“Why did you think that?” Gibbes asked.
She frowned again. “Because after Cal left, she changed. Not only did she reclaim all the ones she’d donated to the police department, but she stopped going out and didn’t answer her door or return phone calls. I never saw the light on in the attic anymore. She made a few more nutshell studies after her husband’s death, and continued to make wind chimes. She always gave those to her friends—I have five of them myself. She was working on some big project that she said was a secret. But everything stopped after Cal left. I guess I’ll never know what her special project was, or why it was such a big secret.” She peered closely at Gibbes. “And you knew nothing about her work?”
“No. I wasn’t allowed up in the attic. After Cal left, she didn’t go up there anymore. I knew she was upset that Cal had gone, but she was so sad, too. Now that I know what it is, I’d say she was probably depressed.” He stared down at the doll with the cord around its neck, deep in thought. “She told me she didn’t want me spending too much time in the house with her, telling me that I was her last chance and she was going to save me. That’s pretty much when I began spending so much time at the Williamses.”
His voice sounded stiff and agitated, but it was more than masking pain from an unwelcome memory. There was something else, something that made him stand still in the middle of the room, his gaze turned inward. I waited for him to say something, aware that an uncomfortable silence had fallen.
I wanted to ask Deborah about the plane we’d found with the shoe boxes, whether she knew anything about it, but before I could, Gibbes leaned forward and kissed Deborah’s cheek, making her color. “Thank you, Miss Fuller. This has been very interesting.”
We said our good-byes, and I had to almost run to catch up with him as we made our way down the creaking stairs. I paused long enough to say good-bye to Cynthia with a promise to have her over soon to see the rest of the house, and then ran outside onto the hot sidewalk. Gibbes stood motionless as passersby walked around him. Heat seeped through the soles of my loafers, and sweat dripped down my back. I wondered how long it would be until I found the heat and humidity bearable. And whether I ever would.
“What is it?” I asked.
He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. He blinked several times before taking my arm and leading me back to the Explorer. He turned the key in the ignition and put the AC on full blast. We sat in silence with just the sound of the air-conditioning for a full minute.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked. I wanted to tell myself that I didn’t really care, that it didn’t matter, but I couldn’t. Because after Cal left, she changed. The mention of my husband’s name had reminded me that his ghost connected Gibbes and me in ways I didn’t yet understand. And that I would never be free of either of them until I did.
He rubbed both hands over his face, his palms rasping the stubble on his cheeks. “I was ten when Cal left. I always thought that either I was clueless and unaware of any tension between my brother and my grandmother around the time he left, or maybe I’ve just blocked it all out, because I’ve never been able to remember any of it.
“Cal and my grandmother were close, although I always got the feeling that she kept him close to keep an eye on him, to keep him reined in, I think is what Mrs. Williams said. You can still see the marks on the windowsill in Cal’s bedroom where he threw a chessboard after I beat him.” A sad smile lifted his lips, then faded just as quickly. “So that’s probably why I don’t remember much. But just now . . .”
His chest rose and fell, pushing the past from his lungs. Those who refuse to acknowledge the past are condemned to repeat it. I sat, waiting, afraid to hear what he would say just as much as I was afraid I’d miss it.
“Just now,” he continued, “listening to Deborah, I remembered something. Something I never remembered before. I’d come home from school and the door to the attic was open, as if my grandmother had just come down. Cal had been working in the garden and I heard him dragging something inside—but I didn’t see what it was because I’d already gone upstairs. She told me to go to my room and not come out. I was walking down the hallway toward my room and I heard Cal yelling at my grandmother.”
His eyes met mine. “What did he say?” I asked softly.
A sickly breeze teased us as it blew by, bringing with it the scent of the pluff mud. “He called her a murderer.”
We stared at each other for a long time, horror mirrored in the other’s eyes. Finally I spoke. “Did you ever ask Cal?”
Gibbes shook his head. “He was gone the next day. My grandmother told me I’d misunderstood, and that I should never mention it again. And I didn’t.”