Family of Liars(54)

Penny lines up four thermoses on the counter. She finds a beach bag, still full of sunblock and warm, unopened cans of Coke. She shoves four towels into it. She grabs my arm and whispers, “Do we need a bathing suit?”

“Bess got them.”

“For him. A bathing suit for him.”

“No,” I say.

“Why not? He would have one on.”

The coffee begins percolating through the machine and into the carafe. “No.”

“But—”

“Listen,” I say. “Do you want to take his pants off and put a suit on him?”

Her face pales.

“I don’t, either,” I say. “And we really don’t need it. We’re gonna weight him down and nobody’s ever going to find him. Not in a million years.” I don’t feel anywhere near as certain as I make myself sound.

“Okay,” says Penny. “I trust you.”

We stare at the coffee maker as it hisses and the pot fills.

Bess comes down the stairs. Gives us a thumbs-up.

When the coffee is ready, we pour it into the thermoses, cap them, and head out. I grab a bag of potato chips on the way out the door.





60.


WE ROW GUZZLER away from the dock. Me on one oar, Penny on the other.

We don’t want any noise from the motor.

It is two-thirty a.m. now. Lights in all the houses are out, except the ones George and Major left on in Goose.

When we are a good ways out to sea, we pull in the oars and I start the engine. The air is cold and the water looks black. After a bit, we can no longer see the land, and it seems as if the black of the sky is the black of the sea and we are afloat in the middle of nothingness.

When we are truly far out, so far out that it seems impossible Pfeff’s body could ever wash to shore, I cut the motor. I drop the anchor.

We unwrap Pfeff’s head. I do not think anyone will ever find his body, but if they do, my sweater should not be on it.

The skin of his face is cold. I shut his eyes.

We remove his sneakers and his lobster socks, putting the socks into the shoes, like he would have left them if he’d gone swimming.

We take the rocks I collected on the beach and shove them into his front and back pockets. It is a horrendous operation. His skin is clammy and hairy. The rocks do not go in easily.

We are worried there is not enough weight to make him sink, so we roll his pant legs and tuck smaller stones into the rolls.

“I still think he should be in a bathing suit,” says Penny. “If anyone finds him. We should have brought one.”

“That won’t help when he’s weighted with stones,” I explain. “We have to weight him, and once we weight him, it’ll be obvious what happened to anyone who finds him.”

“These stones won’t be heavy enough. He’s not going to sink.”

She’s right.

“The anchor,” I say.

We pull it up. It’s on a chain attached to yellow nylon rope. We use the Swiss Army knife, the same one we used to cut the strawberry cake that first Early Morning, and work the blade through the nylon. Then we tie the rope tight around Pfeff’s waist.

Penny stops abruptly and covers her face with her hands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Though of course, everything is wrong.

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“Let’s just finish it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

She lifts her eyes to me. “We should go home now and tell everyone the truth. It’s not too late to change our minds.”

“No.”

“They’ll understand. We’ll tell them—I don’t know what we’ll tell him, but we’ll call the police and—”

“Penny.” I try to speak softly. Calmly.

I explain to her and Bess what will happen to the person who killed Pfeff.

I explain what will happen to Penny, as well.

“He’s dead,” I say. “He was not a good person. We have to just get through this and wish it never happened. We will lie about it extremely well and then we will just forget it. Never think of it. Never talk about it. And it’ll basically disappear.”

“I can’t forget it,” says Penny.

“You can. Like you did Rosemary.”

Penny looks at me, stricken. “I didn’t forget Rosemary.”

I stare at her.

“I didn’t,” she insists.

“It seems like you did.”

“I think about her every single day.”

Bess nods. “I…This sounds weird, but I kind of pray to Rosemary. Like she’s an angel or something. Before I go to sleep. I like to think she’s looking over us.” She shivers. “But not now.”

I sit with this for a moment. They do not ever talk about her. Not one word since Penny and I were up in the attic, and when I yelled at Bess. “I can’t tell that either of you thinks about Rosemary for even a second,” I tell them.

“Mother and Daddy don’t like to talk about her,” says Bess. “It’s too much. I try to, you know, respect them that way.”

“I don’t like people knowing my feelings,” says Penny simply. “It feels too naked.”