Maddie unpinched her nose. “Okay.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She thought Maddie might question where she was going, but her daughter merely nodded and returned her attention to her drawing.
The grass was boggy and yielded to the pressure of her steps. Afternoon sunshine swam about her. She came up onto the other porch and lifted the doorknocker. The sound fell away unanswered. She peered through the narrow window and saw the long, empty hallway stretching away before her.
She slid the key into the lock and turned it. An answering click. She stared at the doorknob. The virus could survive only a few hours out in the open. It had to be dead by now. She was wearing gloves. The minute she got back, she’d toss them. So why was she standing out here like this, her heart drumming away? It wasn’t the virus she was terrified of. It was what it had left behind.
The doorknob moved easily in her grasp. Stepping across the threshold, she felt the gaze of unseen witnesses follow her inside. She swung the door closed behind her.
She stood in the shadowy foyer.
Then the smell hit her. Thick and cloying, and inexpressibly foul. She recognized it. It was the same reek as when that songbird had died in their garage the previous spring. By the time Ann had discovered it, maggots were crawling across the feathers. The odor had literally sent her reeling.
Now she knew for certain. She swallowed hard. Where?
The rooms on either side of her were empty, the den with its shelves full of books, the dining room with its gleaming table and ornate server in the corner. Ann had helped Libby hang those watercolors on the walls. She’d helped load that heavy mirror into the back of her car and later had celebrated its discovery over a shared bottle of wine.
A soft ticking came to her. It was the clock, its pendulum swinging. She’d never heard it before. Libby’s house had always been noisy with talk, laughter, ringing telephones, televisions going in several rooms, toys that sang or beeped or chimed.
She walked quickly to the kitchen and let out her breath when she saw that no one was there.
A bottle of cough syrup lay on the floor in a splatter of bright orange. Dishes were heaped in the sink and on the counter. Crumpled tissues trailed across every surface. The refrigerator door was ajar, releasing the smell of must.
In the cabinets, Ann found cans of formula, jars of baby food, two boxes of baby cookies. She sagged with relief at the sight.
The pantry revealed cans of soup and vegetables, boxes of macaroni, peanut butter, cereal, rice. Tears stung her eyes. She took it all, even the opened bottle of vinegar.
She slid open drawers and removed rubber-tipped spoons, bibs, teething gel, baby nail clippers, sippy cups. Candles, matches, two big black flashlights heavy with batteries.
She left the bags she filled by the front door, turned around, and went back down the hallway.
The smell grew stronger as she climbed the stairs. It flooded her mouth and swam down her throat. She panted to keep it out. They were up here somewhere. The bedroom door at the end of the hall was shut. A faint humming sound came from behind the closed door. She halted, trembling. There was something familiar about it. After a moment, she placed it. Insects. Houseflies filling the air and bumping against the walls. She gagged, then blindly turned away. She wouldn’t even think of entering that room.
In Jacob’s room, blankets lay rumpled in the crib. A baby bottle sat on the floor beside the rocking chair. But the stench was here, too. Her eyes watered. She moved quickly, locating packages of diapers in the closet, pulling clothes from drawers. Her stomach was beginning to cramp. A shopping bag of hand-me-downs sat in the corner of the closet. Right. From Libby’s sister. A size larger than Jacob was wearing now. She grabbed the bag and spun away from the closet.
She made it to the downstairs powder room just in time. She heaved into the toilet, pulled tissues from her pocket, sobbing, wiping her face.
Out in the garage, the sting of cold. She breathed greedily. Two cases of bottled water were stacked against the wall, still shrink-wrapped and dusty. Another partial case sat beside them, the few bottles ghostlike behind the shroud of torn plastic. A real find, but still less than Ann would have expected. Libby never drank soda or juice. Ann had never seen her without a plastic bottle in her hand. Maybe she and Smith had worked their way through their supply.
Ann stood considering the partial case. A big red cooler sat in the shadows by the garage door. It was the cooler Libby always heaved into her trunk when she went to coach her high school field hockey practices. She’d had a great year. Libby had been thrilled. Her team had been undefeated. Libby had had hopes of making nationals. And then there were no more games.
Ann crouched and pulled up the lid. Rows of white caps glowed in the darkness. She saw the smooth plastic shoulders. She’d found the missing water.
She made four trips, carrying the cases to the front door. The heavy weight felt welcome. All this water. A real bonanza. She’d found everything she’d been looking for, and more. She should feel nothing but gratefulness. But she still had the hollow feeling she was forgetting something. She turned and came back down the hall. She stood there and looked around the family room. What?
Her gaze fell onto the row of silver-framed photographs that lined the mantel. The center one showed Libby and Smith on their wedding day, ducking beneath the row of crossed field hockey sticks Libby’s team held above their heads. Libby looked so joyful and beautiful in her white gown. Smith beamed as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Ann crossed the room and took it down. She pushed it into a bag, forcing it down among the folds of sleepers and sweaters. This was it. This was what she took.
She wouldn’t be coming back.
