He abandoned his fence plans when he got to know the Grays. He had a soft spot for them in general and Pixie in particular. They looked like summer, he said, with their blond hair and broad shoulders. Plus they were “good kids.” They all had the combination to the house alarm, and when we’d be away for a while, they’d come through every so often to make sure no one had broken in and no pipes had burst.
But the main reason he kept inviting them down, I think, was that they were good with Grant. They treated my little brother like he was one of them, including him in their volleyball teams and showing him how to set and how to spike the ball from the outside. They also showed him things that we wouldn’t know, like the difference between an osprey and a red-tailed hawk, and why none of the giant birds that fished in the lagoon liked the taste of spiny dogfish. (It’s because they pee through their skin, in case you’re wondering.)
Dad sometimes said that Pixie and her four brothers were part of the landscape. It was almost as though, a million years ago, when a glacier melted and left Whidbey Island in Puget Sound, it had deposited the five mountainous Grays, too, complete with blond hair, sunglasses, and zinc on their noses.
Me? I thought that might have been true of her four brothers, but not of Pix herself. We’d known each other for six years, and I don’t know when my attitude toward her changed. Probably when she started to fill out her bikini top and board shorts. A lot of people noticed her then.
I like to think it was more than that. In my mind, she was always on the beach with Grant, the two of them poking something interesting with a stick, Pix with one hand in her blond hair to keep it from getting in her eyes.
She was more than good to Grant. She was almost tender, and it wrecked my heart to watch them, but in a good way.
But I never told anyone that. Pixie Gray was just my weekend friend, the way she’d always been.
My black eye and Todd Wishlow’s broken clavicle might’ve indicated otherwise.
“Pixie’s not my girlfriend,” I said, picking at my nails.
“Good,” Dad said. “Let’s keep it that way. For both your sakes. You’re going to college soon. It does no good to have a serious girlfriend when you’re still young.”
I hated getting this speech again, but I didn’t blame him. After all, Dad had married his college sweetheart, my mother, when they were both twenty-two years old.
And look how well that turned out.
“I think they’re loading,” I said as the car in front of us started up and began to move onto the ferry.
Dad turned back around and started the car. “And no more violent outbursts, all right? We can’t afford for you to break any more bones.”
Afterward, I thought a lot about what Lyudmila said next. As Dad maneuvered the car onto the ferry, Lyudmila put a hand on my father’s arm and craned around at an impossible angle. She was a dancer and amazingly supple. “You will heal,” she said to me. Then to my father, “Henry is good boy. You will be proud.”
Those were her last words to me.
No, they weren’t.
She and Grant didn’t go missing until Sunday, and this was a Friday. So at some point she must’ve said, “Pass the salt” or “Take out the trash.”
But we remember the things we choose to remember, I suppose. And I choose to remember this moment. That Friday, the day my eye was throbbing and her long arm was draped around the back of Dad’s seat, her fingers curling the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. I choose to remember how, at this moment between a small hurt and a much bigger hurt that was to come, she managed to carve us out a tiny chunk of peace.
three
PIXIE
When the police finally came, it was Dean who was led away for questioning.
It was a Sunday night. The wind was blowing the Douglas firs sideways, and the eagles were air-surfing the gusts above the bluff.
In our living room, the sofas and chairs had been pushed aside and cushions placed at sharp edges on the floor. By the fireplace. Around the coffee table.
Lawford was practicing his takedowns. On me.
When he was done throwing me around, he expected me to Taser him. That’s because he was taking a Criminal Justice course after school at the police academy on the mainland, for kids who were interested in going into law enforcement. Next week he was going to have to resist a takedown and get Tasered for real, and he was really excited about it.
Which would be weird if you didn’t know my family.
The doorbell rang.
Splat! Lawford threw me. My head smacked the area rug, and my legs purled over the sofa.
I heard Mom answer the door. “Hey, Rupe. What brings you out? I was just making chili for the boys. Can you come in for a bite?”
As soon as I got to my feet, Lawford had me in a choke hold, so I flipped him and went to see what Mr. Shepherd was doing at our house on a Sunday night. He should be gone by now. He and his family were weekenders. He owned all the land below our bluff, which included the lagoon and the bay. They let us walk around in it but made it clear it was his.