“Sell it, I suppose.”
“It’s a lousy market right now. I used to be a realtor. Are you working with anyone yet?”
“A realtor? No. We haven’t gotten that far.”
“Well, you let me know when you’re ready. I can put you in touch with someone who can help you out.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m happy to do it.” Liz puffed on her cigarette.
Across the playground, Susan and Abigail hopped down from the monkey bars and ran toward the only empty seesaw. Two other little girls made a move for the seesaw but they stopped, perhaps intimidated by Susan’s and Abigail’s fortitude. Susan claimed the downed seat, then shoved up off the ground so that the opposite end went low enough for Abigail to climb aboard.
“Had Abigail ever met my father?”
If Liz Rosewood found the question unusual, she didn’t show it. “Abigail? I don’t believe so. Derrick and I only spoke with him on a handful of occasions. He used to sit outside when the weather was nice, but I hadn’t seen him out there since summer started.” Liz sucked the cigarette down to the filter, then tossed it on the ground. “It was Alzheimer’s or something, wasn’t it?”
“Dementia.”
“I got to know Dora Lorton a little,” Liz said. “As well as you can know someone like her, I guess. She was a bit standoffish. Do you know her very well?”
“I just met her when we got here.”
“I’d sometimes pick up things at the supermarket for her if I was on my way, seeing how she never left your father unattended.”
“What about the other nurse?” Laurie asked. “Teresa Larosche. Did you know her as well?”
“The one and only time I saw her was the night your father. . . the night he had his accident. Derrick and I heard the sirens and Derrick went over to see what had happened. When Derrick didn’t come back right away, I went out myself, just as the ambulance was pulling up the driveway. The woman—Teresa, you said?—she was talking to police. She looked petrified.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“I think Derrick did, once the police left. Just checking to see if she was okay, if she needed anything, that sort of thing.”
Across the park, the two girls who had been making their way to the seesaw at the same time as Susan and Abigail now stood beside it, on Abigail’s side. Each time Abigail descended, one of the girls said something to her. Laurie could see the exchange even if she couldn’t hear what was said.
“Is your mother still alive?” Liz asked. Her voice sounded very far away now.
“No. She died a few years ago.”
One of the two girls who had wanted the seesaw picked something up off the ground. As Laurie watched, the girl cranked her arm back and chucked the object at Abigail. The thing—it looked like a pinecone—whizzed past Abigail’s head. The pinecone-chucker’s friend laughed and pointed.
“Ted seems very nice,” Liz said, perhaps desperate to change to a less morbid conversation. “We talked briefly about the John Fish novel he’s adapting. He seems like a very talented man.”
“Thank you.”
The seesaw stopped sawing. As Abigail’s feet planted on the ground, she leaned over and dug her own object out of the dirt. It was a rock roughly the size of a golf ball. The two girls backed away from the seesaw. Abigail hurled the rock at the pinecone-chucker. It struck the girl, who was a bit red-faced and chunky, high on the forearm.
Laurie sprang up from the table. “Hey! Don’t do that!”
The outburst caused Liz to jump. She elbowed her pack of cigarettes off the table and into the grass.
Laurie pointed. “Abigail just threw a rock at that little girl.” Tears burst from the eyes of the chunky red-faced girl. She whirled around and darted toward one of the benches where, presumably, her mother sat not watching her. The chunky girl’s companion, a stick-thin redhead with frizzy curls, just stared in amazement at Abigail, who was now climbing down off the seesaw. The girl looked paralyzed by terror.
Liz cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Abigail! Get over here!”
Laurie was just about to shout Susan’s name when the seesaw dropped out from under her, thudding hard against the earth. The expression on Susan’s face was one of shock.
Liz stalked over to Abigail, who stood blocking the redhead girl’s path to the seesaw. The girl who had been struck with the rock was still moaning while her mother, an equally red-faced and chunky individual, mopped at her daughter’s leaky eyes. Liz hooked a hand under Abigail’s arm and turned the girl around. Abigail’s face was eerily serene. When Liz bent over to address her, Laurie thought Abigail’s eyes were, in fact, focused on her and not Liz.
