She puts a finger to the dial. Hesitates. She does not want to call her mother, but she has no one else to call.
At last, reluctantly, she dials the number to her childhood home, closing her eyes against the memories that the act invokes: being forgotten one too many times at a friend’s house; calling home from the nurse’s office, sweaty with fever, knowing that no one would answer the phone. Now, like then, it rings many times in a row; but then there comes a little voice on the other end that catches Louise off guard.
“Hello?”
“Jesse?” says Louise. “Jesse?”
He doesn’t ever answer the phone. He’s timid to the point of incapacity: a trait bemoaned by their mother at every opportunity.
“Jesse, are you all right?”
“Louise,” says Jesse. “Mom’s sick.”
“What kind of sick?” Louise asks.
“She’s in bed.”
“Is she awake?” Louise says. “Is she breathing? Jesse?”
Across the room, Denny Hayes raises his head.
“She’s okay,” says Jesse. “Just hasn’t left her room for a while.”
Louise closes her eyes.
“Have you eaten today?” she asks him, quietly. She wishes for privacy. Angles her back toward Denny.
On the other end of the line, she hears a quick shuddering intake of breath: this is Jesse trying not to cry. She pictures him, the corners of his mouth tucked down.
“Listen,” Louise says. “Listen. Go to Shattuck’s. Get a few things and put it on my account. Not Mom’s,” she says. “Mine.”
“Aw, Lou,” says Jesse, and she can almost hear his face reddening at the thought. To interact with any adult outside the family is almost unthinkable to Jesse.
“Do it,” says Louise. “Jesse, I need you to try to do it. You can’t go hungry.”
Jesse hesitates. Behind her, Louise can hear Denny clearing his throat.
“What should I get?” Jesse says at last.
Suddenly, a different voice: the operator, requesting more change. Louise has none.
“Cheap stuff that’ll fill you up,” says Louise, with urgency. “Bread and cheese. The kind of cheese that comes in a jar. Get whatever cooked meat you can find on sale. Whatever they’ve got.”
“Okay,” says Jesse, tearfully. “I’ll try.”
A moment passes in silence. And then he speaks again: “Louise? Why did you call?”
But there is a click on the line—time’s up—and the operator ends their conversation abruptly.
• • •
She stands there with the phone in her hand for some time, gathering the strength to turn back toward Denny—who has clearly heard everything. Who remembers her mother, who no doubt witnessed her mother at her worst. He might pity her, thinks Louise. If there is anything Louise despises, it’s the feeling of being pitied—especially by someone like Denny Hayes, who is himself pitiable in ways too numerous to count.
And sure enough, when she hangs up the phone and steels herself to face him, he is looking at her with a somber expression on his face, his lips a straight line of compassion, feigned or real. Louise stares back at him defiantly.
“What?” she says.
“You all right?” he says. He’s holding something in his hands. It’s a paper cup of coffee. He holds it out to her. She doesn’t take it.
“Sure,” says Louise. “Except I’m under arrest for something I didn’t do. That’s the only thing wrong with me.”
Denny’s expression hardens.
“Come on,” he says, and walks her into one of two back rooms, and places her at a table there, and puts the coffee down roughly. A little splashes out, scalds her hand. He tells her that a different investigator will be by to speak with her shortly. He has to return to the Preserve.
Then he closes and locks the door between them.
Alice
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Alice sits up very straight, listening for that sound again. It was a girl’s voice, crying out. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of the voice made it clear that the girl was distressed.
It wasn’t Barbara. She’d recognize both of her children’s voices anywhere.
She makes no move. Closes her eyes, which sometimes helps her hear things better. She sits in her Adirondack chair, listening for the voice again.
“Alice.”
