The Night Strangers Part 4

You nod. "That was safe. I was always a stickler for safety."

Just about then your real estate agent laughs at something and hangs up the phone. She rises from the seat behind her desk, and you are struck by the suede and fur, burgundy-colored boots she is wearing, and how they haven't any heels at all: This really is a woman who knows how to navigate her way through a White Mountain winter.

"Chip, how are you?" she says, smiling, her eyes that beautiful, disturbing cobalt blue you noticed the first time you met and you think of whenever you think of her. Reseda is tall and trim, a slight ski jump to her nose, and her cheekbones are almost as prominent as her eyes. Her hair is darker than the chest-high wrought-iron fence that surrounds the cemetery at the edge of the village. She takes one of your hands in both of hers, and you always have the sense around her that, if you were in a big city, she would be the type who would want you to greet her with polite air kisses on both of her cheeks. Her palms are dry and cold, and yet the sensation, the touch, makes you a little warm.

"We're settling in well, I think," you begin. You describe your breakfasts with the view of Mount Lafayette from the kitchen and skiing periodically the past couple of weeks at the nearby resort. You make a small joke-and the joke does seem to you to be woefully inadequate-about the numbers of boxes you have unpacked and yet the numbers that remain. You wonder as you listen to the sound of your voice-a voice that once inspired confidence at thirty-five thousand feet-whether you are capable of asking the questions that have brought you here. They seem ridiculous now. Absolutely ridiculous. But, finally, you start: "You ever notice that door?"

She angles her head slightly, justifiably confused. The world has a lot of doors. Your house alone has twenty-seven (yes, you have counted), and that doesn't include the closets and the cupboards and the pantry. "What door?"

"There is a door in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It-"

And then there it is, that slight smile and sympathetic nod you have seen so often from people since August 11, and she is cutting you off. You are now in everyone's eyes an emotional invalid. They need to be ... gentle ... around you. "Oh, Anise told me you were asking about that," she is saying. "The coal chute."

And you realize that once more they have been talking about you. Anise has told Reseda that you were nonplussed by a ... coal chute.

"I must confess," she continues, "I never did notice it. But then I rarely showed that house. Still, it must be a guy thing. I never heard other agents mention it. I guess women notice how much light a kitchen gets in the afternoon and men notice the coal chute in the bas.e.m.e.nt. But sit down and tell me. What about it?"

You sit in the chair opposite her desk, and it feels good, if only because you have been working very, very hard sc.r.a.ping wallpaper and Reseda is indeed lovely to look at. The chair is leather and the smell is vaguely reminiscent of the aroma of the seat on the flight deck: human and animal all at once.

"I just can't imagine why someone would have sealed the door shut in such an enthusiastic fas.h.i.+on," you begin, careful to smile back both because Emily has told you that you have a handsome smile and because you don't want to sound like any more of a lunatic than you already must.

She shrugs. "Hewitt Dunmore is a bit of an odd duck," she says simply, referring to the previous owner.

"So you think he was the one who closed it up?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know him well. Anise does. She knew his parents and his brother, too. Maybe his father was the one who sealed it up. You know, that's actually more likely. I imagine it was years and years ago that they stopped heating with coal. It's LP gas now, correct?"

"It is. And there's also that woodstove."

"I love that woodstove. Soapstone. Palladian windows on the doors, right?"

"Right. We've been so busy unpacking we've only started a fire in it a couple of times."

"That must have been cozy," she says, and there is something vaguely seductive in the sibilant way that she finishes her sentence. Those magnificent eyes widen just the tiniest bit.

"It's not really a cozy house."

She sits upright behind her desk, that lovely oval of a face abruptly looking alarmed. But you're not at all sure that the alarm is genuine. She looks alarmed, and it is that same disingenuousness that marked the bad acting of so many of Emily's friends in Pennsylvania when they pretended to be actors in their community theater dramas and musicals. "Oh, I hope you're not regretting the move already. We're all so happy to have you here. You and Emily and your beautiful twins."

"No, not at all. It's a wonderful house. I didn't mean to suggest I had any regrets. I think Emily and I will be very comfortable there. I think the girls already are adjusting quite well. Especially Hallie. She loves that greenhouse."

"That's important. Is she sleeping well? Are you all sleeping well?"

You recall Hallie's bad dream that first Sunday night. You recall a second she had more recently. You wonder simultaneously whether a couple of bad dreams would suggest your child is not sleeping well and why the real estate agent would ask such a thing in the first place. Has she heard something from someone? Did Emily mention something to another attorney in her firm who mentioned it to Reseda? Did Hallie tell her teacher in school, who, in turn, told this real estate agent? Is the town really that small? Is it possible that people really talk that much?

