Erica could not think of any other way to silence the girl than to hold her close and rock her, soothe her hair. “We came here by accident, Una. What makes you think they are dead?”
Wrestling with her conscience, Una finally spat out her confession. “I had a prayer to God every night to bring them back, and if not, if they are never coming back, to send a message with his angels.”
“But I'm no angel.”
The sunshine beat in waves, and they huddled beneath the willow, hoping they could be saved, and listened to the birds. Una knew every song by heart and distinguished for her among the mockingbirds and waxwings, the wrens and the jays. Far off near the lake, over the long marsh grasses blowing in the wind, a redwing blackbird flew to land on a solitary tree, called out, and waited in the stillness for a reply that never seemed to come. Una held a china cup, blue and small as an egg, next to her chest.
“The sun's making me feel much better, how about you?” Erica spoke at last. “Let's go in and see the others.”
“I forgot! Mr. Ricky got a haircut. I came out to tell you—” She stood and swiped the sand from the seat of her jeans. “He got scalped.”
When she entered the cabin, Erica saw for herself and did not know whether to laugh or cry. Shorn of his long hair, he looked younger, like the children from her elementary school days, but also somehow more menacing, the angles of his skull outlining the set of his jaw, the slightly Neanderthal slope to his forehead, his eyes all but disappearing into the wide expanse of skin. He looked as handsome as a killer.
“That's him,” Mrs. Gavin said. “My boy, Cole. Your father, Una. He looks just like the boy that got away.”
21
The sleek black telephone in the living room rested on the table by the sofa, and the beige telephone in the kitchen hung on the wall like a barnacle. Both waited silently taunting her each time Margaret passed by. Ring, dammit, ring. On the other end, she imagined, a hand reached for the receiver, and then the caller reconsidered and withdrew. She waited for word from the police, for Jackson to fulfill the promise he had made two weeks before, for Paul to ring up from the clinic to check in—nobody ever called—and she was a virtual prisoner in her own home, forced to lock herself away from the gossip, the stares, and the whispers. She waited for Erica to pick up that phone to let her know she was coming home or at least that she was still alive. There was no one to call her Mother.
Diane offered some distraction, some company, someone to keep the daily household running. Swooping in from Washington, she took care of all that had been neglected—leftovers molding in the fridge, the darning pile, the bills unopened and unpaid, and the doctor brushed and dusted and sent off to tend the ill. Diane did the shopping, answered the dry cleaner's persistent phone calls, scrubbed a line of silt from the bathtub, and polished the neglect. When she had restored order and there was nothing left to do, she began to pick away at the ice around her sister's fears.
One melancholy afternoon, she asked, “What's your worst nightmare?”
“Do you ever think that she is dead? She could be lying in a ditch somewhere, or in a shallow grave, behind a Dumpster, or at the bottom of the ocean.”
“I prefer to think of her alive and will do so until proven otherwise.”
“I don't mean to be morbid. Just preparing for the worst.” Margaret blinked, bringing into focus the far wall, blinked again, and blankness.
Her sister reached out. “Of course, that's one of many possibilities, you're right. She may well have gone willingly, and they've eloped. One expects a honeymoon period when the bride incommunicado forgets that her poor mother is worried sick.”
“I wish you wouldn't talk like that. If you're going to talk like that, I wish you wouldn't talk at all.”
“Then let's talk about your husband and what this is doing to him.”
“I tried to make peace between those two. Tried to get him to understand—”
“He blames himself.”
“I don't want to talk about Paul.”
Diane switched tactics, opting for a little humor. “I can always change the subject. Have you ever thought of getting a pet? We never had one growing up. Mom always thought them too much work. But a pet would be someone to keep you company when I'm not around.”
“Where are you going?”
“You seem like a cat person, but then a cat can be aloof at times, and you're no better off than when you started. A dog might do the trick. Long walks through the neighborhood, fetch your slippers. But a dog is a lot of work and distraction. Birds are always nice.”
“You never told me you were leaving.”
“A canary is a first-rate singer. Or house finches. Have you seen all those singing finches at the Delarosas’ shop?”
“What will I do if you go?”
“Or how about a parrot? A parrot will talk your ear off. Not a real conversation, mind you, but they can be trained to have an impressive vocabulary.”