I’m in the hall when I hear a thud in the lower level. That’s odd. Gloria’s left already. My ears strain. Is someone else down there?
That floor houses a home gym, a kitchenette, and two spare bedrooms along with various storerooms and a playroom that opens onto the lower lawn. The twins played there when they were little. Zoe prefers her room. Most of the toys down there are too young for her: giant blocks, old tricycles, a plastic slide. I’ve been meaning to send everything to charity and turn it into a games room.
The door to the stairs lies just ahead. I edge it open and listen.
Owen’s voice floats up, along with another boy’s. I didn’t know he had a friend over. What are they doing down there? I’m suspicious.
I descend a few steps, listening.
“Here,” says the other boy. He snickers.
Sinking onto the step, I can see them: Owen and Emmett Isles, cross-legged on a brightly patchworked plastic mat. They’re bent over a single cellphone. Owen’s hair is messy, Emmett’s smooth as sheet metal. Emmett sniggers again. “Turn it up!” he orders.
I hold my breath. The light’s too dim to show their faces clearly, just their postures of nervous excitement. Tinny voices rise up, along with yelping and huffing. A stream of oh-yeahs and harder-fasters, punctuated by profanities. I recoil. They’re watching porn! It sounds violent! I hear only male voices.
I wrap my cardigan against the cold. A gift from Stan, the cashmere’s soft and warm. He always found perfect presents.
A moment of sorrow enfolds me. How can you love someone yet hate them? Or does all love grow that way, gratitude intertwined with resentment? Stan was wonderful until he wasn’t. I should have left him back when the twins were toddlers.
Clutching my cardigan, a memory rises.
Stan with his back turned, hands clenched into fists, while Owen, maybe three, lay on the floor, shrieking. My son’s face was the color of oatmeal, except for one cheek, splotched scarlet.
“Stan?” I said.
My husband turned. He looked defiant.
I wanted to ask but didn’t. I was scared he had hit him.
I clutch at my cashmere sweater. What stopped me? Was I just too exhausted—a young mother of twins, one with serious behavioral problems? Was I too selfish, loath to confront Stanley? Or was I just bamboozled? In many ways, he was a good father.
From down below, sounds of fake passion keep coming. I knead the cashmere.
When Owen was little, he’d have fits. He’d kick and screech. Every eye would turn his way. My way. Everyone judged me.
How often had I longed to shake him? Or slap him? But I didn’t. I thought that was enough. It wasn’t. A good mother would have left Stanley the moment she suspected.
Yes, I was lazy and selfish. Passive, like my mother. She knew Dad hit me. He beat her too. She was dependent on him, both emotionally and financially. She chose to accept it.
I swore I’d be different. Yet here I am, justifying everything, making excuses. How could I have stayed with Stan?
Down below, on that colorful mat, I can see the boys, rapt. The porn voices continue. Could one be a woman? I listen harder. It’s doubtful.
I pull my hands into my soft sleeves. Is Owen gay? Has he been struggling with his sexuality? It might explain his resentment and drug use. No, his issues go way deeper, which is hardly surprising given his childhood.
I hold my breath, listening. I don’t care if he’s gay. I just want him to be happy. He’s had it hard enough with his anxiety issues. Sadness fills me. Being gay’s a fresh challenge. I want his life to be easy.
The video has degenerated into grunts and shrieks. I hug my knees.
My son’s fifteen. I’m not so naive as to think he’s avoiding porn. The internet’s rife with it, although this sounds brutal. Is this normal nowadays?
I’m wondering what to do, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The sound’s off, and I grab it quickly, yet the boys must have heard something. They both peer my way.
I rise to my feet and pull deeper into the shadows. I retreat, feeling guilty. I’m not avoiding this. I’ll deal with it later.
The phone keeps buzzing. Before answering, I slip out the door and back into the hall.
It’s Ralph Isles, Emmett’s father. I assume he’s calling to find Emmett. “Ralph?” I say, still speaking softly. I advance toward the kitchen.
“Dana.” His voice is somber. “I just heard on the news. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” My throat’s tightened. The hall’s wood paneled. I lay a hand on it. It’s smooth and cool.
“Dana?” He rushes ahead. “I’m sorry to call now, when you must be overwhelmed, but with Stan gone, there are business matters to sort out.” I wait. “Papers you need to sign.” He clears his throat. “Has his will been read yet?”
I recall that night, or rather the next morning: Ralph Isles jogging toward his car, parked out front of Winderlea. Was he here that night? I’ve made no progress toward IDing my blackmailer. None at all. All I have are suspicions. And who isn’t a suspect?
I refocus on Ralph: “You should contact Stan’s lawyer, Garvin Holloway. Do you have his number?”
Ralph sighs, like he was hoping to keep the lawyers out of it. “Yes.” There’s a pause. “Dana? Could I come by? We need to talk.”