Laurie jerked her gaze away. She searched for Susan at the seesaw, but Susan was gone. Panic was like a switch that had been instantly flipped inside her . . . but then she caught sight of her daughter racing over to the swings. Wiping sweat from the side of her face, Laurie forced herself to calm down.
The crying girl’s mother approached Liz. The women seemed to know each other. Liz said something to Abigail and then pointed at the picnic table where Laurie was slowly sitting back down. Abigail was already looking at the table and, Laurie thought, at her. As Liz turned back to the other girl’s mother, Abigail strode toward the picnic table and Laurie. This day, the girl was dressed in a boy’s striped polo shirt and threadbare corduroys. Her long dark hair was done up in pigtails. Laurie said nothing as the girl sat down on the opposite side of the picnic table, directly across from her. Abigail said nothing, either; her lips were clenched firmly together and her head was slightly downturned so that she had to look up at Laurie from beneath her brow. Her irises were like two globs of oil. When Abigail set her hands on top of the picnic table, Laurie could see that the fingers were grimy, the fingernails gritty black crescents.
In a small voice, Abigail said, “That other girl started it. She threw something first.”
“Yes. I saw it.”
Abigail’s eyes hung on her. They seemed to burn through her.
“I have something I want to show you,” Laurie went on. She was determined to keep her voice composed.
Abigail said, “What?”
Laurie took the photograph out of her pocket and set it before Abigail on the table. Abigail looked at it, but didn’t touch it; in fact, she slid her hands away from it. When she looked back up at Laurie, her expression was unchanged. “Little girls,” she said.
“Yes. Do you recognize anyone in that picture?” Laurie asked.
Abigail shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
The girl’s head rotated slightly to the right. Those black eyes were muddy with thought. One of Abigail’s hands dropped off the table while the other hand inched closer to the photograph. She didn’t look at it as she picked it up.
“The taller girl,” said Laurie. “The one in the dress.”
“It’s pretty,” the girl said. “I like that dress.”
“Is it yours?”
“Mine?”
“Yes. Is it?”
“No. That’s silly.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“You know my name.”
“Tell me again. What is it?”
“Abigail Evans.”
“Where do you live?”
“At home.”
“Where is that?”
“With my parents. They’re in Greece. Aunt Liz is my aunt.”
“Yes, I know that.” She took the photograph from Abigail’s hand and pointed to Sadie. “Do you know this girl?”
“No.”
“What’s your
real
name? I want to hear you say it.”
“Abigail
is
my real name,” Abigail said. Her thin black eyebrows moved a bit closer together. “You’re being weird.”
Briefly, the world swam out of focus. The children on the playground pixelated and consciousness threatened to slip away from her. A flush of heat welled up out of the open collar of her shirt.
“Do you know who my father was?” Laurie said.
Abigail nodded slowly. “He died.”
“How did he die?”
“He fell out a window.”
“Did Aunt Liz tell you that?”
“No.”
“How do you know that?”
“He fell,” said Abigail. “Out.”
Her voice just above a whisper, Laurie said, “Did you do something to him?”
Abigail’s lips parted, then curled upward in the suggestion of a grin, as if she thought Laurie was playing some sort of game with her. The girl’s throat constricted as a laugh juddered out. Its sound was not unlike something a goat might make. One of her hands slipped down beneath the table. Slowly, Abigail brought her chin down to rest on the tabletop. Her eyes continued to drill into Laurie’s.
“I have a secret,” Abigail said. “A good one.” And then, just like that, Abigail’s eyes softened. Her mouth worked itself shut.
All around Laurie, the world seemed to swim back into focus. Even her breathing began to regulate. She was acutely aware of the sweat that coated her flesh.
Across the playground, Susan hopped down off the swing and hurried over. She was smiling and her hair was in her face.
“Did you see me on the swing, Mommy?”
“I sure did.”
“You were great,” Abigail said.
This was the icing on the cake. “Thanks!” Susan crowed. Then she saw the photo in Laurie’s hand. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing,” Laurie said, tucking the photo back into her pocket.
