Snow Angels (17 page)

“And most of all,” my father said, “we thank you for bringing us together.”

“Amen,” we all said.

T
HE CAMERA CREWS COME
in the middle of the day for the light, and Brock can't stop them. The Pittsburgh stations know to park farther on up the road, but every other day it seems like someone from Erie or Wheeling drives right up to the house. It's timing,
Brock thinks; the whole world is interested in the story because it's the holidays. He's seen Annie on TV, peeking from behind a curtain. The camera pans the snowy woods. They've quit watching the news, stopped delivery of the
Eagle
.

The state police come every day and take the same statement Annie's given them before, then walk around the pond, squatting when they spot a possible clue. They've questioned Brock twice and both times he's insisted he was at the mall, Christmas shopping. He shows them the bag of toys in his closet, and looking at the boxed Barbie he did in fact mean to give Tara, realizes the size of his lie, the smallness of his heart. The inspector seems to believe him, though each time he reminds Brock that they may question him again in the future. Brock asks about the TV people but the inspector says they can't do anything, the road's public property.

Annie has filed a restraining order against Glenn. After the memorial service he threatened her, said he had nothing to lose, that she'd taken everything from him. He wasn't drunk, just upset, making a fool of himself. Brock ended up having to manhandle him into the rented limousine in front of everyone. He keeps showing up as evening falls, drinking in his truck and shouting at the house.

“I shall pass through this furnace unscathed,” he
bellows. “O Lord, restore the righteous and let judgment fall upon the wicked.”

“You asshole,” Annie screams from the steps, losing it, “leave me alone.” Brock has come home to find her on the couch, exhausted, clutching her father's gun.

Brock calls and the township police come and roust Glenn, lock him up for the night. The next day he's there again, pious after a twelve-pack. He's quit his job, moved out of his parents' house. Annie thinks Brock should stay home from work.

He could do it. They have enough money. The mail brings checks from far-off states, singles sent by kids, change taped to index cards. While most of the notes are condolences, an anonymous few accuse both of them or Annie alone of killing Tara—and graphically, like a TV detective taking pleasure in laying out a murder. Several cranks, it seems to Brock, write the way Glenn talks. Her death is God's will, their shaky handwriting says, in payment for their sins. They compare Annie to Eve. What does that make him, Brock wonders. The postmarks are all different; some even sign their names. He can't believe so many different people say the same crazy things.

“Oh sure,” the inspector says, adding them to his bulging manila envelope, “the hills are crawling with them.”

But Brock doesn't want to stay home. He hates seeing Tara's room, the pink paint and the little quilt with hearts on it. He hasn't cried for her and it bothers him. He thinks he should grieve, but when he sees a commercial with Big Bird or a wisecracking child actor, all he feels is anger and then shame. She is dead, he reminds himself, she is gone and dead and never coming back. It's as if he refuses to believe it, but it's true; he's not going to run away from this one. At work the old people he takes care of are so insulated they treat him as if the accident never happened, and he likes that. He likes sharing lunch with Tricia and Neil Young, her laugh, the heaviness of her breasts. At home he'd have nothing to do. Though they've changed their number, the phone rings constantly; they unplug it, and then when they snap the plastic jack in to make a call, it goes off like a bomb. Daily, to escape, Annie visits her mother. They talk all afternoon; driving past her mother's place, Brock sees her car in the drive and knows he'll have to make dinner again. Hamburger Helper, tuna-noodle casserole. He's not allowed to be angry with her, he understands that. And he's not. Guilty himself, he's worried that as a mother Annie blames herself, and is withdrawing not only from him but the world. Her ankle is better, yet she hasn't returned to work. Nights she lies on the couch, gobbling Archway cookies and watching
sitcoms. The laughtrack eats at Brock. She goes to bed early, and he's learned not to follow. She has pills she takes. Since Tara's been gone they haven't made love. He's talked to Tricia about it. He's even thought of calling Barb.

