The phone rings upstairs.
62
Marin
The phone is mine.Upstairs.On the kitchen counter where I left it.
I look at Luke.He looks at me.The phone stops ringing and then starts again.
I go upstairs.Close the basement door behind me.My hands are shaking.The screen says MRS.MATHER.
“Hello?”
“Dear, it’s Helen.”Her voice is calm.The calm of a woman who has been calm her entire life because God handles the rest.“Your husband is here.”
I don’t breathe.
“He came to my door this afternoon.Confused.Barely dressed.He was saying the most terrible things.The tumor, I imagine.But I got him settled.He’s resting now?—”
Oh, thank God.“I’ll be right over.”
Mrs.Mather opens the door before I knock.
She’s wearing a housecoat and slippers and the relaxed expression of a woman who has been up all night and has made her peace with why.Her hair is pinned back.Her eyes are clear.She looks like a woman who just finished a long project and is satisfied with the result.
“Come in, dear,” she says.
The house smells like banana bread and something underneath it—chamomile, maybe.Or lavender.Something designed to soothe.Every surface is clean.The cross on the wall hangs straight.The Bible is on the side table, closed, a ribbon marking whatever page she read last.
Charles is on the couch.
He’s lying on his back with a quilt pulled up to his chest.His hands are folded.His eyes are closed.His face is smooth—no tension, no pain, no anger.He looks like a man who fell asleep watching television.
He looks peaceful.I’ve never seen Charles look peaceful.
“He came to my door looking awful,” Mrs.Mather says.She’s in the kitchen now.Putting the kettle on.Like this is a visit.Like I’ve come for tea.“Confused.Barely dressed.He could hardly stand.The tumor, dear.I called Patricia—she knew exactly what to do.She said the wandering, the confusion, it’s all part of it.They lose themselves at the end.”
I stand in the living room.Looking at Charles.Looking at the quilt she tucked around him.Looking at the slippers she placed next to the couch.
“He was saying terrible things,” Mrs.Mather says from the kitchen.Her voice is steady.Conversational.The voice of a woman describing what she plans to make for dinner.“About being locked up.About the basement.About you and the young man who’s been fixing the house.”She shakes her head.“The things a tumor will do to a mind.It’s cruel.It’s just cruel.”
63
Luke
The phone rang upstairs.Marin answered.
I heard two words through the basement door she didn’t close all the way.
“Oh God.”
Then: “I’ll be right there.”
Footsteps.The front door.No car.No engine.No gravel.She went on foot.Which means she didn’t go far.
The basement door is open.Three inches.Maybe four.
I look at the rope.Look at the door.Look at the three inches of light coming through the gap.
