You okay? Mary asks softly. Shall we go upstairs?

  Yes, let’s go.

  The stairs are narrow, steep. She remembers her small hand moving up the banister. Breathing heavily, Mary labors up the stairs behind her. On another occasion Franny might suggest a cardiologist, but not today.

  You get to be my age, Mary says, stopping to rest on the landing, it’s awful. She glances out the window. But I never get tired of these views.

  When she was a child here the window had been too high for Franny even on tippy toes, so it’s with some degree of accomplishment that she looks out now and helps herself to the expansive view of the barns, the ridge, the distant woods.

  Beautiful, isn’t it?

  Yes, it is, she says, a little sad that she hadn’t grown up here. It could have been a good life. Instead of one suburban street after another, each house a version of the others, with rooms that were suitable yet uninspired, anonymous as those in a motel.

  They head down the narrow hall. Here the house seems smaller, modest, with just three rooms upstairs: her parents’ on the right, the largest room in the house, and hers and another small room on the left. Mary says it was her mother’s sewing room, but it might’ve been a nursery down the road if she’d lived. Franny had been a little kid who’d hoped so much for a sister. Later, her father had remarried, but the new wife didn’t want a child of her own. She was an ex-nun, a kind yet elusive woman who insisted that Franny should attend Catholic schools. While other kids were riding bikes or hanging out at the mall, Franny was working in a soup kitchen. Her stepmother, she thinks now, was probably the reason she’d been an A student. Looking back, she understands the marriage was strained; it only lasted a few years.

  This was your room, Mary says.

  It’s smaller than the one in her vague memories, with little pink ponies stenciled on the walls. There was a tenant who had a daughter, Mary explains. There’s a twin bed, a small white dresser; otherwise the room is bare. The window, she thinks, the bright light—that’s the first thing she recalls. And the enormous white expanse of the door across the hall, pounding on it with her little fists. Had she woken from a nap?

  We don’t have to go in if you’re not ready.

  I’m fine, she says. It’s about time.

  The room is dark; the shades pulled. Mary hurries to open them, as if Franny’s just another prospective buyer. Even with the daylight it seems dark, she thinks. They stand there taking it in. This is weird, she admits. Hard.

  I’m sure it is. Do you remember it any?

  Not very well, she says, but that’s not entirely true. There was the Persian carpet, the rickety antique headboard that smacked against the wall whenever she jumped on the bed, the bookshelves where her mother kept her books—all poetry, still here, amazingly. She has a hazy memory of taking the books off the shelves and scattering them across the floor like stones on a river. The bed is made up with a spread. There’s a dresser and an armoire, both antiques. The wallpaper is faded, and an old wing chair sits by the window, covered in sun-bleached toile.

  They stand there looking at the bed. The last time Franny saw her mother, she was right there. She closes her eyes, refusing to picture it. Is that the same—

  Heavens, no, Mary says. That’s a brand-new bed. The quilt, too—I bought it at Walmart. She wouldn’t have approved. Your mother was a purist.

  Really?

  She liked things that were real, authentic.

  Authentic, Franny repeats, intrigued by the idea. Something she’s never actually thought about.

  After another couple moments Mary says, Why don’t we get some fresh air? As if out of habit, she pulls the shades back down, and everything goes soft. The room is like a tomb and they’re both glad to leave it, the door closing behind them.

  When they’re back outside, Mary gets something out of her car, a basket of cookies. I almost forgot. These are for you. Made them this morning.

  That was so nice, Mary. Thank you. She gives her a hug.

  You look like you could use a cookie or two. I imagine you doctors don’t get much time to eat?

  We don’t have time for much of anything.

  You call me, Mary tells her. Anything you need, understand? I’m going to be checking up on you.

  I’ll be fine, she says, a little embarrassed, not used to people fussing over her.

  It’s time to put this place behind you, Franny. You’re not the only one. We both need to. We’ll do it together, all right?

