Where was Fritz in all of this? Did he see what was happening in his home? Did he care?
To keep from tracking oil, she took off her shoes and tucked them behind the landing, then started up the stairs. Opened up. This door led to the open kitchen, which stretched along marble counters and nooks and stainless steel appliances, all the way to the dining room in the front of the house.
It smelled clean in here. Like bleach. And vaguely, like something burnt.
Her heart beat fast at the wide-openness of this first floor. Here, there was no place to hide. She could get in trouble if she got caught. Jail. With Arlo gone, the kids could wind up in foster care.
Her heart was pounding. Guppy kicked, too.
She walked slow. Through the open room. Past the Schroeder family Christmas photos neatly magnetized to the refrigerator, marking every year for the last twenty-plus. Red sweaters, blue sweaters, green sweaters—they always matched. Past the strangely blackened sink. Past the oak dining table that was Rhea’s prize. There were plates scattered across it and stuck-on crumbs. What looked like spilled milk that hadn’t been sponged, too. It had ruined the wood.
Gertie walked out and through the hall. She could see the front yard from here. Her own small house with chipped paint and random, rusted toys strewn all over. It was dumpy. They hadn’t taken care. She’d never seen it from this vantage before and it left her so embarrassed she stopped looking.
She started up the stairs. Creaking, creaking. She could hear sounds coming from the bedrooms. Ella and FJ. Where were they? Would they catch her?
Creak, creak, creak.
At the summit. Down the long hall was the master bedroom. A smaller bedroom, too. One door was open. She peered. Ella Schroeder sat on the floor with a pillow hugged to her knees. She watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer with intensity, even though the picture was mostly snow.
Gertie tried the next door. Opened. Awkward and man-sized, FJ lay on top of his sheets in just loose, light-blue boxers, sleeping deep. He seemed so smug, this brick thrower. This would-be baby killer. She noticed something before walking away. There was a circle of dark stain. In his sleep, he’d soiled his bed.
She got to the small bedroom off the master. Shelly’s room. The door wouldn’t open. Something blocked it. She bent down, belly pressed against her knees, and reached through the crack to ease a bright-pink item of clothing out of the way. She opened the door.
Covered her mouth to silence the gasp.
The walnut dresser had been overturned and lay on its side. The mirror yanked down and broken atop a pile of days-of-the-week underpants and bathing suits and terry cloth cover-ups. Small fists had punched the walls, leaving knuckle indentations. Rhea? Shelly? FJ? Fritz? Who had done this?
Jesus, God: Had all of them done this?
She opened the desk drawers. Empty, their contents spilled out. Looked under the bed and then under the mattress. Nothing but clothes and old schoolwork, an occasional key chain or snow globe or piece of art drawn in charcoal or pastel. She looked in the closet, in the very way back. Nothing there, either.
She headed for the master bedroom. Rhea’s room. Fritz’s room. Turned the knob. Though she’d seen Rhea and Fritz leave, she was still afraid they’d be here, waiting. Punching walls and guzzling red wine while their children wallowed in hot rooms.
In the center was a king-sized bed. Either side was sunken from years of weight. She could make out their individual shapes, the duvet covering the mattress. Rhea on the right, Fritz on the left, two full feet of space between them. Their furniture was spare.
She walked inside. The air was stagnant and human. It smelled like sweat.
Her bare feet crossed the blue Persian rug. It felt frightening in here. In this whole house. And it always looked so nice on the outside. She opened Rhea’s nightstand. Nothing but old books. No small letters written by children, swearing eternal love. No jewelry or antihistamines. Not even a vibrator. She opened Fritz’s nightstand. Just a rosary in its case that smelled like cheap perfume. At the foot of the nightstand, slippers pointing straight out.
She opened their dresser drawers. Nothing unusual. Nothing, even, of interest.
She started for their shared bathroom and as she walked, the bedroom door opened wider. Someone turned on the light.
From Interviews from the Edge: A Maple Street Story, by Maggie Fitzsimmons,
Soma Institute Press, ? 2036
“I remember hearing about a girl down a sinkhole, but it was just a blip [on my radar]. I didn’t know they were talking about my sister… I get all this flack for not coming home, but my mom didn’t even tell me Shelly’d gone missing until a few days after the memorial service. She didn’t want me home. I was in the summer program. She wanted me to ace my courses so I could graduate early like she’d done. That was my job. Nothing else mattered… My mom was a decent person. She never hit. It was always hugs… She raised us alone. My dad wasn’t around. She was always a little more intense when it came to Shelly and you could probably make the argument that she invented problems with her so she could fix them, though I never saw it that way at the time. It just seemed like she cared. I guess things changed after I left. Even now, it’s hard to hear this stuff about her. To me, all it proves is how sick she was, and how hard she tried to protect us from ever seeing it.” —Gretchen Schroeder