Good Girl, Bad Girl(60)

Cyrus has a drawer for his socks and another for T-shirts and running shorts. He has four pairs of shoes, including hiking boots. I put them on, feeling like a child wearing my father’s shoes, although I can’t remember if I ever did that. I have almost no memories of my father—a man in an armchair by the fire. Sitting on his knee. Listening to him read. “Have you brushed your hair and combed your teeth?” he’d ask, making the same joke every night, rubbing his stubbly jaw against my cheek. My mother is clearer, but even those memories are beginning to fade, or fray at the edges, losing color and detail like the old rug on Cyrus’s floor.

I have one memento—a tortoiseshell button. It came from her favorite coat, which was bright red with a fur-lined collar and she wore it on special occasions. She was wearing it when I last saw her. I wouldn’t let go. I clung to her and the button came away in my hand. I screamed for her then. I wish for her now. I hold that button in my fist, believing it might bring her back if I have enough faith.

Putting the room back in order, I go to the bathroom and search the cabinet above the sink. Opening jars and bottles, I sniff at the contents. There are no pills or medications, but Cyrus has condoms—a whole box, unopened. I close the cabinet and look in the mirror. I hate what I see. I hate my lank hair. I hate my downturned mouth. I hate my fat bottom lip. I hate the freckles on my nose. I hate my sticky-out ears. I hate my skinny legs.

The doorbell rings. My heart jumps.

I go downstairs and wait in the hallway. The bell rings again. I look through the spyhole. There are two young men in cheap suits. They look no older than me. I open the door a few inches.

“Hello, how are you today?” one of them says brightly. “What a lovely old house.” There’s no hint of sarcasm. “Do you believe in God?”

“No.”

“What do you believe in?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know much about Jesus Christ?”

“Who are you?”

“We’re from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and we’re here to share the message of Jesus Christ. My name is Elder Grimshaw and this is Elder Green.”

“Doesn’t that get confusing?” I ask. “Both being called Elder.”

“We’re missionaries.”

“I thought missionaries were supposed to work in poor countries.”

“No, we’re everywhere. We share our experiences because we believe in helping others to find peace and fulfillment in the love of Jesus Christ. Would you like to learn more?”

“No.”

“We’re here to share.”

“You want to change my mind, that’s not sharing.”

The two Mormons look at each other. I have my foot braced against the door, ready to slam it closed. The quieter of the two is waiting for his partner to take the lead.

I look at him. “Do you truly believe that God exists?”

“With all my heart.”

“No. I think your mate does, but you’re not so sure. Come back when you are.”

I shut the door and go back upstairs, continuing my search of the house. The upper-floor rooms are supposed to be off-limits, according to Cyrus. That was a mistake. Who is going to ignore a challenge like that?

Most of the rooms are full of old furniture and rolled-up rugs and boxes of magazines and sheet music and photographs. I wonder how many generations of people have lived here. How many have died.

The loneliness of the house is seeping into me and I wish Cyrus would come home, even though he’ll want to know what I’ve been thinking behind my mask or want to squeeze my skull and shake things out.

Having searched the turret room, I go to the small dirty window and peer out at the near-empty street and at the houses opposite and the parked cars and the rooftops beyond. A woman pushes a pram along the pavement. A cyclist sweeps past her.

From somewhere behind me, I hear Terry’s warning.

“You must never tell anyone who you are.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”





33




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CYRUS




* * *



As I near the Sheehan house, a neighbor appears at his front gate, sitting astride a mobility scooter. Rolls of flesh cascade over his belt, making it hard to see where his legs begin.

“Are you with the police?” he asks aggressively.

“No.”

I don’t stop. He follows me, accelerating to my pace. I recognize him from his photograph: Kevin Stokes—the former swim instructor who served eight years for sexually abusing two boys at a local swimming center.

“Yes, you are. I saw you the other night. When are they gonna clean this up?” He nods towards his house, where the words “pedo” and “pervert” have been daubed in red paint across his front fence.

I don’t stop.

“What about my rights?” he yells.

“What about the boys you abused?” I mutter.

A police officer answers the door at the Sheehan house. Female. Uniformed.

“Is anyone home?” I ask.

“Mrs. Sheehan has gone to church.”

“And Mr. Sheehan?”