Eden Close

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

Other Novels by Anita Shreve

Copyright © 1989 by Anita Shreve

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of
any part of the work should be mailed to the
following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive,
Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

www.HarcourtBooks.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged
the hardcover edition as follows:
Shreve, Anita.
Eden Close: a novel/by Anita Shreve.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3569.H7385E34 1989
811'.54—dc20 89-34712
ISBN 0-15-127582-3
1SBN-13: 978-0156-03133-2 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-15-603133-7 (pbk.)

Text set in Berkeley.
Designed by Michael Farmer

Printed in the United States of America
A C E G I K J H F D B

For John

T
HE AIR LAY AS HEAVY AS WATER IN THE SQUARE DARK ROOMS
of the farmhouse. The house was still, sounds indistinct and muffled, as if heard through cloth. Upstairs, in the boy's room, the clock over the desk ticked away the minutes just past midnight. In the next room, where the boy's parents slept, there was the soft rattle of an old fan, moving the thick air from outside the house to inside and over his parents' bodies. As they had done nearly every hot night that summer, they had offered the fan to the boy, but the boy, aware that summer for the first time of his parents' age, had refused to take it from them.

In the house, far from town, Andy slept on his back in his bed. He slept badly, his lips lightly parted, his body smothered by the August night. A damp sheet, loose from its moorings, covered his chest. The boy's chest was bony then, without the muscles that would come later, and he had an older boy's summer growth, as if he'd sprouted too fast and had lost the grace of childhood. He was tall now, so tall that he towered over his parents, and his unfamiliar limbs, splayed under and out from the sheet, gave his body a lanky awkwardness, even in his sleep. His skin had an August tan
and had all but lost the marks of adolescence. His hair, dark brown and thick and slightly too long, against his father's wishes, was wet at the sides and the back with the heat. He turned, pulling the sheet with him, as if to say, despite his dreams,
OK, now, enough of this.

The boy's father, in the next room, sleeping on his stomach in a sleeveless undershirt and boxer shorts, moved a hand near his ear to make a mosquito go away. His mother lay beside his father, on her back, like the boy. She had thrown off the sheet entirely, but her body was clothed in her pink summer pajamas. She had curlers at the sides and top of her head. The mosquito, discouraged by the father, alighted on her thigh, and too late, in her sleep, she moved her leg against the air.

Beyond the screen in the boy's room, there was only darkness. The darkness lay over the town and along the road that led from town, and it lay over the two farmhouses that were set two miles along that road like an afterthought, with only each other for company. The two houses were only seventy feet apart, the one facing the road, the other, his own, down a short dirt drive, pointing north, overlooking an abandoned cornfield. Indeed, the darkness had come that day from the north, blanketing that part of the state where the town was and where the boy had been born. In the afternoon, clouds the color of dust had moved along the sky like thick batting, diffusing the sun until it was only heat and blotting out the moon and the shooting stars of August in the evening. The blackness folded the heat back down upon itself and pushed it through the screens and into the rooms where the boy and his parents slept.

Later they would all know and be able to say that it was ten minutes past twelve when the sounds started. It was the boy who woke first, seconds before his parents. He heard a woman cry out, and he thought, as he swam up through his
sodden sleep, that it might be his mother. But when he was awake, he knew that the sound was outside, in the darkness past the screen. The boy pushed the sheet from his chest as if the sheet kept him from understanding the sound outside his window. Perhaps, too, he heard then, through the wall, his father or his mother, sitting up. Like him, suddenly alert.

The second sound was a hoarse cry, nearly a shout, from a man, and with that there was immediately the frightened squeal of another female voice, that of a child still, like himself. He heard his father's feet on the floor, the rustle of trousers, a zipper—then his mother's muffled voice, anxious, questioning. The boy moved down to the foot of the bed, where the window was. On his hands and knees, he looked out at the night, waiting for the voices to explain themselves.

There were two shots, the boy and his parents would say later. Two shots fast upon each other, so that they sounded, in the silent night of midsummer, like one explosion shattering the air. The boy knelt frozen, his hands on the sill. He knelt that way for the seconds of silence that followed the explosion, until he heard the loud voice of his father telling his mother not to move. And then calling his son's name through the wall.
Andy.
He could hear his father open the door of the closet where he kept the rifle on a shelf. Then his own door opened. His father, in his sleeveless undershirt, rifle in hand, said,
Get away from the window.
The boy heard his father's footsteps running on the stairs and the soft whir as his father dialed the phone in the hallway downstairs.

