The Lovely Bones (11 page)

“But I have to do something,” he protested.

“Here we are again, Mr. Salmon,” she said. “You misinterpret me. I am not saying you are doing the wrong thing by coming here.
It is the right thing in its way. You want to find something soft, something warm in all this. Your searching led you here.
That’s a good thing. I am only concerned that it be good, too, for my son.”

“I mean no harm.”

“What is the man’s name?”

“George Harvey.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud to anyone but Len Fenerman.

She paused and stood. Turning her back to him, she walked over to first one window and then the other and drew the curtains
back. It was the after-school light that she loved. She watched for Ray as he walked up the road.

“Ray will come now. I will go to meet him. If you’ll excuse me I need to put on my coat and boots.” She paused. “Mr. Salmon,”
she said, “I would do exactly what you are doing: I would talk to everyone I needed to, I would not tell too many people his
name. When I was sure,” she said, “I would find a quiet way, and I would kill him.”

He could hear her in the hallway, the metal clank of hangers as she got her coat. A few minutes later the door was opened
and closed. A cold breeze came in from the outside and then out on the road he could see a mother greet her son. Neither of
them smiled. Their heads bent low. Their mouths moved. Ray took in the fact that my father was waiting for him inside his
home.

At first my mother and I thought it was just the obvious that marked Len Fenerman as different from the rest of the force.
He was smaller than the hulking uniforms who frequently accompanied him. Then there were the less obvious traits too—the way
he often seemed to be thinking to himself, how he wasn’t much for joking or trying to be anything but serious when he talked
about me and the circumstances of the case. But, talking with my mother, Len Fenerman had shown himself for what he was: an
optimist. He believed my killer would be caught.

“Maybe not today or tomorrow,” he said to my mother, “but someday he’ll do something uncontrollable. They are too uncontrolled
in their habits not to.”

My mother was left to entertain Len Fenerman until my father arrived home from the Singhs’. On the table in the family room
Buckley’s crayons were scattered across the butcher paper my mother had laid down. Buckley and Nate had drawn until their
heads began to nod like heavy flowers, and my mother had plucked them up in her arms, first one and then the other, and brought
them over to the couch. They slept there end to end with their feet almost touching in the center.

Len Fenerman knew enough to talk in hushed whispers, but he wasn’t, my mother noted, a worshiper of children. He watched her
carry the two boys but did not stand to help or comment on them the way the other policemen always did, defining her by her
children, both living and dead.

“Jack wants to talk to you,” my mother said. “But I’m sure you’re too busy to wait.”

“Not too busy.”

I saw a black strand of her hair fall from where she had tucked it behind her ear. It softened her face. I saw Len see it
too.

“He went over to that poor Ray Singh’s house,” she said and tucked the fallen hair back in its proper place.

“I’m sorry we had to question him,” Len said.

“Yes,” she said. “No young boy is capable of…” She couldn’t say it, and he didn’t make her.

“His alibi was airtight.”

My mother took up a crayon from the butcher paper.

Len Fenerman watched my mother draw stick figures and stick dogs. Buckley and Nate made quiet sounds of sleep on the couch.
My brother curled up into a fetal position and a moment later placed his thumb in his mouth to suck. It was a habit my mother
had told us all we must help him break. Now she envied such easy peace.

“You remind me of my wife,” Len said after a long silence, during which my mother had drawn an orange poodle and what looked
like a blue horse undergoing electroshock treatment.

“She can’t draw either?”

“She wasn’t much of a talker when there was nothing to say.”

A few more minutes passed. A yellow ball of sun. A brown house with flowers outside the door—pink, blue, purple.

“You used the past tense.”

They both heard the garage door. “She died soon after we were married,” he said.

“Daddy!” Buckley yelled, and leapt up, forgetting Nate and everyone else.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Len.

“I am too,” he said, “about Susie. Really.”

In the back hall my father greeted Buckley and Nate with high cheers and calls for “Oxygen!” as he always did when we besieged
him after a long day. Even if it felt false, elevating his mood for my brother was often the favorite part of his day.

