She hit a nerve. Or maybe he just didn’t like getting yelled at by a pregnant lady. He left. Told her that the cop driving by every hour would also relay messages between her and Arlo. She followed him to the door, wincing with pain as she moved one foot after the next. Watched him get into his car, her fury leaking away, leaving just sadness.
Rhea was still on her porch. She smiled at Gertie again. Big and cheerful.
Gertie thought about what Julia had told her, about a Pain Box hidden someplace in Rhea Schroeder’s house. She thought about how tomorrow, Rhea would be at work, and so would Fritz.
Slowly, Gertie smiled back.
Saturday, July 31
Gertie watched as Rhea drove her Honda out from the crescent and to Nassau Community College—her usual Saturday-morning routine. Then Fritz took his Mercedes and headed for BeachCo Laboratories in Suffolk County. The kids were still inside. FJ and Ella. She knew that. But she also knew this was as empty as that house was going to get.
Julia and Larry were eating cereal. As a reward for their general hardship, Arlo had selected Lucky Charms. Julia was giving Larry all her green clovers. In return, she was getting the purple horseshoes. The milk was swirled brown rainbow.
“You’re not gross,” Gertie heard her whisper. “But you’re still weird.”
“I know,” Larry answered. “You’re not as funny as you think.”
Julia chuckled, looked at him with surprise. “That was good! Good for you!”
Gertie tousled Larry’s short hair, then Julia’s blond little mop, too. “I’ll be right back,” she told them.
Her back hurt less if she walked very slowly. She wore a tank top and stretch pants, her hair in a ponytail. Because she was Gertie, she also had on hoop earrings, a long chain necklace to distinguish her cleavage, and silver eye shadow. She walked around the back of her house so the cop parked out front wouldn’t see.
Her lawn was small and caked with littered things: a Wiffle ball, a deflated basketball, some boxing gloves. The Slip ’N Slide had ruined anything resembling grass. What remained was a top layer of sand oil. She walked past all this, and cut her way through the naked privets that divided the plots.
Into the Schroeders’ property. The grass here had a green hue. Despite the drought, they hadn’t shut off their underground sprinklers. There was more oil back here, too. It pooled. Her eyes followed to the thickest center, where some birds were trapped. It was like a bath they couldn’t escape. What startled her wasn’t the sight, but the realization that these were the first birds she’d seen in weeks.
Gertie came to the back of the Schroeders’ huge Tudor. The kind little girls dream about, if they’re taught to have those kinds of dreams. The windows were all open. Everyone’s windows were open. The heat.
Slowly, she tried to twist the back doorknob. It didn’t turn. Locked. She lifted the straw WELCOME mat. Underneath was a copper-colored key.
She pushed it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Not a fit. Not a fit?
A few strides to the side, surrounded by hedges, gutter stairs led down. She walked them, slow and unsteady. The steps were caked in years-old grime. She got to the bottom. The cellar door.
The key fit. She turned it, ever so softly. A click!
She opened the basement door to the Schroeders’ house.
Inside, the soft floor had cracked. Shining bitumen pushed through. It webbed and then pooled in the middle of the room and when Gertie stood over it, she could see her own reflection. It came back distorted, her face a bluish tint, her eyes reddish black. A couple of mice squeaked, trapped in its morass. Her shoes got filthy and she couldn’t help but make tracks as she walked into the next room.
She’d never been down here. Hadn’t known this basement was finished. There was a dry bar, unused. She looked behind. Instead of bottles, a stack of bricks. Bright red.
She snapped a photo with her phone.
She opened a closet door. Empty red wine bottles were stacked. Maybe fifty. Maybe one hundred. It was hard to count. The dark walls inside seemed to glimmer. She flashed her phone light and saw that this glimmer was the gossamer wings of small fruit flies, trapped in oil on the walls and floor and even the ceiling. She covered her mouth with her shirt, afraid the stench might contaminate the baby.
She opened the next closet. Here was the same. Bottles. Empty but not properly washed, so they smelled fermented and sweet. Glimmering with trapped flies. Rhea must have been hiding them here ever since the sinkhole. The garbage men couldn’t get through. She must not have wanted to use the community bin by the 7-Eleven, worried neighbors might discover how many bottles she went through every week. Gertie’d known that Rhea could knock them back. But she’d never guessed it was this bad.