Such a Quiet Place: A Novel(11)

But there was no way I was going in to work tomorrow. There was no way I was leaving Ruby alone here.

“Oh, hey,” she said, leaning against the counter, bending one leg, channeling nonchalant, “did you change the bushes out back?” She did not look at me when she said it, instead focusing on some imagined spot through the living room windows, toward the patio.

I tried to keep my voice level, carefree, hands wrapped around the warm mug as I brought it closer to my face. “Oh, in the spring, yeah.” No big deal, an afterthought. “Some guys were going around offering to do yard work, and I took them up on it.”

Ruby shifted to face me, setting her own mug back on the counter. “What guys?”

The lawn mower passed in front of the kitchen window, the noise grating, and I had to wait a moment before responding. “I don’t know, college kids looking to make an extra buck, I guess.”

She turned back to the counter, moved her mug to the sink. “Well, looks nice out back. But I think we have rabbits again. Something’s been in there.”

And suddenly, I thought, You, Ruby? Have you been in there? Last night, when I heard you go out, were you looking for something you left behind?

The lawn mower passed again, and this time Charlotte’s daughter—Whitney, the older one, finally close enough to tell—cast a glance into the kitchen window. Ruby raised her hand in greeting, and Whitney grinned back. I realized then that she’d been passing by the window over and over, hoping to see Ruby, with that sort of fearless, morbid curiosity best harnessed in the teen years.

Ruby’s gaze trailed after Whitney. “There’s nothing like a kid you haven’t seen in a while to make you come face-to-face with the passage of time.”

“She’ll be heading to college soon,” I said. There’d been a party at the pool last month, and everyone had come, as if we were sending her off into the world and not just to the college on the other side of the lake. But Charlotte was like that, sticking to the milestones, insisting on traditions—she’d even brought both girls in for a tour, waiting in my office with Molly, the younger daughter, while Whitney interviewed down the hall. As if it weren’t a done deal.

Ruby watched her move on to the front of the yard. “She used to remind me so much of me at that age,” she said. And then, with a smirk, “I think I should warn her.” She cupped one hand around her mouth and called, “Watch out!” toward the window—though I was the only one who could hear her.

Ruby had been an English teacher at Lake Hollow Prep, where Charlotte’s daughters attended high school. I knew there’d been fallout at the school after Ruby’s arrest—parent outrage that a murderer had been in such close proximity to their children.

I wondered what the kids thought. Whether they’d seen Ruby as someone they could relate to at first. Whether they were slower to trust now. Whether they were afraid or intrigued. Back then, when I’d get home from work, I’d sometimes find Whitney doing her homework at our kitchen table while Ruby graded papers, in quiet harmony.

Ruby was just old enough to be their teacher but young enough to tell them they were always welcome here, that they could come to her any time, should they need it—and for them to believe it. Young enough to still call the neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Truett, for people to hire her to feed their pets and bring in their mail when they were away. She’d been the Truetts’ dog sitter since she was in college, and if they were being particular assholes, she might give us a tidbit, like: They sleep in separate rooms, you know.

Ruby cleared her throat. “I’m sort of scared to ask, but did you donate my kayak, too?” she asked in an abrupt change of topic.

“No, it’s in the garage,” I said. “But you might need to help me dig it out.” I stored a lot of things in there now. After the deaths next door, I’d started keeping my car in the driveway. All the dangers I had not been aware of before. How easy it would be to start a car and forget to turn it off. A slow, creeping death.

The thing that happened after the crime—and I imagined it happened to all of us living nearby, on the same street—was that, at all times, my own mortality felt so close to the surface. It was raw and pervasive and made me feel only precariously alive.

But after Ruby was locked up, that element felt contained, retreating from the surface. Like I had beaten something and endured. Like I had somehow defeated death, sidestepped the danger. The power of watching it come so close and miss.

I felt it again, starting to creep back in. The danger was no longer locked away. Maybe it never had been.

“So you didn’t donate everything, then,” she said.

“Couldn’t get it in my car,” I said with a grin.

Which made her laugh once, loudly, catching me by surprise. “You always were a terrible liar.”

In truth, I kept other things, too. A pair of hoop earrings I’d always loved; her perfect shade of pink nail polish; the handbag she used on special occasions. After her dad came by and told me to get rid of it all, his eyes just barely glancing at the boxes, I took it upon myself to decide. I didn’t feel bad about it then. Like I said, twenty years was a long time.

But I couldn’t admit that to Ruby—that I’d gone through each item, one by one, deciding what was worth keeping. So yes, the kayak stayed.

In the early afternoon, I helped her carry it down to the lake. In the garage, we pulled out the garbage and recycling cans, the delivery boxes that needed to be broken down, and the bike I had big intentions for but rarely used anymore. We peeled away the tarp and my old camping gear before unearthing the kayak wedged against the wall and covered in dust. The pull cart had broken—one of the wheels turned inward, the metal bent—so we walked down the road single file, Ruby in the lead, the bright pink kayak turned sideways to fit under our arms.