The Friday after Thanksgiving he gets his paycheck and stops on the way home to cash it, thinking he might buy a bottle of wine or two. It's a risk, but if it doesn't work out at least he'll put a good buzz on. He drops into a state store and picks up a pair of Almaden jugs, the Mountain Rhine she likes. It's snowing, and Brock props the bag on the seat so it won't roll around. If Glenn's there, he's ready. He keeps a prybar under the driver's seat; inch-thick, it'll snap a man's arm.

But when he gets home the road's empty. The day's just starting to fail; the water tower's lights snap on as he approaches. The Maverick is in the drive, plastic duct-taped over the broken window. It's not until he pulls in behind it that he sees the front door of the house is open and the hall is dark.

Brock runs across the yard and takes the front steps in two smooth bounds. The only light on is the one over the stove. There's a bloody lump of hamburger defrosting on a piece of foil.

“Annie?” Brock hollers, then runs for the bedroom. It's a mess, so is Tara's room, and next week
Child Protective Services is coming to see the house. Routine procedure, the inspector says, but to Brock it seems cruel. It was an accident. It was not Annie's fault.

She's not inside. Her boots are gone, her jacket, even her gloves. He closes the front door behind him and stands on the front porch. In the yard, garbage from the search has frozen into the snow. The barrel the police used for warmth still stands in the turnaround, blocking the back way to the pond.

Brock walks down the road under the blue glow of the water tower, looking for footprints. There are too many old ones. It's hard for him to believe so many people were here and none of them could do anything. She'll never forgive him for coming home late that day. He turns onto the back road, going through the woods now. He grew up in town with his aunt, and for him the stillness is a little creepy. Above, a squirrel chitters, working at a hard-won acorn. Brock doesn't know if Annie would do anything foolish. With her temper, she's capable. He passes the mound with its snow-covered fenceposts and follows the trail to the top of the hill, stands looking down.

She's there, below him, a black shape out in the middle of the pond. She's sitting on the ice, smoking, the glowing end a star in the dark. Brock is at once
thankful and disheartened, weary of her suffering. He hates himself for this impatience. Like the searchers, he's helpless.

He waves but she's not looking up, and he picks his way down the hill. He stands on the bank, sure she can see him now. When she doesn't acknowledge him, he tests the ice with one foot. Near the bank it's soft and his toe goes through. He pulls back, dripping. With the light it's hard to tell what's solid.

“Annie,” he calls.

She stubs the butt out, doesn't look up.

“Annie, come on.”

He walks along the bank, testing, and when he finds a solid spot, steps gingerly onto the ice. It doesn't creak or give. With the weather lately it should be okay, he thinks hopefully. His rubber-soled workshoes aren't made for this. He baby-steps toward her, the dark outline slowly filling in. She's hunched over with her hands tucked into her armpits, squinting against the wind.

Brock sits down beside her on the ice. His pants stick to it.

“Aren't you cold?” he asks, joking.

Annie turns and looks at him, for the first time acknowledging his presence. She looks down at the ice, out at the woods. A flake catches in her eyelashes,
and he remembers why he gave up everything he'd had with Barb for her.

“Do you know someone named Patricia Farr?”

Even in the cold Brock can feel his face fill with heat. The inspector, he thinks, damn him. “She's a girl at work.”

“Were you screwing her when it happened?”

“She's fat,” Brock says, as if it's proof of something, and is instantly ashamed. His aunt was right, he betrays everyone.

“At Susan's.”

“I was buying Christmas presents.”

“Was it the, same room?” Annie asks. “Did you pour wine over her and do it in the tub too?”

“No,” Brock says, but only because there is no other answer to the question. “Let's go inside.”

“No,” Annie says.

“I never said I'd stay.”

“You can go now,” she says. “You want to go. I want you to go.”

After twenty minutes he stands and walks around. He's not dressed half as warmly as she is, yet the cold seems to have no effect. It's dark. The wind calls through the trees; on the highway traffic is dwindling. It's strange, Brock thinks, how he's no longer afraid of falling through.

One-thirty and Rafe has work tomorrow. He's hoping Glenn, who's been drinking steadily since he made bail, will pass out soon. Rafe paid again, but he doesn't mind. His parents left him money and the house; what else is he going to spend it on? Glenn's his friend, a fuck-up like him. No one else is going to help him.

