Housebreaking (34 page)

“Let's join hands,” her father said. He was sitting at the head of the table, the turkey in front of him giving off greasy vapors. He put his hands out toward Emily and her mother. They'd set a place for Daniel.

“Are you serious, Andrew?”

“Yes, I'm serious. I want to say grace. I want to say a prayer for your brother.”

“He didn't believe in that stuff and neither do I.”

“Well, I do. So humor me, will you?”

She glanced at her mother, who mechanically extended her hand.

“He wouldn't want this,” said Emily. But she did it anyway, and they joined hands: Andrew's moist palm, her mother's thin fingers. Emily held them limply, staring at the butchered animal, all buttery brown burnt skin.

Andrew intoned grace, and she tuned him out. Words of blessings, useful for inducing drowsiness but not much else. During the annual graces, Daniel used to whisper under his breath, trying to make her laugh, and he would always follow his father's blessing with one of his own: “And let us not forget Her Majesty Queen of England, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India.” This was something their Great-Aunt Ethel had once blurted during a holiday dinner years ago, to their wonderment.
Everyone blessed the Queen in Nova Scotia when I was a child
, she insisted.

Her father finished his prayer and pronounced his
Amen
.

A silent passing of dishes ensued, the clanking of porcelain. Her mother's good china, for special occasions only. How absurd it seemed,
the ritualized feast. With Daniel by her side, the familial gatherings had held an ironic pleasure; they would roll their eyes at each other, suppressing laughter, while Grandma Mabel dribbled cranberry sauce onto her white ruffled blouse and decrepit Ethel invoked the Queen. But the elderly were now dead or interred in nursing homes, and Daniel was gone. So what was the point? Why maintain the pretense, sitting with joined hands to break bread, their sorry threesome, dressed in their Sunday finery, uttering banalities?

“Turkey?” Her father offered the serving plate.

“Have you just met me, Andrew?”

“Give it a try. Your mother slaved all day.”

“I didn't slave. I cooked,” Audrey said, taking the plate from him and setting it upwind, out from under Emily's nose. She offered tofu and green beans instead, and Emily spooned some onto her plate.

“You have to get your protein somehow.”

“Leave her alone, Andrew.”

Emily scooped some mashed potatoes and slopped them next to two white onions, awash in heavy cream.

Her dad started in on college applications, his favorite topic of late. “So what's it going to be? Ivy League's a good place to start. Then there's the Little Three, which is even better in some ways. You could try Wesleyan like Mom, or Amherst like dear old Dad. And there's always Williams, that is, if you want to stoop that low.”

“I wouldn't apply to Amherst if my life depended on it.”

“Why not?”

“And major in what, prefascism?”

“I'm not sure that was on the curriculum in my day,” said Andrew.

Emily took a bite of the yams. “If you must know, there are only two places I would even consider: RISD or Wesleyan.”

“That's a pretty short list,” said her father. “You should have some backups.”

“Berkeley, then.”

“That's a little far away, isn't it?”

“Far from where?”

“From Mom and Dad,” he said cheerfully, sawing a leg off the turkey.

“Are you drunk, Andrew? Why are you acting so pleasant?”

“That holiday feeling, I suppose.”

She glared at him, ready to let out her exasperation. She didn't even want to go to college, not now anyway. She'd seen a website for an Outward Bound program on the eastern coast of Australia, hundreds of miles from anywhere, where you hiked thirty miles a day in a wilderness so uninhabited that they dropped your food from helicopters in prearranged spots, which you had to find or go hungry. A year in the middle of nowhere, on the other side of the world: That was what she wanted now.

But something in her father's expression stopped her. His smile looked forced. She wondered why he'd wear that phony smile. For whose benefit? Why perform if the courtroom were empty? Did he do it from habit? She lowered her fork.

“What now?” said her father.

“Nothing,” said Emily, feeling the weight of obligation. “I'm not very hungry.”

