The Deepest Secret

  David had wanted to try for more children. There was only a twenty-five percent risk they’d have another XP child. And if the worst happened, they’d know ahead of time. They could take precautions from the very start. But Eve had refused, had poured all her attention into taking care of Tyler. She couldn’t even fathom having another child. That was the first door she’d shut on David. She’d been shutting doors ever since.

  CLAWS

  After dinner, his dad hands him a slick yellow bag. “Surprise.”

  It’s heavy, bulky with something that has sharp corners—a book called Portrait Photography and a camera, the same 35 mm Tyler’s been eyeing online for months. He pulls the camera from the box and turns it over in his hands. His parents are watching him.

  “What do you think?” his dad says.

  “It’s great. Thanks.”

  “How’s your class going?”

  “Okay. I have to shoot a roll of film.”

  “Then we’d better practice loading it.” His dad opens a box of film and shows him how to pull out a few inches of the slick stuff and hook it into the back of the camera. By accident Tyler yanks out a long strip. “Happens to everyone,” his dad says. “We have more.”

  His mom’s standing over by the window, looking out through the heavy drapes. “Albert says he saw a Peeping Tom last night.” She turns and looks at them. “So let’s keep the drapes closed until the police find him, okay?”

  “What’s a Peeping Tom?” Tyler asks.

  “A creeper who looks through people’s windows,” Melissa answers.

  Oh. His cheeks flame and he ducks his head. It’s a dirty-sounding word and he hadn’t meant to do anything gross. He’d just been curious.

  “Don’t worry,” his mom says. “The police will find him. They got fingerprints off a flashlight they found.”

  He’d been wearing gloves. But not all the time.

  “Tyler?” It’s Holly, standing on her porch. Tyler feels warm with the realization that she’s been waiting for him. He wasn’t even headed her way. He was going to the park to try out his new camera, but now he walks across his yard to hers.

  She’s standing with her hands on the railing. The light from inside the house behind her outlines her body, shining through the thin material of her dress, revealing the curves of her legs.

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  She needs a favor from him? “Like what?”

  “Could you watch the kids for an hour or so? I have to run to the store.”

  “I’ve never babysat before.” He’s always been the one other people babysat.

  “There’s nothing to it. Christopher is asleep. Connor’s watching TV. If he gets thirsty, you can give him some juice.”

  Doesn’t she know any adults who could help her out? “Can’t you just take them with you?”

  “No, that’s impossible. For God’s sake. I thought you were one person I could trust.”

  He’s made her mad somehow. “You can,” he says hastily.

  “It’s only for an hour. Come on.” She holds the door open. “Please.”

  He’s not supposed to walk into a room without his mom checking it with the UV meter first. But Holly’s standing there looking at him, so he does it. He steps right over the threshold. Nothing happens. He feels fine. He lets out his breath.

  Her eyes are extra bright. “You know to keep the door locked, right?”

  Ha. If there’s anything he knows, it’s that.

  Connor sits cross-legged in front of the TV, a fleecy blanket bunched up in his lap. He doesn’t look over.

  She puts her fingers on his arm. Her touch blazes right through his sleeve to his skin. “I’m sorry about your friend. About Amy.”

  “Thanks.”

  She scoops up her purse from a hook on the wall and pulls out a ring of keys. “Mm,” she says. “You smell of coconut.” She pushes open the door and is gone.

  He hasn’t been inside many houses. There’s Zach’s old house that’s now Sophie’s; Zach’s new house; Alan’s house; Charlotte’s, of course; Rosemary and Albert’s; and in first grade, he’d gone to the birthday party of Melissa’s friend’s younger brother. He’s never once been left alone in any house but his. Having two little kids there doesn’t count. If something happens, it will be up to him to deal with it.

  The curtains hang open in the living room and dining room, revealing big blank panes of glass, and the windows have been pushed up so that the cool night air swims in, making the white drapes billow. The house feels fragile, as though one big gust of wind could blast it to pieces. He takes out his UV meter and presses the button, walking all around. The little black arrow doesn’t move. He takes off his gloves and pushes them into his pockets, then unzips his hoodie.