Liz Rosewood appeared, some sort of embarrassed half-smile on her face. “It’s always something with that girl,” she said, already digging another cigarette from the pack. “I’ve known the Laws for some time now. Their daughter is a bit of a troublemaker.” She turned to Abigail. “But that doesn’t give you permission to sink to her level. Do you get what I’m saying, Buster Brown?”
“No,” Abigail said.
“It means you don’t have to be mean just because someone else is.”
“Oh.”
“Now go over and apologize to that girl.”
Abigail narrowed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t want to.”
“It’s the nice thing to do.”
“But she started it! Susan’s mom saw!”
Laurie shrugged. “The other girl threw something, too, I think.”
Liz waved a hand in front of Abigail’s face, as if swatting away invisible flies. “I don’t care. I have to live in this neighborhood with these people. Get off your rump and go apologize, Abigail.”
Pouting, Abigail swung her legs over the bench seat and got up from the table. Her fists were clenched as she stormed across the playground to where the chunky red-faced Law girl stood with her mother and some other women. The chunky girl flinched when she saw her coming. Laurie wondered if it gave Abigail some satisfaction.
“Can I go, too?” Susan said, tugging gently on Laurie’s arm.
“No. You stay here.”
Liz sat on the bench and puffed her smoke. “Girls will be girls,” she said.
“I suppose,” said Laurie.
“You and your husband should come by for dinner one night,” Liz suggested. “You haven’t even met Derrick yet.”
“We’re terribly busy at the house. . . .”
“It’ll do you good to get out.”
“Yes,” said Laurie. “Everyone keeps telling me that.”
Susan jabbed a finger at Liz Rosewood’s cigarette. “That gives you cancer!”
“Yes, they do,” Liz agreed, still puffing.
Laurie swatted Susan’s arm down. “That’s impolite.”
“But those things
kill
people, Mom.”
Liz laughed. She was unattractive when she laughed—too brutish and loud, and she opened her mouth too wide. “Very smart little girl.”
At the other end of the playground, Laurie watched as Abigail spoke to the red-faced chunky girl and her mother. The girl’s mother smiled at Abigail and went to pat her head or her shoulder, but Abigail sidestepped the pat with such agility that, for a moment, the woman’s hand hung in midair, a confused and somewhat startled expression on her face.
“Please,” Liz said, though there wasn’t much pleading to her tone. “Tonight. We can grill up some steaks. It’ll be nice.”
“I want to eat over at Abigail’s house again,” Susan said.
Once more, Liz Rosewood laughed. She had an elbow propped on one knee, smoke trailing from the cigarette held loosely between two fingers. She looked like a magazine advertisement. “It’s really no trouble,” she said.
“I’ll have to check with my husband. He’s been trying to get some work done while we’re here. It hasn’t been going very well for him. “
Like a small wooden soldier, Abigail marched back over to the picnic table. She was unsmiling. One of her pigtails was coming undone and there were loose strands of dark brown hair swiped across her sweaty forehead. A greasy smudge stood out sharply on her left cheek. “There. Are you happy?” she said as she sat down.
“Yes,” said Liz. “Thank you. And what do you have in your hand?”
Glancing at Laurie, Abigail held up what looked like a pink barrette for Liz’s inspection. It looked like one of the barrettes that had been in the hair of the chunky red-faced girl.
“Where did you get that?”
“I found it.”
“Stop picking up trash,” Liz scolded her. “Go throw that in the garbage can.”
“We’re eating dinner at your house tonight!” Susan informed her friend.
Still pouting, Abigail said, “That’s not my
real
house.”
Chapter 20
A
t an easy two-hundred-twenty pounds and a gruff, workmanlike appearance, Derrick Rosewood seemed a poor match for Liz’s easygoing liberalism. He possessed a large, angular, red face that reminded Laurie of a stop sign, and there was dark grease in the creases of his neck and smears of it along his sunburned forearms. His hands were big paws and his eyes were the dim brownish-yellow eyes of a jungle cat. He ate in his work clothes, which consisted of a matching white-and-green jumpsuit which he unzipped down the front so that his stomach could protrude over the elastic waistband, and he exuded a smell that was ambiguously mechanical in nature, though not necessarily offensive. He was also very friendly.