“Berkeley's top ten,” said Andrew, peeling the skin off his turkey leg. “But Harvard and Yale are better, and we've got them in our own backyard. It seems extravagant to go all that way. Plus, you have to think about some real backups—”

“Andrew, really. She doesn't want to talk about this right now. She's not feeling well.”

“I know, but applications are due soon. We can do some day trips if you like. The stuffing, please.”

“It's from a box,” said Audrey, passing the plate. “You won't like it.”

“Of course I will. I
love
box stuffing.”

That same joviality, not Andrew, but
dear old Dad
. It was for her, of course, the cooking and serving, the dressing up and picture taking. To help them all forget who wasn't in the picture. Left to themselves, her mother and father fought or ignored each other. And it wasn't just the holiday meal, but the rest of it too, she realized with a sickening feeling; they did it all for her, like actors in an after-school special. The shopping and cleaning, the keeping of appointments, their busy little lives. Without her, it wouldn't continue;
they
wouldn't continue. Daniel's absence had revealed the entrance to the abyss, in plain sight all along; she just hadn't noticed it before. Emily was the sole doorkeeper now, like that dog in Greek mythology who guarded the gates of Hell. But she couldn't remember if the dog prevented people from breaking in or the damned from getting out. Who'd want to break into Hell?

Lots of people
, she decided.

“What, honey?”

She'd spoken aloud. Sometimes that happened when she hadn't slept for days; words would escape, sometimes even in public, and everyone around her would turn and stare. Lots of people would like to break into Hell, wouldn't they? But you had to be dead first. You couldn't just take the grand tour, like Dante. So the snarling dog has to guard the door, like the muscle-bound bouncers at nightclubs in Manhattan.
You, you, and you,
they'd say, pointing out the lucky ones and shaking their heads at the unchosen. Emily, going from club to club with her friends and her fake ID, had always been chosen.
You, girl. Come join us.
She'd accepted the invitation, always. There was so much to see, so many flames to fan.

“Stuffing's excellent,” said her father.

“These yams are pretty good too,” she said, making an effort.

Audrey smiled. “Thanks, honey.”

After a reasonable interval, Emily excused herself, skipping dessert. “What, no Jell-O mold?” said Andrew, looking wounded. She felt like crying, but she couldn't make herself sit with them any longer. It was way too boring, too annoying, too sad, too everything. Maybe if she'd had a Xanax, maybe then she could stick it out and watch the rest of the performance.

The holiday feast done, Emily escaped to her room.

* * *

AROUND
8:00
P.M.
she changed into her cat-burglar outfit: black leggings, black sweater, black fleece jacket. Her mom went to bed early, after polishing off three or four glasses of wine. She would be down for the night. Her father, comatose in front of the TV, would never realize she was gone. She stuck a few pillows under the comforter, like in some bad prison movie, just in case he looked in on her.

Outside, she breathed deeply, her first taste of fresh air all day, and got out her phone. Billy answered on the third ring.

“I'm on my way,” she told him.

“Did you get my money?”

“Yes, I've got your money. Can you stop obsessing about that for a minute and concentrate?”

“Just bring it.”

He was waiting for her in his driveway, wearing a dark knit cap and
a long overcoat. His yellow basketball sneakers poked out underneath, only the tips visible.

“Nice coat,” she said. “You could fit me in there with you.” She handed over the wad of bills.

“Don't wanna freeze my ass off this time.” He counted out the bills one by one, his mouth moving.

“Come on,” said Emily. “Let's go.”

“Wait—”

Mouth breather
, she thought, trying not to lose her patience. If he closed his trap, he might fall down from lack of oxygen.

Finally he stuffed the money in his pockets. “Where to?”

“You sure you don't want to count it again? Make sure it's all there?”

“Very funny.”

It was a clear night. A half-moon gleamed in a corner of the sky. On Apple Hill Road cars were parked on the street, the windshields cloudy with moisture. Piles of moldering leaves dotted the roadside, stinking of apple rot. Smoke rose from chimneys, wafting into the starry air. Through a picture window, she could see a man slumped in an armchair in front of an enormous television. A dog barked inside the house as they passed. They were doing nothing wrong, she told herself, just walking up the street. One family was still having Thanksgiving dinner—she could see them through the kitchen window—sitting around the table, drinking wine, an American postcard.

