Vincent Zandri - The remains

But then I pictured that boy having grown into a teenager. I pictured him walking into the house late one night, a shotgun in his hand. I saw that boy moving methodically from bedroom to bedroom until his horrific deed was done.

Without a word Caroline stepped onto what was left of the front porch. The gas can and my old novel in hand, she raised her right leg like a woman thirty years younger, and kicked the door in. Proceeding under the plastic police “crime scene” ribbon, she entered into the place and disappeared. Maybe three long minutes later, she reemerged with that old Sunoco gas can in her hand, the metal canister appearing far lighter than it had been before she’d entered the house. Setting the can onto the porch floor, she pulled something from the pocket of her black pants.

A book of matches.

Striking the match, she set the entire book on fire and tossed it into the open front door. Casually, as if she’d only set a bundle of red roses on the porch floor, she picked the can back up and made her way back to me. By the time she reached me the fire was already visible through the open door. Moments after that, the entire first floor caught fire.

It didn’t take long for the whole place to go up in flames. I felt the heat on my face and I eyed the bright orange fire and I felt my hatred and fear melt out of my pores like candle wax.

Taking hold of my hand, Caroline kissed me gently on the cheek, setting an open hand on my belly.

“We should get back to Franny,” she said. “He’ll be worried.”

I turned and never looked back.

The next morning, I woke up inside my apartment alone. It was the first night I’d spent there since the events of the past few weeks had transpired; since Michael died. I didn’t sleep very well that first night, but then I didn’t sleep poorly either. Since the thirty year anniversary of Whalen’s attacks on Molly and me had passed, I was no longer plagued by nightmares. But that didn’t mean I was feeling bad on the inside so much as I felt very much alone, even with Michael’s beret stuffed under my pillow.

With Michael gone and with Robyn eyeing a far longer emotional recovery than her physical wounds would ever bear, I had some serious decisions to make.

Would I go back to my teaching job at the art center? Would I continue to live in this apartment? Would I sell off my parents’ house and the three-hundred acres that went with it? Would I move away from Albany? Maybe make the forever dreamed about move to New York City? Would I ever return to my art?

One thing was certain: I had a baby to think about now. Where to raise him and how to raise him would be of prime concern, which pretty much meant that my NYC residency might have to be put on hold once again.

No one should raise a child in the city, Michael used to say. Unless they’re filthy rich.

I can’t say that I disagreed with him. He was still the baby’s father, no matter what.

First things first, I jumped back into my routine. I made the coffee, poured a glass of juice, and took my vitamins, which now included prescription prenatals.

I poured a small bowl of Shredded Wheat and two percent milk. When that small meal proved not to cut the mustard (I was eating for two now), I took advantage of Caroline and Franny’s having kindly stocked my fridge and shelves with food. I got the frying pan out and lit the gas stove. Setting my open hand on my growing belly, I realized how famished I truly was.

I set out to make a big breakfast.

First I cracked two eggs into a bowl; beating them smooth along with a dab of milk, some salt and pepper. Then I added a teaspoon of salted butter to the pan. With the butter fully melted, I added the blended eggs into the pan, cooking the mixture slowly over a medium flame.

When the eggs were lightly cooked some two minutes later, I slid them out of the pan onto a white dinner plate. In the fridge I dug out some Green Mountain salsa and some grated Munster. Using my fingers I spread some of the cheese onto the steaming eggs. Last but not least, a big glass of OJ on ice. I was so famished that I ate the food right there, standing inside the kitchen.

I was setting the dishes into the sink when the buzzer sounded. It wasn’t unusual for the maintenance crew to be making inspections of one kind or another, especially on a Monday morning. But instead of buzzing the person in, I made the cautious decision to make my way out my front apartment door and up the steps to the door of my building. Through the glass I spotted a man wearing a FedEx uniform, behind him the still running, orange-on-white FedEx van. The man held a clipboard in one hand and a small package in the other.

The package was a standard eight and one-half by eleven envelope. I couldn’t imagine what anyone wanted to send me that was so important it had to arrive via FedEx. But I signed for it anyway, and took the package with me back inside the apartment.

In the kitchen, I tore the envelope open and peered inside. There was a photograph that was paper-clipped to a letter. Pulling the letter out, I could see that it was a handwritten note from Detective Harris. The attached photo was the black and white shot of Molly and me; the same one to be further examined by print specialists in Albany. The note was a simple one.

It said,

Dear Rebecca,

Whalen’s prints were nowhere to be found on this picture. Neither are Francis Scaramuzzi’s. Still awaiting results from Albany regarding bone samples taken from woods around Mount Desolation.

Take care of yourself,

Harris

So that was it then.

Neither Whalen nor Franny had been in possession of the photo after all. I could only guess as to how it had gotten on the front porch of my parents’ house. If Whalen or Franny hadn’t placed it there, then who did?

Exhaling a breath, I pulled a magnet from off the fridge and set the photo under it. It was the only photograph that occupied the fridge. Tossing the FedEx envelope away, I grabbed my new cell phone, bringing it with me into the bathroom where I set it down onto the sink. I started the shower, letting the water warm up and the bathroom fill with steam. Although I had no definite plans, I would start the day by paying a visit to Robyn. As poorly as she was feeling, I knew that a little visit was always good for cheering her up.

Inside the bedroom, I took my pajamas off.

Standing before the Ikea body-length mirror, I stared at my stomach. Maybe I was only a little more than a couple of weeks along, but I swear I was beginning to show the first signs of a belly. It made me feel good to know that the baby was inside me, growing. Soon I wouldn’t be alone. Soon I would have all the companionship I needed. It would come in the form of a small bundle of boy-joy.

Stepping out of the bedroom, I made my way back into the kitchen where I placed a plastic shopping bag over my cast-covered right hand and secured it with a rubber band from out of the junk drawer. In the bathroom, I pulled back the curtain and carefully stepped into the hot shower. It was the first shower I’d taken inside my own bathroom in what felt like ages. I felt the good, hot water seep into my skin. I felt it seep into the flesh under my skin. I felt it heal the many wounds I’d received up on that mountain and down inside the stone basement of that house in the woods.

The house that no longer existed.

I let the water pour over my hair and onto my face. I felt the good feel of the hot sting. I poured shampoo onto my hair, kneaded it in with my good hand. The thick foam ran down my face. When a little got into my eyes I felt the sting, but I didn’t mind. I actually started to laugh as though getting soap in your eyes was the funniest thing in the world. But I’m sure it all had something to do with being alive, being pregnant with a child I really wanted and really looked forward to loving. It would be my most purist work of art.