Ink and Bone (25 page)

“We can do better than we’ve been doing,” Merri said that night as she drifted off. “I can do better for us.”

“Me, too,” he whispered. And he meant it. “God. Me, too.”

He called Kristi as soon as he was out with the kids on the hike.

“It’s not going to work,” he said. “Not here.”

The silence on the other end of the phone was leaden with her anger and disappointment. Jackson and Abbey were lingering; he waved them up ahead. They both gave him a look, suspiciously confused. They knew he was doing something wrong, but they couldn’t fathom what. What had he been thinking? How could he ever dream
of leaving them? It was a midlife crisis, wasn’t it? A sad cliché? That’s what he’d become, the man who couldn’t manage the mundane day-to-day of his life. Cage dive to see the great whites on the Barrier Reef in Australia, trek to see the mountain gorillas in Rwanda, zip line in Costa Rica—all totally doable. Fill out Valentine’s Day cards with his daughter, work with Jackson on his fractions for the millionth time, run out to the store at 9:00 p.m. because there’s no milk for the morning—utterly terrifying. Terrifying to think that really Merri was right: those things were the stuff of real life. Little more.

“Then we’re done,” she said. Her voice was liquid nitrogen.

“Kris,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to do what you said you were going to do.”

“It doesn’t have to be over,” he said. “I just need more time.”

“Don’t.” And she hung up. That’s when the first shot rang out. The next one took him down.

It was hard not to see it as retribution, a harsh correction for all his many failures. If he’d never met Kristi, he wouldn’t have brought his family to The Hollows. If he hadn’t been on the phone, his kids so far from him; if he hadn’t introduced Blake to Kristi, Blake would never have told Claire, they wouldn’t have canceled. If he’d never booked that cabin without asking Merri. The parade of “what ifs” and “if onlys” was endless. If any of those things had been different, the most horrible thing would never have happened. Or at least it might not have. He’d let too much space come between them. He’d let them out of his sight. That day and long before that. It was his fault.

*  *  *

The distant wail of a siren brought him back to the dim TriBeCa street.

“I’m a person, Wolf,” Kristi said now. “You get that, right? I don’t just exist for your pleasure and amusement, to be shoved aside when you’ve used me up.”

It was hard not to hate her. But at least he was smart enough to know that, really, he just hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Those two useless words again.

“Everyone told me, you know?” she said. She laughed a little. “That you were using me, that you would never leave your wife, especially not now. I really didn’t believe them. I really thought that you just needed time.”

She looked up at the sky. “What a cliché, right?” she said when he didn’t answer. She lowered her eyes and smiled at him sadly.

He saw her then, maybe for the first time: a young woman who was not blank, not vacant, but naïve maybe even a little foolish. If she had seemed empty to him, probably it was because all he saw in her was his own reflection. Poor Kristi was just in love with the wrong guy, trying to make something that started off cheap and tawdry into something real. Confusing him with the man she thought he was, she’d believed his promises, mistaken lust for love. She was just a little girl looking for the happily ever after, the redemptive narrative. She wanted to be able to say, “We had a rough beginning, but we came through tough times to find happiness.” But there was no redemption here.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ve made mistakes. A lot of them. What can I say? I have to be here for my family now. I have to try to fix what I’ve broken.”

A siren wailed up the avenue. They both turned to look, then back at each other. He could tell that she almost understood, that she was glimpsing the truth about him, about life in general. That no matter how hard you tried, sometimes things were just as they were, not how you wanted them to be.

She lifted her palms, a helpless tear drifting down her cheek. “But what about me?”

“I never wanted to hurt you.” Wow. Did he really just say that? The only thing more pointless than “I’m sorry.” As if what we want or intend matters more than what we actually do. The truth was he never gave a moment’s thought to Kristi or what would happen to her in all this mess.

He watched her for a moment; her eyes were glistening and she bit her lower lip. Was there going to be high drama? Would she slap him? Try to seduce him? Would she weep and wail as he tried to get
away from her? Would he let her lure him back to her apartment, abandon his plans to go up to The Hollows?

But no.