Unable to move as his father had commanded, the boy stared at the darkness outside the screen. The last sound began then. It was reedy, a high-pitched wail, rising at first like a tendril of smoke into the sky—a female voice, though nearly inhuman, gathering momentum as it rose. He imagined a woman opening her mouth, her voice rising from her
in a thin, quivering stream. The boy heard his father stop dialing, listen and replace the receiver. The keening rose, sliced through the night. The boy shivered with the sound and backed away from the window. The cat downstairs jumped onto the kitchen table and started to hiss. Crows and summer birds, awakened by the unearthly cries, or perhaps by the gunshots, began to chatter and caw. And through the wall, the boy heard his mother say, as if in comprehension,
Oh God, oh Jesus.

 

A
NDREW WAKES
from the dream in the same bed in which he was a boy and is disoriented. The dream lingers, vivid and heavy, pulling him down, causing him to swim in confusion between the night of the gunshots, when he was seventeen, and this night, the night of his mother's funeral, when he is thirty-six and sleeping alone in his parents' house for the first time in his life. He makes the dream linger longer than it might, enjoying the sensation of diving deeply into the boy's body and thoughts, hearing with the boy's ears as he has not been able to do in nineteen years, enjoying even the fear—the ability to feel that kind of fear chasing along the spine.

Andy.
He hears again the exact timbre of his father's voice, and of his mother's—muffled, murmuring, anxious. There are details in the dream he hasn't remembered in nineteen years, and he thinks (briefly, because he does not want thoughts to interrupt or block his way back down into the dream) that the dream has worked like hypnosis, giving back sight and hearing that have been lost to him. In his waking thoughts he hasn't been able to see, as he can now, his father as a younger man, the shoulders still muscled under the sleeveless vest, the thin open weave of the undershirt, nearly like gauze, so unlike the thick cotton T-shirts he himself wears now. The midnight stubble on his father's face, the hard stomach lying flat beneath the undershirt. In his waking
thoughts he can make his father appear only as he was shortly before he died—clean shaven, the thickened waist straining at the belt, the chest sunken, as though the center, the power, of the body had slipped. Most of the images he now has of his father's youth come from photographs, so that his father is frozen in this pose or that, that expression or this, but has no life, no voice—just as his own son's early years seem locked forever in the photographs and movies Martha, his ex-wife, has taken. His son is seven now, but Andrew cannot reliably remember how he sounded or what he said at two or at four.

He rolls over in the bed, hoping to sink deeper into sleep, to keep the dream alive. He can feel a door closing slowly. The dream is slipping away, and he is losing the feeling of being a boy. but the door hasn't entirely shut: he can still make out some of the details. He had forgotten, but can see now, the way the clouds came on that afternoon, a sour color filling the sky, turning trees and skin in the early evening light a pale, sickish yellow. And he can hear again the excited sounds of the birds just after midnight, when there should have been silence. He had forgotten the way his father held a gun, pointed straight down along the side of his leg, like a brace. And that his mother wore curlers to bed. And he had forgotten (indeed, how could anyone have retained the precise sound?) the terrible pitch of the woman's cries. At any point in the intervening years, he could have said that, yes, there was the sound of a woman crying in grief or in horror, but he couldn't have described it. Occasionally he would, when he was younger and more eager to impress, tell the story to a new acquaintance or to a woman, giving his childhood its only bit of glamour:
The man next door was murdered when I was seventeen. His daughter was raped.
But he hasn't, until the dream, been able to hear the sound.

But is the dream accurate? he wonders. Have bits been added for dramatic effect or for some psychological payoff?
No, he thinks (his thoughts intruding, coming faster, taking precedence over his sleep), the dream is true in the details that are there—nothing that is there is altered (except, perhaps, the part about the mosquito, which must have bitten
him
just now and worked its way into the dream)—but like edited copy, the dream has left out certain messy or seemingly irrelevant complications.

He had forgotten, but remembers now—and this was not part of the dream—the way the heat and the dirty air raised tempers that day, like an irritant chafing the skin, causing his parents, earlier in the evening, to speak in uncharacteristically querulous tones. He remembers that night at dinner—a cold, disappointing meal of ham slices and potato salad (it was too hot to cook, or even to eat)—that when his mother once again offered him the fan, there was an edge to her voice as if she knew in advance that he would decline it and was tired of the minor triumph of her son's refusal and of the larger implication of her son's generosity. And he remembers that after the meal, she rose in silence to get the ice cream from the freezer and put the half-empty carton on the table. The dessert looked to Andy as if it would taste like the cardboard it came in, and he didn't want it despite the heat, despite his usual thirst for sweets. He got up from the table and went out the screen door, letting it bang a little harder than usual, hunching his shoulders slightly against the possibility that his father would swing open the door in anger at his son's sudden sullenness.