The Genarros arrived at the Rosewoods’ around seven. Ted brought a bottle of Da Vinci Chianti Reserva and Susan had made a friendship bracelet out of colored string and plastic beads for Abigail. Derrick was already out on the deck warming up the barbeque when they arrived; he waved one of his big paws at them through the kitchen windows. Liz greeted them with a smile and commented about how nice it was for them to bring a bottle of wine.
“Where’s Abigail?” Susan asked Liz. Then she held up the friendship bracelet. “Look at what I made for her!”
Liz bent down, planting both hands on her knees. “Well, that is a particularly exquisite piece of jewelry. I think Abigail will like it very much. I also happen to know she made you something, too. She’s upstairs in her room. Go on and fetch her.”
“Can I, Daddy?”
“Sure, pumpkin pie.”
“Yay!” She raced off down the hall and tramped hard upon the stairwell.
Outside on the deck, Derrick introduced himself to Laurie with a meaty handshake and a broad smile. Then he went instantly somber. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. He seemed like a nice old fellow.”
“Did you know him very well?”
“I would sometimes see him sitting out in the yard before he got sick. We used to say a few words to each other and he was always very friendly. It was terrible what happened.”
Liz put a hand on Laurie’s shoulder and offered her a seat at the picnic table that stood on the slouching deck. Once Laurie sat down, Liz took everyone’s drink order. Ted said he’d have some of the wine he brought while Laurie just asked for an ice water. At the table, Laurie positioned herself so that she could see the light on in the window upstairs—what she assumed was Abigail’s bedroom, since it was the only light on up there. She couldn’t hear the girls, couldn’t see them. There was a stubborn lump in her throat.
“Anyone want something other than medium rare?” Derrick asked when Liz arrived with the drinks and a platter of raw sirloins for the grill.
“Susan will have hers well done,” Laurie offered. “Where are the girls, anyway?”
“Playing upstairs,” Liz said. She was having a beer and leaning against the deck railing. “Don’t worry about them, they’re fine.”
“I’d hate to think my daughter is getting into anything up there.”
Without looking at her, Derrick waved a hand. “Kids get in trouble anywhere. Better they’re keeping each other busy.”
Ted lifted his glass of wine. “Agreed.”
“There’s nothing they can get into,” Liz confided, winking at Laurie.
The sun sank low in the west, toward the front of the Rosewoods’ house; toward the east, the pulsing sodium lights on the other side of the river radiated up over the trees.
“You know, Laurie, I had no idea your father had been a big-time steel mogul until I read his obituary,” Derrick commented. “He was part owner of one of those old complexes down at Sparrows Point back in the seventies, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“I work for BGE and service Sparrows Point as part of my route.”
“What’s BGE?” Ted asked.
“Baltimore Gas and Electric. We’ve been taking a lot of heat from Sparrows Point the past few years over the size of the mills’ utility costs. Armor Steel pays just over twenty thousand dollars a day for natural gas and electric services—”
“A
day?
” said Ted.
“—with an annual bill of around eight million bucks.”
“That’s unfathomable,” Ted stated.
Derrick pumped one big shoulder and said, “Let’s not forget how much money these companies actually
make
. Your father made out all right, didn’t he, Laurie?”
“Yes, he did very well.”
“Where
is
this Sparrows Point?” Ted asked.
Derrick pointed out across the yard and over the trees at the eerie light on the horizon. The color was an indistinct electrical hue, not quite white, not quite pink, not quite orange. “Dundalk, which is maybe forty minutes by car, although it’s quicker if you cut through the channels. The waterways, I mean. But you can see the factory lights straight across the river when it starts to get dark. Makes it look like Roswell over there, don’t it?”
“Industrial pollution is what it is,” Ted commented.
“All kinds of pollution,” Derrick said. “Not just in the air, I mean. There’s pollutants in the sediment, in the oyster beds, all throughout the wildlife that feed off the waterway. Water got so bad the past few years, Maryland crabs were being shipped in from North Carolina and Louisiana, though the locals don’t really like the tourists to know. There’s methods for cleaning it up, but the big question is who’s gonna pay for it?”