My mother stared at Len Fenerman while my father walked toward the family room from the back.
Rush to the sink,
I felt like saying to her, stare down the hole and look into the earth. I’m down there waiting; I’m up here watching.

Len Fenerman had been the one that first asked my mother for my school picture when the police thought I might be found alive.
In his wallet, my photo sat in a stack. Among these dead children and strangers was a picture of his wife. If a case had been
solved he had written the date of its resolution on the back of the photo. If the case was still open—in his mind if not in
the official files of the police—it was blank. There was nothing on the back of mine. There was nothing on his wife’s.

“Len, how are you?” my father asked. Holiday up and wiggling back and forth for my father to pet him.

“I hear you went to see Ray Singh,” Len said.

“Boys, why don’t you go play up in Buckley’s room?” my mother suggested. “Detective Fenerman and Daddy need to talk.”

D
o you see her?” Buckley asked Nate as they climbed the stairs, Holiday in tow. “That’s my sister.”

“No,” Nate said.

“She was gone for a while, but now she’s back. Race!”

And the three of them—two boys and a dog—raced the rest of the way up the long curve of the staircase.

I had never even let myself yearn for Buckley, afraid he might see my image in a mirror or a bottle cap. Like everyone else
I was trying to protect him. “Too young,” I said to Franny. “Where do you think imaginary friends come from?” she said.

For a few minutes the two boys sat under the framed grave rubbing outside my parents’ room. It was from a tomb in a London
graveyard. My mother had told Lindsey and me the story of how my father and she had wanted things to hang on their walls and
an old woman they met on their honeymoon had taught them how to do grave rubbings. By the time I was in double digits most
of the grave rubbings had been put down in the basement for storage, the spots on our suburban walls replaced with bright
graphic prints meant to stimulate children. But Lindsey and I loved the grave rubbings, particularly the one under which Nate
and Buckley sat that afternoon.

Lindsey and I would lie down on the floor underneath it. I would pretend to be the knight that was pictured, and Holiday was
the faithful dog curled up at his feet. Lindsey would be the wife he’d left behind. It always dissolved into giggles no matter
how solemn the start. Lindsey would tell the dead knight that a wife had to move on, that she couldn’t be trapped for the
rest of her life by a man who was frozen in time. I would act stormy and mad, but it never lasted. Eventually she would describe
her new lover: the fat butcher who gave her prime cuts of meat, the agile blacksmith who made her hooks. “You are dead, knight,”
she would say. “Time to move on.”

“Last night she came in and kissed me on the cheek,” Buckley said.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you told your mom?”

“It’s a secret,” Buckley said. “Susie told me she isn’t ready to talk to them yet. Do you want to see something else?”

“Sure,” said Nate.

The two of them stood up to go to the children’s side of the house, leaving Holiday asleep under the grave rubbing.

“Come look,” Buckley said.

They were in my room. The picture of my mother had been taken by Lindsey. After reconsideration, she had come back for the
“Hippy-Dippy Says Love” button too.

“Susie’s room,” Nate said.

Buckley put his fingers to his lips. He’d seen my mother do this when she wanted us to be quiet, and now he wanted that from
Nate. He got down on his belly and gestured for Nate to follow, and they wriggled like Holiday as they made their way beneath
the dust ruffle of my bed into my secret storage space.

In the material that was stretched on the underside of the box spring, there was a hole, and stuffed up inside were things
I didn’t want anyone else to see. I had to guard it from Holiday or he would scratch at it to try and pry the objects loose.
This had been exactly what happened twenty-four hours after I went missing. My parents had searched my room hoping to find
a note of explanation and then left the door open. Holiday had carried off the licorice I kept there. Strewn beneath my bed
were the objects I’d kept hidden, and one of them only Buckley and Nate would recognize. Buckley unwrapped an old handkerchief
of my father’s and there it was, the stained and bloody twig.

The year before, a three-year-old Buckley had swallowed it. Nate and he had been shoving rocks up their noses in our backyard,
and Buckley had found a small twig under the oak tree where my mother strung one end of the clothesline. He put the stick
in his mouth like a cigarette. I watched him from the roof outside my bedroom window, where I was sitting painting my toenails
with Clarissa’s Magenta Glitter and reading
Seventeen.

