Floating Staircase(36)

But wait. I leaned over the steering wheel and gazed out the windshield. The glass had fogged up in my exasperation, so I hit the defogger and waited a couple of seconds as the breath blossoms dematerialized on the glass. I’d missed it the first time around but could see it now: a rutted dirt path cleared of snow, running straight up the hillside through the pines.

I eased off the brake and coasted forward, the low-hanging branches of the pines thwapping against the hood of the car. The forestry was so impenetrable there was hardly any snow on the ground. I followed the road to the top of the hill where a shallow clearing opened up all around me.

At its center was a modular home, significantly larger than the double-wide trailers that preceded it along the avenue, but it did not look to be in much better shape. Like the rest of the residences of West Cumberland, Veronica’s home looked as if it had been dropped from some great height only to crash firmly down in this yard of dead and frozen weeds, hideously large novelty sunflowers, and dilapidated lawn furniture. There was an old tractor tire near the front of the house posing as a planter for a skeletal, flowerless shrub. A pyramid of wire mesh cages—crab pots or rabbit traps—stood against the left side of the house, stiffened hunks of colorless bait still harnessed within.

I was breathing heavy, fogging up the windows again.

I shut the car off, grabbed the box from the passenger seat, and got out. Movement off to my right caught my attention, and I jerked my head toward the side of the house where I was somewhat relieved to find an umbrella-shaped clothes wheel shaking in the wind. In the distance, an unfriendly dog was anxious to be heard.

I mounted the front porch, the boards brittle and gaping with splintered holes hungry to bite at my ankles, and knocked on the frame of the outer screen door.

Waited. Waited for an eternity. I couldn’t hear any movement inside. Also, there weren’t any cars parked anywhere.

The front door opened, leaving only the dirty screen door between us. It was Veronica Dentman—I was certain of it—although she looked nothing like I thought she would. She was small, disconcertingly thin, with large dark eyes and choppy black hair. She was maybe thirty-eight, forty at best, but the sallow features and emptiness in her gaze made her look much, much older.

Those large roving eyes took me in.

I waited for her to say something, but she only stared at me. “Miss, uh . . . Veronica Dentman?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Who’re you?” The words came out sharp and quick, almost mashed together. I caught a glimpse of bad teeth.

“I’m real sorry to disturb you, ma’am. My name’s Travis Glasgow. My wife and I moved into your old house in Westlake.”

“Was my father’s house.” Her gaze shifted toward the box in my arms. I could see in the slight softening of her features that she knew what was inside. Then she stared at me, her piercing black orbs boring into me through the moss-discolored screen.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I could think of nothing else to say. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Veronica pushed the screen door open several inches; the squeal of its hinges sounded like a cat being boiled alive. “Those my boy’s things in that box?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Those searchlight eyes addressed me again, taking in every nuance of me as if to catalogue it for later reference. Just when I became certain she’d tell me to get the hell off her property, she pushed the screen door open farther and motioned me inside.

The place was small and cramped, furnished in a tawny shag carpet straight from 1975 and mismatched furniture that hung around like strangers forced together in a waiting room. The walls were almost completely barren, and the windows had their curtains drawn. I could faintly smell coffee brewing from the kitchen nook. The whole interior was dimly lit with wood-paneled walls, and something about it reminded me of a church confessional.

“I didn’t think I was going to find the place,” I commented, trying to sound conversational.

“Who sent you here?”

The question caught me off guard. I stammered, “Uh, no one.”

“Why are you here?”

“To bring this to you.” The box was growing heavier and heavier in my arms. I shifted it uncomfortably.

“Set it on the table,” she said, motioning in the general vicinity of a circular card table by the front door.

I set the box down on top of several envelopes addressed to David Dentman. Until just then, it hadn’t occurred to me that she might still live with her brother.

Stuffing my hands into the too-tight pockets of my jeans, I faced Veronica. She was unhealthily thin to the point where it looked like her drab little housedress (which looked homemade) was still on its hanger. Her arms were long and emaciated; fat blue veins were all too visible beneath her skin. She’d tucked her ratty hair behind her ears when I wasn’t looking, and I could see now the railroad scar that began high up in her hairline, dipped along her left temple, and hooked around underneath her left ear.

It was all I could do to find my voice. “I didn’t know what to do with them. The boxes, I mean. There were so many, and I couldn’t just get rid of them. And anyway, I thought you might . . . maybe . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”

“David put them down in the room, didn’t he? Behind the wall?”

“Yes,” I said. “In the basement. What . . . what is that room?”