  “Are you thirsty?” he asks Connor.

  “Juice.”

  The kitchen’s painted brown and has white cabinets. Dishes sit heaped in the sink and plastic bottles stand around the counters, some containing a murky yellowish liquid that looks disgusting. Cardboard boxes are stacked in a corner, marked KITCHEN in heavy black writing on the sides. There are photographs stuck to the front of the refrigerator. Holly in a bathing suit, laughing as sun spills across her face and makes her squint. Connor in a little jacket and pants, his mouth turned down and comb marks in his hair. A puffy-faced baby squints at the camera, just a bit of fluff for hair. A bunch of strangers, all different ages but everyone wearing white shirts and blue jeans, and grinning at the camera. Hi from the Blakes! He holds up his camera and presses the button. A photograph of photographs.

  The refrigerator’s so bare he can see straight to the back. Ketchup, milk, salad dressings, yogurt, a plastic container of something pale green. He takes another picture.

  “Where does your mom keep it?” he calls to Connor, but there’s no answer.

  Maybe the pantry? But no, there’s nothing like juice in there, just some boxes of cereal, a couple cans of spaghetti, and a big plastic bag of potato chips closed with a purple clip that says Neil Cipriano, DDS—his mom has one, too. But Connor said he wanted juice not chips, so he slowly rotates and scans the kitchen once again. Then he sees it, an opened pack of juice boxes poking out from behind a cloth bag with blue dinosaurs printed on it.

  “Here you go,” he says.

  Connor takes the juice box. “Baby.”

  That’s when Tyler hears the hiccup of sound, like rubber squeaking against glass. Christopher? But he’s supposed to be asleep. Holly didn’t say anything about what to do if the baby woke up. “What does he want?”

  Connor doesn’t even look at him.

  The crying’s coming from upstairs. Tyler tries the first bedroom door, flicking on the light to see an unmade bed and clothes heaped everywhere. A lacy white bra dangles from the back of a chair. He flips off the light and backs away.

  The next door’s shut and when he cautiously opens it, the cry grows louder, and warmth envelops him, along with a sour smell. There’s a small light glowing from the baseboard shaped like an orange lion’s head, and he can see the faint outlines of a crib against the corner. He goes over and looks down. There’s the baby from the picture on the refrigerator, only this version has a wide-open mouth and tiny clenched fists. He’s screaming now, hurting Tyler’s ears, turning his head from side to side. He’s mad about something.

  Melissa’s done lots of babysitting. He calls her. It’s hot in here and he pushes down his hood. Maybe it’s his sunglasses that are creeping the little dude out. He takes them off, but the baby’s eyes are squeezed shut. The phone rings, then Melissa’s voice. This is Melissa. You know what to do.

  But that’s the problem. Tyler doesn’t have a clue what to do. He texts her.

  You awake?

  Christopher’s shrieking. Tyler can see his tiny tongue quivering in his mouth. Without thinking, he stuffs his phone into his pocket and reaches down to pick the baby up.

  Christopher stops crying. His head bobs, and his eyes open to look at the floor. Tyle
r’s surprised at how light Christopher is, but he’s the source of the sour smell. Tyler wrinkles his nose. It’s pee.

  There’s a dresser with padding on it. He’s seen Three Men and a Baby, so he knows what it’s for. But he really doesn’t have any idea how to use it. “Connor? Can you come up here?”

  “No, mister.”

  So Tyler lays the baby down and unzips his little sleeper. He untapes the diaper and drags it off. The little guy’s penis stands straight up, making Tyler laugh. He finds a new diaper, one that smells clean and is airy light. There are directions on the back of the package and he studies them. He draws one piece of tape over one hip, then the other. He picks up Christopher and nothing falls off. “We did it,” he tells the baby, who’s sucking his thumb and watching him.

  Tyler had been seventeen months old when they found out he was sick. Until then, his mom’s told him, they had no idea. She says he’s perfect now, the way he is, but he knows the only time he was ever truly perfect for her and his dad was back then, before they knew otherwise. Christopher looks fine, but what if he isn’t? There could be something hiding inside him ready to leap out at any minute, like that creature in Alien. He pushes the little guy’s fat little legs into the sleeper and zips it back up.