  Franny hugs her again, more for Mary’s sake than her own, and when they break apart she sees Mary’s tears.

  Mary shakes her head, flustered. Don’t mind me. She blows her nose into a handkerchief and wipes her eyes, annoyed with herself.

  Hey, it’s okay. I’m used to this kind of thing.

  Mary digs around in her purse and takes out a compact and inspects her face in the mirror, wiping the creases around her eyes where her mascara has smeared. For God’s sake, look at me.

  You look fine.

  I used to be somewhat presentable, she says. If you can believe that.

  Of course I do. You’re presentable now. More than presentable.

  I just wish things weren’t always so difficult. Don’t you?

  Franny nods. I don’t know why they are.

  Maybe God’s trying to tell us something. I wish He’d stop sometimes.

  He might’ve given up on us by now, Franny says.

  I sure hope not. We need all the help we can get. She walks back to her car and opens the door. Life’s hard, that’s all there is to it. And this place, this old farm, is a testament to that.

  She gets in, starts the engine and rolls down the window. I’ll go ahead and order that dumpster and get the Hale boys over here to help you. I guess you don’t recognize that name, do you?

  Franny shakes her head.

  This was the Hale farm back before your folks bought it. Those boys used to look after you. Cole and Eddy? ’Course, Eddy’s off in Los Angeles. A trumpet player. I hear he’s pretty famous. It’s just Cole and poor Wade now.

  Huh, I don’t remember them, Franny says, though they’ve been there, inside her head, all this time. Dark, blurry shapes. The sound of that horn.

  They’ve sure had their share. We all have. But Cole, he’s done well for himself. Almost every house in this town has his mark on it. It’s his eyes, I think, because they’re so blue. Women take one look at him and pull out their checkbooks. His little girl has the same blue eyes, just like all the Hales. She and my granddaughter are good friends. It’s something, isn’t it? Like that expression—what goes around?

  Comes around, Franny says, and smiles.

  Well, I’ll get going. Don’t forget, I’m just a phone call away. Even for something small.

  Franny watches Mary’s car until it disappears down the road. She holds herself tight against the chill in the air. She looks across the empty fields, the barns, the black trees. A mood of isolation.

  Then she turns, as though someone has called her name from that window on the second floor, her mother’s room.

  The shades are up now. The room brimming with light.

  —

  SHE DRIVES into town to buy some beer. Not that she likes to drink, it’s merely medicinal. She will have to get drunk in order to sleep. On second thought, maybe vodka, her old standby. Given the chance, she might have succumbed to alcohol. There’d been a brief unraveling in boarding school, when she’d been made to see a shrink. In college she figured out how to drink and get A’s, but medical school put an end to it. You had to be on every minute. You had to be ready, clear.

  The town has a strange, frozen-in-time quality. Driving past the church, she sees a priest opening the gate, a white-haired man in a thick wool scarf who’s pulling on his overcoat and talking—consolingly, she imagines—to an old woman in a plastic kerchief there on the sidewalk. It’s windy, the treetops moving wildly, battering the sunlight around. There’s a small movie theater, a doughnut
shop, a café.

  The liquor store is at the end of the block. The place is empty, unlit, streaming with dusty sunlight. As she peruses the shelves, a mackerel-colored cat circles her ankles. The large window in front, covered with a see-through yellow shade, makes the street beyond look like an old-fashioned sepia-toned photograph. The man behind the counter coughs and says, Let me know if you need anything, then goes back to scribbling in his ledger. When checking out, she is surprised to see that he’s writing a poem, an abacus of words that add up to something. She sees the words beguile, thrush; she studies his face as he rings her up.

  Next door, at the market, she buys a sandwich and a bag of chips that she eats in the car, stuffing her face, looking through the windshield at the sky. Anonymous, she thinks, a stranger in a strange town. The sky is different here. Something about the clouds, how the sun pushes through.

