The Bones of You (7 page)

She paused, then, and took another sip of her tea.

“They soundproofed the cellar so nobody could hear the screams. There were a couple of police photos in the book…that’s part of what got my dad in trouble. He used them without permission. The book was pulled before it even went to print—only a few advance copies were made.”

“Why was that?”

She sighed; a small, hollow sound. “Kyle was found innocent. The courts decided that he didn’t have any part in the killings, and that it was all down to her, to Katherine Moffat. His lawyers told them that he didn’t even have access to the cellar because she kept it locked. And they believed him. He got off with it. They set him up in a new town, with a new identity, because he testified about her sexual habits and the way she liked to control him. He put on quite the little sob story, by all accounts.”

She paused there, drank some more tea.

“So what happened to Katherine Moffat?”

“They only found her because she killed herself before the cancer got her. Kyle called an ambulance. He was distraught, didn’t know what else to do. One of the attending police officers broke down the door and went down into the cellar. She found a human skull being used as a candle holder. She called in the detectives. They uncovered the remains of several bodies. They’d been mutilated; parts of them were missing…and other parts showed signs of being eaten. All pretty gross stuff.”

I stood and walked to the window, looked out at the empty house next door. “Jesus,” I said. “What about Benjamin Kyle? What happened to him?” I imagined someone inside the house, standing behind a boarded window over there and watching me through the gaps in the same way I was watching them.

“Nobody but the authorities knows where he is. He could be anywhere.”

I closed my eyes, no longer wanting to see the house, but its image was burned onto the insides of my eyelids, a visual echo of unease. I could see its outline and even some of the finer details: the roof, the chimney, the windows, the doors…I doubted that I’d ever be able to stop seeing that place, even if I moved away tomorrow.

“You have someone coming over for dinner?” Pru had left the table. She was standing beside the chopping board, motioning toward the steaks I’d left there on a plate.

“Yes. I have…a friend coming over.”

“Is it a male or female friend?”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“No,” she said, “but I’d still like to know. I’m nosey that way.” She glanced at me, her eyebrows raised. She seemed more relaxed now, almost chirpy.

“Female.”

“I see…maybe I should go.”

I turned, facing her across the small space. “You’re welcome back anytime. Don’t be a stranger.”

She took a single step toward me, and then stopped. “What is this? I mean, what are we doing?”

“Becoming friends,” I said. “If that’s what you want. I know I haven’t had a real friend in years.”

“What about your dinner guest?” She shuffled her feet on the linoleum floor.

“She’s…more than a friend. She’s something else entirely, to be honest. I’m just not sure what.”

“A fuck buddy?”

“Please. Don’t be so crude. It doesn’t behoove you.”

“Ah…so she’s a potential lover. I get it, Thesaurus Boy.” Pru grinned, and it made her face change for the better; in that moment, she turned into someone beautiful. I couldn’t help smiling back at her, and wishing that she’d smile like this more often.

“We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see.”

SIX

Visiting

Carole arrived around seven o’clock that evening. It was already dark; the black sky looked like it was huddling closer to the earth, looking for comfort.

I watched a taxi pull up outside my house, and Carole climbed out of the back. She leaned toward the open front window and paid the driver, then turned and walked across the footpath, through the gate, and along the front path.

I met her at the door. When I opened it, she was readying herself to knock, and still had one hand in the air, clenched into a fist. Her face registered surprise when she saw me standing there on the doorstep.

“Expecting someone else?”

She laughed. “Yeah, someone tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Better luck next time,” I said. “Come along inside. It isn’t much, but it’s a home…well, it is now, anyway. Or the closest thing to one I can afford.”

She followed me through into the kitchen.

“You look nice,” I said. She was wearing chunky red high-heeled shoes, tight black jeans, a sparkly blouse, and a short leather jacket. I took the jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Thank you,” she said, smoothing down the jeans at the front of her legs. She kicked off her shoes and pushed them under the table with her foot. “Is this okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “I prefer you without your heels. At least now you’re my height.” I approached the cooker. “You hungry?”

“I’m starving, actually.” She stood next to me, inspecting the pans. “Let me guess…steak?”

“Am I really that predictable?”

She nodded. “Particularly in the way you never offer me a drink until I ask.”

“Shit.” I reached for the fridge, opened the door. “White wine?”

“Lovely…as long as it isn’t chardonnay.”

“I know,” I said, setting down the bottle on the counter. “I remembered. You hate chardonnay. This is a cheeky little pinot grigio.”

“Nice.”

I opened the bottle. “It even has a classy screw top. I pull out all the stops, me. Really know how to treat a woman.” I poured two glasses, waited until she picked one up, and then did the same. “Cheers,” I said.

“
Saluté
.” She took a long, slow hit of the wine, her eyes closing as she savored it. “God, I needed that.” Her cheeks flushed red.

“Rough day?”

She nodded, licked her lips, then walked back to the dining table, sat down, and placed the glass in front of her. “You could say that.”

“Has Evans been giving you shit?”

A brisk shake of the head. “No…not work. Evans is cool. It’s something else.”

“Oh…sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

She smiled, but it was only halfway there, as if she couldn’t quite manage the full thing. “I don’t mind talking about it. Just an old boyfriend giving me grief.”

“I see.” I took a mouthful of wine; it was cold, delicious.

“He keeps coming round, making a nuisance out of himself. I’ve asked him to stay away, but…well, he doesn’t.”

I walked over and sat down at the table. “Is he being…violent?”