“When I was a girl, I used to think it sounded so pretty,” Laurie said. “Sparrows Point. Then one day my father drove me out across the Key Bridge. It was a wasteland of factories and shipyards—smokestacks, industrial pumps, hazard lights.”
“It’s mostly a ghost town now,” Derrick assured her. Meat sizzled on the grill, the smell of it strong and smoky. “Half the factories have closed down. Now they just sit there like giant castles that have been evacuated because of some deadly plague. I guess industry itself was the plague, killing off the old steel mills and replacing them with liquefied natural gas terminals. Back in the seventies, Bethlehem Steel invested millions of dollars in the shipyards, and for a while it was profitable. But it’s changed hands about half a dozen times since then, maybe more. Baltimore Marine owned much of it at one point back in the nineties, and maybe they still do, though you don’t hear much about it anymore, unless it’s chatter about the pollution and the dead critters that wash up on shore after a heavy rain.”
“That’s terrible,” said Laurie. “It’s better that the steel mills and factories have shut down.”
Derrick nodded eagerly, but there was disagreement in his eyes. “But, see, that’s the problem—most of those companies who polluted the watershed have shriveled up and died, so who’s responsible for it now?”
“The factories might be shut down but the companies must still be around,” Ted said. “In some form or another. Companies that big never go away completely.”
“The property is all tied up with your basic multinational conglomerate corporations,” Derrick continued, “but they wave their hands and say, hey, we just bought these big buildings, broke them apart, and reconstructed the pieces. They own the lots, but they don’t own the claim to the pollution and to what those factories did before they came on the scene and bought them up.”
“No accountability,” Ted confirmed.
“They fling some money at charitable organizations, Save the Bay, those types of things, and it’s like they’re buying their own absolution. Meanwhile, honest men can’t make a living anymore out on the bay.”
“Both of Derrick’s grandfathers were watermen,” Liz explained. “He’s very emotionally invested in the issue.”
Derrick frowned. “It’s important.” It was the voice of a petulant child.
“I know, hon.”
The deck door slid open and Susan and Abigail came out. Susan bounced over to Ted and climbed up into his lap. She wore a wreath of flowers like a crown on her head—a daisy chain made from black-eyed Susans.
“Cool headgear, babe,” Ted said, grinning at Susan.
“Abigail made it for me.” Susan beamed as she reached up and gently touched one of the flowers.
Abigail surveyed the people on the deck, and Laurie thought the girl’s eyes lingered longest on her. Then she went over to Liz and showed her the bracelet she wore on her wrist. “Look what Susan made.”
“That’s very pretty. Did you thank her?”
“I did. Upstairs.”
“Good work, kiddo.”
“Okay, everybody wash up!” Derrick bellowed. “Food’s on!”
Susan bolted for the door. Abigail walked more serenely, glancing again at Laurie as she went into the house.
The food was good but Laurie didn’t have much of an appetite. She ate only half her steak, and was silently grateful when Ted finished it for her. The girls sat together at a plastic table and chair set Derrick had brought up from the basement, whispering and tittering behind cupped hands. (Though the girls had presumably washed their hands prior to eating, Laurie noted with mounting disquiet that Abigail’s hands remained filthy; she ate with her fingers, too, and the sight of those grubby meat-slickened digits sliding in and out of the girl’s mouth was slowly making Laurie ill.)
After dinner, Laurie waited for some coffee to be served, but Liz Rosewood only brought out another clutch of beers onto the deck. Ted finished off the wine he’d brought with him and Laurie stuck to ice water. She didn’t think she could stomach alcohol at the moment. When the girls went into the house to play, Laurie was glad to have Abigail’s eyes off her for a while, although she was fearful of having Susan out of her line of sight for too long.
“Lizzie says you folks are planning to sell the house,” Derrick said, cranking the cap off a bottle of Flying Dog. “Market’s a bear right now. You might want to hang on to it, rent it out or something, until things get better.”