"We're all sleeping fine," you respond, which is, more or less, the case with your daughters and your wife. A couple of nightmares, you decide firmly, does not const.i.tute sleeping badly. And while you yourself haven't slept well in six months, your nightmares and flashbacks are really none of her business. Besides, you don't want to appear any more damaged to Reseda than you already must.

"But right now you and Emily are only ... comfortable," she murmurs, repeating one of the words that you used, and you detect a slight sniff of disappointment. No, not disappointment: disapproval.

"Sometimes, happy is asking a lot." You say this with no particular stoicism in your tone; it's a glib throwaway.

"Oh, I hope that's not true. Personally, I don't think it is. I understand what you've been through. But I would like to believe that happiness is a perfectly reasonable expectation here."

"Perhaps."

"Have you taken the door off?" she asks, her eyes growing a little more probing, a little more intense.

"It would demand a lot of effort."

"Have you talked to Hewitt?"

"About the door?"

She nods.

"Nope."

"You should," she says.

"Probably."

"Or ..."

"Yes?" You realize for the first time that there is a scent in the office that is reminiscent of lavender. Burned lavender. As if it were incense. You have inhaled a small, lovely dollop of Reseda's perfume.

"You could ask Gerard up to the house and have him just rip that door down. That would be easier than removing all those bolts."

You pause for just a moment before responding, because you don't believe you have mentioned the bolts. But then you get it: "Anise must have told you about the bolts."

And for just about the same amount of time that you paused, so does Reseda. Her face remains waxen, unmoving. Then: "Yes. She did."

"Who's Gerard?"

"Anise's son-and a very nice young man. A little quiet, a little intimidating even. He's a weight lifter. Belongs to the health club in Littleton. He will probably be the one haying your fields this summer. He's big and tall and very, very strong, and I'm sure he could rip that door right off its hinges."

You contemplate this notion. The advantage is that you would learn what's behind the door pretty quickly. The disadvantage is that you would be in violation of an unspoken rural code: You are an able-bodied man and you are having another able-bodied man handle a household ch.o.r.e that you should be capable of managing on your own. You could take an ax to that door as well as this Gerard. You are not that old and infirm. And so you tell Reseda, "Thank you. I think I can handle this one. Maybe I should just rip the door off myself."

"Well, if you change your mind, his shoulders are pretty broad. He's pretty resourceful."

"Good to know. Thank you."

"Tell me: How is Emily enjoying Littleton? The second floor of a little brick building beside a bicycle shop and a bank must feel like a very big change from a top floor of a skysc.r.a.per in Philadelphia."

Has Emily told Reseda this, too? Has she told her that her old firm dominated the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth floors of a building on Chestnut Street? Or is this conjecture on the part of the real estate agent? "It is a change," you say, "but she finds the pace very pleasant."

"And I'm sure the drive in to work-the commute-is a lot more civilized."

You nod agreeably. "It is. And a lot shorter. About fifteen minutes, door to door. Can I ask you something else?"

"Absolutely," she says.

You turn around in your chair because you remember Holly is there and what you are about to ask feels ... private. Holly is at her desk and moving her mouse as she stares at her computer screen. But she senses you are gazing at her, and so she looks up and grins. Instantly you turn your attention back to Reseda.

"Hewitt Dunmore's twin brother," you begin awkwardly, unsure precisely how to broach the subject. "Sawyer, I think his name was. He took his own life, right?"

"That is what people say."

"How? Why? What do you know about his death?"

"Well, I didn't know Sawyer. I wasn't even born when he died. But Anise knew him. She knew the whole family."

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

She shrugs and shakes her head, her face growing a little sad. "Teenage or pre-teenage depression, I a.s.sume. He was what, twelve or thirteen? Back then, it wasn't really understood or treated."

"And the ... means?"

"He bled to death."

"He slashed his wrists?"

"Something like that. But, honestly, my sense is that it was more complicated. Anise might know the details."

Honestly. The word sounds insincere to you. Deceitful, maybe. How could she not recall the way a local boy had killed himself, even if it was before she was born? Wouldn't it be a part of the lore of this small village, the sagas and stories and secrets that everyone shared? But, perhaps, you are being unfair; perhaps it really isn't discussed around here. New England reticence. Propriety. And it was a long, long time ago.

"You must be looking forward to spring," she says suddenly, her voice lightening. "It might be my favorite season. I love it-although I understand that for many people around here spring is a very mixed bag: mud and more mud. Lots of gray days. I tell you, crocuses this far north must have a death wish. No sooner do they poke their pretty little heads through the gra.s.s than they get hammered with eight inches of very wet snow. But there will also be some absolutely glorious days. Just wonderful! And there is sugaring to look forward to. I don't sugar myself. But I have friends who do. You must bring your twins to a sugarhouse. I think they would love it: Sugar on snow, the aroma of maple. The samples. No child can resist a sugarhouse!"

