The Lovely Bones (20 page)

“Abigail, I am going to help you clean up. It will be a mother/daughter thing.”

“What?”

My mother had calculated that she could let Lindsey off easily and early and then she would spend the rest of the night over
the sink, washing slowly and staring out the window until the darkness brought her own reflection back to her. The sounds of
the TV would fade away and she would be alone again.

“I just did my nails yesterday,” Grandma Lynn said after tying on an apron over her camel-colored A-line dress, “so I’ll dry.”

“Mother, really. This isn’t necessary.”

“It is necessary, believe me, sweetie,” my grandmother said. There was something sober and curt in that
sweetie.

Buckley led my father by the hand into the adjoining room where the TV sat. They took up their stations and Lindsey, having
been given a reprieve, went upstairs to call Samuel.

It was such a strange thing to see. So out of the ordinary. My grandmother in an apron, holding a dish towel up like a matador’s
red flag in anticipation of the first dish coming her way.

They were quiet as they worked, and the silence—the only sounds being the splash of my mother’s hands plunging into the scalding
water, the squeak of plates, and the clank of the silver—made a tension fill the room which grew unbearable. The noises of
the game from the nearby room were just as odd to me. My father had never watched football; basketball his only sport. Grandma
Lynn had never done dishes; frozen meals and takeout menus were her weapons of choice.

“Oh Christ,” she finally said. “Take this.” She handed the just-washed dish back to my mother. “I want to have a real conversation
but I’m afraid I’m going to drop these things. Let’s take a walk.”

“Mother, I need to…”

“You need to take a walk.”

“After the dishes.”

“Listen,” my grandmother said, “I know I’m whatever I am and you’re whatever you are, which isn’t me, which makes you happy,
but I know some things when I see them and I know something is going on that isn’t kosher.
Capisce?
”

My mother’s face was wavering, soft and malleable—almost as soft and malleable as the image of her that floated on the sullied
water in the sink.

“What?”

“I have suspicions and I don’t want to talk about them here.”

Ten-four, Grandma Lynn,
I thought. I’d never seen her nervous before.

It would be easy for the two of them to leave the house alone. My father, with his knee, would never think to join them, and,
these days, where my father went or did not go, my brother, Buckley, followed.

My mother was silent. She saw no other option. As an afterthought they removed their aprons in the garage and piled them on
the roof of the Mustang. My mother bent down and lifted the garage door.

It was still early enough so the light would hold for the beginning of their walk. “We could take Holiday,” my mother tried.

“Just you and your mother,” my grandmother said. “The most frightening pairing imaginable.”

They had never been close. They both knew it, but it wasn’t something they acknowledged very much. They joked around it like
two children who didn’t particularly like each other but were the only children in a large, barren neighborhood. Now, never
having tried to before, having always let her daughter run as fast as she could in whatever direction she wished, my grandmother
found that she was suddenly catching up.

They had passed by the O’Dwyers’ and were near the Tarkings’ before my grandmother said what she had to say.

“My humor buried my acceptance,” my grandmother said. “Your father had a long-term affair in New Hampshire. Her first initial
was F and I never knew what it stood for. I found a thousand options for it over the years.”

“Mother?”

My grandmother kept walking, didn’t turn. She found that the crisp fall air helped, filling her lungs until they felt cleaner
than they had just minutes before.

“Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I guess I never told you,” she said. “I didn’t think you needed to know. Now you do, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

They had come to the bend in the road that would lead them back around the circle. If they went that way and did not stop,
eventually they would find themselves in front of Mr. Harvey’s house. My mother froze.

“My poor, poor sweetie,” my grandmother said. “Give me your hand.”

They were awkward. My mother could count on her fingers how many times her tall father had leaned down and kissed her as a
child. The scratchy beard that smelled of a cologne that, after years of searching, she could never identify. My grandmother
took her hand and held on as they walked the other way.

They walked into an area of the neighborhood where newer families seemed to be moving in more and more. The anchor houses,
I remembered my mother calling them, because they lined the street that led into the whole development—anchored the neighborhood
to an original road built before the township was a township. The road that led to Valley Forge, to George Washington and
the Revolution.

“Susie’s death brought your father’s back to me,” my grandmother said. “I never let myself mourn him properly.”

“I know,” my mother said.

“Do you resent me for it?”

My mother paused. “Yes.”

My grandmother patted the back of my mother’s hand with her free one. “Good, see, that’s a nugget.”

“A nugget?”

“Something that’s coming out of all this. You and me. A nugget of truth between us.”

They passed the one-acre lots on which trees had been growing for twenty years. If not exactly towering, they were still twice
as tall as the fathers who had first held them and stomped the dirt around them with their weekend work shoes.

“Do you know how alone I’ve always felt?” my mother asked her mother.

“That’s why we’re walking, Abigail,” Grandma Lynn said.

My mother focused her eyes in front of her but stayed connected to her mother with her hand. She thought of the solitary nature
of her childhood. How, when she had watched her two daughters tie string between paper cups and go to separate rooms to whisper
secrets to each other, she could not really say she knew how that felt. There had been no one else in the house with her but
her mother and father, and then her father had gone.

She stared at the tops of the trees, which, miles from our development, were the tallest things around. They stood on a high
hill that had never been cleared for houses and on which a few old farmers still dwelled.

“I can’t describe what I’m feeling,” she said. “To anyone.”

They reached the end of the development just as the sun was going down over the hill in front of them. A moment passed without
either of them turning around. My mother watched the last light flicker in a drain-off puddle at the end of the road.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “It’s all over now.”

My grandmother was not sure what she meant by “it,” but she did not press harder.

