The End Of Everything Part 21

It's all happening, I think, he's come here to reclaim his girl-queen.

He's returned from the darkest depths to take her back again, in a t.i.tanic gesture, like a knight rescuing the princess from her high tower.

I feel myself running out her bedroom door and it's so fast and in my head her antic breaths are right behind me. In my head, she's right behind me.

Sliding across the kitchen floor, I land at the side door, hurling it open, the new security alarm wailing, cras.h.i.+ng in my ears.

I'm pounding across the dewy gra.s.s of the backyard, my eyes flas.h.i.+ng over the black ma.s.s under the tree and, ten feet away, my legs shudder to a stop.

I hold my aching chest and stop.

He's lying there, his arm flung to his side, like when you do snow angels. The black thing in his hand, the gun, looks so small.

I let myself look, I do. I can't stop myself.

I look down at Mr. Shaw, eyes struck open, and mouth too, the mouth like a black ragged hole.

Like something black inside him exploded, soot sprayed across his left cheek.

Like the thing inside him, the dark and helpless thing, had become so immense, he could no longer hold it. He could no longer contain it. It overtook him.

His eyes open like that, looking straight up into the branches of the pear tree, and I bet he wishes he was looking at her still, looking up at her window, stuck that way forever, arrested.

Then I remember: Where's Evie? Where is she? This is for her, for her to wail and cry out his name and fall to her knees like in a movie, slow motion and music rising.

Because he's waiting here for you, Evie, don't you see?

Wheeling around, I look up and see her. She's still at her bedroom window. She hasn't moved at all. She's looking down at me, watching me. And I want to see the horror on her face, the roaring grief and confusion. I want to see it all. I want her to show it to me, to him.

But there's nothing on her face at all. Stock-still and vacant-eyed, she's like an old wax doll, propped on a windowsill.

Where is it, Evie? Where's all that feeling?

Because I look at your face and all I see is nothing.

The blankness, it terrifies me.

What happened, Evie, that took your face away, that smeared it blank? What happened to Evie?

That's when I feel Mr. Verver's arms grabbing my waist, whirling me around.

He's trying to pull me away from Mr. Shaw, but I'm not done.

Mr. Verver's hands are on me, he is grabbing me so hard, but I am so much stronger, I am sliding through his arms back to Mr. Shaw.

Mr. Shaw, eyes wide open, and I never got the chance to have that heavy, heartsick gaze on me. And now here it is, eyes open forever, gazing in dreamy wonder.

All these days, these endless days, trying to crawl my way into him, trying to burrow through, I won't be stopped now.

I want to look at Mr. Shaw's face forever.

I feel myself drop to the gra.s.s, hands and knees, peering at him, my face so close the smells burn in my nose, smoke and sweat and unnamed things, lowering myself nearly to the damp dirt, inches from him.

His face.

I see no horror there, not the gun lacing through his splayed fingers. Not the blood webbed across the tree trunk.

Not even that dark tunnel in the center of his face.

That dark tunnel I stare down, like I might follow it, like it might swallow me whole and I would let it willingly, to see where it might take me, to see what secrets it might tell me, secrets Evie holds in her chest now so tight, inviolate.

She's holding it all fathoms deep, she hides it from her face even, pulls a mask across, but he won't. He can't. He will tell me.

Mr. Verver's arms across my chest, trying to drag me back, and I won't go, I won't.

Those eyes, lashed open, looking straight at me.

For the first time ever, those eyes looking straight at me, into my own black heart.

My heart.

I feel my body swing, flung by Mr. Verver, his hands across my eyes. My knees. .h.i.t the gra.s.s again, my legs wilting beneath me, and I see nothing.

But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it took only a second. It took only that second.

I know how it was for Evie now. She looked into his eyes and thought, Oh, what things he must know, what glistening treasures and wild terrors and white-bone regrets the likes of which we will not know for decades. He carried all this wisdom in him, and loss and feeling, and he carried it for her, he wanted to bring it to her, to press it onto her, a sealy emblem of his own regard, the imprint of his life and sorrows. Doing this, doing it here, he wanted to make her feel it forever, on her very own skin. And she will. And now I will too. I will.

Twenty-two.

There are hours that go by, they are unmarked. What would the Verver house be like now without officers blueing every corner, their police radios crackling, those detectives in their blazers, latex gloves snapping. All their eyes, the way they move, their hard, blinkless eyes.

"Let's go home," my mother says, and it's nearly noon. "Let's go home."

I am thinking of how, an hour before, I crept stealthily by the Ververs' bedroom, saw Mrs. Verver and Evie on the bed, both cotton-stuffed with tranquilizers, buried under mounds of sheets, Mrs. Verver's arms swaddling Evie, encasing her.

I am thinking of Mr. Verver's face, white and vivid, his hands fisted as he walked, his voice loud and strong. His daughter's captor gone forever, I think he feels victorious.

I can't think of what to make of it.

I can't think of anything.

Back at home with my mother, I wonder how I will fill the rest of the day, all these hours, the weeks to come?

How will anything ever be still, aweless, again?

The alleged abductor of a local 13-year-old girl took his own life Tuesday outside the home of his purported victim, police say.

Dead from what police are calling a self-inflicted gunshot wound, Harold K. Shaw, 45, was found by the family of his alleged victim in their backyard early Tuesday morning.

Shaw was wanted in connection with allegations of abduction and child molestation. According to police, Shaw kidnapped the girl outside her school on May 28, embarking on a three-week run from the law.