“I . . .” I rub my hair. Rather than answer, I blurt out, “Emmett’s over.”
“Emmett?” He sounds surprised and indignant.
“Yes. He’s with Owen.”
There’s no mistaking the dismay in his voice. “Really? What are they doing?”
I imagine telling the truth: they’re watching violent gay porn down in the playroom. Instead, I say, “Just hanging out.”
My head hurts. I’ll need to address this with Owen—sometime later.
I consider telling Ralph about Owen’s claim that Emmett wanted to buy spice. In normal circumstances, I’d have called Ralph already. It’s what a responsible parent would do. If someone suspected my kids were buying drugs, I’d want to know.
Before I can gather my thoughts, Ralph’s talking again: “Please tell Emmett I’ll be over to get him. He’s meant to be grounded.” His tone is clipped. “We can have a quick word then.”
I’m too surprised to dissuade him. Why is Emmett grounded?
Ten minutes later Ralph is at my front door, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt beneath a suede jacket. As usual, he looks neat and stylish, his silver beard and hair cropped short and glinting.
I start to lead him to Stan’s study but reconsider. I’m not sure what I don’t want Ralph to see, but veer toward the den instead.
“Can I get you a drink?” I wave him toward the biggest sofa.
“No.” He perches on the edge, ill at ease.
I take an armchair.
“Dana,” he says, “how much do you know about Stan’s business dealings?”
I bite my lip, ashamed. “I know nothing.” How pathetic that sounds. And how stereotypical: the wife too vapid to worry her pretty little head about financial matters. My cheeks color.
Ralph eyes me warily. “Well, things don’t look good. Stan over-extended. We’ll need a financial audit to sort things out.” He licks his lips, choosing his words carefully. “But I hoped police scrutiny could be avoided.”
“What?” I blurt. I want to laugh. And cry. Wow. Really? Despite his clean hands and pressed shirts, is Ralph hiding some dirty dealings? Was Stan?
I clasp my hands. “I’m not sure that’s possible. Not now, when the police suspect murder.” Ralph blanches. “You’ve met them,” I continue. “Detectives Bellows and Shergold. They’re very thorough.”
Ralph looks crestfallen but doesn’t answer. The grandfather clock chimes the half hour. I jump. I didn’t want that clock, but Stan liked it. It belonged to my dad.
“How bad is it, financially?” I ask Ralph. “For my family. Are we”—I can barely say it—“bankrupt?”
“It’s hard to say.” Now that he knows I can’t or won’t help, he looks peevish.
My head’s swimming. How will I support my kids? Or could this bad news have a silver lining? I’d hit myself in the face, hard enough to get a black eye. Could a man stab himself to death? Stan wouldn’t do that. Yet he couldn’t hack being poor either. He really might have preferred to end it all.
“Bad enough that Stan might have . . .” I study the hand-knotted carpet. “Done something drastic?”
“I don’t know, Dana.” He squints. “I can’t imagine Stan killing himself, if that’s what you’re suggesting, but”—he rubs his neat beard—“I guess you never know.” His mouth curls with anger or irritation. “He was definitely feeling the pressure.”
I nod. I hope the police will get stuck on that uncertainty.
It’s only after he’s left, taking his sullen son with him, that I realize I forgot to ask why Emmett was grounded.
I turn to Owen, still with me in the front hall after seeing his friend out.
Outside, I can hear the doors of Ralph’s Porsche slam. “Owen,” I say, “what have you and Emmett been up to?”
My son’s body tenses. “Just watching video clips,” he says gruffly.
I study him, his eyes fixed on the door. Is this the right time to pursue this? There’s so much I could say, but it’s all caught in my throat.
Owen turns to look at me, like he’s wondering what my problem is.
“Owen?”
“Yeah.” He’s wearing black jeans that are frayed at the knees and a stretched, stained gray sweatshirt.
“The night Dad died.” The last word feels hard and strange on my tongue, an ugly new language I’m learning. I sat all three kids down last night, in the den, and broke the news that the police had found their dad’s body. Zoe cried. The twins didn’t. They barely reacted. I need to find a grief counselor. I should have done that already. And yet . . .
Owen’s shoulders hunch rounder. “Yeah?”
I’m speaking softly, so no one will hear us. Zoe and Chad are around somewhere. “That night,” I resume. “Why were you and Dad fighting?”
He stiffens and straightens, then looks me right in the eye. We’re a few feet apart. He shakes his head. “He’s dead, Mom. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” I say. “Please, Owen.”
Because he usually slouches, I hadn’t realized how much he’s grown. With his back straight and his head high, he’s almost as tall as I am.
He balls his hands into fists as tears fill his eyes. His face is a hurt child’s, yet his voice is a man’s: “Dad called me a faggot.”
I reach for his arm, but he shakes me off.
“You know what?” he says. “I’m glad he’s dead.”