  —

  BACK IN THE KITCHEN, she searches the cabinets, but there are no glasses, only jars. You’ll do, she says to an old pickle jar, then fills it halfway and dumps in some ice. The vodka gives her strength to begin the closet, a whole dark world unto itself. A city of toppling boxes. Mostly junk—tattered clothes, round-soled shoes, broken appliances, a prehistoric vacuum. Like treasure, she finds a shoebox full of photographs. As much as this delights her, it’s disturbing that they’re here. A history left behind, she thinks, partially her own. Her mother’s last few months in the world.

  How cruel that her father hadn’t bothered to take them, had never understood their importance. She deals them out like tarot cards, snapping them down, thinking: This is your past, it can’t be helped; this is your future, the only way into the rest of your life.

  Brittle, yellow with age, the snapshots are quiltlike patches of a larger story. Most of the pictures are of her, a busy toddler in a sunny house. Playing with wooden spoons, pots and pans, naked save for underpants in the summer grass, a garden of black-eyed Susans behind. Sitting on a baby chair blowing bubbles. Chasing a kitty. Pulling a wooden dog on a string. It does her good to see that she was happy here, loved. She’d never known how to envision this part of her childhood, because her father hadn’t bothered to enlighten her.

  Who were they, she wonders, her parents? Who was Catherine Clare? There are just a few pictures to choose from. Here she is in the garden, in a white sleeveless dress. Here by the fire. Here on the front porch, smoking, a look of knowing in her eyes—of what, exactly, Franny can’t be sure. There are pictures of parties, with strangers holding drinks, poised with their cigarettes and dark countenances like writers on book jackets. And here is her father, young and thin in his professor duds, a tweed jacket, argyle socks, penny loafers. Something about him—aloof, indifferent, the expression on his face more like arrogant. The dark eyes, the unsmiling mouth. An ambiguity, she thinks.

  Was he really so unhappy?

  Maybe she’s reading this into it. Or possibly that’s her own story about her father, the one she’s been making up all along.

  —

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, a truck with Hale Brothers on the doors stops out front. She steps onto the porch, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  I got a cord of wood here, the driver calls. Where do you want it?

  Around back. I think I saw a shed.

  He nods and turns the truck around, then pulls down alongside the house and parks. Another man’s in the passenger seat, squinting, motionless. Back inside, she stands at the window and watches the driver go about his business, his plaid coat shifting as he moves back and forth to the shed, tossing armfuls of logs onto the pile. The other guy doesn’t get out to help, just sits there looking straight through the windshield.

  After an hour, at sundown, the driver comes to the back door, cradling wood in his arms like a baby. I was told to light the stove.

  Yes, please, come in.

  He walks past in his big coat and she can smell his day: horses, woodsmoke, cigarettes, sweat. He takes off his wool hat, stuffs it in his pocket, wipes his forehead with his sleeve and shakes out his flattened hair. She’s already noticed his good looks, and when his blue eyes roam over her she realizes she’s still dressed in the old scrubs and her favorite T-shirt from college, her hair in a ratty ponytail. His glance pauses on the vodka bottle next to the pickle jar. Having fun?

  Sort of.

  Cold in here, ain’t it? Let’s see if we can’t do something about that. He crouches before the stove—pushing in the wood, crumpled newspaper, the match—and it immediately flashes to life, warm and yellow. He closes the door and secures the crank. That should hold you.

  Well, thanks.

  You bet.

  Do I owe you?

  She took care of it.

  Okay.

  He takes her in again. You okay?

  She shrugs.

  You don’t look it.

  It’s just kind of hard being here, that’s all.

  Somebody should’ve burned this place down a long time ago, he says. I grew up in this house. I’m Cole Hale. You don’t remember me, do you? I used to babysit you. Back when we were kids. I knew your folks. Your mother was really nice to me.

  Slivers of memory come back, a boy in a plaid coat, dirty boots, socks with holes.

