Chris Bohjalian - Secrets of Eden

Anyway, after I saw Stephen, I did what he said. I went back to Tina’s.

The plan, as much as there was one, was that he was going to make it look like my dad had killed himself. He reminded me that my dad had just killed my mom. And that my dad was a horrible man. Stephen didn’t expect that anyone would think he’d murdered my dad. I don’t think it had crossed either of our minds that that would happen. It was supposed to look just like a suicide. Whenever I saw him later that autumn, I told him I was worried he was going to go to jail. Each time he reminded me of something important: There was never going to be any evidence that he’d killed my dad. They might believe that he did it, but they could never prove it. He assured me that looking out for me now was the very least he could do for my mom. I think that was a big reason why he was still hanging around Bennington for a while. He wanted to be there for me till this whole mess blew over.

And doing something for my mom seemed to matter to him like crazy. Whenever we spoke that fall, he was like this uncle or godfather who felt this huge responsibility to my mom. I mean, he was already into Heather (and then broken up with Heather), so it wasn’t like he was pining for a lost love. But he did feel this burden that he was a part of the reason my mom was dead.

He was already living down in Bennington when I told him I thought the police were starting to think I was involved. He chuckled a little bit and said he didn’t think that was likely: He said he was the big suspect and to just keep reading the newspapers. But I told him I was worried because of some of the things they had been asking me, and that’s when he told me to go ahead and incriminate him. He said why not? They already thought he’d done it, but his attorney had assured him that they would never be able to prove it. So, he said, throw a little gas on the fire. He said he would, too. I was supposed to call Heather, but before I did, she showed up out of the blue one afternoon at my school, and I was like a windup toy. I just let it all out, just as Stephen had suggested, and I saw right away that he was absolutely correct. She gave me her cell-phone number, and a little later I did call her and made absolutely sure that she-that everyone-was positive that Stephen had killed my dad.

But he was also right that they were never able to charge him with murder.

Of course, from that point on I also had to steer clear of Stephen. As I said, he was the last person I should have been talking to. After all, the more I talked to him, the more someone might have figured out that we were-and here is one of those great TV terms from the cop shows I watch all the time now-co-conspirators. If I was seen with Stephen, suspect numero uno in my dad’s death, they might have begun to believe that I knew a lot more than I was letting on. Eventually they might even have begun to think that I was the one who had pulled the trigger.

I thought it was really ironic that we read The Brothers Karamazov in an AP English course I was taking that autumn. Suddenly patricide was everywhere. One day I felt so guilty I couldn’t get out of bed, and Tina reminded me of what my dad had done to my mom. No one, she said, should have to see her mom the way I had seen mine that night in July. But the thing was, at first I simply thought she was passed out, too. I mean, the place just reeked of beer. I thought she and my dad were both just sleeping. But then I saw the marks on Mom’s neck, and I knew what had happened. (I find it interesting that I can no longer remember her face when I found her. Really. I have a feeling from what I’ve read on the Internet about death by strangulation that at some point in my life I’m going to recall her eyes, and it won’t be pretty-either the image that will come to me in the night or my reaction. I don’t see her eyes when I think back, but something tells me they were open. Anyway, for now at least, I’m spared knowing for sure if my dad actually hit her in the face or punched her in the nose before he killed her.) And that’s when I went upstairs and decided I would go get the handgun instead of my laptop.

I never did go back for the laptop, and so it would be among the stuff that Ginny and Stephen brought me the next day. When I left, Lula was pacing nervously back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. It was Stephen who had let her out when he went back, and-to be totally honest-I’m pretty sure he kicked her out because she really was lapping up the blood that was all over the place. I don’t remember his exact words, and clearly he regretted like crazy what he’d started to tell me. He was trying to explain why Lula had wound up outside.

Someday, I know, he’ll regret that whole, horrible night. He should have just been a pastor and called the police, but I guess he was afraid I’d go to prison. (One time he said the fact that my dad had been such a psycho might reduce the sentence, but I shouldn’t kid myself: This would be no juvie offense.) If he’d been a dad himself, that’s what he would have done, and maybe ten years from now we’d both be better off.

Anyway, if I live to a very old age, I know I’ll have tons and tons of regrets. I mean that. But somehow I don’t think putting a bullet into my dad’s head is ever going to be one of them.

Once again I am indebted to a great many early readers, none of whom is a literal angel but all of whom were profoundly helpful. Among them? There is the Reverend David Wood, one of my closest friends and the pastor of the church where I have worshipped most of my adult life. There is Lauren Bowerman, an assistant attorney general with the State of Vermont. This is the third time that Lauren has graciously told me what is authentic in one of my manuscripts and what is completely ridiculous.

In addition, Dr. Steven Shapiro, the chief medical examiner for the State of Vermont, helped me understand what would have happened to the fictional George and Alice Hayward after they died. Siri Rooney, the victim advocate for the Lamoille County state’s attorney’s office, shared with me the horrors that a battered woman such as Alice was likely to endure, as well as the resources that were available to her. Meanwhile Bridget Butler taught me about birds. Among the books that were especially valuable was Dr. Louis Cataldie’s memoir of his years as the chief coroner of Baton Rouge, Coroner’s Journal: Forensics and the Art of Stalking Death .

Other readers included a variety of friends and agents, many of whom are both, including Stephen Kiernan, Jane Gelfman, and Dean Schramm; my editor of fifteen years and one of my very closest friends, Shaye Areheart; my lovely bride of a quarter century now, Victoria Blewer; and, for the first time, my deeply thoughtful teenage daughter, Grace Experience.

I am grateful as well to Cathy Gleason at Gelfman Schneider; to Arlynn Greenbaum at Authors Unlimited; and to the whole enthusiastic team at the Crown Publishing Group: Andy Augusto, Patty Berg, Cindy Berman, Sarah Breivogel, Whitney Cookman, Jill Flaxman, Jenny Frost, Kate Kennedy, Christine Kopprasch, Jacqui Lebow, Matthew Martin, Donna Passannante, Philip Patrick, Annsley Rosner, Jay Sones, Katie Wainwright, Kira Walton, and Campbell Wharton. It really does take a village-or a skyscraper floor.

I thank you all for your wisdom, your counsel, and your honesty.

In order to provide reading groups with the most informed and thought-provoking questions possible, it is necessary to reveal important aspects of the plot of this book-as well as the ending .