The Good House Part 8

"Suicide?" Angela said. Suicides always took her back to her mother's breakfast table.

Myles shook his head, shrugging, as if he were shedding a hot, uncomfortable cape. "Terry says Rick was grinning from ear to ear when he did it," he said. "He tells me it's giving him nightmares, not just what happened, but theway it happened. The way Rick looked at him."

Grinning. A distinct s.h.i.+ver started at the top of Angela's head and wound its way to her neck, shoulders, and both arms, leaving a trail of cold skin. Suddenly, she'd heard more than she wanted to know. She slid her shaky hands beneath her thighs.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Myles said perceptively.

"No, it's all right, Myles. I asked." Angela tried to smile.

"I think it's time to play Scrabble," Naomi said. "I brought my game from home. You know who busted out with a-s-p-h-y-x-y for seventy-five points to beat me the last time I played? Will Smith. It's true. That man is so smart. I met him back..."

Naomi told stories like no one else. For the first time since the Fourth of July party, there was raucous laughter at the Toussaint house. This time, it went uninterrupted for hours.

Seven.

ANGELA WAS WIDE AWAKEby 5:30A.M. , grateful for the fledgling sunlight that meant she'd made it through the night. Gramma Marie's bedroom seemed too beautiful a place to have offered her so little rest.

She lay in the center of Gramma Marie's canopied bed draped with sheer white curtains, a bed her grandmother was rumored to have once shared with Elijah Goode before she shared it with her common-law husband, John. With a s.h.i.+ny mahogany dresser, a tiny sink with a white skirt, and a private window seat, where she could sit and stare out at the woods if she chose, the room should have been a comfort. But if Angela had slept, she didn't remember it. All she remembered was her racing mind, Corey's words a.s.saulting her.

I'm gonna take care of you good, Mom.

In her half-waking state, Angela recalled the words exactly as they'd been spoken to her-notI'm gonna take GOOD CARE of you, Mom, which was a devoted son's promise, butI'm gonna take care of you GOOD, which might be something else altogether. A threat. A presaging. He'd said those words minutes before he shot himself in the head, inflicting the most damage the best way he knew how.I'm gonna take care of you good, Mom . And Corey had said it with a smile. No, a grin. Just like Rick Leahy before he walked into the truck.

Angela felt a burning, hurting brand of angry. She'd never let herself feel mad at Corey for long, but she was mad now. She wanted to have her son back if only so she could slap him senseless.

What if, just supposing, Corey had shot himself out of spite? To spite her for forcing him to stay with her in Sacajawea? To spite her and Tariq for making a mess of his family? What did those words mean if itwasn't an accident, if it was another family suicide after all? Angela's greatest fear was that when she finally went into Corey's room, she would find a big fat suicide note taped to his mirror even though none had been there before.I'm gonna take care of you good, Mom.

And he had, hadn't he? He'd taken care of her good, all right.

Angela sat up in bed, hoping to shake the poison from her head. Her throat and stomach felt bloated, as if she might vomit. She would take a quick run before Naomi got up. Four or five miles of hard running along the Four would knock out the bad thoughts. Sore muscles were good for that. Traffic would be spa.r.s.e this early on a Sunday.

Happy to have a plan, Angela slipped on her black jogging suit, the same one she'd worn yesterday. The crotch was still slightly damp because she'd left the sweatpants balled up on the floor, but she'd make do. She strapped on her running shoes, fixed her headband. One stop at the bathroom, and she'd be gone.

Stepping into the hallway, Angela noticed that Naomi's room door was half open. d.a.m.n. That probably meant the dog had gotten out again, and he might have figured out a way to reprise whatever escape route he'd found yesterday. Angela peeked into the doorway, hoping she'd find both Naomi and Onyx in the daybed.

Instead, she found neither. The covers were turned back, the bed empty. Naomi was not at her gla.s.s-top tea table either, where her script pages were spread out beside a coffee mug.

