Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [80]
“Bret, I want you to give me that gun.”
I looked down. My hand was a white-knuckled fist clenched around the .38.
I breathed in and glanced at the palm of my other hand. The small puncture wound appeared to be healing itself already.
She calmly took the gun away and resumed talking in a hushed tone, as if to a child. “The furniture was rearranged for the party—”
“No, no, no—I rearranged it this morning, Jayne.”
“—and those footprints and the discoloration are also from the party, and I’ve already called a cleaning service—”
“Goddamnit, Jayne—I did not hallucinate this,” I said scornfully, bewildered by her refusal to believe me. “There was a car out front, and there was someone upstairs and—”
“Where is this person now, Bret?”
“He left. He got in the car and left.”
“How?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you went upstairs and saw this person and then he ran outside and got into a car?”
“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t see him because it was too dark and—”
“He must have run past the kids and Wendy then,” Jayne said. “They must have seen him as he ran right by them to get into this car, right?”
“Well . . . no. No . . . I mean, I think he jumped from Robby’s window . . .”
Jayne’s face collapsed into disgust. She walked away from me and went into the office and put the gun back in the safe, locking it. I followed her silently, glancing around for any evidence that someone had been in the house and that this vision was not caused by too much sangria and marijuana and the general bad vibes that were now slouching toward me relentlessly. Jayne started moving up the staircase. I followed her because I didn’t know what else to do.
The sconces in the hallway were lit, bathing the corridor with its usual cold glow.
Robby’s door was closed, and when Jayne tried to open it she realized it was locked.
“Robby?” Jayne called. “Honey?”
“Mom—I’m fine. Go away” was what we heard from behind the door.
“Robby, let me in. I want to ask you something,” I said, trying to push the door open.
But he never opened the door. There was no answer. I didn’t ask again because I couldn’t bear what his reaction might be. Plus the Terby was in there, and the dead mouse, and the open window.
Jayne was sighing as she went into Sarah’s room, where Wendy had put her into bed. Beneath a lavender comforter, Sarah was holding that awful doll and her face was radiant with tears. I consoled myself with the lame fact that eventually the tears would stop, but how could I have asked her at that point how that thing had gotten from Robby’s room into her arms during this time frame?
“Mommy!” Sarah exclaimed, her voice trembling with dread and relief.
“I’m here,” Jayne answered hollowly. “I’m here, honey.”
I was about to follow Jayne into the room but she closed the door on me.
I stood there. That she didn’t believe anything I told her, and that she was moving away from me because of it, made that night even more frightening and intolerable. I tried in vain to downplay the fear, but I couldn’t. Frantic, I just stood outside Sarah’s door and tried to decipher the soothing whispers from inside and then I heard a noise from elsewhere in the house and I thought I’d be sick again, but when I walked downstairs it was only Victor scratching at the kitchen door, wanting to be let in, and then changing his mind. I kept peering out the windows, looking for the car, but the lane was quiet tonight, as it always was, and no one was out. What could I tell Jayne or Robby and Sarah that would make them believe me? Everything I wanted to tell them I witnessed would just serve as the potential catalyst for pushing me out of the house. Everything I had seen would never be believed by any of them. And suddenly, on that night, I knew that I needed to be in that house. I needed to be a participant. I needed to be grounded in the life of the family that lived