Mystery Dance: Three Novels Read online

  “That really happened. It’s all true.”

  “Bullshit. I was the one who ate lunch with Cynthia Chaney. Walked her home. Screwed her in the bushes behind the trailer park. She had this crazy idea that I was gonna marry her and rescue her from her pathetic excuse for a life. Dumb bitch.”

  “Cynthia was a nice girl. She couldn’t help it that you ruined her.”

  “Cry me a goddamned river. Any girl that spreads her legs when you whisper the word ‘love’ deserves everything she gets.”

  “She had to move to Florida after the abortion.”

  “If you believe all the other stupid sluts. I’d bet money she was looking for an excuse to drop out of school and came up with that one because nobody would blame her. People are real good at arranging the truth to fit their needs. And I wasn’t the only one to ride that little pony, anyway.”

  “The next day…” Jacob looked out the window, the anger seeping out of him along with his strength. “Cynthia thought I was you. She came up to me behind the gym and kissed me on the mouth, said meet her at lunch and make plans for running away together.”

  Joshua laughed. “Told you she was a dumb bitch. You probably felt sorry for her. Shows how messed up you were back then. Hell, I knew it two years before the doctors did. Didn’t take a college degree to hear those loose screws rattling around inside your skull.”

  “Give me the diary.”

  “Wait. We’re about to get to the good part. ‘March 3: I wonder what it’s like to be Joshua. They say twins often share a psychic bond that goes beyond anything that DNA can explain. This book I read said that’s why twins separated at birth will often lead lives that seem amazingly parallel.’ Hey, that’s a good one. ‘Psychic bond.’ Do you really believe that crap, or is it some screwy shit the doctors told you?”

  “We’re alike in a lot of ways. In ways that make me ashamed. But Dad thought I was the troubled one. I guess you’re right about people seeing what they want to see.”

  The sun was slanting through the window at a low angle, illuminating the dusty clutter under Joshua’s bed. That thing about monsters under the bed, the hand rising up to snatch children away to that dark land beneath, had been nothing but a story. Yet as the shadows of the room grew deeper, Jacob sat on his childhood bed and had to fight an urge to pull his feet up from the floor and tuck them under his knees. The monsters were long gone, their power to scare sealed away in the dead hollows of closets and empty toy boxes.

  Joshua turned a few more pages and a piece of crinkled celluloid fell out of the diary. Joshua picked it up, glanced at it then spun it over to Jacob as if it were a square Frisbee. Jacob caught it. The Polaroid portrayed him and Joshua in matching blue sailor suits, aged about seven. It must have been early summer, because neither wore shoes. It took Jacob a moment to recognize himself as the one on the right, the one who held a small sailboat. Jacob had loved that sailboat and had slept with it on the windowsill at the head of his bed.

  Then one day Joshua had torn it from his hands and set it loose in the river, where it plunged over the tumbling, rocky currents and headed for a plunging froth of falls. Jacob had raced after the boat, almost jumping in the river to save it, but he couldn’t swim and the water was fat and brown from recent rains. He ran along the riverbank as the briars and scrub locusts ripped jagged red lines across his arms and legs. He finally watched, helplessly tangled, as the sailboat careened against a protruding monolith of granite and shattered into bright scraps of painted wood and cloth.

  “‘April 11,’” Joshua read. “‘Mother is sick again. She stayed in bed all day and I had to bring her soup. She wouldn’t eat any solid food. Medicine and wine. Her face is pale and her hair somehow turned gray over these past few weeks. Father stays downstairs in his study. Joshua hides when it’s time to take food to Mother. We should get a nurse for her.’”

  Joshua slammed the diary closed. “Mommy’s little pet, weren’t you?”

  “It was an accident,” Jacob said, looking out the window, seeing the broken sailboat in his mind, splinters in the foam.

  “Nothing’s an accident. We get everything we deserve.”

  “No.” The river rose up, dark waters rimmed with white teeth.

  “You pushed her, Jacob.”

  “No.” The river opened like a large mouth, the cold current inviting him inside.