They're sitting in the kitchen knocking back shots of Jack Daniel's, chasing them with Duke beer. Bomber's asleep upstairs. In the other room Eric Clapton leads Derek and the Dominos through “Bell Bottom Blues.” Glenn's slurring and laughing at his own jokes, mumbling his religious shit. Rafe is just keeping him company, drinking one to Glenn's two, watching the clock. The table is sticky and littered with cigarette butts and peanut shells, the Sunday want ads. Several times Glenn has knocked over the shot-glass. A few hours ago they thought about dinner; now Glenn's hungry.

“We're going to need something to puke,” he says. “The Burger Hut serves till eleven.”

“Glenn-man, it is one-thirty in the morning. There's no one open, man.”

“Fuck that.”

I don't want to fade away
, Clapton sings.
Give me one more day please
.

Rafe goes to the cupboard. “We've got soup. Tomato, chicken noodle?”

“Soup,” Glenn says. “I want something to eateat, not some fucking soup. Did you ever puke noodles?”

“That's all we've got.”

“What did Jesus feed the multitudes with?” He'll break into pointless parables like this; it drives Rafe crazy. Even worse is when he drops to his knees in the middle of the room. Rafe understands that his head is messed up from Tara and watches him for signs that he might try to kill himself again. Sometimes Glenn mentions that he needs to refill his prescription, but Rafe has never seen him take his pills. He doesn't know where Glenn goes during the day. Earlier this week he came home and Glenn was sitting where he is now, drenched from head to toe, his clothes dripping, boots covered with mud. When he asked what happened, Glenn said he tried to go home but they didn't want him. He wouldn't explain any further, and Rafe saw a blankness in his eyes that told him not to push it. Glenn needs time, Rafe thinks, like he needed time after his own mother died.

“Fish, I don't know, man. We don't have any.”

“Fuck it,” Glenn says, “I'm not hungry.” He lays his head on his arms.

I don't want to fade away
, Clapton pleads.

“Come on, man, let's get you to bed.”

“One more,” Glenn says. He lifts his head and pours a shot which overflows. The whiskey darkens the want ads. “Are you going to drink with me?”

“I've got work in the morning.”

“You're drinking with me. Here.” He gets up shakily and totters over to Rafe, spilling as he goes.

“Watch what you're doing, man.”

Glenn looks down. “Sorry, man. It's just a fucking floor.”

“It's my mother's floor.”

“I'm sorry, all right?” Glenn takes the want ads from the table and swabs at the spilled whiskey. “All right. Let's drink. Here.” He gives Rafe the nearly empty glass, takes the bottle by the neck and tips it up. Rafe watches his Adam's apple bob; there's only an inch or so left and Glenn's going to finish it. Rafe wants to take the bottle from him but doesn't. It's easier.

Glenn drains it and whacks it down on the counter. “Dead motherfucking soldier.”

“All right, man, time to crash.” Rafe turns him with a hand and steers him toward the door. Glenn weaves, lurches as if the whiskey has just now caught
up to him and thumps his head against the doorframe. It knocks him back a step, into Rafe's arms.

Glenn laughs. “That feels pretty good,” he says, and before Rafe can stop him, he grabs hold of the jamb, rears back and rams his forehead into it, butts it like a hammer driving a nail. It's not a joke; he's not stopping. Upstairs Bomber barks a warning.

Rafe wrestles Glenn into the hall and, tangled, they crash to the floor. Glenn doesn't fight back. Pinned, he looks up at Rafe, a drop of blood running down into his eyebrow.

“Glenn-man, what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” Glenn says, smiling, honestly puzzled. “What am I doing?”

“Man,” Rafe says, heaving from the tussle, “man,” but doesn't know what to say. “You can't do this, man.”

May makes Tara's bed, tucking the quilt under the child-sized flannelette pillow, sitting Winnie-the-Pooh to one side, her big bunny the other. Bun-bun. She goes to the bookshelf and straightens the spines.
Goodnight, Moon, Curious George, Where the Wild Things Are
. May opens one by Dr. Seuss and leafs through it, surprised she still knows the words.