"We will. Anyone's sugarhouse in particular?"

"I think you should stop by the Milliers'. Claude and Lavender Millier. It will be weeks before there's a sugar run. Or it might be a month. You never know. But I'll introduce you between now and then."

"Thank you. Do they have children?"

"Grown. But I know their son will scoot up from Salem for a few days to help with the boiling. He's a doctor. A pediatrician. He's part of a beautiful practice in a big old barn of a house with fantastic views of the ocean."

"Anyone with a sugarhouse and children roughly Hallie and Garnet's age?"

"Of course. I'll just have to think a moment. I hear they're doing very well in school."

"You hear a lot," you say, a reflex, and wish instantly that you could take the remark back. It isn't like you. It's just that everyone always seemed to be talking about you back in Pennsylvania this past autumn and winter, and now everyone seems to be talking about your whole family here in New Hamps.h.i.+re.

"Oh, you know how people chat in a small town. We haven't anything better to do-especially this time of the year, when the days are short as a pepper plant." She looks out the large picture window and continues, her voice a little dreamy. "Soon the geese will be coming back. We'll see them flying north in just a few weeks. I love geese. Big, powerful birds. They're another sign of spring." Then she turns back to you and makes eye contact. "Tell me: Would you and Emily and your beautiful twins like to come to my house for dinner this weekend? Perhaps a casual dinner on Sunday night? Something easy and light?"

This is an enormous amount of information to try to make sense of: There is, as Emily would say, text and subtext. No one can use the words goose and geese around you without knowing that they connote profoundly disturbing images. They do not provoke a PTSD sort of flashback-you do not find yourself sweating when you hear them, they do not induce heart palpitations-but they do conjure for you the destruction of your airplane and the deaths of thirty-nine people. Thirty-six adults, three children. Including one with a doll dressed as a cheerleader. That, too, wound up floating in Lake Champlain, the eyes open, the hair the color of corn silk fanning out like seaweed in the waves. And then there was the girl with the Dora the Explorer backpack. All of the children were, you would learn later, younger than Hallie and Garnet.

At the same time, there is that dinner invitation, proffered out of the blue. An unexpected kindness.

You are not at all sure what to make of the juxtaposition. Was the invitation a spontaneous gesture provoked by guilt? Had she brought up the birds without thinking and then, after realizing what she had done, hoped to make amends with dinner?

"Well, that's very sweet of you," you hear yourself murmuring. "Thank you. Let me check with Emily and get back to you."

"It will be very casual. Maybe some others will come."

"I'm free!" says Holly from behind her desk, though she doesn't look up when you glance back at her. "I want to come!"

"Of course," says Reseda.

You find yourself struck by the names of all of these women around you. Reseda. Holly. Anise. You decide that either you have stumbled upon a secret society of florists or gardeners or all of their parents were hippies. Or, perhaps, they're part of a coven. You are bemused by that notion in particular and conclude the synaptic link was triggered by the mention, a few minutes ago, of Salem. You always think of witches when you hear the name of that small city. Everyone does. The burning times. The hangings. The women (and men) pressed to death by stones.

"You're grinning," says Reseda.

"I just had a funny thought."

"Can you share it?"

"I like your name. I like all of your names here."

"The reseda is among the most enticing and fragrant flowers in the world," she says, and you realize that you're not in the slightest bit surprised.

When you leave a few minutes later, you have in one hand Gerard's phone number and in the other a thick espresso-chip cookie from a batch that Anise had baked that very morning and dropped off at the real estate agency. You doubt you will ever call Gerard, at least about that door. But you are glad that you have the cookie. It's delicious. You hadn't realized how hungry you were.

Chapter Five.

A bird became trapped in the woodstove. It flew in through the top of the chimney just as the late winter sun was starting to thaw the thin skins of ice on the shallow puddles in the driveway. No one was awake in the house. The animal worked its way lower and lower in the Metalbestos prefabricated chimney-a sparkling, cylindrical metal tube that was nine inches wide-from the opening nearly four feet above the twelve-by-twelve pitch made of slate and through the tube that cut through the attic and the second floor, darting finally through the rectangular vent to the catalytic converter and then into the soapstone stove with its regal gla.s.s windows. The windows were caked over with soot from fires long ago as well as from the few logs the Lintons had burned, and so the bird flew around and around in the near total dark, its wings frequently clipping the iron walls or the black stains on the gla.s.s. Desdemona, the Lintons' cat, was aware of the animal before anyone else, and she stared alertly at the stove, her haunches raised ever so slightly and her tail occasionally brus.h.i.+ng the floor.