“Shall we head back?” my grandmother offered.

“How?” my mother said.

“To the house, Abigail. Head back to the house.”

They turned and began walking again. The houses one after another, identical in structure. Only what my grandmother thought
of as their accessories marked them as different. She had never understood places like this—places where her own child had
chosen to live.

“When we get to the turn to the circle,” my mother said, “I want to walk past it.”

“His house?”

“Yes.”

I watched Grandma Lynn turn when my mother turned.

“Would you promise me not to see the man anymore?” my grandmother asked.

“Who?”

“The man you’re involved with. That’s what I’ve been talking about.”

“I’m not involved with anyone,” my mother said. Her mind flew like a bird from one rooftop to the next. “Mother?” she said,
and turned.

“Abigail?”

“If I needed to get away for a while, could I use Daddy’s cabin?”

“Have you been listening to me?”

They could smell something in the air, and again my mother’s anxious, agile mind slipped away. “Someone is smoking,” she said.

Grandma Lynn was staring at her child. The pragmatic, prim mistress that my mother had always been was gone. She was flighty
and distracted. My grandmother had nothing left to say to her.

“They’re foreign cigarettes,” my mother said. “Let’s go find them!”

And in the fading light my grandmother stared, flabbergasted, as my mother began to follow the scent to its source.

“I’m heading back,” my grandmother said.

But my mother kept walking.

She found the source of the smoke soon enough. It was Ruana Singh, standing behind a tall fir tree in her backyard.

“Hello,” my mother said.

Ruana did not start as I thought she would. Her calmness had become something practiced. She could make a breath last through
the most startling event, whether it was her son being accused of murder by the police or her husband running their dinner
party as if it were an academic committee meeting. She had told Ray he could go upstairs, and then she had disappeared out
the back door and not been missed.

“Mrs. Salmon,” Ruana said, exhaling the heady smell of her cigarettes. In a rush of smoke and warmth my mother met Ruana’s
extended hand. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you having a party?” my mother asked.

“My husband is having a party. I am the hostess.”

My mother smiled.

“This is a weird place we both live,” Ruana said.

Their eyes met. My mother nodded her head. Back on the road somewhere was her own mother, but for right now she, like Ruana,
was on a quiet island off the mainland.

“Do you have another cigarette?”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Salmon, yes.” Ruana fished into the pocket of her long black cardigan and held out the pack and her lighter.
“Dunhills,” she said. “I hope that’s all right.”

My mother lit her cigarette and handed the blue package with its golden foil back to Ruana. “Abigail,” she said as she exhaled.
“Please call me Abigail.”

Up in his room with his lights off, Ray could smell his mother’s cigarettes, which she never accused him of pilfering, just
as he never let on that he knew she had them. He heard voices downstairs—the loud sounds of his father and his colleagues
speaking six different languages and laughing delightedly over the oh-so-American holiday to come. He did not know that my
mother was out on the lawn with his mother or that I was watching him sit in his window and smell their sweet tobacco. Soon
he would turn away from the window and switch on the small light by his bed to read. Mrs. McBride had told them to find a sonnet
they’d like to write a paper on, but as he read the lines of those available to him in his
Norton Anthology
he kept drifting back to the moment he wished he could take back and do over again. If he had just kissed me on the scaffold,
maybe everything would have turned out differently.

Grandma Lynn kept on the course she had set with my mother, and, eventually, there it was—the house they tried to forget while
living two houses down.
Jack was right,
my grandmother thought. She could even feel it in the dark. The place radiated something malevolent. She shivered and began
to hear the crickets and see the fireflies gathering in a swarm above his front flower beds. She thought suddenly that she would
do nothing but sympathize with her daughter. Her child was living inside the middle of a ground zero to which no affair on
her own husband’s part could offer her insight. She would tell my mother in the morning that the keys to the cabin would always
be there for her if she needed them.

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India, where she had never been.
There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through
the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright
fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep, light, dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive, but, first,
there had been her body, clean and whole.

F
or a week Lindsey cased my killer’s house. She was doing exactly what he did to everyone else.

She had agreed to train with the boys’ soccer team all year in preparation for the challenge Mr. Dewitt and Samuel encouraged
her to take on: qualifying to play in the all-male high school soccer league. And Samuel, to show his support, trained alongside
her with no hope of qualifying for anything, he said, other than “fastest guy in shorts.”

He could run, even if kicking and fielding and noticing a ball anywhere within his vicinity were all beyond him. And so, while
they did laps around the neighborhood, each time Lindsey shot a look toward Mr. Harvey’s house, Samuel was out in front, setting
the pace for her—unaware of anything else.

Inside the green house, Mr. Harvey was looking out. He saw her watching and he began to itch. It had been almost a year now,
but the Salmons remained bent on crowding him.

It had happened before in other towns and states. The family of a girl suspected him but no one else did. He had perfected
his patter to the police, a certain obsequious innocence peppered with wonder about their procedures or useless ideas that
he presented as if they might help. Bringing up the Ellis boy with Fenerman had been a good stroke, and the lie that he was
a widower always helped. He fashioned a wife out of whichever victim he’d recently been taking pleasure in in his memory,
and to flesh her out there was always his mother.

He left the house every day for an hour or two in the afternoon. He would pick up any supplies he needed and then drive out
to Valley Forge Park and walk the paved roads and the unpaved trails and find himself suddenly surrounded by school tours at
George Washington’s log cabin or the Washington Memorial Chapel. This would buoy him up—these moments when the children were
eager to see history, as if they might actually find a long silver hair from Washington’s wig caught on the rough end of a
log post.