The nanny murders (34 page)

“Yo.”

Jake. There was no sense running. His hand grabbed my wrist, yanking me to him. I cried out in pain. “Hai-ya!”

The voice sounded childlike, not like my own. Jake was holding my wrist, twisting it.

“Hai-ya!” I heard again, certain this time that the voice was
not mine. Molly? Jake’s knee buckled and he went down, almost pulling me with him. Stumbling, he reached out to balance, releasing me, and his knife clattered to the floor. I managed to kick it away just as Jake reached for it.

“Fuck,” he yelled. Molly was behind him, kicking Jake’s ankle, the back of his knee.

“Mommy,” she screamed. “Did you see me?”

I was stunned, trying to process what was happening. Molly kicked again. I saw the knife across the room, gleaming on the hardwood floor.

“You little shit,” Jake growled, trying to get hold of Molly. “I’ll kick your sorry ass.”

“I don’t think so.” I leaped at him. No, I flew, fingers extended, aiming at Jake’s eyes. He turned his head away, dodging, so I just poked one eye. Still, he bellowed, writhing with pain, while Molly kept kicking the hell out of the back of his leg. Jake turned in circles, half blinded, trying to catch me or her, and I had the image of a pig roasting on a spit but felt no pity. I slammed my boot into his privates. I kicked so hard my toes hurt. Jake curled into a whimpering ball on the floor, reaching, trying to crawl, even then, for the knife. I ran to pick it up and held it high, ready to strike.

“Molly?” I panted, reaching for her. “My God, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

She ran over and snuggled against me. “I got him. Just like Angela showed me.” She repeated her move, kicking the air to show how she’d toppled Jake. Then, chin wobbling, she burst into tears.

EIGHTY-FIVE

W
ITH HINDSIGHT, WHAT HAD HAPPENED SEEMED OBVIOUS
.
VIC
tor had been watching the street from his window for years. He knew everyone by sight. He’d seen Jake drag Angela into a vacant house, and he’d come running, heroically, defying his phobia, to rescue her. Jake, of course, had overpowered him and hidden him in the basement. Which is where I’d come in.

Molly, meantime, had followed me down the street. When I’d gone up the block, she’d trailed behind, watching me go into the house, waiting on the stoop next door. When she’d seen Jake go inside holding a butcher knife, she’d followed. And saved our lives.

Her picture was in the newspaper, minus two front teeth. She practiced her reading by searching the article for familiar words in the stories, “Superkid Kickboxes Nanny Killer” and “Kindergartner Nabs Nannynapper.” She was even interviewed on television; Molly had a whole week of fame. And the Nannynapper was finally history

Phillip Woods, however, remained at large, at least for a while. Late in February, some boys made a grisly discovery in the snow near the South Street Bridge. Woods’s frozen body, still in a nurse’s uniform, lay beside an old coal dock, almost invisible in the ice and mass of tall weeds along the Schuylkill River. After he’d crashed the stolen car, he’d apparently stumbled, bleeding and disoriented, to the dock, where he’d frozen or bled to death.
With Woods gone, breathing seemed easier. Slowly, the rhythm of life began to resume. Time passed. Each day, I took note of the dusk, confirmed that the sun lingered for a few more moments, that darkness was waning.

Molly was growing almost visibly. New teeth appeared; more came loose. Bored with jigsaw puzzles, she played computer games and still loved any craft that involved beads. She continued to amaze me with her insights and ability to take in stride events that knocked others off their feet.

Once again, I broke my New Year’s resolution to work out on the StairMaster half an hour each day. It continued to lurk in the corner, taunting my conscience, but I found plenty of excuses to avoid it. At work, my caseload grew, but I looked in on Evie Kraus even on days when we had no sessions. She still sang—often her devil song, but also others. And she’d begun to draw subjects outside her direct view. She sketched stone houses, hilly landscapes. A tattooed woman standing at a bus stop. I thought her face looked softer, more peaceful than before.

Beverly Gardener went on a six-month leave of absence to recover and write her book. Agnes announced her early retirement.

