out. What I had looked like then. How she dreamed about me. How she had fashioned the idea that a spirit could be a sort of second skin for someone, a protective layer somehow. How maybe if she was assiduous she could free us both. I would read over her shoulder as she wrote down her thoughts and wonder if anyone might believe her one day.
When she was imagining me, she felt better, less alone, more connected to something out there. To someone out there. She saw the cornfield in her dreams, and a new world opening, a world where maybe she could find a foothold too.
"You're a really good poet, Ruth," she imagined me saying, and her journal would release her into a daydream of being such a good poet that her words had the power to resurrect me.
I could see back to an afternoon when Ruth watched her teenage cousin undress to take a bath while Ruth sat on the bathroom rug, locked in the bathroom so her cousin could babysit her as she'd been told. Ruth had longed to touch her cousin's skin and hair, longed to be held. I wondered if this longing in a three-year-old had sparked what came at eight. That fuzzy feeling of difference, that her crushes on female teachers or her cousin were more real than the other girls' crushes. Hers contained a desire beyond sweetness and attention, it fed a longing, beginning to flower green and yellow into a crocuslike lust, the soft petals opening into her awkward adolescence. It was not so much, she would write in her journal, that she wanted to have sex with women, but that she wanted to disappear inside of them forever. To hide.
The last week of the symposium was always spent developing a final project, which the various schools would present in competition on the night before the parents returned to pick the students up. The competition wasn't announced until the Saturday breakfast of that final week, but the kids had already begun planning for it anyway. It was always a better-mousetrap competition, and so the stakes were raised year after year. No one wanted to repeat a mousetrap that had already been built.
Samuel went in search of the kids with braces. He needed the tiny rubber bands orthodontists doled out. They would work to keep the tension tight on the guiding arm of his mousetrap. Lindsey begged clean tinfoil from the retired army cook. Their trap involved reflecting light in order to confuse the mice.
"What happens if they like the way they look?" Lindsey asked Samuel.
"They can't see that clearly," Samuel said. He was stripping the paper off the wire twists from the camp garbage bag supply. If a kid looked strangely at ordinary objects around the camp, he or she was most likely thinking of how it would serve the ultimate mousetrap.
"They're pretty cute," Lindsey said one afternoon.
Lindsey had spent the better part of the night before gathering field mice with string lures and putting them under the wire mesh of an empty rabbit hutch.
Samuel watched them intently. "I could be a vet, I guess," he said, "but I don't think I'd like cutting them open."
"Do we have to kill them?" Lindsey asked. "It's a better mousetrap, not a better mouse death camp."
"Artie's contributing little coffins made out of balsa wood," Samuel said, laughing.
"That's sick."
"That's Artie."
"He supposedly had a crush on Susie," Lindsey said.
"I know."
"Does he talk about her?" Lindsey took a long thin stick and poked it through the mesh.
"He's asked about you, actually," Samuel said.
"What did you tell him?"
"That you're okay, that you'll be okay."
The mice kept running from the stick into the corner, where they crawled on top of one another in a useless effort to flee. "Let's build a mousetrap with a little purple velvet couch in it and we can rig up a latch so that when they sit on the couch, a door drops and little balls of cheese fall down. We can call it Wild Rodent Kingdom."
Samuel didn't press my sister like the adults did. He would talk in detail about mouse couch upholstery instead.
By that summer I had begun to spend less time watching from the gazebo because I could still see Earth as I walked the fields of heaven. The night would come and the javelin-throwers and shot-putters would leave for other heavens. Heavens where a girl like me didn't fit in. Were they horrific, these other heavens? Worse than feeling so solitary among one's living, growing peers? Or were they the stuff I dreamed about? Where you could be caught in a Norman Rockwell world forever. Turkey constantly being brought to a table full of family. A wry and twinkling relative carving up the bird.