“Oh, God, no. Not him. He’s just irritating me. Won’t take no for an answer. We broke up a month ago, but he thinks we still have something going on. I’ve told him straight, but he just doesn’t seem to get it.” She shrugged. “What can I say? We all have our little problems, don’t we?”

“I guess we do. But some of them are bigger than others.” I stared at her; she stared back. Something happened. I couldn’t be sure what it was—I’m still not certain—but it seemed like a proper connection was made, and certain aspects of our lives slotted together in that moment, becoming clearer. We were both damaged goods; we both had history. We weren’t young kids starting out, looking to fall in love. We were adults, and we had our battle scars, even wore them with pride.

“I’ll start cooking.” I stood and went back to the cooker.

“You do that. I’ll just sit here and drink.” She laughed softly, and everything seemed okay again. The laughter was all the way there; it was good and honest and filled with a kind of self-deprecating humor that had always made me warm to her.

During dinner, we indulged in small talk, but it was the good kind: we laughed and bullshitted about people at work, spoke about odd childhood memories, and I even told her about the day Jess was born, how it made me feel, how everything in my life had seemed to narrow around that single moment.

We drank a lot of wine; got through two bottles.

Afterward, I opened a third bottle and we moved into the living room. We sat down on my inherited sofa and stared at the television without watching it. I took off my shoes; she stretched out, resting her long, slim denim-clad legs across my lap. It felt good; it felt like something that I might like to have in my life, at least for a while.

“So,” I said, filling a small silence that appeared between us. “Tell me about this ex-boyfriend.”

She threw back her head, made a curious whining sound. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now. I think I only did so to make you realize that I haven’t just been sitting there pining for you since the last time we did this.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to. You’re a beautiful woman; there’s no way you’d not be the center of some poor loser’s world.”

She kicked me in the stomach. I smiled. She laughed.

“He’s in the army. He came back home on leave a few days ago and started coming round to my place, begging me to give him another chance. Brought me flowers, chocolates…all that kind of crap, all the cheap, romantic shit I hate.” She shook her head briskly, her hair fanning out around her face. “He doesn’t even know me—thinks that stuff will win me over.”

She glanced at me, and then looked away, at her wineglass. I noticed that her pupils were dilated; her eyes were shining.

“And what does win you over?” I was fishing, and she knew it; we both did.

She sighed. It was loud, long—I thought it might go on forever. “You do. You win me over, you bastard.”

Then our hands moved, and they were slapping together. She was grabbing for me, I was grabbing for her. We were grabbing each other. It happened quickly, but we leaned together, moving in for a kiss. Our teeth clashed; we laughed; then we tried again, lunging more slowly this time, more carefully, and it happened perfectly. Our lips pressed together, clamping down; our tongues flicked lizard-like, each one slipping into the cavern of the other’s mouth. We kissed and we kissed, and I didn’t think about anything. Not the house next door, not the girl who came here visiting, not my poor daughter, my drink- and drug-dependent wife or her junkie lover…none of this crossed my mind.

Then Carole was pulling back, breaking the connection. Her hands came up, pushing between us, and she was forcing me away. I moved backward, too, confused, but giving her the space she wanted. And I remembered that this was what happened last time, too, but I’d convinced myself that it was me who had called the shots. That I’d been too scared to go any further with this woman, and the decision had been mine.

In reality, it had been Carole who pulled away, just like she was doing this time. I’d responded by pretending that it was my idea, and that I wasn’t ready to take things that far. To save her from embarrassment, or maybe because I was glad it had turned out that way, and wanted to show my gratitude.

We sat there on the sofa, panting, feeling like we’d just run a fast mile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, between breaths.

“It’s okay.” I touched her knee, and then took away my hand. This sudden awkwardness confused me, made me question what we were doing here anyway, on the grotty sofa, in this dull little house. “It’s my fault. I’m out of practice.”

She looked at me with such a degree of hopelessness that I thought I’d said or done something tragically wrong. Her eyes were empty; her face was a void.

“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t you. It’s me…it’s always me.”

I waited, knowing that something big was coming: something important was about to enter the room and start making a fuss.

“I have issues…issues in this area. In the bedroom area.” She sighed. “I can’t even fucking say it, can I? That word:
sex
.” She winced, as if she’d been struck lightly across the face.

“You don’t have to say anything.” I didn’t know whether to reach out for her or to stay where I was, motionless, in case I spooked her.

“No, I want to. You deserve to know. If you want to…”

“If you want to tell me, then I want to know.” It seemed like the right thing to say, and it was certainly how I felt. I didn’t want to push her into saying anything that made her nervous. It was up to her. None of this was my call to make, so all I could do was be there for her if she wanted me.

“A long time ago, I was mistreated. A man broke me. I can’t really say much more, because it hurts too badly. Even after all these years, it hurts like a bastard.” Her voice was cracking; her throat was dry and hoarse. I realized it was taking an amazing amount of strength for her to tell me even this much.

I groped toward her and took her hand. She didn’t fight me, didn’t pull away, not this time, so I gripped her hand tighter, trying to communicate to her all the things that I was unable to put into words. Those nebulous thoughts and feelings, the ones that never wanted to come out into the light.

“I know,” she said, looking at me, at my face, my eyes. “I know.” She smiled. Her teeth were small and white, and for a moment they looked like those of a vampire. Her skin was so very pale. I was afraid of her but I didn’t know why…and then I
did
know, because what scared me was her immense strength. Telling me this had cost her a lot. She had taken such a great risk. I was glad that it had not been in vain, that I hadn’t let her down.