  “You killed your own fucking mother.”

  Jacob rubbed the bottoms of his fists against his eyes, trying to wipe the sight of that broken sailboat out of his mind. Somewhere, far from here, its wreckage must have reached the bottom of a calm sea.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Renee drove by the remains of their house Wednesday just as the sun hit the far tops of the Blue Ridge. She had meant to keep going, but found herself turning into the driveway as if she were back from a run to the grocery store. The block footprint of the building lay like a lidless coffin. Yellow plastic tape still stretched around the charred wreckage, though it was ripped in places, the pieces fluttering like the tails of tangled kites.

  At the rear of the backyard, a small storage shed had been blackened but otherwise undamaged. The branches of the oaks and maples nearest the house were stunted and bare, crippled fingers among the vibrant spring foliage. A split-rail fence along the western side of the property had been knocked down, probably by one of the tanker trucks. The front yard was crisscrossed with ruts, the sidewalk cracked, mail-box leaning like a penitent drunken priest.

  A few blackened timbers poked up from the sunken pit of debris. Twisted metal and smoky stones were scattered in the dead embers. The refrigerator had once held pictures of Mattie in her soccer uniform, foolproof recipes, wrinkled tests with red letter A’s circled at the top, all stuck to the door with colorful magnets. Now the rusty appliance lay on its side, adorned with nothing but shards of gray glass.

  She shouldn’t have come. The fire chief, Davidson, had told her the scene investigation was complete, though some evidence was being tested in the state lab. She and Jacob were welcome to salvage anything they wanted. Davidson said they could even come in with a front end loader and dump truck and clear the remains, get a fresh start on the existing foundation.

  Remains.

  Easy for Davidson to say, a woman who was married to her work and whose only responsibility was to duty. Maybe Davidson, in the privacy of her lonely bed, could cry over firefighters killed in televised tragedies or mourn victims of distant wars. But Davidson didn’t have some of the flesh of her own flesh seared into these ruins. Renee did. She wore the smoke like a burial shroud, and the loss was a hot bed of eternal coals in her chest.

  She sat in her car for a moment, looking up the street at the perfect houses with bright lights, television, and laughter behind the drawn curtains. She hated those people. They had no right to fortune and happiness. Renee had built her life from the ground up, driven each nail carefully, caulked every opening to prevent hard winds from penetrating. Yet she had failed somewhere. You could worry all you wanted about locks and safety lights, take every precaution, but tragedy still kicked in the front door, walked up the stairs, and whispered, “Nice to see you again.”

  Or maybe it slipped in a back door that someone else left open...

  A BMW drove by, one of the flattened and ugly newer models, probably driven by a perfect mother from the far side of the subdivision. One whose children were brushing their teeth and getting ready for a night of sweet dreams. A woman whose children were full of blood and breath and chicken soup. A woman with copper-bottomed skillets hanging in sequential order, arranged by descending size. A woman who watched Dr. Phil with a knowing, sympathetic smile, secure that her marriage had no hidden cracks or stress fractures.

  Renee got out of the car. The air was damp with summer dew and thick with the stench of burnt wood. She was amazed that so little of the house remained. Curls of wire, warped pipe, some dark, wet mounds of gypsum, and a few clumps of charred clothes were scattered among the black ember
s. Something caught and reflected the dying sunlight, a bright beacon in the blackness.

  It was the hand mirror her mother had given her, a family heirloom. Renee had passed it down to Mattie. The ornate silver framing had melted into shapeless slag, dark ashes stuck to the metal, but the glass was intact.

  Renee edged the line of cinder blocks that had served as the basement wall. She was wearing slacks, and her shoes would be ruined, but she worked her way down into the hole that had once been her house. A jagged strip of sheet metal cut into her ankle. She hissed the beginning of a cuss word then stopped herself, as if she were committing sacrilege on hallowed ground. The burnt wood crumbled under her feet, black dust rising and clogging her throat and nostrils.

  She reached the spot fifteen feet from the wall where the hand mirror’s surface gleamed between the twisted hulks of two rafters. She pushed a path to the mirror and picked it up, then knelt in the rubble and placed it against her heart.