“I hope you find your daughter,” said Kristi. She shook her head. “I really do. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I ever told you about that place.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “This is all on me.”

She gave him a little smirk. “I know that,” she said.

She bowed her head, shoving her hands into her pockets. Then she just walked away, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, echoing off the buildings around them. She turned a corner and was gone. He felt nothing, except a vague regret for everything that had passed between them. It certainly hadn’t been worth it, for either of them. But that was another truth of life that Wolf had only recently learned. Very often, there was no redemptive narrative. The consequences for some mistakes would not be undone. He headed toward the garage.

TWENTY-THREE

T
he problem with going
fast,
was that you couldn’t go
far
, too. Her heart throbbed, and her ankle hurt so much that she cried while she ran, seeing white stars of pain every time her foot connected with the earth. Finally, she slowed to a limp, breathless, having lost her bearings completely. She stopped and looked around the dark woods. No light from the moon.
Don’t panic
, that’s what her daddy would have told her.
Find shelter. That’s the first thing you have to do if you get lost in the woods.

Exposure was the greatest threat to survival, her father had told her. She kind of didn’t get it. She thought it would be food or water that was the most important thing. Then, she’d never been too cold for too long. Her skin never ached from the frigid air. She was separated from snow and rain by boots and coats, mittens and scarves. It never touched her, not like this.

The snow was falling in big thick flakes. And she remembered how it looked when it fell out her window. How it would seem to melt into the black river of the street and never accumulate. But here, a white blanket was forming. The snow was clinging to leaves, forming little piles on branches.

“What do I do now?” she asked the voice.

But there was no answer. The voice was probably mad at her because she had disobeyed. Now, she was on her own. She tried to rid herself of the image of Bobo hitting Momma over and over again with that flashlight, but she couldn’t. Had
she
made him do that? Was it her fault? She thought that she should be sorry, that
somehow it was she who drove him to do it. But she wasn’t sorry. If she’d been strong enough, she’d have done it herself.

Once, when she was in first grade, her gym teacher—a big goofy guy who thought nicknames were funny—called her something she didn’t like. He called her Lazy Daisy because she made a face one day when she didn’t want to do a hundred sit-ups—like,
who did
? He had other nicknames for kids too, like Big Red for Ben who had red hair, and The Rock for Brock who was kind of a big kid. He wasn’t mean exactly, but he was a teaser.

He teases because he likes you
, Daddy said.

Grown men should know better than to give children nicknames
, her mother said.
If you don’t like it, sweetie, you’re entitled to politely say so.

So one day, she said nicely, very nicely, “Mr. Turner, can you please stop calling me that?”

“
Aw
, Lazy Daisy doesn’t like her nickname,” he said, not nicely.

Then he just started saying it more. She got angrier and angrier until one day, on the field when he said it again, she picked up a rock and threw it at him. It was just a small rock, a pebble really. It didn’t hurt, but she could tell by the way his face flushed that he was mad. She got sent to the principal’s office and her parents were called. She remembered that stubborn
not sorry
feeling she had, even though she was forced to apologize. Mr. T stopped using nicknames after that.

She kept walking, but it was getting harder and harder. Impossibly, she was starting to get sleepy, too. The snow on the ground looked like the fluffiest white blanket, as though she could lie down on it and rest. It tugged at her, even though she knew how the freeze of it would cut like knives on her skin. She felt the pull; it was hard to resist.

No, no
, said the voice.
Don’t do that. Keep walking.

She heard a snap and a crackle and turned around to see that white light bouncing in the distance behind her. Bobo. He was not her friend; she knew that. She kept moving, aware suddenly of a sound that was growing louder. He was crying, moaning. She’d seen that in him, that tangle of love and hatred he had for Momma.
She didn’t understand it, but she’d used it to hurt him. And more than that. Somehow, she didn’t know how, she’d made him hit Momma with the flashlight. She wondered if he knew it. Would he do that to her, too, if he caught her? Would he use that flashlight on her?

