The Last September: A Novel

“It’s okay,” I said, twisting my arm from her grip. As I headed toward the door, she walked to the counter to grab her phone, and stood there, watching me—her fingers poised, even though the nearest officers sat just a couple yards from her front door, and we could probably call them faster just by screaming.

I looked through the peephole. It was Ladd, his dark head bent, his shoulders tense. I turned toward Maxine and told her, “It’s only Ladd.” The bell rang once more, and I looked through the peephole again. In the triangulated glare of the motion-detected porch light, Ladd looked determined, like a man running to his lover in her time of need. When I opened the door, he stepped forward toward me, ready to gather me up in his arms. The movement I made—stepping back, my hands rising the barest bit—stopped him just short of the threshold.

The police officers had gotten out of the car. They stood there, watching us, the sound of their radio crackling into the evening. They must have spoken to Ladd, cleared him for visiting, but still they kept careful eyes on us. It made me wonder if I was a suspect. Shouldn’t I be a suspect? Wasn’t the spouse, always? Sarah toddled over to my side, gripping my pants leg and staring up at Ladd. He started at the sight of her, this indelible bit of proof—of my real life.

“Brett,” he said, recovering. He made a motion with his hands, almost but not quite opening his arms, still expecting me to fall into them. “I have to know if you’re all right.” Realizing the ridiculousness of this statement, he amended. “Tell me what I can do.”

Tell me what I can do. Charlie had only just died. I had found him that morning. And I had not touched my phone all day. My mother no longer existed for me to call. Yet here Ladd stood, frantic with knowing. For a moment, the air radiated with the news, spreading in its small town way. Charlie Moss murdered. Can you believe it? I just saw him yesterday. The words from every house in town gathered around our heads, buzzing. I didn’t want to stand out here, exposed.

“You can go away,” I said. “Please. Go away and leave me alone.”

And I closed the door, turning the dead bolt as soon as the latch clicked. Then I scooped up our baby—Charlie’s and mine—and held her close, breathing in her skin, her scent, as if it might erase everything that had happened these past forty-eight hours.

BOB MOSS CAME UP from Florida with his second wife, to arrange the funeral. They stayed in a hotel and managed everything with barely a word to me. All I had to do was show up. Maxine loaned me a dress and found a babysitter to stay with Sarah. The church was already packed when we arrived. As I walked down the aisle, I felt an illogical longing for Eli. After all these years, I still barely knew Charlie’s dad. Both my parents were gone, and now my husband. I remembered the way Eli had brought Charlie back to the altar on our wedding day.