Halfway up the street, they came to his house, dark as always. No lights, no car in the driveway. He'd gone to his ex-wife's house for the holiday, just as she'd overheard from his conversation with Audrey. She wondered if the dog would be there; she hoped he took it with him. She'd brought along a pocketful of Sheba's dog bones, just in case.

“This one,” she said, “with all the lights out.”

“Why?”

“Because I know the guy lives here and I happen to know he's not home tonight. And he's a real shithead.”

“What did he ever do to you?”

“He exists. Come on.”

She started around the side of the house, and Billy followed, his long coat billowing out behind him. She nearly slipped on the grass, which glistened with a silvery glow.

“You sure there's no one in there?”

“Don't talk so loud.”

The den window was dark. She got on her tiptoes and peered in. A moment later she moved to another window, dissolving into a deeper darkness. She glanced next door at a house obscured by tall trees. Even if someone were looking out the window, he wouldn't be able to see them in the darkness.

“Let's do it,” Billy said, his breath visible.

“Better check the garage first. See if his car's there. Just to be sure.”

He disappeared around the side of the house. She had a sudden, almost uncontrollable desire to pee. Were they really going to break in? Cars were one thing, but what if he
was
in there, already back from a meal somewhere, sleeping soundly? Or what if his dog was lying in wait, jaws ready to snap? A car passed on the street like a rush of wind. Then, in the silence that followed, she became aware of the commonplace riot of the creatures of the night, unseen in the grass and woods around her, what sounded like a single giant insect, scratching its back. From up in the trees, every ten seconds or so, came a
clack clack clack
, the sound of a marble falling down wooden steps. Her sneakers were wet from the grass. She wondered what was taking him so long. Billy was mostly talk, like all boys; he would rather lie than admit he didn't know what he was doing.

Finally he appeared beside her. “Garage is empty,” he said.

They crept across the lawn to the back door. He turned the handle, and when it didn't open, he reached inside his coat pocket and produced a long screwdriver, showing it to her like some sort of prize.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Check under the mat.”

He bent and pushed aside the mat, revealing the glint of a silver key.

“See? It's the suburbs, stupid.”

She thought he would smile, but he didn't. He put the key into the lock and turned the handle; the door opened an inch or two, then caught on a latch. He put his shoulder to the door, and it gave way with a splintering of wood, an impossibly loud crack. They both froze.

“Come on,” he said.

They entered a dark corridor. She grabbed the back of his overcoat, unable to see in the darkness. She could make out a few jackets hanging on wall pegs and boots lining a low shelf. There was a smell in the house,
unnameable, the scent of strangers, their sweat and shed skin, all the exhaled breath of a lifetime.

He took a flashlight out of his coat pocket and directed it around the kitchen: a bright yellow linoleum floor, pale green countertops. It looked like the house of someone's grandfather. She could see the remnants of breakfast on the kitchen table, a plate, a coffee mug, a spread-out newspaper. On the far wall the digital clock above the oven emitted the time in neon blue: 8:35
P.M.

He went to the refrigerator, releasing a shaft of light, and pulled out a bottle of Corona. He snapped off the cap and drank two giant swigs, then set the bottle on the counter. “You just gonna stand there?”

The first step, crossing the threshold into the kitchen, was the hard part. Once she got her feet to move, she found she could breathe again.

They didn't turn on any lights. They went by the beam of his flashlight: dining room, living room, den. An unseen clock ticked noisily. There was the low rumble in the basement of the boiler, pumping heat. Otherwise it was a quiet house, their footsteps cushioned by a thick white carpet. Only the den looked lived in, two remote controls lying on the couch next to a
TV Guide
, pillows askew. Billy's flashlight darted around the room: a painting on the wall, framed photos on the tabletops, grandfather clock in the corner.