All the Dangerous Things(32)

On the porch, the rocking chair is empty, swaying gently in the wind.

I watch it, rocking on its own, and almost make myself believe that I had invented the entire encounter. Invented him. There’s just something about the way he was sitting there, staring into the darkness. The way he was looking at me as if he didn’t even seen me at all. I start to wonder if he was just a figment of my imagination, some kind of glimmer from my subconscious, so used to being alone so late at night that it just snapped its fingers and materialized some company out of the shadows—because if I’m being honest, I have done that before.

Seen things, heard things, that weren’t actually there.

It is amazing, the kinds of tricks that the mind can play on you after two, three, fours nights without sleep. The kinds of things it can make you believe. The jarring ding of my doorbell, but when I step out onto the patio, seeing it empty; Roscoe’s incessant barking, but when I shoot him a look, finding him fast asleep. A fuzzy outline moving in my peripheral vision, getting closer, but when I snap upright and twist my head, open my mouth and begin to scream, realizing that it’s nothing more than the dim afternoon light making shapes out of an empty corner.

That still, I’m alone.

But no, I know he was there. Roscoe was growling, staring straight at him. I had seen him with my own two eyes, heard the creak of his rocking chair.

I had spoken to him—he just didn’t speak back.

I walk quietly up the porch steps and look at the chair. The wood beneath the rocker rails is heavily worn, the paint buffed away from years of use, indicating that it’s been in that spot for a long, long time. I inch closer, close enough to touch it now, and trail my fingers down the armrest, feeling the splintery wood on the pads of my fingers. I have a sudden memory of Margaret in this moment—the way we would sneak into forbidden rooms, our fingers dragging across various surfaces, touching things that weren’t meant to be touched—but then, like a dream, it leaves me again.

I look down at the chair, glancing around, making sure nobody is watching. Then I turn around slowly, lowering myself down.

Once I’m sitting, I rock back and forth wordlessly, the way he was. I look out at the street, at the very spot where I was standing before, and notice that, from this vantage point, I have a relatively clear view into part of my backyard. You have to look in just the right spot—a little clearing between some trees, beneath the streetlight, past a fence—but there, right there, is the back side of my house, that little tuft of neglected grass looking even more yellow from a distance. Only a few feet to the right, obscured behind some branches, is Mason’s bedroom window.

I can feel my heartbeat increase a little, a hopeful beating in my throat. Maybe that man saw something. Maybe he was outside that night, late, and saw someone in the backyard, creeping toward the window. Maybe he could identify someone—

My thoughts are moving so fast, so frantic, I almost don’t hear the groan of the front door opening beside me; the presence of someone new stepping outside.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I look up, startled, and see a man standing on the porch beside me—only this man, I recognize. I can’t recall his name, but his features are hard to forget: red hair, late fifties, with freckled skin and the kind of skinny stature that makes his hip bones protrude. I spoke to him once—a year ago, now—and I remember thinking he was polite, friendly, but entirely unhelpful.

Forgettable, even, until this very moment.

“Hi,” I say, standing up and realizing with a stitch of embarrassment what I must look like; how strange it would be to walk outside and find a woman rocking in your rocking chair. “I’m so sorry, let me explain—”

“Jesus, it’s you.” He seems relieved to recognize me, but at the same time, he doesn’t. He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and I watch as a tuft of it flops back over his forehead. The motion triggers something in me again; a memory that I can’t quite place.

“Hi, yeah. Sorry,” I say. “We met last year when I was going door-to-door about my son, but I can’t recall your name. I’m Isabelle.”

I hold my hand out, smiling, and watch as the man stares at me, his thin lips set in a straight line. It’s silent for a few seconds, my arm hovering in the air, and once it becomes clear that he’s not answering, I retract it, clear my throat, and continue.

“Listen, I was just wondering: Does an older gentleman live here? The other night—”

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

I stare at him, taken aback, and fully register the way he’s looking at me now, scrutinizing the dark bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. My tangled hair and the smudges of last night’s makeup still caked to my ashen cheeks. He looks angry, maybe even afraid, and I suppose he has every right to be.

I would be, too, finding someone lurking this close to my home.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” I say again, stumbling over myself to try and find the words. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this, I’m sure I gave you a scare. It’s just that the other night, I saw someone, and I was wondering if he might have seen someone—”

I stop, realization dawning on me slowly. Monday night, at the vigil. That quick flash of color in the distance that caught my eye as I was scanning the crowd—not unlike a bob of fiery red hair ducking down low, weaving its way through the pack.