When Angela regained consciousness, Joe asked her to marry him. The wedding was planned for October.

Victor’s daring trip across the street had ended in an emergency room, where he panicked and had to be sedated so he could be treated. He went back into seclusion as soon as he got home. Molly and I began regularly bringing him casseroles, cakes, or lasagnas, convinced that with a little urging he might again emerge one day.

Michael called to borrow our crystal punch bowl for a party—after all, he said, it had been a wedding gift to us both. I knew he’d never return it, but I didn’t mind. I told him okay, fine.
Susan managed to keep one of her clients out of jail; two were convicted of lesser charges. For their anniversary in January, she and Tim went to Europe for a week, leaving the kids with Bonita.

And Nick. Nick stayed around. He was part of our lives. Instead of doubting or questioning him, I let go, didn’t worry about where we were headed or dwell on his past. I neither needed nor minded having a man to take care of me; even in his presence, I rode the days solo, one at a time.

Days became weeks, putting a cushion between us and the nannies, Charlie, and Jake. At dusk, I watched darkness settle onto the street. A solitary lightbulb glowed in Victor’s upstairs window. Woods’s blinking Santa was long gone; the new neighbor had put up awnings, drooping eyelids veiling the view. In the middle, the skeleton of Charlie’s house released a hollow sigh and settled down for the night.

I listened to the hum of the refrigerator and the whoosh of occasional passing cars. Sooner or later, I knew, there might be an aftershock, a surge of anger. Or fear, or grief. Or maybe self-pity. But so far, nothing. Nothing. No feelings boiled over. I waited, alert, but felt completely neutral. Not empty, exactly. More like an idling engine. My heart was weightless, for now. But I knew better than to trust that lightness; it was only a passing phase.

As for Molly, she seemed unscathed by everything she’d been through. I watched closely for signs—behaviors like withdrawal or aggressiveness, sleeplessness or nightmares. But after a pizza, a bubble bath, and a good night’s sleep, Molly seemed to bounce right back to her normal almost six-year-old self. She gave no indication that she’d been traumatized.

One day around Valentine’s Day, she barreled into the kitchen, her blanket flying behind her. “Mommy, can I have a hot dog?”
Hugging her, I smelled sunshine in her curls. I felt a flutter, an unfamiliar tickle in my chest. The new year had begun; spring couldn’t be far away. In just a matter of weeks, the ice would thaw. If I listened closely, even at that moment, I might be able to hear the sighs of snow melting, the exultation of water bursting free. Maybe I’d paint tonight.

“Sure.” I got out buns and pickles, savoring the ease of our ordinary routine. I’d learned to take pleasure in small moments.

Maybe there would be no aftershock. Maybe just this quiet change. Nothing earth-shattering, but still a change.

“Can we melt cheese on them?”

“Cheese?” I wondered if we had any. And how old it might be, and where. Yes, there were some slices of American in the door of the fridge. I didn’t remember buying cheese, but there it was.

Someone knocked at the door. I almost didn’t answer, didn’t want to be disturbed. I was enjoying our quiet privacy.

“Mommy, someone’s here.” Molly ran to the door. “Can I get it?”

“No. You know the rule.” She waited at the door, hand on the knob. I looked through the peephole and saw Nick’s sky-colored eyes. He knocked again.

“Somebody’s knockin’,” Molly began to sing. “Should I let him in?”

“What?”

She didn’t answer, just kept singing, swaying to the tune. “Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him?”

Shivers ran down my back. She was singing Evie’s song. “Where did you learn that?”

She shrugged, grinning, holding on to the doorknob. “Somebody’s knockin’. Should I let him in?”

Of course. Evie had rescued her; Evie would have been singing her song. Molly had heard it then, and the knocking reminded
her. She kept singing. “But I never dreamed . . . he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans . . .” Nick knocked again.

For a moment, I watched him, his blue eyes magnified, distorted by the peephole. Then, taking Molly’s hand from the knob, I opened the door.