If Angela knew nothing else in life, it was that Naomi Price was not an early riser. On days she wasn't working, Naomi couldn't drag herself out of bed until 9:30 or 10A.M. , sometimes later. Naomi would not be up before six. Angela felt the first vibration at the base of her skull when she saw the empty room; a small vibration, but perceptible. She didn't like it.

The bathroom door was ajar in the hallway, too, and the light was off. Angela didn't think Naomi would keep the light off, but she looked in the bathroom anyway. Empty. Angela sat on the toilet and made herself relax, allowing her full bladder to squeeze itself empty. After flus.h.i.+ng and drying her washed hands on her clothes, she went downstairs to look for her friend.

"Naomi?" she called.

No answer. None of the lights downstairs were on. Angela flipped on the foyer light when she reached the bottom of the stairs, bringing life to the chandelier, which cast a sunny, mottled glow throughout the foyer. Maybe Naomi was outside walking her dog, she thought. Or, maybe she and Myles made some kind of plan behind her back and were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g each other blind back at his place. That last thought, a nasty jab, annoyed her to a surprising degree even while she told herself it was ridiculous. But the front door was still locked from the inside, even the dead bolt. Naomi might have locked the doork.n.o.b lock from outside without a key, but not the dead bolt. Unless she'd gone outside from the back.

When Angela turned to walk toward the kitchen, she saw that the door to the wine cellar was wide open for the first time since her arrival. Her flesh seemed to leap away from her.

Why the f.u.c.k would Naomi go down there?

"Naomi?" Angela called, not moving. Her heart was taking deep dives into the pit of her stomach, then slamming back up against her chest. "Naomi, if you're in the cellar, please come out."

She heard a thump against the roof of the porch, a walnut rolling like a midsized stone. But nothing else.

Open door or no open door, Angela decided she was not going near that wine cellar. The cellar door could have popped open by itself because of an air pocket in the foyer. There was no reason in the world for Naomi and her dog to be down there, and Angela wasn't going to poke her head in that cellar unless she had a list of good reasons herself. At least twenty, maybe more.

Instead, Angela unlocked the front door and stood on the porch in the cool morning air, calling Naomi's name. The early-morning sky was gray and unpromising. Angela went to the stone steps and surveyed Toussaint Lane, seeing Tariq's van parked on one side and the Explorer parked on the other. No Onyx, and no Naomi. She walked on the smooth bluestone garden path along the right side of the house until she was climbing the cedar steps to the backyard deck. No Naomi at the patio table, sitting beneath the umbrella in one of the chairs. No Naomi in the hot tub, which was covered with its foam seal, unused.

"Naomi!" she shouted into the woods beyond the drop-off behind her house, toward the herb garden she had not visited in years. She turned again, this time north, facing The Spot, and called her friend's name again. Her voice tripped into the foggy treetops, unanswered. Naomi was not outside. Her friend wouldn't venture into the woods, as scared as she was of coyotes. Naomi was either in the house or taking Onyx on a walk toward town. Simple deductive logic.

But as Angela let herself back in through the front door, embraced again by the warmth of the heated house, she came face-to-face with the open door of the wine cellar at the other end of the foyer. At that instant, Angela knew: Naomi was down there. It seemed as obvious as the fact of her own existence. And for some reason, Naomi was not answering her.

"Naomi!" she shouted, loud and cross. If this was a prank, it was a cruel one, and she couldn't imagine Naomi being that cruel. Naomi knew what had happened in there.

Without any understanding of what or whom she was arming herself against, Angela found one of Gramma Marie's old black umbrellas in the coat closet, the kind Angela had once fantasized about taking flight with like Mary Poppins. Keeping it closed, she brandished the umbrella and its pointed tip like a sword, clasping the polished wooden handle. She kept it close to her body as she took her first steps toward the cellar.

Angela's heartbeat was doing calisthenics she didn't know it could do. "Naomi, please come out if you're in there," Angela said, pleading. "I'm not playing with you. This isn't funny."