“If they ever do,” Ted added.
Derrick tipped his beer in Ted’s direction. “You know it, my friend.”
“Derrick’s brother Pete used to have a nice little place in Elkridge,” Liz said, “but then he lost his job and then he lost his house sometime after that.”
“The place wound up being worth less than he owed on it. It was like pouring water into a bucket with a hole in it,” Derrick said.
“Listen,” Liz said. “Before you folks leave tonight, I’ll give you my friend Harmony’s card. She’s a realtor and she’ll help you guys out. It’ll be good to have someone help take some of the burden off your shoulders.”
Ted smiled and thanked her.
The patio door swooshed open again and Susan wandered out onto the deck. She looked flushed and tired, and went directly to her father where she climbed up onto his lap and rested her head on his shoulder. Ted stroked her hair. “Getting sleepy, Snoozin?”
“Not really.”
“Where’s Abigail?” Liz asked.
“Watching TV. I got bored.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Laurie suggested.
Ted examined his wristwatch while Derrick said, “It’s still early yet.”
Laurie stood and collected some of the plates off the table. Liz told her not to worry about them, but Laurie said it was no problem. She carried them into the kitchen and stacked them in the sink, then ran water over the coagulated patches of grease.
The living room was off the kitchen. It was small and drably furnished, with walls the color of burnt umber and a sofa and loveseat combination that looked like it had been salvaged from a yard sale. Ugly prints of hunting dogs and mallards collected dust on the walls. Laurie lingered in the doorway and stared at the back of Abigail’s head. The girl was planted cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. With the remote, she flipped through the channels at random and did not settle on a particular program.
Back in the kitchen, Laurie could hear the murmurs of conversation out on the porch. She peeked through the partially curtained window over the sink and saw Susan still curled up on her father’s lap. Laurie crossed into the hallway and paused at the bottom of the stairwell. The stairs were covered in a woven runner of oriental design and there were crooked little picture frames going up the wall. The house was smaller than her father’s, and there were only two bedrooms at the top of the stairs. Only one of the bedroom doors stood open. Laurie peered in, saw the queen bed outfitted in a hideous floral spread, and knew it was the master bedroom. She turned and approached the closed bedroom door at the opposite end of the hall, peering into a darkened bathroom along the way. Clutching the knob, she expected to find it locked, but it wasn’t. She turned the knob and went inside.
The Rosewoods had done their best to make the room homey: There were dolls and stuffed animals on the bed, toys on the floor, a small television on a refurbished dresser, drawings taped to one wall, and various arts and crafts atop a cramped little desk in one corner of the room. Laurie took a deep breath and could smell cleaning products and faint perfume. Was there the scent of dirt hidden beneath those other smells? She thought that there was.
That’s because this used to be Sadie’s bedroom,
she thought.
I can still smell that girl beneath all this newness.
She went to the desk and picked up various art projects. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about any of them—a shoe-box diorama, a few crayon drawings, a sock puppet with Ping-Pong balls for eyes and bright yellow yarn for hair, what appeared to be stories or poems printed out in a child’s swollen, bubbly handwriting. Had she not been searching for deeper meaning in the items themselves, she might have missed it, passing off the art projects and looping vowels as a preadolescent’s unremarkable juvenilia. But it wasn’t. The swollen loops of her handwriting made it look like each individual letter was a cell engorged with disease. Smudgy fingerprints had been embossed like wax stamps at the corners of each page. The shoe-box diorama depicted a crudely drawn family, their clothing colorful and done in great detail while none of them had any faces. Laurie picked up one of the drawings. It was of trees, done in crayon, with green curlicues for leaves and forked trunks like upside-down peace signs. Printed in pencil across the trunk of one tree, in all capitals, was the word FUCK. Laurie let the paper flutter to the desktop. She picked up the sock puppet. A bright red crayon had been used to emboss pupils on the sock puppet’s Ping-Pong ball eyes. Laurie brushed a thumb across one eyeball and flakes of red wax rained down on the desktop. The sock itself smelled awful, like industrial cleanser. It stung her eyes and she quickly dropped it.