“Rhea, she’s dead. Your daughter is dead.”
Panting, Rhea clutched her throat as if some living thing were caught inside it. “She’s not dead. She doesn’t know I’m sorry so it’s not permitted.”
Gertie was crying, too. It wasn’t just for Rhea, but for Shelly, and for her own children. “Of course she knew,” Gertie said. “They always know.”
Rhea took her hand out of her pocket, holding on to nothing. Gently, careful of Guppy, she pressed herself inside Gertie’s arms. Gertie held her. The women remembered that they’d once been friends.
“I’m so sorry,” Rhea cried, tears falling.
“Shhh,” Gertie whispered back. “Don’t think about that. Don’t think about anything but Shelly.”
“My baby. I’d die to have her back,” Rhea said.
“I know,” Gertie said.
“Oh, Gertie,” Rhea wailed, clutching tighter now, hanging off of tall Gertie Wilde. “It hurts so much.”
“I know,” Gertie said.
At last, Rhea felt this thing she’d been too afraid to confront. She cried not for herself, or for her secrets, but for Shelly. The people of Maple Street witnessed this, and understood why they’d been watching all this time. They’d needed to be here for this moment. Not to tear down, but to support. They crowded closer, a different and better kind of circle.
And the lonely thing listened. The lonely thing stayed alone.
For Rhea, it was unexpectedly cathartic. Real friendship. A true connection. The unburdening she’d coveted for so long. It felt so wonderful, for the briefest of moments, to be known. To be seen for the monster she was, and nonetheless accepted. It was the truest moment of her life.
* * *
But there are some people whose greatest fear is to be known.
From Believing What You See: Untangling the Maple Street Murders, by Ellis Haverick,
Hofstra University Press, ? 2043
For years, the press has participated in widespread scapegoating against the people of Maple Street. They’re blamed for their part in both the victimization of the Wildes and for the death of the Schroeder family. Authors like Donovan and Carr use the neighbors’ contrition in the aftermath of Shelly’s discovery as evidence of guilt. But the people of Maple Street might easily have pitied all parties, regardless of their guilt or innocence. It’s a testament to them and to Rhea that they embraced Gertie Wilde rather than ostracizing her.
As Linda Ottomanelli states, “I know that lockbox was found in the Benchley mailbox. And I know the police think Rhea used it against Larry. But I was awake that night. It was my turn for the neighborhood watch. I know what I saw. Gertie hit her own kid.”
Steven Ponti agrees. “For a second, I almost changed my mind. I felt really terrible. It almost worked. But then I thought about it. There’s no way all of us could have made it up. Sure, Rhea might have hit Shelly once in a while, but what Arlo did to every kid on Maple Street was so much worse. There is no doubt in my mind that I did the right thing. He was guilty!”
Sterling Park
Monday, August 2
All life-changing hugs eventually end. Like a one-night stand between mutually damaged parties, these endings are often awkward. Their authors tend to retreat, giving each some space. So it was with Gertie and Rhea. They let each other go.
After, Nikita Kaur brought a fresh white sheet out from her house and draped it over Shelly’s body. This, she fussed with, unsure of whether to wholly cover the child or leave her face exposed. And then again, was it wrong to whitewash her bruises? Conceal, after the children had gone to such efforts to raise her up?
It was Marco Ponti who lifted the sheet over her forehead, leaving just tufts of glossy black hair. It was Sally Walsh who pulled it back, revealing Shelly’s high cheekbones and V-shaped chin. “Let her breathe,” Sally announced.
There, the sheet remained.
The police arrived with the dawn. Detective Bianchi lifted the sheet and peered under. His expression didn’t change, though surely he noticed the bruising. Surely it had to have come from the horsehair brush from Paris that her mother had bragged so often about. The nightly sessions the girl had endured, for cornrows and plaits. For long, soft hair as silky as gossamer wings.
Shelly. She’d once flipped lithely on a trampoline.
A blue-striped coroner’s van pulled softly into the crescent, wheels rolling over bitumen and pebbles. Doors opened. Shelly was packed into its hold. The doors shut softly. Rhea covered her ears with her palms. Others held their chests or wiped their eyes or bowed.