When She Was Gone (2 page)

He'd also overheard Linsey telling Timmy this: she knew that Mr. Leonard sometimes played the piano wearing inappropriate attire. Linsey, bless her, hadn't laughed. Never mind the McGuires, two doors down, who came out to get their paper in their pj's. Never mind that sometimes Mrs. Copper nursed her baby in the backyard, and if you kneeled on the arm of one of the Adirondack chairs on the back deck, you might see her lifting her blouse for the baby's mouth—Linsey had no interest in this spying, she said, she just saw her half brother Cody in this compromising position. What Linsey knew about Mr. Leonard was that sometimes he played the piano, late at night, mind you, or so late morning might have more claim on the hour than starlight, wearing a ball gown, blue satin, tight bodice, so his pale skin spilled out over the top like added lace, or even odder: a slightly yellowed wedding dress, which Linsey assumed must have belonged to his mother.

Mr. Leonard watched Linsey pull a folded slip of paper
from the pocket of her jeans. He stopped humming—he only noticed the humming when everything else had stopped, but took comfort in knowing that Glenn Gould, too, hummed when he played; it was a kind of conversation with the piano—and he could hear Linsey sigh as she read the paper, then refolded it, then taped it to the pretentious iron mailbox her stepfather had installed on the front porch, complete with its own stubby post, and shut the door on the tail of the note.

Linsey wore a jeans jacket that was too large and too warm for August and for her slight frame. Mr. Leonard had always thought of her as a goldfinch, hollow boned, quick and certain in flight but heavy on the branches. She'd moved in next door with her family when she was three, when Mr. Leonard was still a teacher, when he'd imagined he might be
her
teacher someday, so he'd let his interest rest on her, a quiet thing. She'd always had hairdos to match her mother's then. She'd worn buns pierced with splintery chopsticks from the Golden Lee Chinese Deli restaurant her family ordered from every Saturday night. Mr. Leonard could smell their dinners through the window. They ate on the porch: moo-shu pork, orange-fried chicken, the sesame and chili oil scent floating like a casual cloud of conversation from their table to his. Mr. Leonard didn't like to sit down to eat. He liked to move, to take a bite from the carefully set plate on the kitchen counter and go get the paper. Take a bite, then empty the dishwasher, take a bite, then feed the dog, when he had one. If he didn't sit down, he didn't have to notice that he
was eating, not really; he didn't have to notice that he was eating alone.

His next-door neighbors' first few years were peaceful, as the last few had been. In between, after they lost the boy, Linsey's family was loud and angry. Linsey had wept her face into angry blotches, flinging herself onto the window seat on the stairwell, which faced Mr. Leonard's house. Linsey's bedroom wasn't on that side of the house, so for him, it was as if she never slept. Mr. Leonard heard the yowling, almost catlike, territorial, of Mr. and Mrs.; he didn't see the slamming of the front door, but he saw Mr. Hart's back, huge and hunched like a bear's in a quilted winter coat, as he stalked away from the house. The ancient glass in the door, an intricate flower pattern of panes divided by wires and thin strips of wood, waited while Mr. Hart started his Volvo. But before he'd backed out, spinning tires and crushed ice over the unshoveled driveway, the glass began to fall, tuneful shards, on the wide floorboards of the porch. He saw Linsey later, picking at the bits of glass as if they held clues. He'd wanted to push open his window, call out,
careful,
but of course he didn't. She was eight, the same age Mr. Leonard had been when his family folded like a finished fan. Then her father had moved out, then the new man had moved in.

He watched the family; it was like a field gone fallow, tilled and hand hewn to remove the rocks, ready for replanting. The stepfather put in a new door, hauling the cardboard-patched broken one—thick oak and heavy—to the curb by himself on Big Trash Day. One August the twins were born,
Toby and Cody, a dark boy and a light boy, the latter bald at first, then bright blond, the kind of blond that causes casual touching; people passing in the supermarket reached toward his mother's cart, took strands between their fingertips before they knew what they were doing. Then Linsey was a teen, and she had a boyfriend. Mr. Leonard had liked him at first; he'd been one of his own students, Timmy, heavy of chest and quick to smile, chocolate brown eyes, a good laugh. He laughed a lot at lessons. He didn't practice. He had a strong ear and could plunk out melodies, finger by finger, but had no interest in picking at the tight weave of himself in search of loops of talent. That was how it worked for most people: they could find enough talent to wind together, to braid with rote skill, they could find pleasure in the music that way, even if they would never give much in performance. Pleasure in the music was something. It was like a child athlete growing into adulthood, perhaps running a little faster to catch the commuter train. The real talents—bundles and ropes of it, the kind of talent that made playing not a choice, once they found their fingers, but a requirement, even if they played passionately until college and then gave it up, always feeling the music in their fingers, in their arms, music like ghost limbs—they were rare.