  Christopher seems happy now, so Tyler carries him over to the crib. But as he starts to lower him, Christopher jerks out his legs. His tiny chest gets round and hard, and Tyler knows he’s going to start screaming again.

  So he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Tyler slides Christopher into the crook of his arm. The baby’s head bobbles and his arm gets squished, but Tyler pulls at the little hand and Christopher rights himself. He peers up through half-opened eyes.

  “Hi,” Tyler says, and, of course, Christopher doesn’t say anything back.

  He goes downstairs. Connor hasn’t moved. There’s a new show on, not a cartoon. “Did you turn the channel?”

  Connor drinks his juice and pretends not to hear. Tyler looks around for the remote, spies it peeping out from under Connor’s blanket. There’s a small skirmish as Tyler grabs for it. He almost drops Christopher. Connor says “No!” but Tyler holds up the remote and changes it back to the Cartoon Network. That’s what babysitters do. They make sure little kids aren’t watching crap. He sticks the remote in the freezer, on the top shelf.

  He carries Christopher around the house, jiggling him, and stops to look at the framed pictures on the wall and on the hutch. Nothing like as many as the Farnhams had standing around. What had he been thinking, going up to their window like that? It was the weed. It had made him crazy.

  Here’s a photograph of Holly in her wedding dress. She’s so pretty, like a film star. This must be her husband, Mark. Tyler studies his face, the way he has his arm around Holly’s waist.

  Christopher’s asleep, his head lolling against Tyler’s arm. Tyler takes him upstairs to his room and this time, when he puts him down, the baby doesn’t move. Tyler goes out into the hall. It’s been more than two hours. Where is she?

  He looks at the books on the bookshelf, slides out a yearbook with Toledo Tigers printed in bright green across the cover. He turns pages until he finds Holly as a high school senior. Her hair was longer then, but her smile’s the same. Holly Hollywood! someone had written on the page. I’ll remember you when … Tyler takes a picture.

  Connor’s watching SpongeBob. It’s an episode Tyler’s seen a bunch of times, but he watches it, too. The clock on the wall ticks. He goes to the window and looks out at his house. He imagines his family inside, sleeping in their various rooms. He yawns, and once he starts, he can’t stop.

  “I’m hungry,” Connor says.

  Tyler looks at the clock. It’s almost three-thirty. What’s Holly doing, taking so long? “Maybe you should go to bed.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  So Tyler goes back into the kitchen, stands looking in the pantry. There’s a can of soup. There, beneath a limp bag of rice, is a box of raisins. He goes back to Connor. “Soup or raisins?”

  “Candy.”

  “There isn’t any candy.”

  Connor pushes himself up and goes into the kitchen. He opens a drawer and reaches behind the boxes of aluminum foil and plastic wrap to a rolled-up bag of lollipops. Does every family hide food? Connor pulled out a handful of lollipops and left the bag sitting on the counter. Tyler shrugs. If Holly doesn’t want Connor to have candy, then she should come home on time to make sure.

  Tyler wanders into the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet. There’s a man’s razor and a can of shaving cream. He uncaps the bottle of cologne and sniffs. It’s strong, pine-scented. That must be what Mark the Cop smells like. He goes upstairs to the bathroom there. The medicine cabinet here has a bottle of contact lens solution, nasal spray, a light blue bottle of makeup remover, a container of Vaseline. He takes a picture, then shakes the small brown prescription bottle. Celexa, the label reads. There’s a flat foil package with tiny pills inside. Half of them have been punched out. He finds a pair of glasses and tries them on. Everything blurs and he puts them back.

  Colored bottles of perfume sit on the counter, a cup filled with soft brushes. There’s a plastic tree that holds long gold and silver chains, and a drawer filled with dangly earrings and bracelets with all sorts of jewels. There’s another drawer filled with small brown boxes of makeup. He opens one and rubs his fingertip across the velvet purple surface.

  Beneath the sink is a bag of cotton balls, a box of Q-tips, a million cans of hair gunk, a hair dryer, and a box of tampons. He knows what those are. He closes the cabinet.