THIRTY-NINE
PETER LOWERED THE DOG TO THE FLOOR AND RAPPED on the door. “Ann?” A moment and then she was there. “Are you okay?” Her voice was hushed.
“Fine.” Tired, though he didn’t volunteer this. Carrying a fifty-pound animal the length of the block was wearying. “Can you get me a few things? Water, gauze, some antibacterial ointment. Nail scissors, and a blanket, if you can spare it.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. It’s for the dog.”
“What dog? You mean Finn’s dog?”
“He hurt himself.”
“Why can’t Finn deal with it?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, Peter—are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, it’s the dog I’m worried about.”
“All right. Just a minute.”
He removed his jacket and stood well back against the far wall. After a few minutes, she called, “Ready,” and opened the door. She leaned in and looked at him, then at the dog curled, panting, on the floor, then back to him. Her gaze lingered, and he wondered what she saw. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He waited until the door was shut again before retrieving the bag.
Spreading the blanket out on the floor of the minivan, he pressed on the overhead light. It wasn’t much to see by, but he wouldn’t be stitching up the wound. It was too late for that. He picked up Barney and placed him on the carpeted surface. The dog’s rib cage rose and fell with the effort of breathing.
He clipped the fur around the wound and irrigated the site. Squeezing in a big glob of antibacterial ointment, he wound a long strip of gauze around the leg. He dripped some water into the dog’s mouth and brought up the edges of the blanket to cover his body. Night was falling. He could barely see.
There was a knock on the door. “I’m opening,” she called.
“Okay.”
A small orange flame appeared in the darkness, flickered, grew brighter as she set the candle on the back step. The clink of china against concrete. Her voice floated to him. “You sure you’re okay?”
“One hundred percent.”
The door shut.
She’d left behind several things—a bowl, a spoon, a drinking glass, a bottle of water.
He picked up the bowl and examined its contents by candlelight. It appeared to be a mound of pale stuff. Rice, maybe. Or oatmeal. A taste revealed it to be flavorless with a wet, grainy texture. He’d eaten this before, but when? It was sort of like couscous but lacked the nutty flavor. He took another spoonful. Then he knew. Grits. Where on earth had Ann found grits?
The glass contained apple juice. Another surprise. Where had this come from? They’d had only water these last few days. He drank it in one long draft. How could he have ever found the stuff overly sweet?
He carried the bowl and the water to the front of the garage where the door stood open and sat on the overturned bin to watch the street. The broken brick walls of the Guarnieri house rose before him in the dark. Farther down, he saw the steady gleam of firelight in Singh’s family room window. The man’s car had been parked in the same spot on the driveway for several days now. Had Singh gotten sick, too?
The grits went down easily enough. He ate half, then brought the remainder to where the dog lay on the floor of the minivan. Barney’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Peter set the bowl beside him.
Barney struggled to sit up, panting a little. He lapped at the stuff.
“Good boy.”
Peter poured water into the bowl. The dog waited, then lowered his head. When he’d finished, he leaned back with a sigh. Peter took the licked-clean bowl to the back step and left it there.
The evening sky was clear. Peter made out the tracery of tree branches and the sharp points of rooftops. The world had gone into slow motion. Too bad he hadn’t been able to watch the sun set. He was facing the wrong direction. He sipped some water.
He’d watched plenty of sunrises and sunsets on those hunting trips with his father, though he’d never been much of a hunter. Even as a kid, he’d been too engrossed in following the wheeling motions of a hawk, mesmerized by the poetry of the birds collecting in arrows as they headed south. Often as not, it was his younger brother, Mike, who raised his gun in time. Mike, who’d grown up to become a soldier. The President had brought back the troops. Mike had to be stateside by now, reunited with his wife and son.
Barney growled. Peter glanced toward the animal. The dog had his head up.
“Dad?” A small voice came through the night. Kate’s. Peter stood hurriedly, knocking back the bin. Two forms stood on the apron of the driveway. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Is that a dog?” Maddie said.
Peter heard the hope in her voice. “It’s Mr. Finn’s dog. He got hurt, and I’m taking care of him for a little while. What are you guys doing out here?”
“Mom said we could say good night,” Kate said.
“How’s Jacob?”
“Cranky. Mommy made him eat green beans.”
“She got them from next door,” Kate said. So that was where the grits and apple juice had come from. Good for Ann.
Maddie said, “She said Smith and Libby weren’t there anymore.”
Confusion colored her voice. So Ann hadn’t been specific, Peter thought.
“That’s right,” he said.
“I don’t get it.” Kate’s voice was a challenge. “Why would they leave their baby?”
Ann spoke out of the darkness. “Say good night, girls.” She came up to stand behind the girls, the baby on her hip.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Peter said.
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” Maddie said. “May God’s love be with me through the night and wake me with the morning light.”
She sounded so sad. Peter longed to fold her in his arms. “Good night, you two. I love you.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
“Night, Dad.”
He watched the girls leave, then said to Ann, “I hear you went next door.”
“It was awful.”
“It was smart.”
“Kate knows about Libby and Smith. I hate that.”
