaning—”

To his astonishment, she wrapped her arms around him. She held him tightly, her head pressed against his chest.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

She held him like that, and after a few moments he returned the embrace. They stood in the front of the food store, people passing by them, holding each other.

He would never know what he did for her. Emily had gotten to the hospital in the nick of time, the doctor had told her. A matter of minutes, and it might have been too late. Audrey had replayed the events of that night in her mind countless times since it happened, and it all came down to the phone call. Benjamin's call. That had made the difference. Otherwise she wouldn't have been awake to hear her daughter's faint cry for help. She had taken her Valium and gone to sleep, oblivious. Emily could have died in the next room, not thirty feet away, with Audrey snoring in her bed. But he had called and let the phone ring—and ring—until she woke. He'd called her in the middle of the night, seeking what? Companionship? Sex? Someone to say good night to? It didn't matter why, only that he had done so. Nothing else mattered but for the enormity of this simple act. He had called at midnight and he had saved her daughter, and Audrey too.

“Thank you,” she said again, finally releasing him, and before he could respond, she hurried off.

* * *

THE SNOW
was falling harder, the temperature dropping. It took Benjamin a half hour to travel the two miles across town.

On Apple Hill Road, the houses seemed lifeless at this unsettling time of day, too early to turn on the lights but not yet dark. Bamboo reindeer and plastic Santas stood on lawns, like ghostly sentinels, brushed white by the storm.

In his father's driveway he found Franky DiLorenzo, wearing a furry-hooded parka, shoveling three inches of fresh snow off the asphalt.

“Let me help you with that,” said Benjamin, getting out of the car.

Franky looked up, breathing smoky-cold air, and shook his head. “I'm retired, remember. This gives me something to do.”

“You should at least let my father pay you.”

He waved away the notion. “I'm happy to lend a hand. Your dad would do the same for me.”

Benjamin nodded. His father would indeed. That was Leonard's primary impulse, to help out his family and friends where he could. It came naturally to him, that sort of generosity. Benjamin knew that he'd failed to live up to his father's ideal. He'd always taken care of himself above others.

“How's it going back at your old place?” asked Franky DiLorenzo.

“Ups and downs, to tell you the truth,” said Benjamin. The night before, during an after-dinner argument, Judy had yelled,
You're acting like a selfish jerk, Benjamin. Haven't you learned anything? When are you going to grow up?
Yes, Benjamin figured, he would have to try harder, or at least pretend to. He would have to learn to please or placate Judy, if he didn't want to get kicked out of his house again.

Franky leaned on the shovel and stared into the down-falling snow. “I almost got married once, but it didn't work out. I figure it's better for my blood pressure in the long run, to stay single.”

“You're right about that. Without a doubt.”

Franky DiLorenzo leaned in close. “Did you hear about that Stacks kid?”

Benjamin frowned. “No.”

Franky grinned. “I don't mean to pat myself on the back or anything. But I was right all along about that kid. Last week the cops nabbed him, red-handed. They got him breaking into Jimmie's Pizza Palace at two in the morning wheeling a jukebox into the back alley. Seventeen years old. That's the least of his crimes, I bet. You should follow up with the cops, see if they can nail him on your break-in too.”

Benjamin shook his head. “Doesn't really seem worth the trouble.”

“I suppose not,” said Franky, although Benjamin could tell he didn't agree with him.

Franky gestured toward the bottom of the street. “Did you see the sign outside the farmhouse?”

“What sign?”

“The place is back on the market.”

“Really? When did that happen?”

“Couple of days ago. I just got back from three weeks in Boca, so I've been out of the loop. But from what I've heard, it's a bit of a mystery. The guy who lives in the house across from them saw an ambulance pull into their driveway late one night, a few weeks back. A fire engine too. But since that night, they've pretty much disappeared. No one's home, as far as I can tell. Not a peep. And yesterday the posthole diggers showed up and planted that sign.”

“Was there a fire?”

“No. They always call out the fire department as first responders. I'm guessing a domestic.”

“A what?”

“Some kind of marital incident.” Franky DiLorenzo wiped his nose, his black eyes flashing. “You're friends with her, right?”

Benjamin shrugged. “Not that close. I didn't even know they'd moved out.”

He didn't tell Franky about seeing her in the food store a half hour earlier, her long and warm embrace. He didn't know what to make of that. He was surprised that she would even say hello to him, the way he'd dumped her without a word and ducked her phone calls until they stopped coming. But she had hugged him like a loved one, and thanked him with true sincerity. For what, he had no idea.

Franky pursed his lips. “I was hoping you could clear up the mystery.”

“No idea.”

“The house is listed at nearly the same price they paid for it,” said Franky. “That's after all that money they put into renovations. I'm guessing they split up and are trying to get rid of the place, fast.”

“You could be right.” Benjamin pondered whether any of this might have something to do with him. Had the husband found out about their affair? Was that why Audrey had thanked him, for giving her a reason to get divorced? The way she'd described her husband, he was a man accustomed to getting his way. If he found out that Audrey was screwing around on him, he wouldn't take the news well. Sure, that could lead to some yelling, a call to the cops—a “domestic.” Although Audrey hadn't looked hurt or upset. She'd looked as lovely as ever, so much so that he still felt a faint longing from seeing her. So maybe something else entirely had caused their departure. Maybe it had nothing to do with him.

“Well,” said Franky DiLorenzo. “I guess it's a mystery.”

“I guess so.”

Franky raised his shovel toward the darkening sky, a low cover of gray. “I better finish up while it's still light.”

* * *

IN THE KITCHEN
Benjamin shrugged out of his overcoat and checked the hallway thermostat: eighty-six degrees. He felt woozy, coming in from the cold to the hot, airless kitchen. Why did old people like to be so warm?

“Is anyone home?”

He went down the hallway and checked the den. Leonard was asleep on the couch, an afghan tucked around his legs. Next to him, Terri Funkhouser lay sprawled in the recliner chair, knitting needles crossed on her lap, her head back. His father wheezed, she snored, a sort of conversation going back and forth. The Weather Channel played on the TV with the sound off. The floorboard radiators hissed softly. Outside a tree branch scratched against the window like a cat.

The two seemed innocent in their slumber, as if they'd been married for fifty years. Benjamin felt a mixture of emotions—sadness and love, too jumbled to clarify. Terri Funkhouser was a godsend, he knew. For the last couple of weeks, ever since Leonard came home from the rehab center and she moved into the spare bedroom, she did everything for his father. Fed him, bathed him, cooked for him. Leonard seemed almost childlike in his need for her; he became anxious when she was not near, the same way he used to act with Myra, and Benjamin wondered whether his father, in his reduced state, truly understood the difference between the two women. Did he realize that she was not Myra, not his wife?

Benjamin backed out of the room, careful not to wake them. He left the gifts on his father's desk and softly closed the door behind him.

Outside, he brushed the fresh coat of snow from his windshield. At the bottom of the street he stopped and rolled down the window to look at the farmhouse, shuttered and snowbound, the driveway and lawn untrodden. He noticed the Realtor's signpost near the stone well, the
FOR SALE
board swaying soundlessly in the wind. The windows were dark, the chimney cold. It looked eerily familiar, like a vision from his own unlived future, and he shivered and closed the window against the storm and drove away.