  When she had given the mirror to Mattie, she had told her the story of Snow White, and how the wicked stepmother had asked the mirror about beautiful women.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Renee had said, in her most gravelly, cruel voice.

  “Who, Mommy, who?” Mattie replied, bouncing her bottom on the bed, eyes wide enough to reveal white sclera all around the pupils.

  Renee turned the mirror around so that Mattie could see herself, rosy lips and crooked baby teeth, softly curving nose and pink cheeks, hair as golden as her mother’s, but much finer. “Why, you are, silly,” Renee had said.

  She looked up at the darkening sky. That magical moment had taken place twenty feet above her, on the second floor in a land of happily ever after. And the mirror had absorbed that moment into its family legend, so that Mattie could never look into the mirror without wrinkling her nose and saying, “Why, you are, silly,” sometimes changing the emphasis of the words to say, “Why, you are silly.” Renee couldn’t believe the daughter who had owned the mirror was now less substantial than the twilight haze that hung in the trees.

  Renee jerked the mirror up and peered into its blurred surface with the childish hope that she might catch Mattie’s reflection. But the silver-backed face had slipped off with the spirit of the girl who had died in the fire.

  When you die, you take all your reflections with you.

  How much different Mattie’s ceremony had been than the disaster with Christine’s. It was more than just Jacob’s absence. A coffin, even as small as the one that held Christine, carried the suggestion of a human form. Planting a loved one at least gave the illusion of renewal. Sliding a pot into the square concrete sleeve of a mausoleum wall brought no sense of completion, even after the greasy-haired man in coveralls had screwed the wrought-iron cover into place.

  She tilted the mirror so she could see her own face in the dim light. She had aged, and her skin was tired and drawn. Her eyes were streaked with lightning bolts of red, her jaws clenched with tension. But she wasn’t looking for physical signs of reassurance. She was searching herself to see if her face still held any hope.

  “A Wells never fails,” she whispered. “But I’m not a Wells.”

  A noise came from the rear of the property, where a line of azalea and forsythia gave way to an untamed tangle of forest. Probably some dog was sniffing around, drawn by the strange smells. Maybe to its hypersensitive nose, the aroma of roasted meat still wafted–

  Renee stomped back to the block wall, the mirror under her arm. She carefully perched the mirror on the grass outside the rubble, then lifted herself up. She’d scuffed the knees of her slacks, and her hands were black. She wiped her hands but the stains remained. The noise came again from the forest edge, where street-lighted gray met night black.

  “Who’s there?” she said. She wasn’t scared. Someone who had just lost a child, had lost two children, had already faced the worst. Ordinary fear no longer had any power over her.

  A stifled giggle came from the shadows. Probably one of the neighborhood kids, responding to a dare.

  Betcha won’t go over there, Scaredy Fraidy Baby. Betcha won’t touch the house where Mattie died. Especially in the dark.

  Kids had their own way of dealing with tragedy. They poked dead things with sticks, resorted to morbid humor. They scared themselves silly on purpose. They went looking for ghosts.

  Isn’t that what you’re doing?

  No. Her ghosts had dissolved, slipped through her fingers as she watched, and all she had was a bottomless mirror.

  Mattie had been so brave about Christine’s death. Part of it had been Mattie’s ignorance of death’s permanence. Christine was still so new to the world. Mattie hadn’t gotten the opportunity to form a sisterly bond. The closest she had come was taking her turn holding Christine, rocking her when she suffered colic, and singing “Hush Little Baby.”

  And Mattie had, even more than Jacob, brought Renee through the foggy months of anguish. Mattie needed her. Not just for the everyday things like clean clothes and rides home from school, but for advice on what to do when Tommy Winegarden tried to kiss her on the playground. Or an explanation of how tadpoles could turn into frogs when they didn’t even have any legs. Or why Jesus loved the little children but let them smother in their blankies.

  The giggle came again. It hadn’t been her imagination.