Emily was the first one downstairs that morning, and when she saw the cat watching the stove as if it were a mole hole in the yard back in Pennsylvania, she didn't know what to think. But she switched on the lamp beside the couch and two heavy boxes of unpacked books, and instantly the poor bird made another effort to escape, thwapping into the door because the flue was open just enough to create thin slats of light. Emily knew instantly then what was so interesting to Desdemona. She screamed upstairs to Chip because she was afraid of birds and knew that, once she opened the woodstove door and the bird flew out into the room, she would be utterly useless. And yet it was only when she heard him on the stairs, asking her what was wrong, that she knew how strange and inconsiderate it would be to tell him her panic had been caused by a bird. One small bird. But with the competence that formerly she had taken for granted, he opened the window nearest the stove and closed the door between the living room and the dining room-the room with, perhaps, the strangest, darkest wallpaper, a series of sunflowers that grew from the hardwood floor to the height of a grown man and, over time, had become brown with age and made her think of the elongated, d.a.m.ned souls in an El Greco painting-and used a bath towel to whisk the bird in the direction of the open window. It was a chickadee. She noticed a little black soot on its gray wings and the white of its nape. Instead of flying through the open half of the window, however, the bird darted straight into the solid pane above it, breaking its neck and falling dead onto the carpet.

As Chip gently picked it up, using his fingers to sweep it into the palm of his hand before Desdemona could cart it away in her mouth, Emily started to cry. She thought on some level it was just because it was so small, so very small, but she knew in her heart that there was more to it than that. Much more. Chip brought the bird outside, though where she didn't know, and then he came back inside and sat down beside her. He put his arm around her. He didn't say a word, he just rocked her a little bit and sighed, and she let her tears fall against the plaid top of his pajamas until they both heard their girls on the stairs. Abruptly they stood, and she told the children that she had been crying because the bird in the woodstove was just so little, but she was fine now. She was, she really was. They were all just fine.

You stand in blue jeans and a gray sweats.h.i.+rt with the logo of your old airline emblazoned across the front and shovel coal for nearly thirty minutes, moving the pile a solid five feet from that bas.e.m.e.nt door. It was possible to stand amidst the coal earlier this month when you were merely tinkering with one of the carriage bolts. But if you're going to get medieval on that door with an ax this morning, you need a little more s.p.a.ce. A little more room. Before you know it, you're sweating, even though it is the first week in March and you are working in a dank bas.e.m.e.nt in a badly insulated house that's nearly a century and a quarter old. But the furnace emits a little heat, even here, and it's no more than a dozen feet away.

When you have finally redistributed the coal, you sit on the bas.e.m.e.nt steps to rest and sip from the plastic bottle of soda that has grown warm. Your heart is thumping from the exertion as you study the door and the bolts and wonder what precisely you will find behind it. You didn't tell Emily you were going to do this when she left for work this morning, you didn't mention it to the girls before school. You weren't sure this really was a part of your agenda. You had expected you would tape the doorframes and windowsills and paint another wall in the kitchen. Roll that soothing sienna Emily picked out over the freshly s.p.a.ckled Sheetrock.

You find it interesting that the ax you are going to use to bring down this door came with the house. It's the one Emily found hidden behind the ancient cleaning supplies in the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. You could have used the ax you had brought with you along with a litany of other gardening tools from Pennsylvania: the rake and the hoe and the shears and the wheelbarrow. The clippers. The netting for the blueberry bushes. After all, you wandered out to the barn to retrieve the shovel you're using now and you could have carried the ax back inside the house, too. But instead you pulled down the trapdoor and climbed up into the attic and found the box where Emily had stored those three, strange implements of self-defense: The crowbar. The knife. The ax. For reasons neither of you could precisely articulate, you couldn't bring yourselves to cart those old items to the dump. But neither had you any desire to leave them where they were or to use them yourselves. Until now. Until you realized you needed an ax for this morning's project.

And you like the symmetry. It's as if the Dunmores left you this ax for precisely this purpose-which, of course, means there might be purposes as well for the crowbar and the knife. Now there's a macabre thought.

This coming Sunday night, two days from now, you and Emily and the girls are having dinner with Reseda and Holly and whomever else the real estate agent will invite. You sip that cola and contemplate how satisfying it will be to inform them that you took the door down on your own-no need for this Gerard character that Reseda recommended-and found behind it ... what?

You just can't imagine. You have absolutely no idea what might be back there.