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Teddy returns to the den, wearing his swimsuit. “Ready?”
“Hang on, Teddy. What is this?”
“What is what?”
“Who is this person? In the hole?”
“Anya.”
“And who’s the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he burying her?”
“In a forest.”
“Why?”
“Because he stole Anya’s little girl,” Teddy says. “Also can I have some watermelon before swimming?”
“Sure, Teddy, but why—”
It’s too late. He’s already skipping into the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator. I follow and find him standing on tiptoes, reaching for the top shelf and a slab of ripe red melon. I help him carry it over to the butcher block and then I use a chef’s knife to carve off a slice. Teddy doesn’t wait for a plate; he just grabs it and starts eating.
“T-Bear, listen to me, what else did Anya say to you? About the drawing?”
His mouth is full of melon and red juice dribbles down his chin. “The man dug a hole so no one would find her,” he says with a shrug. “But I guess she got out.”
8
That night the whole family goes out for dinner. Caroline invites me to join in, but I tell her I need to run, and then I putter around the cottage until I hear her car backing out of the driveway.
Then I walk across the lawn to the house next door.
Mitzi has one of the smallest houses on the block, a redbrick ranch with a metal roof and roller shades drawn tight over every window. Her place would look right at home in my old neighborhood of South Philly, but here in well-to-do Spring Brook it’s a bit of an eyesore. The rusty rain gutters are sagging, weeds have sprouted in the sidewalk cracks, and the mottled yard could use some help from Lawn King. Caroline has commented more than once that she can’t wait for Mitzi to move away, so a developer will bulldoze the house and start over.
There’s a small handwritten note taped to the front door: WELCOME CLIENTS. PLEASE USE BACK ENTRANCE. I have to knock three times before Mitzi finally answers. She keeps the chain latched and peers out through the one-inch gap. “Yes?”
“It’s Mallory. From next door?”
She unlatches the chain and opens the door. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you scared the heck out of me!” She’s wearing a purple kimono and clutching a canister of pepper spray. “What are you thinking, banging on the door so late?”
It’s just a few minutes past seven and the little girls down the street are still out on the sidewalk playing hopscotch. I present a small plate of cookies covered in Saran Wrap. “Teddy and I made gingersnaps.”
Her eyes go wide. “I’ll put on coffee.”
She grabs my wrist and pulls me into a darkened living room, and I blink my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The house is dirty. The air has a musty, skunky smell that’s part cannabis and part high school locker room. The sofa and armchairs are shrouded in clear plastic slipcovers, but I can see a layer of grime on the surfaces, as if they haven’t been wiped down in months.
Mitzi leads me into the kitchen and I find the back of her house a little more pleasant. Her shades are open and the windows overlook the forest. Spider plants hang from the ceiling in baskets with long leafy tendrils spilling over the sides. The cabinets and appliances are straight out of the 1980s and everything feels familiar, cozy, like my neighbors’ kitchens in South Philly. Spread across the Formica kitchen table are sheets of newspaper and several oiled pieces of black metal, including a spring and a barrel and a trigger. I realize that if a person assembled these pieces in the right order, the result would be a handgun.
“You caught me cleaning it,” Mitzi explains, and with a sweep of her arm she pushes everything to one side of the table, jumbling all the parts. “Now how do you take your coffee?”
“Do you have decaf?”
“Yuck, no, never. That’s just chemicals in a cup. Tonight we’re drinking good old-fashioned Folgers.”
I don’t want to tell her I’m in recovery so I just say I’m very sensitive to caffeine. Mitzi promises one little cup won’t hurt me and I figure she’s probably right.