Did that mean he knew already? Or was Brad going to force me to tell him before he saw the video? What if he’d already seen it?
God, I missed Dylan. Things we would have once talked about over dinner, or in the car, or sitting on the porch were now reduced to a few brief words in a text, sometimes sent hours and hours after I reached out. It was so hard, wondering if your kid was okay, not being able to tell.
In a few days, he’d be going to someone else’s house for Thanksgiving for the first time in his life. I’d have my dad over. Hannah, if she wasn’t seeing the Moms, which, given Beatrice’s plans to move, she probably was. Wanda, Addo and my beautiful goddaughter, Leila, always came. It wouldn’t be like I was home alone all day.
Maybe I’d ask Ben, if he didn’t have other plans.
Ben had been living in the studio for a week. It wasn’t horrible, seeing his light on when I came home. He’d fed Zeus on Wednesday, when a labor had gone long at the hospital. He was quiet; he left early, came back after dark and didn’t have much stuff. But I was wary . . . I knew he was reporting to my father. Not that I had anything to hide.
Today was my day off, and after rewatching You and Your Stupid Oysters four more times, I took Zeus out for a walk. The weather was raw and thick with the smell of the ocean, and I breathed in deeply as Zeus snuffled along, nose to the ground. We walked down Black Pond Road, then turned to go along the Higgins Pond loop. The leaves had fallen from the trees, and the woods had a mystery to them. A literal mystery. Ten years ago, Matthew Dudek had vanished.
It was a reflex, looking for him. Long after the police had called off the search, I’d looked for him, this stranger from the North Shore. For years, I’d hike through the deer paths and bayberry scrub, sometimes alone, sometimes with Dylan or Brad, always looking for that little flash of blue, the color of the jacket he’d worn the last time he was seen.
Obviously, we’d never found anything. Once or twice a year, I’d google his name to see if he’d shown up somewhere, but the last mentions of him were when he’d vanished.
Zeus was sniffing and snuffling away—a chipmunk hole, some deer droppings. It was nice to think he’d find poor Matthew’s remains so the Dudeks could have some closure, but my dog, while sweet, was not terribly bright, and every smell, from an earthworm to a human crotch, was equally interesting to him. Plus, the police had brought in those cadaver dogs.
All these years, no answer.
When we got back to the house, I did what I usually did on my days off—tended to my house. I raked up the last of the oak leaves from the gardens, did my paltry load of laundry, cooked a big pot of chicken-pumpkin curry, which I’d then divide into smaller containers for the rest of the week. My fridge and freezer were already packed with my own work, but I loved cooking. Couldn’t help myself, honestly. I’d bring some to Carol, who lived alone, or better yet, invite her over for dinner.
Time to phone a friend and shake off this melancholy. Beth was free and more than happy to come over tonight. “I had to go into Eli’s room this morning, and I stepped in something sticky, Lillie! He’s fourteen! I don’t want to know what it was. Oh, and his laundry! My God, the smell, I can’t even go upstairs without gagging. He supposedly cleaned his room this weekend, but you know he just shoved all his crap under the bed. There was half a tuna fish sandwich growing penicillin in his sock drawer. Tuna! In his sock drawer! Why? Why?”
“Here’s where I get to tell you how much you’ll miss it someday,” I said, laughing at her horror. “Well. Not the stickiness and the mold, but the boy. See you at seven, okay?”
And then, because I knew Hannah was agonizing over Beatrice leaving, I asked her if she’d like to come over that night, too. It would be less awkward with Beth here, because she was the friendliest person on earth and could talk to a stump if need be. Called my father, but it went to voice mail. Texted him and got the response I’m busy, get a life, Squashy, love Dad.
I snorted. So you say to the daughter who loves you and feeds you. Shame on you. What are you doing?
None of your business. Go do your baby thing.
“My baby thing” was the only way Dad could talk about midwifery, since he was squeamish that way. Once, when I was thirteen, he’d seen a pair of my underwear stained with blood and had fainted. Fainted. I liked to taunt him by asking if he wanted to hear about a breech birth or a rectal tear.
Hannah arrived first, dressed in that effortless way our stepmother had taught her—that je ne sais quoi that my shorter, rounder frame could never manage. We were both wearing jeans and a sweater. I looked like I had just cleaned the house; Hannah looked elegant and wealthy, which I suppose she was. To be fair, Beatrice had offered to make me over thousands of times, and I had always turned her down.