It was at this point that Fritz approached Rhea. She would not have him. Her ears stayed covered. And so he whispered something inaudible to his son, then drove his Mercedes out of the crescent.
Rhea watched him go, her eyes dull.
Bianchi asked the rest of Maple Street to remain. He took statements from witnesses, including the children. Rhea was seen nearby, pacing large circles around the hole, her body hunched, her gait uneven. The children answered questions with soft voices, parents holding them by their shoulders. Occasionally, they pointed at Rhea.
Last, Bianchi approached Rhea. He stopped her pacing by standing in her path. She bumped into him. They didn’t hear the question he asked, only her answer, which she called out loudly. “I think… I think someone did that by accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she said, pointing at the empty ground where Shelly’s body had been.
They sat on the bumper of the John Deere out there. The interaction was not climactic. He smiled sometimes, and so did she. He walked her back to her house. She leaned on him. He shut the door. Saw her safely home.
The mystery of Shelly Schroeder was over.
One by one, the people of Maple Street went home. This long, hot summer had caught up to them. A terrible poison had seeped inside their hearts. Expunged at last, the muscle was that much wearier.
118 Maple Street
Alone in the house, Rhea staggered to her bedroom. Flung off worn clothing and stood in the hot shower. Remembered her dad. They used to share this red afghan blanket, her head tucked into the crook of him, feet kicked up and piled next to each other on the old coffee table. She remembered the candy apple smell of him. The safety of a dark room, the TV playing.
She dressed. Saw her reflection. Wild, silver-black hair, complexion greenish from exhaustion and a diet composed mostly of red wine. She winced at the sight, frightening herself. Who was that woman?
She put the gun back into her sweater pocket. It wasn’t safe anyplace else. The children might find it. She came down her stairs, each step a white shock of excruciating pain. Her kneecap floated now, removed from its joint.
The children hadn’t returned to her. The house was empty. Where were they?
She looked out from her dining room window. Like birds after a storm, Maple Street chirped softly. She saw FJ out there with the older Harrison boy. They huddled conspiratorially and she knew that he was telling secrets. Badmouthing her. He had a right, of course. Everyone has a right to speak. She tapped her fingers against the glass. He stiffened and looked in the direction of 118, first through her bedroom window and then through the dining room window. Maybe he saw her. Maybe he didn’t. He backed up, waving for the Harrison boy to join him.
Julia was out on her stoop. Ella was with her, smiling softly as Julia taught her a hand game:
ABC, My Momma Takes Care of Me
My Papa Drinks Black Coffee
Ohh, Ah, I Wanna Piece of Pie
Pie Too Sweet, I Wanna Piece of Meat…
She would have to collect them soon. Bring them inside and make them eat like any other day. If she wanted, perhaps it could be like any other day. She could come back from this after all. Jail time wasn’t likely. Not with a good lawyer. Child Protective Services might come calling, but she’d keep up appearances.
The things she’d done—those bad things—she’d never do them again.
Fritz could be a problem, but she knew how to work him. He needed her, after all. So did the kids. If it made them happy, she’d offer to see a therapist or whatever. Clean out the rotten parts. Become the mom she’d pretended to be—wanted so much to be. She’d do this right. She’d become clean in this best way. Not a magical way. This was her last chance.
She would start today. Right now.
She opened the door. Heat slammed down, along with the scent of sweet bitumen. She started for Ella, knee screaming. Holding a suitcase, Gertie opened her own front door. She didn’t smile like she used to, all needy and hopeful. She hardly even nodded.
It occurred to Rhea then that despite their hug, Gertie would not stand by her. Of course she would not. Her husband and son were in a hospital. Rhea had put them there. She and her daughter were living in a motel. As soon as they were able, Gertie Wilde and her family would sell their house and move away. They’d find a new block and new neighbors. Gertie would never speak to her again. Too much ugliness had passed between them. It wasn’t possible.
Tomorrow or the next day, Bianchi would return, knocking on doors, taking second statements from the judging people of Maple Street. She would sit center to that judgment. She changed direction and started for Gertie now, to say good-bye. Her knee screamed, and the pain felt so familiar. Like that other time, when she’d knocked down a bathroom door.