  He pushes the hair out of his face, more out of habit than necessity. I see you’re all grown up now.

  So are you.

  Yes, ma’am. Only I’m old.

  How old’s old?

  You don’t need the gory details.

  She did the math in her head. Maybe thirty-nine?

  Just about.

  That’s not old.

  It’s a whole lot of years, though. They sure go quick. He smiles at her and everything stops.

  The jar’s got an inch of vodka left and she holds it up. You wouldn’t want one of these, would you?

  I gotta get him home. He nods toward the truck outside. That’s my brother Wade.

  Is he okay?

  He’s been over in Iraq since the invasion. It didn’t go too well for him.

  That must be hard.

  It’s worse than that, but he’ll be all right. You gonna be okay out here on your own?

  I’ll be fine.

  Fine ain’t much good, is it, Franny?

  She shakes her head. I think I remember you, she says.

  Well, that’s good news. I remember you, too.

  She stands there waiting for him to hug her, and when he does his arms feel good, strong. For a minute, they hold on to each other, then he puts his hat back on and heads out the door.

  2

  I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, he wanted to tell her. But you can’t tell anybody that. Anyway, she’s probably got someone. Christ, she might even be married, though he hadn’t noticed a ring. And her beauty just complicates things. What he knows about beautiful women: they always seem to know it. His ex-wife used to wield her beauty like an AK-47 and never didn’t get what she wanted. For a long time he thought that was enough in a marriage, him trying to make her happy. Turned out it wasn’t.

  Predictably, his brother asks, Was she nice?

  Yeah. She was nice, all right.

  Pretty?

  That, too. Very.

  You gonna call her?

  Now, why would I do that?

  ’Cause she’s pretty. That’s usually a good enough reason.

  She’s just up here for a couple days.

  It don’t take long.

  Okay, Romeo, I’ll keep that in mind.

  He pulls into the driveway and gets out and goes around to the other side to roll Wade out of the truck. The new chair is better, worth every penny, but they’re both still getting the hang of it. He pushes him up the ramp and gets him in the house. You okay there, Captain?

  Oh yeah, I’m right as rain. He shakes his head like it’s the dumbest fucking question he’s ever been asked.

  You want something to eat?

  A beer.

  What else?

  I’m not hungry. Though
a beer might taste good.

  We’ve been over this, Wade, you gotta eat.

  I sure wish I was, but it ain’t likely.

  He brings his brother a beer. What’s on?

  Thanks. Oh, just the usual shit.

  I gotta get Lottie. It’s my night.

  You go on ahead. I’ll be fine. Give that sweet little niece of mine a kiss.

  There’s that leftover chicken, you get hungry.

  Already preoccupied with the show, he waves Cole off.

  —

  THE LAST TIME he was in that house it was with Patrice, back when they were seventeen.

  After the murder, his old house had become a town landmark, and a popular destination on Halloween. Kids would drive down the road past it and sometimes they got out to look in the windows, later claiming they’d seen ghosts and no end of weird stuff.

  It was raining that night. He didn’t want to take her to Rainer’s, and at her place her mother made them leave the door open. They couldn’t get up to much on her noisy canopy bed. They drove around a while and ended up at the farm.

  There’s nobody here, he explained, we can be—

  Alone, she said.

  By then it was all overgrown. Lilacs were climbing up the clapboards and you could get dizzy from the smell of them.

  She looked at him. Do you think he did it?

  I’m not sure.

  Travis thinks so. So does his father.

  You spend too much time with him.

  We’re just friends. Are you jealous?

  Yes.

  He remembers how much that admission pleased her.

  She was standing there in the foyer, listening attentively, and he pulled her close and kissed her, already ahead of himself and wanting to get her clothes off, but she said, No, wait. I want to go up first. I want to see.

  He couldn’t stop her. Halfway up she paused, listening to the rain and wind gusting in off the fields. These sounds were familiar to him.