She was four feet in front of the door, not yet close enough to see down inside. She waited a long time, unable to go on. Then, she felt herself taking the last few steps to the cellar doorway, and she was standing fixed in the one place where she had never thought she would stand again. She stared down past the stairs. The narrow cellar's light wasn't on, and it was dark inside, but the light from the chandelier provided just enough illumination for Angela to see through the darkness.

Pale clothing against dark skin. A person was lying on the cellar floor.

"Oh, no," Angela said, staring hard into the pitch, praying the figure would dissipate into a hallucination. Instead, it just became more clear. Angela flung the umbrella away and tugged the string to turn on the cellar light. "Naomi?"

Naomi Price was lying in the center of the cellar floor, her head facing away from Angela. One arm was splayed out, the palm upward, and she looked- Like Corey.

The room whirled momentarily, but Angela fought to keep from fainting or fleeing, whatever her body was trying to do. She flew down the stairs so quickly that she nearly tripped over her feet. Just like last time. "Naomi?" She knelt at her friend's side, shaking her.

"Mmmmppphhh..." Naomi made a sound. Yes, praise Jesus, she had made a sound. And her back was rising and falling with her breaths, and now she wasmoving, rolling over onto her side.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing down here?" Angela said. Tears were flowing, mingled tears of utter panic and a kind of relief she could never describe.

Naomi blinked up at her without comprehension, her eyes and face bleary. Naomi's brow was so furrowed, her eyebrows almost met. "What?" Naomi said, irritable at being awakened.

"Why are you down here on the floor? You're in the cellar."

Naomi blinked twice more, and then she sat up as if she'd been doused with cold water. She stared around her with saucer eyes, first at the brick walls and the wine shelves, then at the floor. She peered especially hard at the floor, touching her pajamas, gazing at her own palms, and Angela suddenly understood what she was looking for: blood. Yes, she knew what had happened in the wine cellar.

There was no blood, not even dried blood. Now that Angela was down here, she saw that the floor had been scrubbed clean. The spot where Naomi sat had beenmore scrubbed than the rest of the floor, with smears of cleanness standing out against age-old grime at the borders, where the scrubbing stopped. She was sitting exactly where Corey had died, but there was no blood.

"What happened?" Naomi said, and tears came to her eyes too.

"You don't remember coming down here?"

Naomi looked at Angela, so lost and horrified that Angela pitied her."What is going on?"

Angela spoke slowly and clearly, trying not to alarm her further. "Naomi, I saw you weren't in your room, so I came down looking for you. The cellar door was hanging open, and here you are, lying asleep on the floor."

Naomi waved at her, dismissing her explanation. "No, no, no, no," she repeated, running the scenario through her groggy mind. "That can't be right. Thatcannot be right. How did I get here?"

"I don't know. Maybe you...walked in your sleep?"

"I don't do that." Naomi's face wrenched with disbelief.

"Sweetie, you did it. Look at you. You got down here somehow."

When Naomi's face didn't change, paralyzed in place, Angela pulled her close and hugged her, smoothing back the matted hair at her hot forehead. She gave her methodical, soothing strokes. "It's all right, Naomi. You were just sleepwalking. You didn't get hurt."

She heard Naomi sob, and her heart sank. In her own fear, she'd scared Naomi needlessly. Now that she had her friend's fear to contend with, Angela magically forgot her own. She was here in the wine cellar crouched where her boy had died, and she was the one doing the consoling. G.o.d definitely has a sense of humor, she thought.

"This is weird s.h.i.+t, Angela," Naomi whimpered. "There is some weird s.h.i.+t going on."

"Sleepwalking is not that weird. I know it seems freaky if it's never happened to you before, but it happens more than you think." Something else occurred to Angela, and her voice brightened. "And you know what I just figured out? I think I know how Onyx got out yesterday. I think you let him out, just like when you came down here this morning. You just don't remember it."

Immediately, Angela realized she'd screwed up. She'd spoken without thinking.

Naomi pulled away, more shaken than before. "Angela, where's Onyx?"

Angela had no idea.