If I walked too far and wondered loud enough the fields would change. I could look down and see horse corn and I could hear it then--singing--a kind of low humming and moaning warning me back from the edge. My head would throb and the sky would darken and it would be that night again, that perpetual yesterday lived again. My soul solidifying, growing heavy. I came up to the lip of my grave this way many times but had yet to stare in.
I did begin to wonder what the word heaven meant. I thought, if this were heaven, truly heaven, it would be where my grandparents lived. Where my father's father, my favorite of them all, would lift me up and dance with me. I would feel only joy and have no memory, no cornfield and no grave.
"You can have that," Franny said to me. "Plenty of people do."
"How do you make the switch?" I asked.
"It's not as easy as you might think," she said. "You have to stop desiring certain answers."
"I don't get it."
"If you stop asking why you were killed instead of someone else, stop investigating the vacuum left by your loss, stop wondering what everyone left on Earth is feeling," she said, "you can be free. Simply put, you have to give up on Earth."
This seemed impossible to me.
Ruth crept into Lindsey's dorm that night.
"I had a dream about her," she whispered to my sister.
Lindsey blinked sleepily at her. "Susie?" she asked.
"I'm sorry about the incident in the dining hall," Ruth said.
Lindsey was on the bottom of a three-tiered aluminum bunk bed. Her neighbor directly above her stirred.
"Can I get into bed with you?" Ruth asked.
Lindsey nodded.
Ruth crawled in next to Lindsey in the narrow sliver of the bed.
"What happened in your dream?" Lindsey whispered.
Ruth told her, turning her face so that Lindsey's eyes could make out the silhouette of Ruth's nose and lips and forehead. "I was inside the earth," Ruth said, "and Susie walked over me in the cornfield. I could feel her walking over me. I called out to her but my mouth filled with dirt. She couldn't hear me no matter how much I tried to yell. Then I woke up."
"I don't dream about her," Lindsey said. "I have nightmares about rats nibbling at the ends of my hair."
Ruth liked the comfort she felt next to my sister--the heat their bodies created.
"Are you in love with Samuel?"
"Yes."
"Do you miss Susie?"
Because it was dark, because Ruth was facing away from her, because Ruth was almost a stranger, Lindsey said what she felt. "More than anyone will ever know."
The principal of Devon Junior High was called away on a family matter, and it was left up to the newly appointed assistant principal of Chester Springs School to create, overnight, that year's challenge. She wanted to do something different from mousetraps.
CAN YOU GET AWAY WITH CRIME? HOW TO COMMIT THE PERFECT MURDER, announced her hurriedly drawn-up flier.
The kids loved it. The musicians and poets, the History Heads and artists, were teeming and bubbling about how to begin. They shoveled down their bacon and eggs at breakfast and compared the great unsolved murders of the past or thought of ordinary objects that could be used for fatal wounds. They began to think of whom they could plot to kill. It was all in good fun until 7:15, when my sister walked in.
Artie watched her get in line. She was still unaware, just picking up on the excitement in the air--figuring the mousetrap competition had been announced.
He kept his eye on Lindsey and saw the closest flier was posted at the end of the food line over the utensils tray. He was listening to a story about Jack the Ripper that someone at the table was relaying. He stood to return his tray.
When he reached my sister, he cleared his throat. All my hopes were pinned on this wobbly boy. "Catch her," I said. A prayer going down to Earth.
"Lindsey," Artie said.
Lindsey looked at him. "Yes?"
Behind the counter the army cook held out a spoon full of scrambled eggs to plop on her tray.
"I'm Artie, from your sister's grade."
"I don't need any coffins," Lindsey said, moving her tray down the metalwork to where there was orange juice and apple juice in big plastic pitchers.
"What?"
"Samuel told me you were building balsa wood coffins for the mice this year. I don't want any."
"They changed the competition," he said.
That morning Lindsey had decided she would take the bottom off of Clarissa's dress. It would be perfect for the mouse couch.
"To what?"
"Do you want to go outside?" Artie used his body to shadow her and block her passage to the utensils. "Lindsey," he blurted. "The competition is about murder."
