Long Bright River(83)

It’s a Super Soaker, a neon water gun with a pump on it that acts as the trigger. I am certain that Gee bought it on sale, off-season. I would never have gotten such a thing for him. I’ve never allowed him to have any gun-shaped toys. I keep my face neutral.

Thomas inspects it silently.

—You loved those when you were a kid, Gee says to me, suddenly.

I don’t think this is true. I have no memory of ever even using a water gun.

—Did I? I say.

Gee nods. The neighbors had one, she says. They played with it all day long, every summer. You wanted to get your hands on that thing, boy. Stood by the window and watched them. Couldn’t drag you away.

I know, now, what she’s referencing. But it was the children I was watching, not the gun. I was watching them and making a record of all of their small actions and exchanges, all their mannerisms, so that I might steal them and use them myself.

—What do you say? I say to Thomas.

—Thank you, Gee-Mom, says Thomas.

—Thank you, I say, after a beat.



* * *



—

My gift to Gee is a picture frame with the word Family on it, into which I put the most recent school picture I have of Thomas, taken over a year ago, now. Thomas’s gift to Gee is a pin in the shape of a butterfly. Gee’s gift to me is a sweater, very light blue, which she says she saw at Thriftway and thought would look nice on me.

—Paid good money for it, too, says Gee. Even with my discount. It’s cashmere.



* * *



—

Gee turns the television on, then, to something Thomas will like, and I follow her into the kitchen to help her put out food.

It is then that I notice that a panel of glass in the window on the back door has been knocked out. A sheet of Saran wrap has been inexpertly taped over it, but a draft is coming through nonetheless.

I walk over and inspect it. No glass on the floor. No indication that it was a recent event. Still, the fact that the glass pane is the one closest to the doorknob gives me pause.

—Gee, I say. What happened?

She glances at me, and at the door.

—Nothing, she says. Hit it with a broom handle on accident.

I pause. I put a finger to the Saran wrap. Trace its edges.

—Are you sure? Because, I say, but Gee cuts me off.

—I’m sure, she says. Here, come help me with this.



* * *



—

Gee’s lying. I know she’s lying. Her insistence, her abruptness, her eagerness to change the subject tell me this. I don’t know why she’s lying. But I also know enough not to press her. Not yet.

Instead, I help her set out cheese and crackers, and I help her roll pepperoni and cheese into Pillsbury crescent rolls, and then I excuse myself, saying I forgot something in the car.

—I’ll be right back, I say to Thomas as I pass him.

On the television, the stop-motion version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing, very soft.



* * *



—

Outside, I stand in front of the house, inspecting it. Between Gee’s house and her neighbor’s is a shared alley through which they take the garbage. It leads to their small concrete back patios. And off these patios are the back doors to both houses.

A blue-painted alley door, usually bolted from the back, prevents any intruders from entering the alley. But the door is old and rickety, and the wood is splitting. I put my hand on the door and push.

It gives easily. I walk around to the other side. The bolt lock, never well secured to begin with, has been torn off of its screws. As if someone kicked the door open.

A tingling sense that I’m on the verge of knowing something important is beginning at the base of my neck. My nose fizzes with adrenaline.

I go back inside. Back into the kitchen.

—Gee, I say. I noticed something.

She turns to me. On her face is an expression of defiance and guilt.

—What, she says.

—The alley door, I say.

—Yeah, she says. Tried to get someone out here yesterday to fix that when you called. No one would. Christmas Eve.

—Who kicked it in, I say slowly.

Gee sighs. All right, she says, resigned. All right. All right.





We had a fight, says Gee. Me and Kacey. We got into it. She came around here asking for money and I told her, once and for all, that I was done. She got very mad.

—When was this, I say.

Gee looks at the ceiling. Two months ago, she says. Maybe longer. I don’t know.

—Why did you lie to me? I say. When I asked you if you’d seen her lately.

She points at me.

—You, she says, have enough to worry about. I know how you meddle. You’re softer on your sister than I am. Wouldn’t be able to say no to her the way I can.

I’m shaking my head.

—Gee, I say. Do you know how worried I’ve been? You’ve heard about those murders. You must have known I was worried about Kacey.

Gee shrugs.

—I guess a little worry now, she says, is better than a lot of worry later.

I turn my head away from her.

—Anyway, she says. Next day, I come home, someone’s broken into my house. I don’t think it was a coincidence. Do you?