For more than an hour, Angela and Naomi combed the house and the outdoor areas bordering the house, and there was no sign of Onyx. This had turned into one of those mornings that felt like an entire day had pa.s.sed before nineA.M. The sun had grown gleefully bright for a while, but now the sky had surrendered to the gray clouds, foretelling oncoming afternoon rain.

Angela called the Humane Society and Animal Control, leaving messages at both places. Then, she and Naomi drove toward town, moving slowly, watching every alleyway, every garbage can. They went to the boardwalk, to the bait-house, talked to the early-morning fishermen camped up and down the river, and then to the Four, driving a couple of miles up and down in each direction. A dead racc.o.o.n by the side of the road-its legs straight up in the air as if in four-paw salute-made Naomi shriek before she realized the dead animal wasn't Onyx.

On the way back home, they stopped at the front gate at the Leahy place. A pigtailed girl in eyegla.s.ses was in the front yard playing on a tire swing. After telling her how sorry she was her family was having a sad time, Angela asked if anyone in her family had seen a dog. The girl ran inside the mobile home to check. The answer, she reported breathlessly on her return, was no.

"f.u.c.k," she heard Naomi whisper, just below the child's hearing.

The hard truth sank in: It was after nine o'clock, and they hadn't been able to find a sign of the dog. This search could take all day, and Naomi had to leave by four-thirty to get to the airport on time. At best, they had been robbed of a good part of their day together. At worst, Naomi was going to have to miss her flight. That wasn'treally the worst-case scenario, as Angela knew full well, but her imagination wouldn't allow her to consider what that might be.

They would find Onyx. Angela just didn't know when.

She had to start searching her acreage, and she would need help. She'd pretty well managed to spook Naomi out of the idea of going near the woods, so she found herself leaning over her kitchen counter at 9:15, spooning yogurt into her mouth as she dialed Myles Fisher's number.

The phone rang only once before someone picked up, but there was no greeting. A silent line.

"h.e.l.lo?" Angela said. "Is Myles there? This is-"

"Oh, just make it stop!" Ma Fisher said crankily. Her voice bellowed, distorted because her mouth must be too close to the mouthpiece. She had aged, but Angela recognized the voice right away from the countless times she had called for Myles in high school.

"Excuse me?" Angela said.

"It hurts, Mrs. T'saint. Why won't you please make it stop? Go on, make it stop, you coward. You know how. Just like you did in 'Cisco. Don't be scared. Whatcha scared of?"

Angela's words died in her throat. In 'Cisco? What the h.e.l.l did that mean? She didn't know what to say, nor exactly what she had just heard. It took Angela several seconds to remember that Ma Fisher's mind had been lost to Alzheimer's. Angela heard interference and a few m.u.f.fled words, then Myles's voice came on. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Myles, it's Angela."

"Sorry, Angie. Ma got hold of the phone again. She likes to answer it, even if she doesn't know who she's talking to."

"But Myles, shedid know. She called me Mrs. T'saint."

"Yeah...She saw the Caller I.D. She still seems to be able to read, when she wants to. It's not real likely she recognized your voice. I never say never, but she's just...not here."

He was right, of course-the old Ma Fisher would have called her Angie, like everyone else in town, not Mrs. T'saint-but Angela was rattled by the exchange with Myles's mother. After a morning like she'd had so far, rattling her was not difficult.

"What's up? We're all sitting down to breakfast," Myles said. There was a distance in his voice that felt crus.h.i.+ng. She didn't know whowe was, if he was simply referring to his mother and the nurse or someone else who had a breakfast pa.s.s. Angela almost changed her mind about why she'd called. But then she glanced out at the backyard deck, where Naomi was sitting at the table with an untouched gla.s.s of orange juice, staring out accusingly toward the woods.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your meal. It's just...Myles, Onyx is missing."

"Who?"

"Naomi's dog." She forced herself not to come to tears while she told him the story, even the part about the cellar. She didn't want him to feel manipulated, as if she were having some kind of breakdown. But she hoped he would want to help.

