“But he might... what if he actually gets better? Well enough to, you know, walk up those stairs and out the door?”
“Richard, he’s not going to get better. His spine is broken. Something’s happened to his head, too. He’s gone a bit simple. He’s not even obsessed with things the way he used to be, other than still writing down what he eats in that stupid book. I’m telling you, he’s not going to get up and walk out of the house one day and tell everybody what happened to him.”
They came up with the boat idea. That Harry got drunk one night, decided to take his boat out into the river. They’d leave his car and trailer at the river’s edge. Leave the oars in the car so later, when the boat, and its empty tank of gas, was found downstream from the falls, the authorities would be able to put it together. They’d search for his body, maybe for a few days, before they gave up.
And that’s what they did.
There was an article in the paper, an item on each of the local stations. CNN even picked up the story. There was a funeral, even though there was no corpse to bury. Phyllis wept. Richard held her and consoled her.
A lot of attention for ten days or so.
And then everyone moved on. No more questions about what was up with Harry.
Richard got his own apartment soon after. He couldn’t bear to be in the house twenty-four/seven. But he returned nearly every day at some point — usually before or after his shift — to check on his stepfather. Brought him meals, helped with his toileting needs, cleaned up after him, found books and magazines for him to read, but mostly magazines, since Harry found it hard to concentrate on books.
Everything seemed to be going along okay.
Until one day Phyllis came home late one night after closing down Patchett’s, and there, ten feet from the door, dragging himself across the living room carpet, was Harry.
Nearly gave her a heart attack.
Another twenty minutes and he’d have been on the front porch. Another ten after that, and he’d have crawled down to the sidewalk, where anyone might have seen him.
From that day forward, a lock went on the door of his room in the basement.
You had to do what you had to do.
“What happens,” Richard asked once, “when he really does... you know, pass away?”
It was something Phyllis had definitely thought about.
“We’ll take him out into the woods,” she said, “and dig a nice hole for him and cover him up, and we’ll have our own little private funeral for him. That’s what we’ll do.”
But today, after seven years, Phyllis has determined that process may have to be sped up a bit.
Because it’s only a matter of time before someone starts putting things together, comes to the house armed with a search warrant, finds Harry down in that room.
Now, it’s all about getting rid of the evidence.
Harry is the evidence.
If the police show up, claiming to have been told some cockamamie story about keeping Harry in the basement, she can say, “What are you talking about? Go down there, have a look. That’s just crazy talk.”
The only one who’s seen him down there is Dennis. And Dennis will have told Claire. The good news is, Richard has taken care of both of them. The only things left to worry about now are that detective, and the book.
Phyllis is betting he has the book. If she can take care of both those matters at once, she might find a way to get out from under all this. For herself, and for her son.
Soon, she’ll put in a call to Cal Weaver. But not just yet. There are more immediate concerns.
“What are all these boxes?” Harry asks when she wheels him out of his room and past the washer and dryer.
“I’m moving you upstairs,” she says. “With you out of the basement, I can store some more stuff in there.”
“Where? What are you talking about?”
“I thought I’d give you Richard’s room. It’s been empty a long time. You’ll have a window and a view and a fresh breeze when you want it.”
“I don’t know what to say— Really?”
“You wait here for a few minutes while I deal with your old room.”
“I won’t be going back in there?”
“I can promise you, Harry, you won’t be sleeping another night in there.”
She feels something catch in her throat. She goes into the room with a garbage bag, stuffs it with anything that says “Harry.” Clothes, adult diapers, scraps of food, a bag of cookies, used tissues, bedding.
She forces the rollaway back together, pushes it into a corner of the room, piles some boxes in front of it. Brings in a few more boxes that she’s been storing in other rooms. Sprays some air freshener, takes a sniff, concludes that it’s not that bad. Working feverishly it takes her the better part of twenty minutes to do it all, but she is a strong woman. Attributes it to years of lugging cases of beer.
“Okay, we’re good to go,” she says, closing the door and locking it, more out of habit than anything else.
“I’m going to need help on the stairs,” he says.
He wheels the chair up to the bottom step. Phyllis gets her hands under his arms, lifts. He grabs onto the railing with his right hand, and with Phyllis on his left, he manages to get to the kitchen. He crawls onto the floor and stays there while Phyllis runs back down, folds up the wheelchair, and brings it up one flight.
“That’s a new fridge,” Harry says, scanning the kitchen.
Had to grind up sleeping pills and put them in his food the day they replaced the old refrigerator when it conked out. At least that was upstairs. That time the furnace went out in the basement, she not only drugged Harry, she tied him down to the bed and taped his mouth, just in case he woke up, which, thank the Lord, he didn’t. When the washing machine broke down, she got Richard to research it on the Internet and fix it himself. Still leaked a bit, but it did the job.
Phyllis gets him back into his chair, steers him toward the back door. “Aren’t we going out the front?” he asks.
“It’s easier to get you into the car this way,” she says.
She realizes, as she grips the handles of the wheelchair, that her hands are shaking. She gets ahead of the wheelchair, opens the door, then gets around behind him again and pushes the chair outside. Phyllis tips the chair back slightly to ease it down the two steps.
The car is there, backed right up to the bottom step. The trunk is open.
Harry says, “Why you got all that plastic lining the trunk, Phyllis?”
It has a low lip, this trunk. Phyllis tips Harry forward, like she’s emptying a wheelbarrow. The top half of his body falls in. He throws his hands forward, trying to brace himself.
“The hell are you doing, Phyllis? Damn, I hit my head.”
“Sorry, honey,” she says. “Can’t have anyone seeing you on the way to Baskin-Robbins.”
“For Christ’s sake, I can scrunch down in the seat!”