But after a pause, I pushed further, still confused and disoriented by the speed at which things were moving, and she pushed back, getting louder and louder. Anger rushed in and replaced my sadness, held me up. Soon I could no longer hear what she was saying. After three years of trying to maneuver around her, I abandoned all caution and strategy. I started yelling back louder than I ever had before, my nervous system going haywire, the ringing in my ears blocking sound. I can’t remember what we said that night; I only remember the swift climb from sadness to fury, my words coming faster and louder, my mind frantic, Tootsie moving in close. I stayed like that for a few moments, burning hot, until a little switch went off in me with an almost audible click. I fell silent. Then I was coasting, cooling down. I tuned back in; could hear her yelling again. I realized that I had been staring at the hard, knobby prominence at the top of her cheekbone with the intent to smash my fist into it. I had failed to hit her through no control of my own but rather through sheer dumb luck, and I almost laughed aloud thinking of how brutally she would have retaliated.
And in this sudden clarity, I had a fine idea. I looked at her squarely and, in a low, controlled voice, said, “I don’t think it helps to scream and get so upset.” I had never responded to anyone’s anger like this, with cool logic that was meant to subdue. I may have learned it from her, the times when we clashed and she opted for detached contempt. I said again, “I don’t think it helps to scream,” and repeated it two or three more times as she continued to shriek at me, my outward stillness enraging her further. Eventually she ran out of steam and backed away, looking spent and old. I turned around, went to my room, and tried to calm my shaking hands.
* * *
I flew back to Maine the next day. Tootsie and I were silent on the two-hour drive to the airport. As I stood in line at the gate, ticket in hand and waiting to board, I still wanted to salvage something. Maybe if I said the right thing, her reply would make me understand. So I told her, “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”
She shrugged. “Fuck it.”
I turned away and walked down the jet bridge, stunned and blind.
Part Two
Forward,
Forward
31
* * *
Fear was waiting for me at Carol and Carroll’s house in Peru, behind the gloomy wood paneling of my attic bedroom. The house felt no different than it had three years earlier, right after the murder. Texas was nothing more than some sunlit dream.
My aunt and uncle went to bed early, around nine o’clock, and I’d say good night with a smile meant to hide the anxiety I felt at filling the remaining hours of night. I watched TV for an hour, until ten, when I was expected to go to bed. Once upstairs, I’d read until the quiet of the house broke my concentration.
Darkness filling the house, darker woods surrounding. A creak from downstairs. A tiny shuffling within the walls. Each sent a jolt through me, bigger every time, until I’d respond even to silence, a hyper-ready live wire primed to run. It’s nothing, I’d think, flushing doubly with adrenaline and shame. I’m safe, it’s fine, it’s fine.
And then that hard-line part of me, that flinty older sister, would speak up, a fully formed voice in my head that I could not control. But maybe he knows, now, that you’re here. News travels fast, and he’s probably still in Bridgton. Of course he could find you—anyone could. She told me that readiness was more important than happiness, more valuable to survival.
I knew I was supposed to accept a new reality: one where a killer entering the house was unlikely. But I had no proof.
And so the fear would grip me colder. But I’d find something to hold on to, a way to keep myself out of the abyss. I’d focus on the fact that my uncle would awaken if anyone were to enter the house. My uncle, territorial protector, with guns.
But then the voice would remind me that Carroll was getting older. That maybe someone had come in and quietly strangled him, snuffed him out a couple of hours ago, before my hearing had been sharpened by fear. My aunt could be sitting down there right now, staring into the eyes of the killer, unable to warn me for the knife at her throat.
My heart rate would increase, rushing through my body with more and more force. Sweat would gather on my upper lip. I’d reach up slowly to wipe it, careful not to make the sheets rustle, should the sound reveal me. Careful not to breathe too deeply, should the rushing air be heard downstairs. I had to convince myself that the sound of my pulse, loud as it seemed, was contained within my body.
No one was down there. The killer was down there. This could be my last minute before dizzying terror, and the end of my life. This minute. These past five minutes. This hour. Two.
Finally my fatigue would win out. If tonight posed no threat to me, if I was going to live, so much the better. But since I couldn’t stop thinking I might die, I’d prepare by letting go. I’d think about the killer bursting in at any moment, imagine myself crazed with fear and begging for my life, and decide to go down more quietly. Dignity might be possible, I thought. I’d picture myself greeting him with a calm face. Standing still while he gripped my arm and showed me his knife. Nearly falling down with relief. A kind of joy at finally knowing the ending.
At this point, the fear would let go of me, and a great sweeping freedom would take hold. My hands would unclench, and I’d free-fall down into sleep.
Morning brought light and life, and the day brought distraction. Nightfall returned me to the fight.
Morning again. Day. Night again. For months.
* * *
I didn’t tell anyone about those nights. I was too proud, and was convinced that no words could erase my fear. In school we read Faulkner, and our discussion of Vardaman’s “My mother is a fish” went on and on, and all I could think about was the wet, thudding sturgeon that night, in that house only an hour’s drive from my classroom. I sat silent and ill and desperately hoped that the teacher wouldn’t call on me. But I would not leave the room. I would not reveal myself.
Although I felt less safe in Maine than I had in Texas, Carol and Carroll were much easier to live with than Tootsie and Jimmy. I knew they loved me, even if they didn’t seem thrilled that I’d be sharing their home for the next three years. When they picked me up at the airport, we’d all seemed awkward, uncomfortable—the situation was foisted on them as suddenly as upon me.
Carol had a no-nonsense attitude, but with her curly blond hair and musical laugh, she was approachable and warm. She was forever trying to lose ten pounds, going on wacky diets involving cabbage soup or grapefruit. She did heavy work at the paper mill, working eight-hour swing shifts that sometimes ran through the night, but complained only rarely. At dusk, she would open the door and sing “Kiiiitteeees!” to call her cats inside from the cold. I knew she had a hard edge within her, but it was buried much deeper than Tootsie’s.