The pulse of fear woke her up a little, caused her to pick up her pace. Drawing on a well of energy she didn’t even know was there, she was about to run again. Then she saw something up ahead that stopped her dead: the eyes of the big house, glowing orange. All this time she thought she was heading
away
, instead she was just heading back in the direction from which she’d come.

She would have cried out in anger and frustration, but she stayed quiet, choking on it, swallowed the big sobs that came up, and moved behind a big oak tree. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to calm down, take deep breaths. The sound of Bobo’s moaning was getting louder, growing closer. What would he do to her?

Then a thought came: those boots in Real Penny’s closet. There was a warm jacket, too. In the kitchen she could get some food and water. She’d have supplies and a better chance of surviving in the cold. She had her bearings now, knew the way to town because of what Poppa had told the clean man. Maybe it was a blessing
in the skies
, like her mom always said, even though Penny had no idea what that meant. When something was good that seemed bad? But what did that have to do with the sky?

Poppa hadn’t been home all day and sometimes he didn’t come back from town until the next day. Where he went or what he did, she had no idea and didn’t want to know. The house might be empty. She waited for the voice to tell her what to do, but the voice was quiet again. It was kind of like when her mommy was helping with homework.
Is this the right answer
? she would ask.
What do you think
? her mom would answer. But she could always tell whether the answer was right or not, just by the expression on her mommy’s face—a tiny, slightly worried frown or a hidden smile in her eyes. But the voice was just coldly silent. She hated the voice.

Bobo’s wailing cut through the night like an alarm, startling her
into action. If Poppa was home, he’d surely come out in answer to Bobo’s call—probably with his gun.

She moved through the trees fast and quiet—her pain and fatigue forgotten for the moment. She paused at the clearing for the house and saw that Poppa’s truck wasn’t there. She waited, scanning the area, looking in the windows of the house, checking the shadows by the barn. It was quiet, just the lamp over the barn shining, casting a weak white circle of light, and the glowing orange eyes of the house.

She took a deep breath and then she sprinted to the house, limped up the creaky porch steps, turned the rattling old metal knob, and pushed inside. She shut the door hard and leaned against the wall, panting.

“Poppa!” she called. “Momma needs your help! Hurry!”

If he was there, he would race out to help Momma, wouldn’t he? Then Penny would have the time she needed to get supplies and go. She listened. Was he there and not answering? If he caught her in Real Penny’s room, what would he do to her?

But there was only silence; she waited, listening to her own breath, then started slowly up the stairs. The warm air in the house was a blessed relief but it made her skin tingle, and that heavy, tired feeling had come back. The snow tapped against the glass as she inched up one creaking step at a time.

On the landing, the hall loomed long. She wanted to be quiet, but instead she ran the distance to Penny’s room and burst inside, carelessly letting the door hit the wall. She moved immediately to the closet and removed the shining black boots, as well as the jacket. She didn’t know where Poppa was or when he’d be back. She didn’t know how long it would take Bobo to reach the house or what he might do when he got here. He was crazy; she’d seen it in his eyes, a kind of wild, horselike fear and a terrible rage.

She found a pair of socks in the drawer and slid them on. They were so warm, but it hurt, too. It hurt to go from cold to warm, a kind of throbbing pain. Then she pulled on the boots. Even though they were too big, her ankle screaming in protest at the pressure. Abbey wobbled with the pain, struggling to keep going.

A flash of light against the wall, a thud from outside brought her to the window, hiding behind the curtain.

She saw Poppa climbing from the truck, the snow falling heavily around him. He wasn’t alone. They were there, too, the other girls—though she knew Poppa couldn’t see them anymore. The girl who taught her how to milk the cow was standing by the barn. The other girl, the one who’d come after her and had only been here a short while, stood by the trees. And someone else lay on the ground, wearing a white dress, arms and legs spread wide, as if she were making an angel in the snow. She wanted to help them all, but she knew it was too late.

She ran noisily in the too-big boots, down the hallway. She had to get downstairs and toward the back of the house before Poppa came in. But she only made it to the landing in time to see the door open, then close. She was trapped upstairs, no way out. He moved into the house.

“Momma,” he called. He stood in the foyer a minute, listening. Then he moved toward the stairs.