awful world. He loved her more than his life, more than his soul.
But he’d failed her. Failed his children. Failed the lives they’d all built together because he’d refused to see Dolores, really
He’d refused to see it because if she actually were his true love, his immortal other self, then what did that say about his brain, his sanity, his moral weakness?
And so, he’d hidden from it, hidden from her. He’d left her alone, his one love, and let her mind consume itself.
He watched her sway. Oh, Christ, how he loved her.
Loved her (and it shamed him deeply), more than his sons.
But more than Rachel?
Maybe not. Maybe not.
He saw Rachel in her mother’s arms as her mother carried her to the water. Saw his daughter’s eyes go wide as she descended into the lake.
He looked at his wife, still seeing his daughter, and thought:
Teddy sat on the floor of the gazebo and wept. He wasn’t sure for how long. He wept and he saw Dolores on the stoop as he brought her flowers and Dolores looking back over her shoulder at him on their honeymoon and Dolores in her violet dress and pregnant with Edward and removing one of her eyelashes from his cheek as she pulled away from his kiss and curled in his arms as she gave his hand a peck and laughing and smiling her Sunday- morning smiles and staring at him as the rest of her face broke around those big eyes and she looked so scared and so alone, always, always, some part of her, so alone…
He stood and his knees shook.
He took a seat beside his wife and she said, “You’re my good man.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“You are.” She took his hand. “You love me. I know that. I know you’re not perfect.”
What had they thought—Daniel and Rachel—when they woke to their mother tying rope around their wrists? As they looked into her eyes?
“Oh,
“I do. But you’re mine. And you try.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, “please don’t say any more.”
And Edward. Edward would have run. She would have had to chase him through the house.
She was bright now, happy. She said, “Let’s put them in the kitchen.”
“What?”
She climbed atop him, straddled him, and hugged him to her damp body. “Let’s sit them at the table, Andrew.” She kissed his eyelids.
He held her to him, crushing her body against his, and he wept into her shoulder.
She said, “They’ll be our living dolls. We’ll dry them off.”
“
“We’ll change their clothes.” She whispered it in his ear.
He couldn’t see her in a box, a white rubber box with a small viewing window in the door.
“We’ll let them sleep in our bed tonight.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Just the one night.”
“Please.”
“And then tomorrow we can take them on a picnic.”
“If you ever loved me…” Teddy could see them lying on the shore.
“I always loved you, baby.”
“If you ever loved me, please stop talking,” Teddy said.
He wanted to go to his children, to bring them alive, to take them away from here, away from her.
Dolores placed her hand on his gun.
He clamped his hand over hers.
“I need you to love me,” she said. “I need you to free me.”
She pulled at his gun, but he removed her hand. He looked in her eyes. They were so bright they hurt. They were not the eyes of a human. A dog maybe. A wolf, possibly.
After the war, after Dachau, he’d swore he would never kill again unless he had no choice. Unless the other man’s gun was already pointed at him. Only then.
He couldn’t take one more death. He couldn’t.
She tugged at his gun, her eyes growing even brighter, and he removed her hand again.
He looked out at the shore and saw them neatly lined up, shoulder to shoulder.
He pulled his gun free of its holster. He showed it to her.
She bit her lip, weeping, and nodded. She looked up at the roof of the gazebo. She said, “We’ll pretend they’re with us. We’ll give them baths, Andrew.”
And he placed the gun to her belly and his hand trembled and his lips trembled and he said, “I love you, Dolores.”
And even then, with his gun to her body, he was sure he couldn’t do it.
She looked down as if surprised that she was still there, that he was still below her. “I love you, too. I love you so much. I love you like—”
And he pulled the trigger. The sound of it came out of her eyes and air popped from her mouth, and she placed her hand over the hole and looked at him, her other hand gripping his hair.
And as it spilled out of her, he pulled her to him and she went soft against his body and he held her and held her and wept his terrible love into her faded dress.
HE SAT UP in the dark and smelled the cigarette smoke before he saw the coal and the coal flared as Sheehan took a drag on the cigarette and watched him.
He sat on the bed and wept. He couldn’t stop weeping. He said her name. He said:
“Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.”
And he saw her eyes watching the clouds and her hair floating out around her.
When the convulsions stopped, when the tears dried, Sheehan said, “Rachel who?”
“Rachel Laeddis,” he said.
“And you are?”
“Andrew,” he said. “My name is Andrew Laeddis.”
Sheehan turned on a small light and revealed Cawley and a guard on the other side of the bars. The guard had his back to them, but Cawley stared in, his hands on the bars.
“Why are you here?”
He took the handkerchief Sheehan offered and wiped his face.
“Why are you here?” Cawley repeated.
“Because I murdered my wife.”
“And why did you do that?”
“Because she murdered our children and she needed peace.”
“Are you a U.S. marshal?” Sheehan said.
“No. I was once. Not anymore.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since May third, 1952.”
“Who was Rachel Laeddis?”
“My daughter. She was four.”
“Who is Rachel Solando?”
“She doesn’t exist. I made her up.”
“Why?” Cawley said.
