The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [142]
You have come to suspect that the women were involved in Michael’s disappearance, just as you have come to suspect that they were involved in Hewitt Dunmore’s death. But you can’t see why or how. You have the sense now that they are plotting something involving you, and that Emily is complicit. She seems to be seeing more of Valerian. There are phone conversations that end abruptly when you enter a room or descend the stairs to the first floor. Emily brought home some papers from work, and when you aimlessly wandered into the kitchen and saw her reading them, she thrust them into her briefcase.
This morning Ethan visited you soon after Emily and the girls had left for the day, and he told you in no uncertain terms that your suspicions were accurate: Emily is becoming one of them. People don’t tell you things, but you are aware that secrets are rising like distant thunderclouds. A new name for Emily and new names for your daughters. When were they planning on telling you? It is possible that Emily already is one of them. Just look at the plants that have appeared in your greenhouse. Her greenhouse. The girls’ greenhouse. Ethan tried to reassure you that all of the pain you are experiencing will stop once Ashley gets a playmate—your guilt, too, will melt away—but you told him you would rather live with the pain and the guilt and the debilitating sense of failure. He reminded you that it wasn’t a question of character. It was a question of strength. And he was stronger. The fact was, someday the two of you would do it together. It was inevitable. Think back to the evening when Molly Francoeur was over for dinner and a playdate. Or that night when you tiptoed up to the third floor with Tansy’s knife. You would do it, he told you. You would.
Meanwhile, outside the house the birds dart among the trees—the evergreens and the maples and the mountain ash alike—and savor their return to the north. Even the geese are back now. But at least they have the kindness to steer clear of your yard.
You have three more steps to repair on this back stairway when you hear someone calling for you from the front hallway, a woman, and you believe it is Reseda’s sultry voice. So, you adjust the collar of your denim shirt, smooth your hair, and emerge into the kitchen.
“Well, Reseda, this is a surprise. Lovely to see you,” you say. You hadn’t realized how sunny it had become while you were working in the dark of that back staircase.
She stares at you in that slightly odd, inquisitive manner that had led you to presume initially that hers was a mind that tended to wander. You have since decided that nothing could be further from the truth. It’s almost as if she can read a person’s mind. But of course she can’t. No one can really do that.
“What home improvement am I interrupting this morning?” she asks. She is wearing a waist-length black leather jacket and jeans.
“The back stairs. I have no idea if we’ll ever use them, but you never know. A fire exit, maybe. So, I’m repairing the scarier-looking steps.”
“Do you have a couple of minutes?”
You motion toward the deacon’s bench where once the family cat would sleep, and Reseda unzips her jacket and sits.
“I don’t know if I’ve told you, but I am very, very sorry about Desdemona,” she says. “That was her name, right?”
“Thank you. It was a bit of a blow,” you admit, taking the ladder-back chair across from her. You wonder: Does she think you killed the cat, too? It’s so clear that Valerian does. And Anise. And, perhaps, even your own family. And yet you didn’t. At least