Alice Sebold - The Almost Moon

“Of course she liked it,” I said, not wanting to concede what was so obvious, that any child, even a fearful one, would love an animal made out of mud and found at the base of a semipristine toilet.

He turned to me. His cheeks were permanently ruddy where the wind got to them between his wool cap, which sat low over his eyebrows, and his scarf, which he knotted up above the tip of his nose. His eyes, watering a bit from the shock of the baseboard heat inside the house, seemed liquid blue to me.

“That’s all I wanted for her,” he said. “To make her laugh when she was face-to-face with that thing.”

I could not say that I was jealous, not of my child but of the objects that he’d begun making, nor could I bring myself to beg him to keep drawing me.

He peeled all the underlayers of T-shirts and thermal underwear off together and threw them on the bed, then walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. I followed him inside the shower stall, fully clothed.

“What are you doing, Helen?” he asked, but he was laughing.

“Fuck me,” I said.

I did not think about what was happening to me. I had begun to chase my husband as I had once chased my mother, toe to toe, a shadow girl trying to be what I thought they wanted me to be.

I felt Jake take the speed bump just before exiting Westmore’s front gate.

“Sit up and talk to me,” he said. “I know you’re awake.”

I pushed myself up with my arm as if I were in yoga class, about to come out of the all-too-fitting corpse pose.

He caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

“So after suffocating your mother, you decide to seduce Natalie’s son? Is that the timeline?”

“Yes.”

Jake shook his head. “Now you’re diddling with children.”

“He’s thirty.”

“Well, mine is thirty-three,” he said.

“Yours?”

“Her name is Phin.”

“Fin? What kind of name is that?”

“The best she can do, having been named Phineas by her father and called Phinny. She works at the art museum in Santa Barbara.”

“What’s she like?” I asked.

“Shouldn’t we be talking about other things?”

“Like prison?” I said.

“Or what we’re going to tell Sarah?”

He pulled the car into a lot across from the Burger King. There was a store there I’d never been inside of called Four Corners.

“Do you want anything?” he asked.

I shook my head.

As I watched Jake hold the door for a young mother pushing a stroller with another child in her arms, I thought of my mother giving my phone number to the man who’d dug new sewer lines that spring.

“I’ve told you not to give out my number without asking first,” I had said. The sewer man had already called me three times by that point.

“Your sordid life is your sordid life,” she had said. “You shouldn’t live it if you don’t like it.”

It had been as easy as that. She had stood in her kitchen and issued her riddle-me-this invitation to end my life. When was she, and when was she not, aware of what she said?

I wondered what specific rhythm had been playing inside my father’s head as he lifted the pistol. He had plunged down the staircase face-first, blood arcing up and splattering in a diminishing wavy line along the stairwell. He had done it in front of her. Had she begged him to stop or had she begged him to go, directing the thoughts in his head like a traffic cop?

I got out of the car and closed the door. I watched Jake exit the store.

“Cigarettes,” Jake said. “This is what you do to me. Get in.”

This time I sat beside him in the passenger seat.

He closed the car door. “I saw a park off the highway between here and the house this morning. We need someplace to talk.”

I nodded my head as he started the car.

“Mrs. Leverton would have been a witness,” I said after we merged onto the highway. “She saw the two of us last night out on the side porch. I sat there with Mom before I used the towel.”

Jake was quiet. I felt the breeze from the night before. I saw the tops of the trees bending in the wind, the light outside Carl Fletcher’s back door, the muted sounds of his radio. Had his daughter, Madeline, been there last night? Had she seen anything?

“There, that’s the park I saw,” Jake said.

We pulled off the highway and took the access road until we came to a sad little park of picnic tables and trash. The wrought-iron barbecue grills set in cement looked like they hadn’t been used in years. We parked in the slanted spaces and got out.

“Pennsylvania depresses me,” said Jake.

“I may spend the rest of my life in Pennsylvania,” I said.

Jake stood in a scrubby patch of weeds and grass, and tore the cellophane off his pack of Camels.

“Do you want one?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll have plenty of time to pick up the habit in Graterford or the women’s equivalent.”

“Christ.” He took a long drag off the cigarette, almost as if it were a joint, and let it stream through his nostrils instead of his mouth. “I think they know, Helen. We need to figure out what to say.”

“Will you marry Phin?” I asked.

“Helen, we’re talking about our future incarceration.”

“Mine.”

“The window, my apparent collusion. Hello?”

“You’ll tell them why if you have to,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”

“No.”

“It makes sense,” I said. “I’m the one who killed her. You just broke in to make sure I was okay.”

“They asked me about your mental state,” he said, absentmindedly looking at the cigarette as if someone else had put it in his hand.

“And you said?”

“That you were fearlessly sane.”

He moved closer to me and put his arm around me. He drew me over to him so I stood snugly against the side of his body, my shoulder fitting into his armpit as it always had.

“You are,” he said.

“What?”

“Incredible. Always have been.”

In front of us, between two disused grills, stood one small sapling that the township had recently planted. I remembered reading about a fight, pro and con-beautifying through trees versus more money for the schools. A wire support surrounded the sapling’s trunk, and I wondered if anyone would remember to cut it off before the tree slowly strangled.

“Poor fucker,” Jake said.

“Me or the tree?”

“Your father, actually. Did you think you were marrying him when you married me?”

“I wanted your attention.”

“You had it,” he said.

“For a little while.”

“That was my work. It had nothing to do with you.”

He leaned his head down, and our lips met. We kissed in a way that lifted me, however briefly, out of the world where discipline and temper, grit and resolve, carried me through my weeks and years. Afterward he looked at me for a long time.

“I’ll have to tell them what I know.”

“I think you should,” I said.

“What about the girls?”

“I’ll tell Sarah,” I said. “And Emily.”

“Emily won’t understand, you know.”

“Do you think it matters that she was so old?”

“To Emily?”

“To the police.”

“There’s no special dispensation I’m aware of. I’m sure it depends on how a lawyer frames it.”

“I don’t even know any lawyers.”

“Let’s try not to think about it, okay?”

“I should have stayed in therapy,” I said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“His shelves were full of I. B. Singer, and the statues on his tables were that lost-wax Holocaust style. Lots of dismembered trunks of tortured people wrapped in barbed wire and mounted on poles. I would be talking about my mother, only to look up and see a legless, armless torso reaching out for me.”