I'm Thinking of Ending Things(27)

On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it’s closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock’s on the bottom of the trapdoor. You’d think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you’re in the basement, or pulled up if you’re on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.





—Do we know the official cause of death?

—Bled out, from the puncture wounds.

—Awful.

—Bled for hours, we think. Quite a bit of blood.

—It must have been terrible to stumble across.

—Yes, I imagine it was. Horrible. Something you’d never forget.





The dining room is empty when I return from the basement. The table has been cleared except for my dessert plate.

I poke my head into the kitchen. The dirty plates are stacked and rinsed, but not washed. The sink is filled with grayish water. The faucet drips. Drips.

“Jake?” I call. Where is he? Where is everyone? Maybe Jake is taking out the table scraps to the compost in the shed.

I spot the stairs to the second floor. Soft green carpet on the treads. Wood-paneled walls. More photographs. A lot are of the same elderly couple. They’re all old photographs, none of Jake when he was younger.

Jake told me he would show me the upper floor after dinner, so why not go check it out now? I head straight to the top, where there’s a window. I look out, but it’s too dark to see outside.

On my left is a door with a small stylized J hanging from it. Jake’s old bedroom. I walk in. I sit down on Jake’s bed and look around. Lots of books. Four full cases. Candles on top of each bookcase. The bed is soft. The blanket on top is what I would expect in an old farmhouse—knitted and homemade. It’s a small bed for such a tall guy, just a single. I put my hands out beside me, palms down, and bob up and down, like an apple dropped in water. The springs squeak a bit, showing their age and years of use. Old springs. Old house.

I stand. I walk past a heavily used, comfy-looking blue chair, over to the desk in front of a window. There’s not much on the desk. Some pens, pencils in a mug. A brown teapot. A few books. A pair of large silver scissors. I slide open the top drawer of the desk. There’s the usual desk stuff in there—paper clips, notepads. There’s also a brown envelope. It has Us printed on the outside. It looks like Jake’s handwriting. I can’t just leave it. I pick it up, open it.

Inside are photos. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not really my business. I flip through them. There are about twenty or thirty. They’re all close-up shots. Body parts. Knees. Elbows. Fingers. Lots of toes. Some lips and teeth, gums. A few extreme close-ups, just hair and skin, pimples maybe. I can’t tell if they’re all the same person or not. I put them back in the envelope.

I’ve never seen photos like that. Are they some sort of art thing? Like for a show, or display, or some installation? Jake has mentioned to me that he’s into photography and that the only activity he did outside of school was art lessons. He said he has a really nice camera that he saved up for.

There are lots of photos around the room, too, scenes, some of flowers and trees, and people. I don’t recognize any of the faces. The only one of Jake I’ve seen in the house is that one downstairs by the fire, the one he claimed was him when he was a kid. But it wasn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t. That means I’ve never seen a photo of Jake. He’s shy, I know, but still.

I pick up a framed photo from a shelf. A blond girl. She has a blue bandanna headband, tied in the front. His high school girlfriend? She’d been deeply in love with him, or so Jake claimed, and the relationship had never quite meant the same thing to him as it had to her. I bring the photo up to my face, almost touching my nose. But Jake had said she was a brunette and tall. This woman is blond, like me, and short. Who is she?

In the background I notice someone else. It’s a man, not Jake. He’s looking at the girl in the photo. He’s connected to the woman. He’s close and is looking at her. Did Jake take the photo?

I jump as a hand touches my shoulder.

It’s not Jake. It’s his father. “You startled me,” I say.

“Sorry, I thought you were in here with Jake.”

I put the photo back on the shelf. It falls to the floor. I bend down and pick it up.

When I turn back to Jake’s dad, he’s grinning. He has a second Band-Aid on his forehead, above the original one.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wasn’t sure if you were all right. You were trembling.”

“I’m fine. I’m a little cold, I guess. I was waiting for Jake. I hadn’t seen his room yet and just thought . . . Was I really trembling?”

“From the back, it looked like it—just a little.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I wasn’t shaking. How could I be? Am I cold? Maybe I am. I have been cold since before we sat to eat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m fine.” He’s right. I look down and notice my hand is trembling slightly. I bring my hands together behind me.

“He used to spend lots of time in here. We’re slowly converting it into a guest room,” Jake’s father says. “We never felt right putting our guests in here when it was still so reminiscent of a bookworm high schooler. Jake always liked his books and stories. And writing in his diaries. It was a comfort for him. He could work through things that way.”