Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [55]
Finally, Rosa gestured at the carpeting. “I think the party cause this, Mr. Ellis.”
I stared down at the ashy footprints embedded there. “How can the party cause the carpet to change its color?”
“I hear there was many people.” She paused. “Maybe they spill their drink?”
I slowly turned to face her. “What do you think we were serving them? Green dye?”
Rosa stared at me, humbled. A pause that seemed to last a decade ensued. I tried to offset the harshness of my tone by making a casual gesture. Without thinking I raised the Slurpee cup to my lips and then, just as casually, stopped myself.
“Miss Dennis—she outside” was all Rosa said, then looked away from me and turned the Hoover on again as I moved toward the kitchen.
On the table were the morning papers, and there was another headline about yet another missing boy, this one named Maer Cohen. I glanced at his photo quickly (twelve, nondescriptly Semitic) and noticed that he’d disappeared from Midland, which was only a fifteen-minute drive down the interstate from where we lived. My response was to turn the paper over. “Not today, can’t deal with that today,” I said aloud as I moved to the sink and discreetly poured out the contents of the Slurpee cup and rinsed it. And when I leaned against the counter, my hands picked up the vibrations of the whisper-quiet Miele dishwasher concealed behind the cherrywood panels. The vibration was soothing, but soon the sound of the leaf blower moving around the side of the house and into the backyard caused me to look up and out the wall of glass.
And then I remembered the headstone.
Craning my neck, I cautiously scanned the field.
I hesitated before accepting that it was no longer there.
And the epic darkness of last night flowed back to me.
But I walked outside onto the deck and it was a clear, beautiful day, still unseasonably warm, and everything seemed so less menacing in the light, almost as if the things I’d seen last night (and the fear I had felt) never existed. Victor lay in a heap in front of me, undisturbed by the roar of the leaf blower, and when I opened the kitchen door his tail started thudding expectantly against the deck but it stopped in midair when he realized who it was and then the tail lowered itself slowly until it curled between his hind legs. The dog flared its nostrils and let out a wet and heavy sigh. I searched my jeans for a Xanax and popped two and something briefly lifted off me, but then I saw the pool man (yes, this was definitely a Saturday) fishing what looked like a dead crow out of the Jacuzzi. (On Sunday night at the Allens’ I would find out that another crow had been nailed to the trunk of a large pine tree in front of the Larsons’ house and another crow had been “broken in half” and stuffed into the Moores’ mailbox; there was also one found mangled—“chewed on” is the phrase Mark Huntington will use—in the back of Nicholas Moore’s Grand Cherokee, and yet another crow was dangling from a massive spiderweb that spanned the two oaks in the O’Connors’ front yard.) As I moved closer toward the Jacuzzi, I noticed that what differentiated this particular crow from any I had ever seen was its abnormally long and pointed beak. The pool man and I stood there studying the bird, both of us speechless, until he asked, “Do you guys have a cat?” The smell of smoke was in the air, and the sun was still climbing the sky. Sarah had left her Terby lying by the pool, and in the morning light it resembled something black and dead.
I looked over at the field again to make sure that the headstone was gone.
I stared at the empty field and out to where the ground rose