Myles's voice dipped with concern. "Okay, let me finish up here," he said, "and I'll meet you at your place within an hour. Listen, I don't want to alarm you, and you probably shouldn't share this with Naomi, but a dog that size out back in your woods-"

"I know," Angela said. "I'm trying not to think about that."

"Sorry about your c.r.a.ppy day, doll-baby. I'll be there soon."

Once, Gramma Marie had said, Elijah Goode had a carriage house where Toussaint Lane dead-ended, where the clay road lost its will and conceded to the mouth of the dense woods. But the carriage house had been taken down decades ago, and the path seemed to have vanished, too. In Angela's memory, there had been a clear trail back here, the one she and the other kids in Sacajawea knew would take them to The Spot. Once, someone had hung up an old pair of gym shorts on a cedar limb as a landmark, and when Gramma Marie took them down, a bra had gone up instead.

All landmarks were long gone now. Corey had led her and Tariq on the path after Tariq's arrival that summer, and she'd realized then that she might never have found her way without her son's knowledge. The path wasn't clearly appointed like a nature hike; it was a narrow trail of red-brown needles carved by footfall over time, winding in a seemingly random snake through ferns and the trunks of narrow hemlocks and pillarlike red cedars that grew in crowded stands back here.

Together, tentatively, Angela and Myles sought out the path. Sometimes they reached blockages, and Angela was sure the thin trail had vanished-then she saw it reemerge at an odd angle, around a rotted tree stump, or beyond a fallen log carpeted with bright green moss. When she lost her balance and braced herself against a maple, she marveled at the springiness of the soft moss beneath her palm. The tree might be dead, without a single leaf, but it was so trussed in moss that it looked like it was wearing a majestic robe, dressed for company.

The growth was so dense, the sunlight had all but vanished except for patches of light tricking their way past the thinning fall leaves of the alders and maples. Angela wished she had worn a jacket over her sweats.h.i.+rt, because the temperature dropped without the sun's favor. The woods smelled damp, of composting leaves and a fir scent that was so vivid and fresh that it put air fresheners to shame. This wasbeautiful . Angela had her own personal nature refuge back here, and it was a crime how rarely she visited. Even before Corey died, she'd rarely come out here. To her own land.

Angela and Myles followed the path in silence much of the walk, except to call for Onyx and point out each other's way when the path tried to lose them. Silence felt right. Angela had expected to hear a symphony of insects and noisy birds, but the forest might as well be a chapel. When she finally heard a small animal stirring in a nest of vines beside the path, she thought Onyx would dash toward them with his pink tongue hanging from his mouth. But he didn't. Whatever it was camouflaged itself so well that Angela couldn't see a peek of it.

Squirrels. Racc.o.o.ns. Moles. They had their own world out here, hidden from her.

"Do you think he had sense enough to stay on the path?" Angela asked Myles.

"I don't see why not. The deer use it. See?" Myles said, nudging his foot against a pile of round, pale droppings. Leave it to Myles to recognize deer s.h.i.+t, she thought, smiling. He had always been more enamored of Sacajawea, more rooted to the region. She'd forgotten most of what she'd known about outdoor life, and she didn't remember ever knowing much.

The walk to The Spot took longer than Angela had remembered, nearly twenty minutes. Thick, knotty tree roots helped her keep her footing as the path steepened, then the sunlight's influence grew as they reached the clearing, which was stark in its lack of growth of any kind. The Spot was barely larger than a public swimming pool, a circular bed of fallen fir needles and leaves around a fire-pit. She could have sworn it was bigger than this, but she'd thought the same thing the last time she'd been here. In her imagination, The Spot was huge.

The makes.h.i.+ft grill Tariq had laid over the fire-pit to cook hot dogs with her and Corey was still here, only more rusted, and the logs and large stones ringing the pit were nestled in new trash. Dozens of beer cans. Newspapers. Cigarette b.u.t.ts. A crushed KFC bucket. When Angela saw a faded, discarded red box of Trojan condoms, her jaw tightened with anger.

"What's wrong with these nasty kids?" Angela said. "We never left this kind of mess here."

"No, it's a disgrace," Myles said. "We'll clean it another time."