The Flame Alphabet - Ben Marcus [50]
I found Claire beneath her linen shield and helped her into the hiding place under the stairs. Her body was light in my hands these days, but if I pulled the comforter she was resting on, I could drag her as on a sled from room to room, interrupted only by the thresholds, which offered a small obstacle Claire didn’t seem to mind.
I did not speak, did not tell her where we were going, but she’d want to see this, her daughter’s birthday. Together we could watch safely through the hole in the door our own little girl. It would be safe. Esther would come home and have some cake and we could watch her together.
I left a trail of Post-its that would lead Esther to the cake, which I’d positioned on a pedestal table within view of the peephole. We’d bored a hole into the crawl space door and now this was our little shelter beneath the staircase.
Next to the table I pulled up the children’s chair she used when she was younger. Surely she could still fit into it. And at this height she’d be right in our line of view, provided she didn’t move the chair and turn her back on us.
Inside our heads Claire and I could sing “Happy Birthday.” No one would have to hear. Esther wouldn’t even know we were there. She could enjoy her cake and it would be nice to be together again.
I pushed Claire into our cave beneath the stairway, tucked her all the way back, then crawled in myself. Claire did not rouse herself or show much interest. When the time came, when Esther returned, walked through the house, and then found the cake, I would wake Claire and help her see.
We settled onto our cushions, pulled shut the door, and waited. Claire leaned against me, seemed to whisper something, but I think she was speaking to herself.
From where I sat I could see perfectly through the peephole. That was a pretty cake on the pedestal, its little wax ball starting to sweat from the smoke. I was just fine to wait here.
It was dark and late when I woke beneath Claire’s damp body. Someone was in the house. I pressed my face to the peephole.
The footsteps shook the floor. Esther must have been wearing boots. She clomped through the house as if she were old and slow. I could hear every move as she walked near to us, then far. All I saw through the hole was the little silver cake on the table.
The steps drew closer, and then a voice called hello. A man’s voice.
Hello and hello and hello. He called out the name Steven? Steven as a question. He asked if Steven was there. Walked through, opened and closed doors. Was Steven home? Anybody?
“Hello?”
It was Murphy.
I held my breath.
He was bundled for the cold. He stood huge in our little house. The room was doll-size with him in it.
He stopped next to the cake, let a finger drag through the frosting. He turned and looked at the door that sheltered Claire and me.
I stared at him through the peephole and did not move.
The wet rattle of Claire’s breath seemed suddenly loud. I could not shush her. Even placing my hand over her mouth would not work. The sound didn’t come from her mouth, but from her chest, her whole body. Our hiding place vibrated with Claire’s gasps.
Murphy walked off, resumed calling out hello, but in a lifeless, obligatory way, as if he couldn’t turn off his voice.
I waited for Murphy to leave, but he took his time. He went upstairs, came down, went back up. At one point it seemed that he pulled up a chair, sat for a while, before scooting out again.
In our bedroom Murphy seemed to move some furniture.
Finally the front door closed and his steps retreated.
I kept on waiting, pictured Murphy walking to his car, opening it, getting in, and driving away. Then I pictured the same routine again, over and over, until I could be sure that he was far away.
Except I could never be sure of that.
Claire’s weight was stifling, a wet pressure. I pushed her off me and climbed out of the crawl space to survey the damage.
All throughout the house everything seemed as it was, except upstairs