Gardill—Trish—is a tall, heavy woman with short brown hair who almost never smiles. Her husband, Ray, is short and rail-thin. He keeps a large, carefully maintained vegetable garden in his backyard. He’s a lot nicer than his wife; he’s known on our street for giving out his surplus of tomatoes and zucchinis and peppers to his neighbors, often leaving bags filled with produce on our porches early in the morning. Every time I see the two of them together, I think of the nursery rhyme that goes, “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean …” More than once, my sister and I have giggled at the idea of the Gardills having any kind of sex life.
Mr. Gardill raises his hand in a wave. Mrs. Gardill gives me a look of disapproval. They obviously see the police cars and are probably wondering what “Alice” did to get into trouble this time.
Farther down the block, a real estate agent fusses with an OPEN HOUSE sign in front of a brick Colonial that’s beenon the market, vacant, for over a year. About eight weeks ago, Robin and I broke into the house late on a Saturday night. We sat in front of the unlit fireplace in the master bedroom and shared a gallon jug of cheap white wine. We pretended the house belonged to us, that it was our bedroom, and that we were sitting before an actual fire. I held out a hand toward the imaginary flames and could almost feel their warmth spreading to my body. Much later that night, both of us tipsy and happy, we climbed the stairs to the attic and stared at the quiet, empty street, absorbing the silence all around us. Right before we left, Robin used his fingertip to write our initials in the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on the kitchen window.
The night was like magic. I remember every detail, right down to the silver hoop earring I lost at some point as we strolled around the house, unafraid of getting caught trespassing. Someone must have cleaned the house a few days later, because the next time I passed by, our initials were gone. I often wonder if my earring is still somewhere inside.
I turn into the alley that runs parallel to our street, behind our house. The garage door is open; I must have forgotten to close it this morning.
The garage is dark and silent, except for the low buzzing sound of a huge chest freezer against the far wall. I stand beside the Porsche for a few minutes, afraid to go inside my house and face the people who are waiting for me. Everything hung on the walls around me—gardening shears, an old saw,a neat row of screwdrivers, a throng of empty picture frames—seems angular and menacing, like they could come to life at any moment and attack me.
But I know it’s all harmless. I know I’m safe for the moment. Wherever she is, Rachel is almost certainly
not
safe, and it’s probably my fault. Any fear that I’m feeling, spurred by my anxiety and my imagination, is nothing compared to what she might be experiencing right now. As much as I’m dreading it, I know that I have to go inside and face the police. I have to find Rachel.
Once I’m outside, in the yard between the garage and the house, a calmness seems to settle across the landscape. Past the house and across the street, I can hear TJ’s car radio still playing, notes of the Rolling Stones’s “Wild Horses” in the air.
Everything seems so peaceful and ordinary. From all the way across the lawn, I notice a furry yellow caterpillar inching along the iron railing of the back porch. Through the picture window, I can see my aunt and uncle sitting at the dining room table. Two uniformed policemen are seated across from them. But since I can’t hear what they’re saying, and since it is such a bright, lovely day, I can almost pretend they’re discussing something easy and relatively harmless, like an unpaid parking ticket.
From the yard next door, I hear a rhythmic swishing sound. I glance over to see our neighbor, Jane, sweeping leaves from the cement walkway that
Mr. Gardill raises his hand in a wave. Mrs. Gardill gives me a look of disapproval. They obviously see the police cars and are probably wondering what “Alice” did to get into trouble this time.
Farther down the block, a real estate agent fusses with an OPEN HOUSE sign in front of a brick Colonial that’s beenon the market, vacant, for over a year. About eight weeks ago, Robin and I broke into the house late on a Saturday night. We sat in front of the unlit fireplace in the master bedroom and shared a gallon jug of cheap white wine. We pretended the house belonged to us, that it was our bedroom, and that we were sitting before an actual fire. I held out a hand toward the imaginary flames and could almost feel their warmth spreading to my body. Much later that night, both of us tipsy and happy, we climbed the stairs to the attic and stared at the quiet, empty street, absorbing the silence all around us. Right before we left, Robin used his fingertip to write our initials in the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on the kitchen window.
The night was like magic. I remember every detail, right down to the silver hoop earring I lost at some point as we strolled around the house, unafraid of getting caught trespassing. Someone must have cleaned the house a few days later, because the next time I passed by, our initials were gone. I often wonder if my earring is still somewhere inside.
I turn into the alley that runs parallel to our street, behind our house. The garage door is open; I must have forgotten to close it this morning.
The garage is dark and silent, except for the low buzzing sound of a huge chest freezer against the far wall. I stand beside the Porsche for a few minutes, afraid to go inside my house and face the people who are waiting for me. Everything hung on the walls around me—gardening shears, an old saw,a neat row of screwdrivers, a throng of empty picture frames—seems angular and menacing, like they could come to life at any moment and attack me.
But I know it’s all harmless. I know I’m safe for the moment. Wherever she is, Rachel is almost certainly
not
safe, and it’s probably my fault. Any fear that I’m feeling, spurred by my anxiety and my imagination, is nothing compared to what she might be experiencing right now. As much as I’m dreading it, I know that I have to go inside and face the police. I have to find Rachel.
Once I’m outside, in the yard between the garage and the house, a calmness seems to settle across the landscape. Past the house and across the street, I can hear TJ’s car radio still playing, notes of the Rolling Stones’s “Wild Horses” in the air.
Everything seems so peaceful and ordinary. From all the way across the lawn, I notice a furry yellow caterpillar inching along the iron railing of the back porch. Through the picture window, I can see my aunt and uncle sitting at the dining room table. Two uniformed policemen are seated across from them. But since I can’t hear what they’re saying, and since it is such a bright, lovely day, I can almost pretend they’re discussing something easy and relatively harmless, like an unpaid parking ticket.
From the yard next door, I hear a rhythmic swishing sound. I glance over to see our neighbor, Jane, sweeping leaves from the cement walkway that
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