He'd seen the breakup through the glass. Linsey leaning in toward Timmy, touching his face, then removing herself, fingers first, then arms, then she got up from the wicker love seat and sat on a chair by herself, wrapped only in its arms. He saw them kissing good-bye, like they always did, mouths
fit together like wheel and cog, only their bodies told the rest, space between them, chests breathing independently.

Early that spring, Mr. Leonard had watched Linsey and Timmy holding hands on the porch swing like a fifties couple, courting. He'd seen the way they made their arms and legs fit together, a single body for so many limbs. He'd seen the way the love flared off them, dazzling light. Now he saw Linsey's sadness. Again. The window seat, like a crumpled child.

•   •   •

Mr. Leonard was a half-breed, his father a famous Jewish conductor and an agnostic, his mother a lapsed Catholic who'd died of anaphylactic shock in the picnic-blanketed audience while her husband wound his arms passionately around Mahler's no. 8 with the Tanglewood Festival orchestra. Molly Leonard had never been stung by a bee before that day, at the renowned summer festival of outdoor concerts. Perhaps it was a paper wasp, perhaps an ordinary honeybee, perhaps she had squashed it absently with her thigh or perhaps it was aggressive, rising from the earth with a mindless malice—either way, Mr. Leonard was with a nanny at the pine-beamed rental cottage. He was eight. He would swim in Long Pond, he would drink pink lemonade, hand-squeezed by the nanny, lemons and pink grapefruit, quite a lot of sugar slushing at the bottom of the striped glass; he would change into his pale blue cotton pajamas—my little maestro, his mother called him—and eat nine squares more Lindt milk
chocolate than was allowed, reading
The Adventures of Tintin,
while his babysitter talked with her boyfriend on the phone, winding the cord around and around. He would sleep once more before he knew his mother was dead.

•   •   •

Mr. Leonard would've like to have talked to Linsey's mother—no longer Mrs. Hart; now she was Mrs. Stein, and she had taken a course at the reform synagogue for non-Jews who had married in and didn't want to convert, but wanted to give their homes some Jewishness (Mr. Leonard thought about this: some Jewishness, like a twig from an olive tree: like a spray can of something, eau de prewar Eastern Europe: or better yet: German Jew, crystals hung in the windows, Viennese cakes with fig fillings), so she made Shabbat dinner on Fridays. Linsey loved eating the challah; Mr. Leonard knew this because she often took hunks out to the wicker landings of the porch, fed them to Timmy, before Timmy was banished—Mr. Leonard would've like to have told Mrs. Stein not to push her daughter so hard. To let her stay with Timmy: if they were going to split up, it would happen. Linsey was young, but she wasn't stupid. Abortion was legal—for now, anyway. Children lived together now, they decided whether they fit together like puzzle pieces or whether they ought to share only meals and conversations and maybe sex but not the rest of life. The rest of life—Mr. Leonard thought—should belong to Linsey. Her mother was making the worst mistake, trying to conduct a soloist, trying to instruct her daughter's
life in a way it could not be forced to go. He had always been cordial with the Harts/Steins. He brought their papers up to the porch—stacked them neatly under the rocker, bundled the mail just inside the screen door, feeling presumptuous but helpful—when they went away on vacation. They didn't ask him to do this, but he knew they appreciated it. Once, a hundred years ago when she was still a girl and he was still a teacher, Linsey had been sent over with a plate of brownies as a thank-you. She'd been eating one she had slipped out from under the cellophane as he came to the door. He heard her coming, but let her ring the bell anyway.

“For you,” she'd said. “Um, for the mail.”

He'd wanted to swipe the crumb from the corner of her mouth. He'd wanted to tie the lace of her pink sneaker, unlooped and dangerous.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a single brownie, not the whole plate.

“No,” said Linsey. “All of them.”

“Okay,” he said. “Except this one's for you.” He removed another, just three left. The brownie tasted of cocoa, and vaguely metallic, like mix. Not unpleasing.

“Did you make them?”

Linsey was eating again. “Mmm,” she said.

“Do you want milk?”

“I have to go back,” she said.

“I could give you a lesson,” he said, and Linsey looked puzzled, though she'd been eyeing the piano through the curved glass of the turret.

“No,” she said. “I play flute. Bye.” She turned and ran, and Mr. Leonard watched with trepidation, but she didn't trip. The brownies had come on a paper plate, so there was nothing to return.

