Secrets of Eden

Still, he was often on my mind. How could he not have been? After all, I’d had the Vermont State Police in my home.

Day after day I would find myself living in two worlds in my head, one I knew well and one constructed entirely from my imagination. The first comprised all of those days and nights I had spent with Stephen in Haverill, Manhattan, and Statler. I would close my eyes, and a whole cyclorama of our experiences together would unfurl before me. I would feel again the warmth of his body beside me, and I would savor the scent of the skin on his neck. I would see his eyes and the way he would listen as I spoke, with his long, beautiful fingers steepled together, almost unmoving. I would recall the stories he had shared with me and the sound of his voice-as soothing as a warm bath-and how I had believed all he’d told me.

The second world was far more abstract to me and tended to have an uncertain fluidity to it, because I was crafting it entirely from things people had told me or I had manufactured for my mind’s eye. And that world was the final day-the final hours-of Alice and George Hayward. It would begin with the baptism on Sunday morning, with the images from the digital photos of the ritual that Ginny O’Brien had taken and shared with me at Alice’s funeral. With the pond, deserted when Stephen and I had driven past it.

No, it would commence even before that. I would imagine Alice getting dressed in the morning. Choosing her bathing suit in her bedroom at eight-fifteen or eight-thirty. Perhaps gazing at herself in the long mirror that hung on the inside of the white closet door in her and George’s bedroom. This wouldn’t be vanity on her part: After all, she was about to wear that Speedo before the whole congregation, and she needed to be sure that George’s handiwork was well hidden. At that moment she would have had just about twelve hours to live.

There was her emergence from the pond water itself. Roughly eleven-thirty now. She would have nine hours remaining. I would see her spooning macaroni salad onto a paper plate at the potluck (and macaroni salad is a guess founded on nothing, because no one ever said a word to me about what Alice might have eaten at that meal). Gardening in the middle of the afternoon, in the vegetable plot in the backyard, perhaps weeding among the rows of carrots and harvesting her string beans and peas. Racing to the general store just before it closed at five o’clock to buy a clear plastic container of coleslaw: her very last purchase on this planet. She now had barely three hours. Maybe three hours and a few minutes. Less time than it takes me to drive to my sister’s in Statler. Less time than it took my mother to roast a turkey when I was a child. And, finally, there was her last phone call with Ginny. Strong, sisterly, protective Ginny O’Brien (now, it seemed, sad, scarred, and struggling Ginny O’Brien). There it was, her last conversation with anyone in the world other than the man who would kill her. She had only minutes now, though how many we’ll never know. The medical examiner in Vermont said it was impossible to be that precise with the time of death. But it was clear that the time remaining to her would be calculated in minutes, not hours.

Still, the vision I kept returning to was this: Alice Hayward alone in her bedroom at eight-thirty in the morning as she studied her curves and her legs and her breasts in that bathing suit. Twelve hours. Half a day. That was about what she had left. What, I would wonder, would she have done differently if she had known that in half a day she would be dead? If the rules were such that there was no appeal to her predestined fate-she couldn’t leave; she couldn’t be somewhere else that Sunday night-but she understood that these were her last hours on earth, what conversations would she have initiated? What experiences would have mattered to her? What advice would she have shared with fifteen-year-old Katie?

But obviously she didn’t know what loomed before her. Stephen insisted to me that she had known-that it was clear to her she was going to die and that he, in turn, should have done something. He said she might not have known it was going to occur that Sunday evening, but she had been confident that her death was coming soon at the hands of her husband. And, indeed, it had been at his hands.

Yet I questioned whether Alice really had seen this coming. She had fought George. Struggled. She had not gone quietly to the angels. And according to Ginny, there had been nothing in that last phone call that might have suggested that Alice was either frightened or despondent. She had even joked about George. Infantilized him on the telephone. And, of course, Alice had Katie. I knew if I had a child, that would be reason enough for me to want to carry on. Parents may commit suicide every day, but nothing I had heard or learned about Alice suggested she was depressed.

Consequently I found myself wondering if Stephen’s long, desperate riffs on guilt and self-loathing were nothing but an act. There. That was the whole clue, he had said, that single word. Her response to her baptism. It began to seem more and more likely that Stephen had made the whole thing up: the word as prophecy. The word as message. Oh, he might have been feeling guilty, and indeed a measure of it might have been because Alice was dead. But he hadn’t killed his former lover. If Stephen Drew really was feeling remorse, it was because he had left Alice to her fate by breaking off their affair and then, months later, because he had murdered her husband.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When my cell phone rang, I was home, rolling a yoga mat into a tube. It was raining outside, but it was a warm, Indian-summer sort of rain, and my windows overlooking Greene Street were open. I had finished my yoga for the day, and I was as close to content as I was in those weeks: not as serene as I was accustomed to being, but through prayer and meditation I was confident that eventually my aura would lose the toxicity that was causing me to see the world through an enervating smog. I felt that my angel was with me, ensuring that I would endure this strange autumn, as I had far worse crises-spiritual and physical-in my life.

“Hi, Heather, it’s me,” said a little voice, and I knew instantly that it was Katie Hayward. I sat down on the daybed so I could focus on her. I asked her where she was and how she was faring. There was a ripple of anxiety in her tone, and instantly I was worried. She was calling from the bedroom that was now hers and Tina’s at the Cousino family’s house, and the disquiet I heard was fueled, she said, by another dream she’d had the night before and she’d been thinking about all day at school. The dream-a nightmare, really-had taken place the evening when her parents had died.

“And Lula was inside the house, and my mom and dad’s bodies were there in the living room,” Katie was saying now.

“Lula was inside the house?” I asked. I remembered that someone had told me that the dog had been outside when Ginny O’Brien had arrived Monday morning.

“Yeah. And she was… ”

“Go on.”

“She was drinking my dad’s blood off his head. Lapping at it. Sort of nibbling at the hole where the bullet went in. Isn’t that gross? I feel like I’m really sick to even think of such a thing.”

“No, you’re not sick at all. But remember: Lula hadn’t been in the living room. It was just a dream. Lula had probably been out all night. Your mom or dad let her out before they… fought.”

“But that’s just it: They didn’t let Lula out! She was a shelter dog, and she’s always been a bit of a kook. Like a total lunatic. So either we walked her on a leash or we let her out when we could watch her. You know, keep an eye on her. We never just opened the door and let her out. Never. And let me tell you, she hasn’t changed a bit here at Tina’s. There is no way you just open the door and let that dog rock. I think it’s a miracle she was sitting on the front porch when Ginny got to my house the next day.”

Did Katie understand the ramifications of what she was saying? I thought she did, which would explain the fretfulness in her voice. But I wasn’t sure, and so I pressed her just a bit. “Your father had been drinking. Maybe he-”

“He didn’t let her out. I don’t care how drunk he was, he wouldn’t have let her out. I mean, like, why would he?”

“Perhaps your mother tried to leave. And Lula left then. Maybe she just ran out the door.”

“No. That’s what hit me because of the dream. As awful as the nightmare was, it made something really, really clear to me that I hadn’t thought about: Someone else let Lula out the door that night, either on purpose or by mistake. Now, sometimes, if something has totally freaked her out, she’ll just zoom out the front door. But she really does have to be totally freaked. Totally scared.”

The implication, and neither of us said anything for a moment, was that whoever had killed her father-assuming that he hadn’t killed himself-had let the dog out.