My father came back. There was a lot of yelling and some tears. The Russian left, and for some time, my parents were constantly in each other’s company, drinking like they used to on the unfinished back patio, listening to jazz albums. I was glad that my father was back for a few reasons, one of them being that with my parents’ attention turned toward one another, I could focus on getting rid of Chet. I had set up everything perfectly in the meadow, the pile of rocks growing every day, and the rope in place down the old well. It had just become a matter of picking the perfect day, a day when no one would see me cross the front yard to where Chet was living, or see the two of us walk together into the woods. That day came on a quiet Thursday three days after the return of my father. I spent the afternoon in my room rereading Crooked House and listening to the muffled sounds of my parents drinking. They’d started early, sharing a bottle of wine at lunch, then moving to the patio outside, drinking gin and listening to music. When the last record ended, a new one hadn’t begun, and I heard their bedroom door thunk shut, then laughter. I looked out my own bedroom window; it had just become dusk, the shadows from the nearby woods lengthening across the weedy yard. I knew the timing was perfect. There were no other visitors at Monk’s House right then, and my parents were unlikely to emerge from their bedroom until morning.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, socks and sneakers. The no-see-ums would be out and I didn’t want them biting my ankles. I found a white tank top that I’d had for a few years. It was embroidered with a butterfly and was a little bit tight. I wanted to make sure that Chet would follow me to the meadow. I slid the little pocketknife that Grandpa Henderson had given me into my front pocket. I didn’t plan on using it but it felt good to have it pressed against my thigh. Chet was unpredictable and I didn’t want him to try and have sex with me before we got to the well. I also grabbed a small penlight from the top drawer of the bureau at the bottom of the stairs. The woods were always dark, especially at dusk.
I went out the front door and down the wooden steps to the asphalt driveway. I cut across the yard, worried suddenly that the light was fading too fast. Behind the studio the sky was streaked with flat pink clouds that looked like watery strokes of paint. Walking past my lounge chair I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, and looked up to see Chet stepping out onto the landing. It was perfect. I wouldn’t have to knock on the door, or worry about being dragged into the apartment.
“Hey, little Lil,” he said, the words sounding slurry.
I stopped and looked up at him. “Chet, can you do me a favor?” I don’t think I’d ever used his name before, and the word sounded strange in my mouth, like a swearword I wasn’t supposed to say.
“A favor? Anything, anything for you, my Juliet, my rose by any other name.” He put his hands over his chest. I knew he was doing that Shakespeare play but he had it wrong. Juliet was on the balcony and Romeo was down below.
“Thanks. Can you come down here?”
“I’ll be with you anon, my Juliet,” he said and flicked his cigarette in a high arc. It landed on the driveway, showering sparks. He went back inside his apartment and I waited. I thought I would be nervous, but I wasn’t.
CHAPTER 5
TED
After retrieving our luggage at Logan, I walked with Lily past the idling taxis at Terminal E and toward Central Parking. She stopped me as soon as we were alone in the dark lot. The pilot had told us that the current temperature in Boston was fifty-four degrees, but a whistling, litter-dispersing wind made it feel much colder.
“Let’s meet in one week,” she said. “We’ll pick a place. If I change my mind, I won’t show up. And if you change your mind, then don’t show up either, and it will be like this conversation never happened.”
“Okay. Where should we meet?”
“Name a town where you don’t know anyone,” she said.
I thought for a moment. “Okay. How about Concord?”
“Concord, Mass., or Concord, New Hampshire?”
“Concord, Mass.”
We agreed to meet in the bar of the Concord River Inn the following Saturday at three o’clock in the afternoon. “I won’t be shocked if you’re not there,” she said. “Or upset.”
“Ditto,” I said, and we shook hands. It felt oddly formal to shake the hand of someone who had offered to help you murder your wife. Lily laughed a little, as though she felt the same way. Her hand was small in mine and felt as frail as expensive porcelain. I resisted the urge to pull her toward me.
Instead, I said, “Are you for real?”