They grew tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, radishes, and more, for their own use.
Grady sat at the table with her.
“When I want my future,” she continued, “I see you tall and handsome and grown, with a family of your own. And I see myself with your dad again, in a new world without struggle.”
“Don’t be sad,” Grady said.
“Oh, honey, I’m not sad. Have I ever seemed sad to you?”
“No. Just … here like this.”
“When I say I see myself with your dad again, I’m not saying that I wish it. I mean I truly see it.”
Grady peered through the window and saw only the night.
“Believing isn’t wishing, Grady. What you know with your heart is the only thing you really ever know.”
By then she had taken a job in the office of the lumber mill. She spent five days a week where Paul died. They needed the money.
For a long time, Grady was concerned about her working at the mill. He thought she suffered the constant reminder of the twisted spikes and the broken saw blade.
He came to understand, however, that she liked the job. Being at the mill, among the people who had worked with Paul, was a way of keeping the memory of her husband sharp and clear.
One Saturday when he was fourteen, Grady came home from a part-time job to discover that Sneakers had died. His mom had dug the grave.
She had prepared the body for burial. She wrapped the beloved dog in a bedsheet, then in the finest thing she owned, an exquisite Irish-lace tablecloth used only on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.
Grady found her sitting on the back-porch steps, cradling the shrouded body, weeping, waiting for him. Two people were required to put Sneakers in the grave with respect and gentleness.
As the summer sun waned, they lowered the dog to his rest. Grady wanted to shovel the earth into the grave, but his mom insisted she would do it. “He was so sweet,” she said. “He was so sweet to me.”
Determined to be strong for him, she never allowed Grady to see her crying for his father. She couldn’t hide her tears for the dog.
His father had given her the dog. On lonely nights, the dog had grieved with her. Now she’d lost Sneakers, but in a way, she had also lost her husband again.
Later, Grady sat with his mom in the dark kitchen. The dog’s grave lay in a direct line with the window, at the end of the yard.
Grady was six years older than he’d been when his dad died. His mother could talk more frankly about love and loss, about grief and faith, about the sharpness of her pain, than she had talked back in the day.
Although she had withheld from him the depth of her anguish and her fear about their future — for a while, they had been in danger of losing the house — she never deceived him. She had always told him as much as she thought he was old enough to handle.
The night of the day that Sneakers died, Grady realized that all of his mother’s sterling qualities arose from the same basic virtue. She loved Truth, and she did not lie.
Until she drew her last breath — far too young — she never told him a falsehood. Because of her, Grady valued nothing higher than veracity.
In this age, lies were the universal lubricant of the culture. A love of Truth and a commitment to it were seldom rewarded and were often punished.
So you came home to the mountains, and you built tables and chairs and consoles in one Craftsman style or another. The simple materials and the clean lines of such furniture revealed where a woodworker dared to take a shortcut or to employ a substandard technique. Honest craftsmanship and a commitment to quality were evident in a finished piece, and no one could spin the truth of your work into a lie.
As Grady sat at the table, watching the night, as Merlin sat sentry at the French door, the south end of the moonlit yard suddenly became slightly brighter than it had been. The source of the light lay out of sight.
Grady rose, stepped around the table, and put his face to the window. He expected to see lights in the workshop, which earlier he locked tight. Instead, the glow came from the garage, to which the workshop was attached.
Nevertheless, he knew this intruder must be the same that had toured the workshop and later had taken the baked chicken breasts.
Fourteen
Upon finding the bloody handprint on the wall near the head of the cellar stairs, Henry Rouvroy considered firing the shotgun down into the darkness. Restraint was not a quality of character natural to him, yet he managed to resist the urge to squeeze the trigger.
When he flicked the switch and light bloomed, he found no one waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He let out his pent-up breath.
Listening to the room below, he became convinced that someone down there likewise listened to him.
He almost whispered a name. But he kept his silence for fear of receiving an answer in a familiar voice.
Anyone in the cellar could leave by the outer door, which opened onto exterior stairs that led up to the lawn. Henry couldn’t imprison the intruder, but he could prevent him from returning to the ground floor by this route.
After switching off the cellar light, he closed the door and slid the bolt into the latch plate. He doubted it would hold against a determined assault. He fetched a chair from the nearby dinette, tipped it on its back legs, and wedged the headrail under the doorknob.
He continued his sweep of the house, making sure no one was concealed anywhere, checking that windows were securely latched. He felt exposed at every pane of glass while he closed the draperies.
In the bedroom, on the bed, he had left the pistol with which he had killed Jim and Nora. During his absence, someone had taken it. The shoulder holster and the spare magazine were also gone.
A small smear of blood brightened the beige chenille bedspread.
Two spaces remained to be searched: the closet and the bathroom. Both doors were in the same wall, and they were closed.
Taking a wide stance to brace himself against the recoil, Henry leveled the pistol-grip shotgun at the closet, fired, fired again. In this closed space, the sound slammed off the walls with a blowback that he could almost feel. He fired two rounds at the bathroom.
The buckshot punched holes through both of the cheap hollow-core doors, with enough velocity remaining to tear up whoever might be waiting beyond. The absence of a scream suggested that he’d wasted ammunition.
He pumped the last round into the breech, dug spare shells out of his pockets, and reloaded the magazine.
His hands trembled, stomach acid scalded the back of his throat, and his bowels felt loose. But he neither vomited nor soiled his pants.
In such a pressurized situation, with everything at risk, not losing control of bodily functions seemed to be a triumph. Henry gained confidence from the fact that his underwear remained dry.
Killing unsuspecting people was far easier than defending your life against an armed enemy.
That was a truth they didn’t teach you at Harvard. At least not in any of the classes that Henry had taken.
The anticipation of violence before a murder was pleasurable, but the expectation of being shot in the head wasn’t in the least exhilarating, no matter what psychology professors said about death having a subconscious appeal similar to that of sex. A good-looking woman chained in a potato cellar had infinitely more appeal than stalking — and being stalked by — someone who perhaps wanted to blow your brains out.
He opened the riddled door to the closet and found no one alive or dead. In the bathroom, buckshot had shattered the mirror.