I was perpetually assigned the job of watching out for little brother. Lindsey was not thought to be old enough. Besides,
she was a burgeoning brain, which meant she got to be free to do things like spend that summer afternoon drawing detailed
pictures of a fly’s eye on graph paper with her 130-pack of Prisma Colors.

It was not too hot out and it was summer, and I was going to spend my internment at home beautifying. I had begun the morning
by showering, shampooing, and steaming myself. On the roof I air-dried and applied lacquer.

I had on two coats of Magenta Glitter when a fly landed on the bottle’s applicator. I heard Nate making dare and threat sounds,
and I squinted at the fly to try to make out all the quadrants of his eyes that Lindsey was coloring inside the house. A breeze
came up, blowing the fringe on my cutoffs against my thighs.

“Susie, Susie!” Nate was yelling.

I looked down to see Buckley on the ground.

It was this day that I always told Holly about when we talked about rescue. I believed it was possible; she did not.

I swung my legs around and scrambled through my open window, one foot landing on the sewing stool and the other immediately
in front of that one and on the braided rug and then down on my knees and out of the blocks like an athlete. I ran down the
hall and slid down the banister as we’d been forbidden to do. I called Lindsey’s name and then forgot her, ran out to the
backyard through the screened-in porch, and jumped over the dog fence to the oak tree.

Buckley was choking, his body bucking, and I carried him with Nate trailing into the garage, where my father’s precious Mustang
sat. I had watched my parents drive, and my mother had shown me how a car went from park to reverse. I put Buckley in the
back and grabbed the keys from the unused terra-cotta pots where my father hid them. I sped all the way to the hospital. I
burned out the emergency brake, but no one seemed to care.

“If she hadn’t been there,” the doctor later told my mother, “you would have lost your little boy.”

Grandma Lynn predicted I’d have a long life because I had saved my brother’s. As usual, Grandma Lynn was wrong.

“Wow,” Nate said, holding the twig and marveling at how over time red blood turned black.

“Yeah,” said Buckley. His stomach felt queasy with the memory of it. How much pain he had been in, how the faces of the adults
changed as they surrounded him in the huge hospital bed. He had seen them that serious only one other time. But whereas in
the hospital, their eyes had been worried and then later not, shot through with so much light and relief that they’d enveloped
him, now our parents’ eyes had gone flat and not returned.

I felt faint in heaven that day. I reeled back in the gazebo, and my eyes snapped open. It was dark, and across from me stood
a large building that I had never been in.

I had read
James and the Giant Peach
when I was little. The building looked like the house of his aunts. Huge and dark and Victorian. It had a widow’s walk. For
a moment, as I readjusted to the darkness, I thought I saw a long row of women standing on the widow’s walk and pointing my
way. But a moment later, I saw differently. Crows were lined up, their beaks holding crooked twigs. As I stood to go back
to the duplex, they took wing and followed me. Had my brother really seen me somehow, or was he merely a little boy telling
beautiful lies?

F
or three months Mr. Harvey dreamed of buildings. He saw a slice of Yugoslavia where thatched-roofed dwellings on stilts gave
way to rushing torrents of water from below. There were blue skies overhead. Along the fjords and in the hidden valley of
Norway, he saw wooden stave churches, the timbers of which had been carved by Viking boat-builders. Dragons and local heroes
made from wood. But there was one building, from the Vologda, that he dreamed about most: the Church of the Transfiguration.
And it was this dream—his favorite—that he had on the night of my murder and on the nights following until the others came
back. The
not still
dreams—the ones of women and children.

I could see all the way back to Mr. Harvey in his mother’s arms, staring out over a table covered with pieces of colored glass.
His father sorted them into piles by shape and size, depth and weight. His father’s jeweler’s eyes looked deeply into each
specimen for cracks and flaws. And George Harvey would turn his attention to the single jewel that hung from his mother’s neck,
a large oval-shaped piece of amber framed by silver, inside of which sat a whole and perfect fly.