“She’s still young. She’s resilient, Ann.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “The last thing I did was to doubt her.”
She was talking about Libby. “You’re taking care of her child,” he reminded her gently.
She turned back to look at him. Her face was in shadow. “You’re the one who rescued Jacob. I locked the door on him.”
“If I hadn’t brought him in, you would have.”
“Would I? I don’t know.” Her voice was a tortured whisper.
“What’s done is done,” he said, and was rewarded by her sad smile.
“That’s another thing your dad always said,” she said, and he nodded.
The baby yawned. Absently, she jiggled him up and down in that eternal mother dance. The baby put his hand up to her neck, laid his cheek on her shoulder, and burped. They both laughed. “How’s the dog?” she asked.
“I think he’s in a little pain. He’s going to need aspirin. I wish I had my bag.” It had disappeared along with his truck.
“Would ibuprofen do?”
Peter shook his head. “I’ll just keep a close eye on him.” She nodded. The baby’s head lolled to one side, and she curled her hand up alongside his face. “I’d better put him down.”
“Make sure you remember to lock up.”
“I will.”
She sounded distracted. She wasn’t really listening. “Ann,” he said sharply.
She stopped and looked back.
“I mean it. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked.”
“All right, Peter. I’ll check the locks again. I promise.”
He waited until she was gone before reaching for the handle on the garage door to drag it haltingly down. Blowing out the candle, he climbed into the minivan. He heard the answering jingle of dog tags.
“Try and get some sleep, buddy.”
He’d change Barney’s bandage in the morning. By then, he should be able to determine whether he’d caught the infection in time. Lying back against the stiff seat, he tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position. His second and, he hoped, final night sleeping in the van. No moon tonight. The darkness was complete. He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling hanging somewhere over his head.
If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
FORTY
WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?” MADDIE PULLED A PHOTOGRAPH from the shoebox and held it up. “How old was I here?”
Ann leaned over to take a look and smiled at little Maddie posing there in her pink push car, her chubby hand on the molded plastic door. “Two.”
Jacob batted at the picture.
“No, no, Jacob. Not for you.” Kate pulled back his hand and settled him more firmly in her lap. “I remember that car. I loved that stupid thing. I used to think it was real.”
“Remember your hobbyhorse? You used to pretend that was real, too.” Ann slid the picture into the sleeve of the photo album. Kate would spend hours in the backyard, pretending to teach her horse how to jump, her small face screwed up with fierce determination.
“Oh, yeah. Michele had one, too.”
Kate’s voice was matter-of-fact saying the name. Was that a good sign or a bad one?
Maddie rummaged around in the shoebox and withdrew another find. She stared down at it. “When did Daddy have a mustache?”
Ann took the photograph and studied a younger Peter standing in front of that long-ago Christmas tree. “That’s when he had whooping cough. He was too sick to shave. You were just a baby, honey.”
The pounds had just dropped off him then, too. Peter had lost so much weight these past few weeks. His cheeks were so lean. His two-day growth of beard only emphasized their gauntness. He said he felt fine. She’d listened hard to what lay behind the words and had discerned nothing to cause alarm. He was fine. Just a few more hours.
Ann realized the girls had fallen silent. She looked up at them, sitting cross-legged beside her, photo albums spread all around them. Jacob had gotten hold of an envelope and was sucking its corner. She gently removed it from
his grasp. “Hey,” she said. “Daddy got better, you know. He’s strong.”
Kate turned her head. “I hear something.”
The windowpanes shivered in their frames. A truck was heading up their street. A big one, by the sound of it.
They scrambled to their feet and went to the dining room to look out. Ann heard the garage door shuddering along its tracks and knew Peter was watching, too. Across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell stood in the shadows of their porch. So they were alive. They leaned against each other, wrapped in blankets.
A large white truck eased to a stop in front of their house. It had the look of a moving truck, but the logo on its side had been spray-painted out. There were people sitting inside the cab. The driver turned his head and looked at Ann. She drew back. What did they want?
Two men came around the front of the truck, pulling on gloves.
“Do we know them, Mommy?” Maddie said.
One man was tall and lanky with a navy blue baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. The other was short and burly, with a fringe of gray hair. Strangers. They wore white protective masks and coveralls. They turned to face her house. They stepped onto the grass and headed directly for her front door.
“Girls, get back.” Ann glanced at the dead bolt. Locked.
Boots clopped onto the porch. Through the narrow strips of glass on either side of the door, she glimpsed shoulders. There was a loud knock.
“Who is it?”
“City Services. You got anybody for us?” A man’s voice, uneducated and rough.
It took her a moment to puzzle through his words, muffled by the mask. “Who are you trying to find?”
“Ma’am, you got anybody for us?”
Maybe he couldn’t hear her properly, either. She put her mouth to the glass. “You have the wrong address.”
“Ma’am.” The second man stooped to peer at her through the peppled glass. “You have any body you need us to take?”
He paused between “any” and “body,” and his meaning became clear. He was talking about a body in the literal sense.
She backed away, horrified. “No.”