The Better Liar(53)

“I didn’t see you around, so I thought I’d come check on you,” he told me. “How are you feeling?”

I bounced up to face him. “My heart is broken.”

He sucked his lips in and out. “I see.”

    “Can you reach the tapes? Tad wanted to watch Look Who’s Talking Too, but I didn’t want to stand on the beanbag.”

“Probably wise,” Albert said, going to the cabinet and pulling out the VHS. I took it from him and loaded it into the player.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” Tad said as soon as he recognized the music. He sat down on the rug in front of the TV so quickly that it was more like an incredibly confident fall.

Albert regarded him. “It’s nice to see somebody cheerful today.”

“Right?” I said conspiratorially, going back over to sit on the beanbag chair by the sunny window.

Albert didn’t like that for some reason. He knelt beside me and took my hand. For a minute it seemed like he would say something. The longer this went on, the more horrible I thought the thing had to be.

Over his shoulder, I saw that a car had slowed down in front of the neighbors’ house. A man in a Hawaiian shirt got out carrying a white box, the kind that store cakes came in. As I watched, he sat down on the curb and took out a large turtle. The turtle was at least the size of my head.

“Your father will need help,” Albert said at last under the noise of Look Who’s Talking Too.

The turtle’s legs windmilled as the man held it up by its shell, which I knew you were not supposed to do. He set the turtle down at the base of a kids’ slide that someone had left out in the yard. The door to the neighbors’ house opened and a woman stepped out. She called to the man and he got up to go talk to her, looking irritated.

“Are you listening to me?” Albert asked.

The turtle made its way painstakingly up the slide. The neighbors argued on the porch steps. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but I could tell from the set of his back that he was yelling. The woman slammed the door in the middle of his yell and he stomped back over to the slide, where the turtle had nearly made it to the top. The man picked the turtle up by its shell again and placed it at the bottom of the slide.

“My father will need help,” I repeated.



* * *



—

    That night, back at our house, I climbed into Leslie’s bed and kneaded her belly. “Leslie, I have to tell you something,” I said.

She was stiff as a board. Even her hair was cold.

“I saw a man outside,” I whispered. “He had this turtle. A huge turtle. He let it climb the slide in his—”

Leslie twisted a hand in my hair, sat up, and got out of bed. I went with her—I couldn’t help it. Boy did I make a lot of noise, though.

She dragged me into the guest bedroom and loaded me in between the sheets. A really violent tucking-in. Then she said, her voice as good as a face in the dark, “I don’t want to speak to you again.”

“Because of our secret?” I whispered.

“What secret?”

She waited for an answer, or seemed to. Then my understanding changed. She was waiting for me to realize that she’d already given me the answer: What secret?

I lay there, straitjacketed in the bedclothes, as Leslie went out of the room and closed the door, shutting me in.





37


    Leslie


We took an elevator to the fifth floor. In a fit of coincidence that made me unaccountably nervous, “Bésame Mucho” was playing in the elevator too. It was a jazz version.

The doors opened onto a hallway lined with confetti-print carpeting. Plain wooden doors marked each twenty-foot stretch. I led Mary down the hall until we reached the little plaque for GRUNDMAN, JAMES & RODRIGUEZ.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She patted my cheek. I flinched.

“Let’s go inside, sis,” she said, sounding Texan again.

I pushed open the door. The firm was fairly small, just a tiny front room preceding a series of cubelike offices assembled with floor-to-ceiling room dividers. At the front desk, presiding over a truly astonishing number of framed family photographs, sat Mrs. Guzmán.

“Mrs. Flores!” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too,” I said, and was about to check in when Mary came up to the desk.

“I’m Robin, Leslie’s sister,” she said, holding out her hand. Mrs. Guzmán shook it, showing off clawlike red nails. “Are these your children?” Mary asked, pointing at the photographs with her other hand.

    “They are,” Mrs. Guzmán said, smiling.

“Oh my God, you all must be raising the average height of the state of New Mexico all by yourselves,” Mary exclaimed. “I love it.”

“That’s my husband’s influence,” Mrs. Guzmán said. “If I stood up, you’d see.”

Mary laughed. “Your grandkids are super cute.”

“Well, thank you.” Mrs. Guzmán pointed at one in particular that showed a little girl with her hair in box braids, folding her arms on a pedestal for the school photo. “This one’s twelve now. But I like to keep the photos of them as babies. Makes me feel younger.” She tapped the frame with a nail and turned back to us. “How can I help you ladies?”