She stared at him.
Lindsey held on to her tray. She kept her eyes locked on Artie.
"I wanted to tell you before you read the flier," he said.
Samuel rushed into the tent.
"What's going on?" Lindsey looked helplessly at Samuel.
"This year's competition is how to commit the perfect murder," Samuel said.
Samuel and I saw the tremor. The inside shakeoff of her heart. She was getting so good the cracks and fissures were smaller and smaller. Soon, like a sleight-of-hand trick perfected, no one would see her do it. She could shut out the whole world, including herself.
"I'm fine," she said.
But Samuel knew she wasn't.
He and Artie watched her back as she departed.
"I was trying to warn her," Artie said weakly.
Artie returned to his table. He drew hypodermics, one after another. His pen pressed harder and harder as he colored in the embalming fluid inside, as he perfected the trajectory of the three drops squirting out.
Lonely, I thought, on Earth as it is in heaven.
"You kill people by stabbing and cutting and shooting," Ruth said. "It's sick."
"Agreed," Artie said.
Samuel had taken my sister away to talk. Artie had seen Ruth at one of the outside picnic tables with her big blank book.
"But there are good reasons to kill," Ruth said.
"Who do you think did it?" Artie asked. He sat on the bench and braced his feet up under the table on the crossbar.
Ruth sat almost motionless, right leg crossed over left, but her foot jiggled ceaselessly.
"How did you hear?" she asked.
"My father told us," Artie said. "He called my sister and me into the family room and made us sit down."
"Shit, what did he say?"
"First he said that horrible things happened in the world and my sister said, 'Vietnam,' and he was quiet because they always fight about that whenever it comes up. So he said, 'No, honey, horrible things happen close to home, to people we know.' She thought it was one of her friends."
Ruth felt a raindrop.
"Then my dad broke down and said a little girl had been killed. I was the one who asked who. I mean, when he said 'little girl,' I pictured little, you know. Not us."
It was a definite drop, and they began to land on the redwood tabletop.
"Do you want to go in?" Artie asked.
"Everyone else will be inside," Ruth said.
"I know."
"Let's get wet."
They sat still for a while and watched the drops fall around them, heard the sound against the leaves of the tree above.
"I knew she was dead. I sensed it," Ruth said, "but then I saw a mention of it in my dad's paper and I was sure. They didn't use her name at first. Just 'Girl, fourteen.' I asked my dad for the page but he wouldn't give it to me. I mean, who else and her sister hadn't been in school all week?"
"I wonder who told Lindsey?" Artie said. The rain picked up. Artie slipped underneath the table. "We're going to get soaked," he yelled up.
And then as quickly as the rain had started, it ceased. Sun came through the branches of the tree above her, and Ruth looked up past them. "I think she listens," she said, too softly to be heard. It became common knowledge at the symposium who my sister was and how I had died.
"Imagine being stabbed," someone said.
"No thanks."
"I think it's cool."
"Think of it--she's famous."
"Some way to get famous. I'd rather win the Nobel Prize."
"Does anyone know what she wanted to be?"
"I dare you to ask Lindsey."
And they listed the dead they knew.
Grandmother, grandfather, uncle, aunt, some had a parent, rarer was a sister or brother lost young to an illness--a heart irregularity--leukemia--an unpronounceable disease. No one knew anyone who had been murdered. But now they knew me.
Under a rowboat that was too old and worn to float, Lindsey lay down on the earth with Samuel Heckler, and he held her.
"You know I'm okay," she said, her eyes dry. "I think Artie was trying to help me," she offered.
"You can stop now, Lindsey," he said. "We'll just lie here and wait until things quiet down."
Samuel's back was flush against the ground, and he brought my sister close into his body to protect her from the dampness of the quick summer rain. Their breath began to heat the small space beneath the boat, and he could not stop it--his penis stiffened inside his jeans.
Lindsey reached her hand over.