No suicide note was found.

I read the article five, ten times, and there is nothing there. Nothing that means anything at all.

I keep circling it, wondering if I will ever find a way in. When Evie looked at Mr. Shaw, in those motel rooms, in those rooms as she sat on scratchy bedspreads, on bedspreads worn part through, sitting across from Mr. Shaw, did she look at him and see something so beautiful or so ugly that she couldn't stop looking, could never stop looking at him no matter what he did or wanted to do?

What did it feel like to her, seeing him there, trapped in his shadow, him leaning over as she sat on the bed?

Evie, she had a jaw that clicked when she opened her mouth wide or when she ate sometimes. When he kissed her, did he hear it click, like a c.o.c.ked gun? Did she open her mouth wide, like an animal, for him and did he hear it click like the safety on a gun?

It's eight o'clock the following night when Mr. Verver spots me in the backyard, rolling a soccer ball up and down my legs as I lie on the lounger.

He rests his arms across the top of the wire fence.

"How you doing?" Everyone keeps asking that question, my mother, the family doctor, and the lady my mother made me see at the counseling center that day. I keep saying I didn't really see it happen. That I am not traumatized. I say it so many times it no longer seems true.

But when he asks, it's different. It just is. Something nuzzles inside me and I forget everything else and remember only private things, me-and-Mr.-Verver things, the wafting detergent smell in the bas.e.m.e.nt, his face summer-burned, my fingers on his wrist, pressing pulse to pulse, feeling it in my toes. I want it back, I do.

"I'm okay," I say, walking over to the fence. The thought comes to me: What did he think when he had to pull me away from Mr. Shaw? What might he think? "I don't know what I am."

He smiles faintly. "I know what you are," he says, reaching across and putting his hand to my hair, curling a strand around my ear.

I let his hand sit there, I know I will feel it for days, lifetimes.

"Please come over, Lizzie," he says. "She wants you to come over."

I open the door to her room and Evie's sitting, cross-legged, on her bed, staring out the window.

"Mom wants to chop it down," she says, and we both look at the pear tree, its crisp, s.h.i.+ny leaves, its rambling lushness. Her face so still. Now I think that stillness, that blankness, it's a trick. She can't show me yet. She hides it all behind that mask. But she will show me, she will. For him, I will get it.

"Evie," I say, and she looks over at me, unblinking.

"It's all done," she says, almost a sigh. "It's all done."

We pull the sleeping bags outside, onto the whiskery gra.s.s.

It is so hot, and the house is tin-can cold, but Evie wants to be outside, so we sneak out, Evie punching the security code on the panel next to the door.

So wanton, so reckless, the whoos.h.i.+ng thunk when the door opens, the stifling night air filling our throats.

Even so, even in that fulsome heat, the closeness of all things, there's a dizzy kind of freedom in our chests.

Besides, what could happen now? All the happenings gone forever.

In my head, the sight of that dark tunnel mouth, the chute of a mouth, the way you could sink down it forever and never reach the s.h.i.+mmering center.

We don't even think about going into the Verver backyard, that haunted spot in the center. We sneak across the driveway to my yard.

We are both wearing T-s.h.i.+rts and underwear and lying on top of our sleeping bags. Evie keeps pulling her hair off her sticky neck.

The air doesn't move at all. Everything is glowing from the new patio light, the biggest I've ever seen, its globe face like a milky moon.

The cicadas are everywhere, and twinkling lightning bugs. I stretch my toes, which feel dry and scratchy against the sleeping bag.

I'm trying to figure out Evie, her calmness. I'm still picturing her up there in that window, her face like wax.

"Evie," I venture, "remember when you showed me the cigarette stubs?"

I poke my fingertips into the gra.s.s, the cooling dirt.

She wriggles under her T-s.h.i.+rt, elbows poking, pulling its cotton fabric stickily from her damp chest.

"Yeah," she says. "You know, Lizzie, my dad told me how you helped. How you gave the police all that information."

"He did?" I say, and I feel my hot cheeks grow hotter and I put my hands to them.

I wish I had heard exactly what he said, and how he said it. I wonder what words he used and what his face looked like when he said it and if he said it big, like he says things sometimes.

"And about the phone call," she says. I'd been waiting for this. "That you told them I'd called you. From that motel. I said, yes, I guess I did. Call you."

I look at her. And she looks at me. The moment is long, and I surrender before her.

"Pete Shaw," I say. "He told me where you were."

She nods slowly, drawing it all together for herself. Then she lets it go.

"Dad says it's all thanks to you," she says, and I can feel her body tense, hear her voice twist a little. "My coming back. It's all because of you."

Her little fingers are on my arm, on the soft dimpled girly inside.

"Thank you, Lizzie," she says, the tiniest whisper, almost just a burr of hot breath in my ear.

And she's Evie again. And the feeling is all over both of us.

We huddle closely, huddle like we did centuries ago, Brownies at summer camp, racked through with midnight tales of horror and woe, the dreaded sound of lightning crackles and boys hiding in the woods.

It's very late, but the heat never lifts. I turn and look at Evie. Her eyes shut, but I know she's awake. We are in that in-between state and it seems like there are no rules other than the half rules of dreaminess and lost hours.

I think about Evie in that window, watching. Watching Mr. Shaw's body and doing nothing, showing nothing. Was she dying inside? Is she dead now?