Chris Bohjalian - Secrets of Eden

When my cell phone rang, I was home, rolling a yoga mat into a tube. It was raining outside, but it was a warm, Indian-summer sort of rain, and my windows overlooking Greene Street were open. I had finished my yoga for the day, and I was as close to content as I was in those weeks: not as serene as I was accustomed to being, but through prayer and meditation I was confident that eventually my aura would lose the toxicity that was causing me to see the world through an enervating smog. I felt that my angel was with me, ensuring that I would endure this strange autumn, as I had far worse crises-spiritual and physical-in my life.

“Hi, Heather, it’s me,” said a little voice, and I knew instantly that it was Katie Hayward. I sat down on the daybed so I could focus on her. I asked her where she was and how she was faring. There was a ripple of anxiety in her tone, and instantly I was worried. She was calling from the bedroom that was now hers and Tina’s at the Cousino family’s house, and the disquiet I heard was fueled, she said, by another dream she’d had the night before and she’d been thinking about all day at school. The dream-a nightmare, really-had taken place the evening when her parents had died.

“And Lula was inside the house, and my mom and dad’s bodies were there in the living room,” Katie was saying now.

“Lula was inside the house?” I asked. I remembered that someone had told me that the dog had been outside when Ginny O’Brien had arrived Monday morning.

“Yeah. And she was… ”

“Go on.”

“She was drinking my dad’s blood off his head. Lapping at it. Sort of nibbling at the hole where the bullet went in. Isn’t that gross? I feel like I’m really sick to even think of such a thing.”

“No, you’re not sick at all. But remember: Lula hadn’t been in the living room. It was just a dream. Lula had probably been out all night. Your mom or dad let her out before they… fought.”

“But that’s just it: They didn’t let Lula out! She was a shelter dog, and she’s always been a bit of a kook. Like a total lunatic. So either we walked her on a leash or we let her out when we could watch her. You know, keep an eye on her. We never just opened the door and let her out. Never. And let me tell you, she hasn’t changed a bit here at Tina’s. There is no way you just open the door and let that dog rock. I think it’s a miracle she was sitting on the front porch when Ginny got to my house the next day.”

Did Katie understand the ramifications of what she was saying? I thought she did, which would explain the fretfulness in her voice. But I wasn’t sure, and so I pressed her just a bit. “Your father had been drinking. Maybe he-”

“He didn’t let her out. I don’t care how drunk he was, he wouldn’t have let her out. I mean, like, why would he?”

“Perhaps your mother tried to leave. And Lula left then. Maybe she just ran out the door.”

“No. That’s what hit me because of the dream. As awful as the nightmare was, it made something really, really clear to me that I hadn’t thought about: Someone else let Lula out the door that night, either on purpose or by mistake. Now, sometimes, if something has totally freaked her out, she’ll just zoom out the front door. But she really does have to be totally freaked. Totally scared.”

The implication, and neither of us said anything for a moment, was that whoever had killed her father-assuming that he hadn’t killed himself-had let the dog out.

“Was Lula ever scared of your father?” I asked.

“No way. He treated Lula a lot better than he treated Mom.”

“But she was scared of strangers, I presume.”

“She was scared of men-except for Dad, who won her over. But other men scared the crap out of her. Even Stephen.”

“Why do you say ‘even Stephen’?”

“Well, he’s, like, a minister. Isn’t he supposed to be all about peace?”

“Do you think Stephen was at your house on Sunday night? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“They’re selling the house, you know. It will pay for my college.”

I repeated the question: “Do you think Stephen was at your house on Sunday night?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Lula was out.”

“There has to be more to it than that.”

She exhaled so profoundly that I could hear it clearly over the phone. “Remember when you called me the day after you visited the coroner guy?” she said after a moment. “You told me he said Mom had been wearing her red nightgown.”

“Go on.”

“I mean, I don’t know if any of this is what happened. But I keep thinking about it a lot. When my mom sent my dad away last winter, he didn’t take the handgun with him. He made a big deal about this. My mom didn’t even want to touch it, but he insisted she hang on to it, because she was going to be the only parent in the house looking out for me. And our house is sort of isolated. Two women and all. So he left her the gun and the bullets, and then he went to go live at the lake. And Mom put the gun in one of these big plastic tubs she uses to swap out her clothes. She puts her summer clothes in them in the winter and her winter clothes in them in the summer. And as far as I know, the gun was still in one of the tubs in July, even though the summer clothes had been replaced with the winter ones. She’d kept the gun where it was. See?”

“I’m listening,” I said simply.

“Well, here’s the thing: I don’t think Stephen ever saw my mom in her plaid flannel nightgown. Her winter one. I mean, if they were sleeping together, it was during the day when I was at school, because they sure weren’t doing it when I was home at night. And so she wouldn’t have been wearing her nightgown at, like, eleven in the morning or when she came home from the bank to be with him. She would have been wearing clothes. Casual clothes or work clothes. But clothes. Besides, that nightgown is sort of grungy. It’s got weird tears and coffee stains. My mom really liked it. But there is no way she would have let anyone other than my dad or me ever see her in it. Especially… ”

“Especially what?”

“I’m a virgin. Okay? I’m a virgin. But I’m not totally naïve. And if you’re having sex with a guy for the first couple of times, you want to look as hot as you can, even if you’re, like, middle-aged. And I know my mom. There is no way she would ever have let Stephen see her in that plaid flannel nightgown.”

“And so you’re suggesting he saw the nightgown for the first time when he got the gun.”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” she said, her voice growing more animated, more urgent. “But I just can’t see how else Stephen could have known about the nightgown.”

“Do you know if he knew the gun was in one of those tubs? Did your mom ever tell you that she’d told him she kept the pistol there?”

“You sound like a detective.”

“I’m sorry. But my head is spinning a little bit. Have you told the police any of this?”

“They didn’t ask me any questions about the gun. Or about Lula. And it was only when I had the dream about Lula that the whole nightgown thing even crossed my mind. See, in the dream my mom was wearing that ridiculous plaid nightgown. And that image made the rest really, really clear.”

“I’m going to tell you three things,” I said. “First of all, grown-ups are strange, and sometimes we get comfortable with one another pretty quickly. Your mother and Stephen were intimate in the winter. And so I wouldn’t discount completely the idea that your mother wore that grungy plaid nightgown around him at some point. Then, in the midst of whatever else Stephen is experiencing right now, he confused the nightgowns in his mind when he spoke with you. But here is the second thing: You might be onto something, and you should share your conjectures with the police. I would call them myself-and if you want me to, I will be happy to. But they’re going to want to talk to you anyway after that, so you might as well just pick up the phone and call them yourself. Call that state trooper who interviewed us or call the deputy state’s attorney. I believe her name is Catherine. I’ll get you both numbers-or Josie can. That social worker. Let them decide if there’s anything to it.”