Cemetery Girl

Once, the Halloween after Caitlin had disappeared, a group of children came to our door. One of them was a teenage boy who almost looked too old to be trick-or-treating. He wore a floppy blond wig and a girl’s dress. He must not have known who I was or whose house he was at, because when I asked him who he was supposed to be, he replied casually, “Caitlin Stuart, that girl who disappeared.”

I shut the door then and turned out the lights inside the house, leaving our bowl of candy on the porch for the kids to pick through if they wanted.

It wasn’t possible to have a normal life. Not then, and it wasn’t possible even with Caitlin back. But in the yard that morning, just for a moment, I felt like a guy collecting his paper while his family slept inside. If I unrolled the paper and saw a news story about Caitlin or the arrest of John Colter, the spell would break.

I didn’t go inside right away.

I sat on the porch, barefoot and wearing my robe, the rolled-up paper in my hand, and just watched the morning unfold for a few quiet minutes. It was all waiting for me: Abby and Caitlin, John Colter, Ryan and the police. A light breeze blew and I took a deep breath, taking in the clean morning air, the sweet scent of decaying leaves.

I must have lost myself to the reverie for a few moments, because I didn’t notice Liann’s car pull up in front of the house. It swept dead leaves in its wake; then she stepped out, her sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head. She smiled at me, some strain on her face, and I saw she carried a briefcase in her left hand.

Something was happening.

“Good morning, Tom.”

“Is it still?”

She sat down next to me on the steps. “Have you talked to Ryan today?” she asked.

“No. What is it?”

“I was down at the courthouse this morning. I know a lot of people there. They still talk to me. Anyway, I found out there’s a bail hearing for John Colter,” she said. “Ten a.m. I think you should be there. You and Abby, if you can both stand it. I’m sure Ryan will be calling you about it. Colter’s lawyer has been pushing for it, and if it goes before a judge-”

“They’re not-”

“I can’t locate Tracy. And while there are witnesses to say they saw John Colter with Caitlin, that in and of itself doesn’t prove he’s guilty of anything beyond being a slimeball.”

“Statutory rape?”

“According to who? Is Caitlin ready to go down there and testify against him? All they have is the fire,” Liann said. “It’s a crime, and when the investigation is complete, they’ll prosecute. .”

“Insurance fraud.”

“He hasn’t filed a claim, and I doubt he will. His lawyer’s pushing for bail. It will be high, but he’ll get it.”

“Can Colter afford that? He’s on disability.”

“His mother’s putting up her house, some other assets.” She frowned. “He’s going to be out, Tom.”

I dropped the paper, put my head in my hands. My guts twisted and turned like my midsection was full of snakes. “Why should we go then?”

“It can’t hurt. It might pressure the judge, even just a little. I’m going to be there, too. We have to try, Tom.”

I looked up again. The same quiet street, the same falling leaves. Nothing would ever be the same. Truly. “I’m tired of trying, Liann. You can carry the flag for me.”

Part III Chapter Forty-two

My stepfather, Paul, died when I was in graduate school. When I told Abby-Buster was the one who’d called and given me the news, his voice hoarse and halting-I added that I wasn’t traveling home for the funeral.

But Abby told me I had to go, that not only did my mother and my family really need my support, but I also needed to face and ultimately close the door on the things I carried with me from the past.

“That’s why I don’t want to go,” I said. “I’ve already closed the door.”

Abby shook her head. “No, you haven’t.”

When I saw my stepfather in his casket, his face painted and sunken, a Bible tucked between the fingers of his gnarled and wrinkly hands, I felt nothing. It wasn’t him. At least, it wasn’t the version of him I once knew. My mom had told me during a couple of our infrequent phone conversations that he was changed, a different and better man. No more drinking. Better, steadier employment.

I didn’t care or believe it.

And if I’d hoped to feel some kind of glee standing over his coffin, that didn’t come either. He was just a dead body, an empty sack of flesh.

Later, after the service and the burial, the muttered “Amens” and the repetitious words of the minister, we all went back to my mother’s house, the house I’d grown up in with my stepfather, Paul, and Buster. I told myself and anyone who wanted to listen that I couldn’t stay long, that I needed to get back to school as soon as possible. In my mind, I planned to stay for just an hour. No more, no less.