“They were rich. They were influential. They had a lot to lose,” I say. “So maybe they killed her by accident and decided to hide it. Or at least that’s what I used to think.”
Laura shrugs. “So what’s the working theory now?”
“I don’t really have one. I mean, how did she end up in the basement of the town mechanic’s house?”
Laura chuckles merrily, which strikes me as not too appropriate. She’s sipping her coffee with relish even though it must be as cold as mine. “How? Is that a real question?”
“You mean he snatched her off the street,” I say. “Sure. That sounds likely. But then again, why didn’t the Fortiers look for her?”
“Who says they didn’t?”
“Come on, Mom. I know enough of this place. If, I don’t know, Luc’s kid went missing—the whole town would be out combing every inch of the fields and forests.”
Laura rolls her eyes. “Subtle,” she says with another chuckle. “Luc and Cath don’t have kids. You’re welcome for the info. And why might you be feeling this out? Putting together an attack plan?”
“It was just hypothetical,” I seethe. “Because his family is kind of what the Fortiers used to be.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m serious, Mom. I don’t care. I’m so over Luc.”
She gives me a pointed look and takes another sip of coffee. Her eyes narrow in pleasure.
A terrible suspicion creeps into my mind. “Mom,” I say. “Laura.”
“What?” She bats her eyelashes at me innocently.
“Give me that.”
She tries to dodge but I snatch the cup out of her hand and take a sniff. Sure enough, it makes my eyes water. Of what’s left in the cup, more than half is cheap brandy. “Jesus, Laura.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” she deadpans.
“When did you have time to do that?” I exclaim, exasperated. It occurs to me that this is a pointless question. I could have been watching her like a hawk the whole time, and she still would have found a way. “It’s not even noon yet.”
“When you’re my age you’ll understand,” she says. “Now, don’t you have anything you should be doing? Like applying for jobs?”
“I’m not applying for jobs,” I snap. “I’m not staying here a second longer than I have to.”
She scoffs. The nice Laura from earlier is gone. This is the mom that I remember all too well, the volatile, destructive, scornful bundle of resentment and seething hate that I grew up with. “Then don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
I’m not a teenager anymore, or so I tell myself. But I do slam the door fairly hard behind me.
When you’re my age you’ll understand, fuck that. When I’m her age, I’ll be far from Marly. As far as I can get.
I take the car and drive to the town center, not sure yet what I’m going to do. My thoughts are in disorder, and I struggle to overcome my anger, or at least to make sense of it.
Why did Laura never leave Marly? So much of all that hate and negativity seems to stem from it. That scene with my acceptance letter was an excuse. It had nothing to do with her cancer. She resented me for making my escape.
But I grew up with the same advantages, or lack thereof, as she did. I had only myself to rely on. I took out student loans and waited tables and poured shooters. Yet I did it, and she never even tried. When I was growing up, I thought she was just that limited and cowardly, like so many other people around town. But then I grew to realize that if she did, perhaps, lack courage, limited wasn’t the right way to describe Laura O’Malley.
Then why did she stay?
The main street is busy, crowded with vans of decontamination companies and various contractors. It seems work is underway. I leave all the town hotspots in the rearview mirror and park the car in a lot by the local park. This is where the town drunks used to congregate, and it turns out they still do.
And there he is, just the person I wanted to see.
Growing up, I knew to beware of Tony Bergmann. It was one of those things that no one had to tell you explicitly and that everyone just seemed to know.
If you saw Tony as we often did, idling by the convenience store or getting blind drunk at the park, it was hard to fathom that this guy of indeterminate age, with the build of a meth head, dressed year-round in the same greasy anorak and tattered work boots, was related to the Bergmanns. To the same bloodline as Pierre with his vintage cars and Luc’s dad and, well, Luc too. The fact remained that he bore their last name. Another fact was that he often lurked behind the school, around the soccer field, especially during recess for the younger kids and gym class for the older ones. You’d see him hanging around the old bleachers, under the seats like a literal troll, leering at the girls. Sometimes you’d see him on the church steps, howling and hurling obscenities at the indifferent building of gray stone.
There were many rumors as to what exactly was the deal with Tony. Which was odd, when you think about it, especially in a place like Marly, where everyone knew everything about everyone. But I suppose if you were important enough, as the Bergmanns were and still are, you had your way of keeping the more unflattering info under wraps. So there were rumors of his family shipping him off to rehab several times, or maybe it was some kind of mental facility, no one knew for sure. They only knew it never seemed to make a difference.
Maybe it was just addiction—that would be the simplest and most likely answer. Some said he’d developed schizophrenia in his early teens. Others pointed out the weird vertical scar you could see poking out from under his perpetual oily beanie cap, slicing his right eyebrow and pulling at his right eyelid to give him an even more demented look—supposedly he’d sustained a head injury at some point that left him with diminished capacities.
Then, of course, there were the crazier rumors about failed brain surgery and demonic possession (hence the scar and the yelling at the church), but I think most of us kids realized these were bullshit. In any event, whatever the reasons for his state, we knew to stay away. He was just as likely to try to feel you up as he was to unexpectedly throw a broken beer bottle at your head. But no one did anything about him—he remained a sort of fixture of town life, an unpleasant reminder of things lurking beneath the surface.
Naturally, he was on my radar two years ago when I was looking into Michelle’s disappearance. Even though pointing fingers at the town crazy person was a bit facile, I couldn’t just discount the possibility that he could have done it. He was fifteen at the time, and this was apparently before his problems manifested in full force, but he was already known as something of a troublemaker. I found records of him breaking into an elderly woman’s house with intent to burglarize—this was the only time there was official proof, but I can only imagine how many other incidents got swept under the rug by his father before he realized there was nothing to be done and stopped trying.
Two years ago, I tried to talk to Tony but he was nowhere to be found. He would often disappear like this, only to come back after a couple of weeks. Maybe he went to nearby towns to panhandle or maybe the Bergmanns still hadn’t given up on rehab, no one knew. But today, I spot Tony almost immediately.
The sight is a shock, even though I had low expectations. But he still wears the exact same anorak, its fake fur collar bald, its color so matted it’s indistinguishable. When I come close, it’s striking how he hasn’t changed that much in more than a decade. He looked both ageless and ancient before as he does now. He sits on the pavement, his back against the park fence. Next to him is a beer can but he doesn’t seem to notice it. His gaze fixes on me, and his lips stretch in a rictus.
“Hi, Tony,” I say with cautious neutrality.
The rictus widens. “Laura,” he drawls.
Damn. This is the second person in as many days to confuse me with Laura. I’m starting to fear this says at least as much about me as about them. “I’m not Laura,” I say. “I’m Stephanie.”