•   •   •

Now Mr. Leonard watched Linsey leave her porch. She'd slung her little black backpack over one shoulder and she looked small under the weight of the morning light. The zipper wasn't closed all the way; he imagined the contents spilling out like food from an interrupted mouthful. She stepped out to the street as if waiting for something. Then she started down Sycamore, sneakers almost silent on the sidewalk. She walked past Mr. Leonard's house, and then she was gone.

The houses were quiet, his and hers. He fingered the keys without pressing for a while, then allowed himself a Lully minuet, softer than it should be, but innocent. It was almost nine by the time the twins slammed open the door, running for the camp bus. Mr. Leonard was playing a requiem now; he felt like something was ending. Cody and Toby kicked the screen door on the porch and let in the quick, hot breeze. A single yellow leaf fell from the dogwood in front of their house. As the boys shoved each other along toward the bus, legs long and brown, one face pinched, the other open, the note in the mailbox stirred. The breeze broke the tape's kiss with the iron, tugged the corner free from the lid. Mr. Leonard didn't see the paper as it floated free, then landed with fateful precision, the edge slipping between the floorboards
of the porch. The door opened again, Mrs. Stein calling after her boys, “I love you! Have fun!” and the note fell into the lightless land between the porch's latticed-in legs and the concrete foundation of the house.

Later, when they came to question him, Mr. Leonard would try to be faithful to the morning. He remembered the note, but assumed they already knew. He remembered a lot of things, but only answered their questions. By then, the word “vanished” had wafted into his windows like the stray spittle that worked its way from rain through the screens. But vanished, Mr. Leonard thought, was a relative term. Linsey knew where she was, he thought, Linsey knew what she was seeing and hearing, what tastes touched her tongue.

He'd seen her seeing him. It wasn't as if he could help himself—it wasn't as if he was really living in his body—sometimes at the piano, sometimes inside the music. Mr. Leonard knew something about Linsey, something secret. But then, he had secrets of his own; he understood, and he wasn't telling.

26 SYCAMORE STREET

A
bigail Stein listened to the hissing of the trash truck as it turned the corner from Cedar Court, the cul-de-sac. She loved that the twins were gone for the long camp day, dashed out to the bus at the curb like birds toward a handful of tossed crumbs. During the school year, they were home or on the Mom bus to sports by 2:56
PM
—but camp went until four and their bus wasn't back until suppertime. Motherhood had transformed Abigail from a reasonably round object (though she was a slender woman, with softly brown, short-cropped hair, and a childlike sweetness in her rounded knees and shoulders), a red rubber ball perhaps, firm sided and elastic, into an accordion. She was always flexing out and squashing in, accommodating the music of their breath. She was always becoming smaller and larger, always folding and expanding. She turned off the coffeemaker, which still held its daily wasted half cup—her husband, Frank, wanted enough of everything, so sometimes there was too much, sometimes there was waste. Better, she thought. Better to live within his wide margins. She tipped the hot brown liquid into the garbage disposal, smelled the decay as it hit the
cantaloupe rinds; she missed her husband, the boys, and Linsey.

Linsey came and went at will—she would already be at work by now with no need for a mother's breakfast or kisses good-bye. It was entirely appropriate, of course, but still startling that her once-infant could make it through days without any sort of parental support or intervention. She had named Linsey for her Scottish grandmother, Leslie, who had given Abigail a pocket-size book of fairy stories with gold paint on the edges of the pages. She didn't like the spelling with the
D
; it seemed too syllabic, too hard. Her mother wasn't fond of Leslie, her father's mother, and she hadn't wanted to hear anything about the name; she'd wanted it to be her own gift to her daughter. Soon enough, Linsey would be gone, really gone. Abigail was doing her best to let go without hysteria, but some requisite fanfare. She thought of her own departure from Highland Park, Illinois, for Wellesley—her mother's tight-faced refusal to go along for the car trip. Mrs. Cardinal hated long car trips; she'd even borne a paper bag for the fifteen-minute ride to the high school for graduation, breathing in and out while Abigail's father drove, his arm on his wife's leg, half comfort, half possession. So her mother stayed home with her laundry and alphabetical coupons, and Abigail's father and brother took her to Massachusetts, and there was hilarity along the way, ordering too much food at Waffle House (her mother insisted on cleaned plates); letting her brother, age twelve, take the steering wheel and loop eights in an empty rest area parking lot somewhere in
Pennsylvania. Roadside stands, pies they ate with their fingers. It was a wild last hurrah. Her mother never went to college, and both expected it of Abigail and never forgave her.