When Buckley was gone, he turned his attention to my sister. He would care for his two daughters by caring for one: “Are you being careful?” he asked.
“I just started,” Lindsey said. “I’d like to be alone, Dad.”
“Is that the same blade that was on it when you got it from my shaving kit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my beard stubble dulls the blade. I’ll go get you a fresh one.”
“Thanks, Dad,” my sister said, and again she was his sweet, piggyback-riding Lindsey.
He left the room and went down the hallway to the other side of the house and the master bathroom that he and my mother still shared, though they no longer slept in the same room together. As he reached up into the cabinet for the package of fresh razors, he felt a tear in his chest. He ignored it and focused on the task. There was only a flicker of a thought then: Abigail should be doing this.
He brought the razor blades back, showed Lindsey how to change them, and gave her a few pointers on how best to shave. “Watch out for the ankle and the knee,” he said. “Your mother always called those the danger spots.”
“You can stay if you want,” she said, ready now to let him in. “But I might be a bloody mess.” She wanted to hit herself. “Sorry, Dad,” she said. “Here, I’ll move – you sit.”
She got up and went to sit on the edge of the tub. She ran the tap, and my father lowered himself onto the toilet lid.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “We haven’t talked about your sister in a while.”
“Who needs to?” my sister said. “She’s everywhere.”
“Your brother seems to be all right.”
“He’s glued to you.”
“Yes,” he said, and he realized he liked it, this father-courting his son was doing.
“Ouch,” Lindsey said, a fine trickle of blood beginning to spread into the white foam of the shaving cream. “This is a total hassle.”
“Press down on the nick with your thumb. It stops the bleeding. You could do just to the top of your knee,” he offered. “That’s what your mother does unless we’re going to the beach.”
Lindsey paused. “You guys never go to the beach.”
“We used to.”
My father had met my mother when they were both working at Wanamaker’s during the summer break from college. He had just made a nasty comment about how the employee’s lounge reeked of cigarettes when she smiled and brought out her then-habitual pack of Pall Malls. “Touché,” he said, and he stayed beside her despite the reeking stink of her cigarettes enveloping him from head to toe.
“I’ve been trying to decide who I look like,” Lindsey said, “Grandma Lynn or Mom.”
“I’ve always thought both you and your sister looked like my mother,” he said.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still convinced that Mr. Harvey had something to do with it?”
It was like a stick finally sparking against another stick – the friction took.
“There is no doubt in my mind, honey. None.”
“Then why doesn’t Len arrest him?”
She drew the razor sloppily up and finished her first leg. She hesitated there, waiting.
“I wish it was easy to explain,” he said, the words coiling out of him. He had never talked at length about his suspicion to anyone. “When I met him that day, in his backyard, and we built that tent – the one he claimed he built for his wife, whose name I thought was Sophie and Len took down as Leah – there was something about his movements that made me sure.”
“Everyone thinks he’s kind of weird.”
“True, I understand that,” he said. “But then everyone hasn’t had much to do with him either. They don’t know whether his weirdness is benign or not.”
“Benign?”
“Harmless.”
“Holiday doesn’t like him,” Lindsey offered.
“Exactly. I’ve never seen that dog bark so hard. The fur on his back stood straight up that morning.”
“But the cops think you’re nuts.”
“‘No evidence’ is all they can say. Without evidence and without – excuse me, honey – a body, they have nothing to move on and no basis for an arrest.”
“What would be a basis?”
“I guess something to link him to Susie. If someone had seen him in the cornfield or even lurking around the school. Something like that.”
“Or if he had something of hers?” Both my father and Lindsey were heatedly talking, her second leg lathered but left unshaved, because what radiated as the two sticks of their interest sparked flame was that I was in that house somewhere. My body – in the basement, first floor, second floor, attic. To keep from acknowledging that horrible – but oh, if it were true, so blatant so perfect so conclusive as evidence – thought, they remembered what I wore that day, remembered what I carried, the Frito Bandito eraser I prized, the David Cassidy button I’d pinned inside my bag, the David Bowie one I had pinned on the outside. They named all the clutter and accessories that surrounded what would be the best, most hideous evidence anyone could find – my corpse cut up, my blank and rotting eyes.