  The crunch of tires outside and he runs to the window to see. Holly? No, it’s a strange car, sliding to a stop in front of Sophie’s house across the street. He steps back. He wants to look and see, but he has to wait. The minute a car door opens, the dome light flashes on. Until the door creaks shut again, it’ll stay lit. His mom’s warned him about this. She’s removed the bulbs from the dome lights in their cars, but she can’t do that to other people’s cars. He hears the slam of a car door and peeks out. It’s a regular-looking guy, no one Tyler’s ever seen before. A reporter? But the reporters are all gone, and besides, why would a reporter be hanging outside Sophie’s house in the middle of the night? As Tyler watches, the stranger reaches into Sophie’s mailbox and pulls something out. An envelope that he studies and then replaces. A second later he’s walking back to his car. Tyler turns away just in time as headlights sweep through the window and across the far wall. Too late, he remembers his camera.

  Holly’s closet is stuffed with clothes, all different colors, like a rainbow. Her shoes lie in a tumble on the floor, golden sandals, boots, black strappy things. He’s never seen her in anything but sneakers or bare feet. Her husband’s closet is filled with jeans and short-sleeved shirts. A dark blue policeman’s uniform hangs from the rod, covered with dry-cleaner’s plastic. So where’s the gun safe?

  Down the hall, Christopher starts to cry again. He doesn’t sound like he’s going to stop. Tyler goes into the baby’s bedroom and picks him up. He jiggles him up and down, but this time Christopher doesn’t stop. Maybe he’s hungry. Holly’s been gone forever.

  He carries the baby downstairs. Connor’s fallen asleep on the floor in front of the TV, curled up like a potato bug. Tyler goes into the kitchen and examines the bottles standing all around. The one by the stove is half-full. Tyler holds it up and squints at the murky liquid inside. It’s getting harder to hold Christopher, who’s kicking out his legs and clenching his hands. Tyler slides the bottle nipple into Christopher’s mouth and wiggles it around. Christopher’s mouth shuts and clamps on tight.

  Tyler’s sweating. He looks at the clock. It’s 6:20. His mom’s probably looking for him right now. He glances at the window, where the sky is growing lighter. Should he go into the basement? But what if he needs to use the bathroom? He can’t stay here all day. His mom would freak out. But how can he leave Connor and Christopher alone? Christopher is finished, his mouth hanging
open and his eyes closed. Liquid drips from the corner of his mouth.

  Tyler carries Christopher back up to his crib and puts him down. The baby burps, then sighs. Tyler goes into Holly’s bedroom and stands there.

  Headlights wash across the ceiling. He runs downstairs. The front door opens and Holly’s there. “Hi,” she says.

  “You said an hour. Where were you?” She’s not holding any grocery bags, just her purse, which she tosses on the hall table.

  “You sound like Mark. I just needed a break, okay?”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t go out.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yes, it is.” He’s frustrated. “Don’t you get it? It is that bad.”

  “Let me pay you.”

  He almost laughs. What’s he going to do with money? It’s not like he could spend it. His mom would wonder where he’d gotten it.

  “Tyler …”

  He leaves her standing on her porch. He doesn’t look back. He runs across the grass to his house, unlatches the gate, and races across the patio to the French doors. He imagines the sun leaping over the horizon and grabbing him in its claws.

  EVE

  Amy’s been found, and the reporters are gone, scattered who knows where. The street echoes, a paper cup lolls on the curb, and the marigolds along Charlotte’s driveway have been trampled. Amy had planted them in May, carrying the tiny pots from the back of Charlotte’s car. They’re annuals. They’ll never grow again.

  No sooner had Detective Watkins closed the door than Charlotte had twisted the bottle open and shaken two sleeping pills into her palm. She’d gone right upstairs, refusing anyone’s company, and left Eve alone with Felicia and Gloria. We’d better keep an eye on those, Gloria had said, pushing herself up and taking the bottle from the table where Charlotte had left it.

  Eve closes her front door and carries the newspaper into the kitchen.

  The French door bangs open and Tyler stumbles into the room as though he’s being chased. “What were you doing outside?” His face is flushed. A fever?