  “Hello?” Renee called to the trees, wondering which of Mattie’s friends was hiding there. Sydney, Brett, or Noelle.

  The only response was a snapping of twigs and the hushed rustle of branches.

  She walked toward the noise, the marred mirror held before her like a talisman.

  “Don’t be afraid. I just want to talk to you.”

  Sydney Minter, two houses down, had come over one afternoon to play Barbies with Mattie. They both pretended dolls were really lame. Then Renee showed them how they could make a house of wooden blocks and have Barbie crash G.I. Joe’s jeep into it and, afterward, Mattie’s room grew loud with happy shouts and fantasized combat. Renee hadn’t seen the Minters at Mattie’s service.

  She reached the cold fringe of the woods and tried once more. “Come out where I can see you. I miss her, too.”

  The giggle came again, and this time it carried no wariness, no hesitancy. It was followed by a low, rasping reply from a counterfeit voice: “Wish me.”

  The voice sounded electronic, as if coming from a toy. Mattie had owned a Barbie doll that allowed the owner to record bits of song so the doll could sing “like a real rock star.” This sentence carried that same compressed, static-filled quality, as if someone had whispered into the device at close range and then played it back on an amplified setting.

  Who would play such a cruel joke? No child would be so vicious to a grieving mother. Nor as creative in cunning. Renee lifted the mirror as if to hurl it in the direction of the voice or deflect the unreal mirth. “What do you want?”

  The reply came ten seconds later, from a different dark space behind the wall of trees. Again with the electronic stage voice of someone imitating a B-movie demon: “I saw what happened.”

  “What happened where?”

  A pause, time for record and playback. “The night of the fire.”

  Renee fought her way among the sharp, grasping limbs of the landscaped bushes, ignoring the scratches to her skin. “Stay where you are,” she said, her breath and heartbeat filling her ears.

  She plunged into the woods, a pine branch slapping her face and making her eyes water. The canopy of leaves overhead merged into a ceiling of utter blackness, and only a few jagged strips of distant light leaked between the tree trunks. She spun, confused, trying to orient herself toward the direction of the voice.

  This time, it came from behind her, deeper in the forest. “He went through the door.”

  “What door?”

  Another five seconds for record and playback. “The door that swings both ways.” The source of the voice was retreating even as it spoke. Renee couldn’
t tell if it was child or adult, male or female. She held her breath, crouching with her mouth open, gauging the location of the footfalls. As she listened, her mind raced in wild synchronicity with her pulse.

  Door that swings both ways.

  Was it a riddle of some kind? Or was it all some elaborate prank played by the Minter kids or the Bennington boy or some faceless brat from one of the anonymous, perfect homes?

  Or had someone seen something on the night of the fire and was afraid to tell?

  She ran in the direction of the noise. The black trunks of trees seemed to rise up on all sides, as if they had been placed in a perfect disarray to confuse her. Low limbs slapped at her legs, ripping her slacks. The forest was like a live creature, drawing her into its wild heart. Renee clawed brittle twigs away from her face as her hair tangled in the arching branches. She tore free and lurched past a massive oak then found herself in a clearing.

  In the starlight, she could make out a worn path. It led to a creek. The path disappeared into a thicket of briars, locust, and crabapple on the other side, a dense and bristling wall through which no human could pass.

  Renee bent to the creek and splashed water on her cut face. She heard no footsteps, no false recorded voices, only the soft laughing of the water. She held up the mirror and saw herself, a wicked witch with bruised eyes, a viper’s nest of hair, blood trickling from the bridge of her nose.

  She looked down at the water’s edge. Lying on a cold gray boulder was a tiny plastic object of faded yellow.

  She stooped and picked it up, and it made a clacking sound.

  A rattle.

  It had belonged to Christine.

  Beyond it, in the hollow between two water-worn stones, lay a bundle of fabric. Renee retrieved it, looked into the frozen smile of Rock Star Barbie. The doll should have burned along with the house. It was clean, its hair untangled, the glittering clothes laundry fresh.

  She turned the doll over and felt for the button that would trigger the audio clip. She found it.