"I'm sorry..." he began.
"I'm ready," my sister said.
At fourteen, my sister sailed away from me into a place I'd never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.
"How to Commit the Perfect Murder" was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.
ELEVEN
When my father woke up at four A.M., the house was quiet. My mother lay beside him, lightly snoring. My brother, the only child, what with my sister attending the symposium, was like a rock with a sheet pulled up over him. My father marveled at what a sound sleeper he was--just like me. While I was still alive, Lindsey and I had had fun with that, clapping, dropping books, and even banging pot lids to see if Buckley would wake up.
Before leaving the house, my father checked on Buckley--to make sure, to feel the warm breath against his palm. Then he suited up in his thin-soled sneakers and light jogging outfit. His last task was to put Holiday's collar on.
It was still early enough that he could almost see his breath. He could pretend at that early hour that it was still winter. That the seasons had not advanced.
The morning dog walk gave him an excuse to pass by Mr. Harvey's house. He slowed only slightly--no one would have noticed save me or, if he had been awake, Mr. Harvey. My father was sure that if he just stared hard enough, just looked long enough, he would find the clues he needed in the casements of the windows, in the green paint coating the shingles, or along the driveway, where two large stones sat, painted white.
By late summer 1974, there had been no movement on my case. No body. No killer. Nothing.
My father thought of Ruana Singh: "When I was sure, I would find a quiet way, and I would kill him." He had not told this to Abigail because the advice made a sort of baseline sense that would frighten her into telling someone, and he suspected that someone might be Len.
Ever since the day he'd seen Ruana Singh and then had come home to find Len waiting for him, he'd felt my mother leaning heavily on the police. If my father said something that contradicted the police theories--or, as he saw them, the lack of them--my mother would immediately rush to fill the hole left open by my father's idea. "Len says that doesn't mean anything," or, "I trust the police to find out what happened."
Why, my father wondered, did people trust the police so much? Why not trust instinct? It was Mr. Harvey and he knew it. But what Ruana had said was when I was sure. Knowing, the deep-soul knowing that my father had, was not, in the law's more literal mind, incontrovertible proof.
The house that I grew up in was the same house where I was born. Like Mr. Harvey's, it was a box, and because of this I nurtured useless envies whenever I visited other people's homes. I dreamed about bay windows and cupolas, balconies, and slanted attic ceilings in a bedroom. I loved the idea that there could be trees in a yard taller and stronger than people, slanted spaces under stairs, thick hedges grown so large that inside there were hollows of dead branches where you could crawl and sit. In my heaven there were verandas and circular staircases, window ledges with iron rails, and a campanile housing a bell that tolled the hour.
I knew the floor plan of Mr. Harvey's by heart. I had made a warm spot on the floor of the garage until I cooled. He had brought my blood into the house with him on his clothes and skin. I knew the bathroom. Knew how in my house my mother had tried to decorate it to accommodate Buckley's late arrival by stenciling battleships along the top of the pink walls. In Mr. Harvey's house the bathroom and kitchen were spotless. The porcelain was yellow and the tile on the floor was green. He kept it cold. Upstairs, where Buckley, Lindsey, and I had our rooms, he had almost nothing. He had a straight chair where he would go to sit sometimes and stare out the window over at the high school, listen for the sound of band practice wafting over from the field, but mostly he spent his hours in the back on the first floor, in the kitchen building dollhouses, in the living room listening to the radio or, as his lust set in, sketching blueprints for follies like the hole or the tent.
No one had bothered him about me for several months. By that summer he only occasionally saw a squad car slow in front of his house. He was smart enough not to alter his pattern. If he was walking out to the garage or the mailbox, he kept on going.
He set several clocks. One to tell him when to open the blinds, one when to close them. In conjunction with these alarms, he would turn lights on and off throughout the house. When an occasional child happened by to sell chocolate bars for a school competition or inquire if he would like to subscribe to the Evening Bulletin, he was friendly b