A variety of local boys were initially questioned as suspects, though none confessed and nothing tied any of them to the crime. Everyone believed he’d been the victim of a crazed drifter, someone from beyond the neighborhood, summoning a picture of a man riding the rails into town, slipping from an open car under cover of darkness to do his evil deed. His family’s ties to the Spiritualists by the Sea darkened the camp’s reputation further, and for a while people wanted to shut the temple down. But eventually, a sort of hush settled over the tragedy, though the case, still led by Detective Thomson, remained open.
On the stair landing I considered confessing everything to Geoff. He’d call the authorities and have the asylum searched, William’s body found. We could tell the truth about the accident, and trust that no one would ask about the teenage boy found dead near our family’s property in Connecticut. But Detective Thomson would know—he’d follow up. He’d come talk to me, to Del. I was too tired to play games with Detective Thomson.
Was David Pinney a friend of yours?
No.
Not a friend?
Not really.
What about your sister, Delores?
No.
But he was often here, at the pool?
Sometimes.
He was a good-looking boy, wasn’t he? Did any of the girls have crushes on him?
Not that I know.
But you noticed him, didn’t you?
I noticed he was sometimes here, if that’s what you mean.
I put Geoff’s car keys under the mat, and I stood outside the door to my apartment, wondering if William, or some version of him, would be waiting for me in the duck-carved chair. I was afraid of his being there, of what that would mean. The dead had appeared to me with their awful longing, their torment at being separated from their loved ones plain in their expressions. I was afraid to see that look in William’s face, to know that I’d made a terrible mistake. The room was dark. I turned on a lamp. The light cast a round shape on the floor. The place was empty and cold. And that night I was glad for it.
29
I found I was waiting for William to return, as if he had just gone off on one of his jaunts with his camera, even though the camera, what was left of it and its spool of film, was tucked away on a closet shelf among his sweaters. Part of me longed for him to return to explain himself, to settle things, and part of me dreaded it. I tried to reconstruct the moments of his fall, but they were unclear, blurred and wavering. I wondered if I was having some sort of psychotic break, like Del as a teenager. Then I told myself that if I wondered if I was having a breakdown, I probably was not. I took off Mary Rae’s necklace and set it on the table by the bed, next to the travel alarm clock. I’d abandoned my husband, injured in whatever manner, in that place, and I was certainly a criminal. That he may have intended me harm was beside the point, wasn’t it? I had only Del to rely on for that information. Her insinuation that he’d put something in my wine certainly explained my grogginess that night and the following morning, but I had no proof. And though I’d suspected we’d had sex that night—was I simply half-asleep and unaware? Or had it been something else?
What might have happened if Del hadn’t gotten tired of waiting in the car? The possibilities were ominous. Had he planned to kill me if I hadn’t provided the location of the portfolio? And once she’d insisted on joining us, was his plan simply altered to killing me and leaving Del to take the blame? I felt his grip on my arms, the way he pulled me toward the staircase. And what about Mary Rae? Clearly, it was William she’d loved and couldn’t bear to be separated from. What had happened to her?
Del came to my door with food—a miniature chicken potpie, steaming in its foil pan, glasses of milk and cookies, as if I were a sick child. On the third day of William’s absence she brought me a TV dinner. She plopped down beside me on the bed and set it in my lap.
“You’ve lost your creativity.” I picked up the fork and jabbed at the chicken cutlet in its compartment. “How long are you going to keep bringing me food?”
Del fished a carrot off the tray. “How long are you going to hide?”
“I’m not sure what to do now.” I took a bite of the chicken.
“Anything you want,” she said.
“Well, he’s been missing for over forty-eight hours. Should I report it to the police?”
Del had an aversion to police officers, doctors, and anyone involved in the role of public welfare. In her eyes they’d all either forsaken her or lied to her; their occupations involved the kind of trickery we undertook as children, misrepresenting the dead. They claimed to help, but they did not.
“That’s what you want to do?” she said.
I had to admit when I considered reporting William missing I felt a terrible vertigo, as if I were peering down into the gorge. I waited for Del to talk me out of it, for her to convince me I shouldn’t call anyone. Then she took Mary Rae’s journal out from beneath her sweater.
“Here,” she said. “Put this wherever you have that portfolio he was looking for.”
I took the journal from her and set it on the end table beside the little travel clock. I was waiting for more of her plan. There was always a plan with Del; some scheme would follow.
“And?” I said. “What?”