The Vanishing Year(86)

“How did they die?” I set my cup down on the nightstand, shocked to realize that I don’t know. God, there was so much I didn’t know. I can almost see Henry, the flame alight in his eyes. I imagine his barely there smile. I recognize it.

“A car accident. Some kind of brake malfunction. I’ve always wondered . . .” Out in the hall, an alarm sounds, and a clatter of orderlies and nurses rush by with a gurney. We both turn our heads to watch. When it returns to silence, she continues, “Then there was Tara and as an adult, he always claimed that fire was an accident, and he was in shock. But I . . . I saw his face that day. He was gleeful. All that light, reflected in his eyes, it was like Christmas to him.” Her voice hardens, takes a sharp edge. “Well, anyway, he was charming as an adult. He brought me back. Apologized again and again. Paid me more than I had any right to take for what work he gave me.” She studied the tile floor. “I needed the money. Frank’s disability benefits were dwindling. All we had was social security. And then Henry got married, and Tara was so wonderful, so quiet, polite, respectful. A delight. And then she died and he comes home three years later with you. Zoe, believe me,” she says, and leans forward, pulling my hand into hers, her palms cold and her nails digging into my wrists. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I tried to ask him about it. He told me to mind my own business. I told him that it just wasn’t right, that you didn’t know. He said he was going to tell you, but he was in love with you and thought you’d leave him. That he deceived you. He swore he just stumbled on you one day, that you had done the flowers for a company event.”

I nodded. “That’s true. But, he set it up that way. He found me, knew it was all . . .” my voice cracks, “a lie.”

“He said he was captivated by you, by your spirit. He can be very convincing. Could be, I mean.” Her mouth twists, and I see this for what it is. A confessional. Penny feels guilt for accepting me at face value. For not questioning it. I remembered overheard conversations, Penny’s voice. It just doesn’t look proper, Henry. Oh God.

“How didn’t you know I was there? Didn’t you come back?” I press, needing all the puzzle pieces with newfound urgency.

She shook her head. “He fired me. He was unraveling, I think. He called me a liability. The last day I worked for him is the day he brought you back to Fishing Lake. He asked me to clean the house, set up a spread. I did that. He said you were sick, that you’d been threatened. I begged him to tell you who he was, who your sister was. He screamed at me to mind my own business. Told me to go home. So I did.” She folds up her tear-dampened tissue into a neat little square and tucks it back into the pocket of her purse. “I did come back once. It was evening. He was sitting on the back deck, drinking a glass of brandy. He said you’d left him. Gone back to the city, stolen some of his money. You were furious about Tara. He blamed me. He was angry as hell.” She shakes her head, a quick snap like a self-admonishment. “I’m afraid of my own shadow most days. Henry Whittaker scared the living daylights out of me.”

I touch her hand. “I forgive you, Penny. And I’m forever thankful.”

She stands up, waves her hand in my direction, and turns to leave. At the door, she pauses and turns back.

“I have nightmares about that fire. Do you know, a week prior to that, I had caught him cutting off the tail of one of the neighbor’s farm cats with a hacksaw? I told his mother.” She retrieves the tissue from her purse, blots her chin and cheeks. “I always thought that fire . . . was retribution. Frank is paralyzed because I snitched on Henry.”

“Oh, Penny,” I say, softly.

“I was scared, Zoe.” She stands in the doorway, backlit by the bright hall lights, looking diminutive. A hunched rounded figure. “I spent years looking over my shoulder. I considered telling you about Tara myself. But I always stopped to wonder, what would he have done to me?”





EPILOGUE


SIX MONTHS LATER




It was Lydia’s idea. In fact, she made all the calls, talked to all the right people. I come home from the CARE office one day, she’s running circles around me like an excited puppy. She grabs my hand, leads me into the living room, and sits me down on the couch, her hands flat on my shoulders.

“Please don’t be mad, okay?”

We’ve moved in together, a different apartment in Hoboken, bigger, more luxurious. Warm and rich colors, browns and oranges. Decorating it has been a form of therapy.

I’m a rich woman now. New York is an intestate succession state, which means that because Henry died without an updated will, as his current wife, I inherited everything: all his liquid assets, his apartments, his stocks and bonds. I’m sure he never counted on that. His will was hopelessly outdated, still named Tara as his sole heir.

“I won’t be mad.” This is all so unlike Lydia, who generally has one lukewarm mood, forever perfecting her bored face. She’s giddy, pushing her palms against her knees, starting and stopping sentences until I finally say, “Oh God, just say it!” out of frustration.

“I found Evelyn.” She takes a deep breath, her hands grasping mine. “The state pays to cremate unclaimed bodies but the funeral homes don’t always do anything with the remains, in case anyone ever wants them.”