The Bone House (33 page)

    Mark
was silent. She could hear him breathing. Finally, he said, 'That's why you
didn't come home. You believe it.'

    'I
don't know what to believe.'

    'Do
you need me to deny it? OK, I'll deny it. It didn't happen. I didn't touch her.
But if you're not sure, I don't know if it's going to help for me to say so.
How can I prove it to you?'

    'You
don't need to prove anything to me.'

    'It
sounds like I do.' His voice was cold and disappointed.

    'I
was wrong to doubt you. I was wrong not to come home. It just knocked me for a
loop, coming out of the blue. I needed to get my head together.'

    He
was slow to reply. When he did, the angry edge was gone. 'Hil, I'm sorry.
You've stuck by me in the past year, when most wives would have sent me packing.
You've never wavered. I can't blame you for wondering if you've been a fool
when you hear a story like that. All I can say is, whoever this witness is, he
or she made a mistake. I did not kiss Glory. No way. I told you that she put
her arms around my neck and scratched me, because she was drunk. Maybe that's
what this person saw. He misinterpreted.'

    'That's
probably it.'

    'It
drives me crazy to have this coming between us, because I can never do anything
but ask you to trust me.'

    'I
do.'

    'You
feel really far away,' he told her.

    'I
know. I'm sorry.' Hilary heard the beep on her phone that told her another call
was coming in. 'Can you hang on? Someone else is calling. Don't hang up. I want
to keep talking.'

    'I'll
be here.'

    Hilary
pushed the flash button on her phone and said, 'Hello?'

    She
heard a young voice she hadn't heard in years. 'Hilary? Thank God. It's Amy.
Amy Leigh.'

    Amy
spoke in hushed tones into the phone in Gary's upstairs bathroom. What was she
doing? Her voice slurred, and she was afraid that Hilary would think she was
drunk and playing games with her. A few sips of wine, and she
was
drunk.
She tried to concentrate on her words, but she found that her brain and her
mouth kept missing each other.

    'I
was at the - that is, I was down on - in Florida. Last week.'

    'Yes,
I know, Amy, I was there too. You did great. Congratulations.'

    Amy
tried to think. Tried to figure out what to say. 'I know what's going on with
you. I'm really apology. Sorry. I mean, sorry.'

    'Amy,
are you OK?'

    'I
don't know.'

    'Have
you been drinking?'

    'I
guess. That's - that must be it. My coach.' 'What?'

    'My
coach. My coach. Do you know him?'

    'I've
heard of him,' Hilary told her. 'What's his name? Johnson?'

    'Jensen.
Gary Jensen. Yes. Gary.'

    'What
about him?'

    Amy
heard his voice again. He was at the base of the stairs. His voice was suddenly
low and suspicious. 'Amy?' he called again. 'Amy, are you up there? What are
you doing?'

    She
heard him climbing the twisting steps. Getting closer to her.

    'Florida,'
she said into the phone.

    'Amy,
you're not making any sense,' Hilary told her.

    Amy
banged her knuckles against her head. The words wouldn't come. She felt as if
she would throw up. Her tongue felt thick. 'Gary,' she murmured. And then:
'Glory.'

    'What?'
Hilary's voice was insistent. 'Amy, did you say Glory? Are you talking about
Glory Fischer? What about her?'

    Amy
couldn't feel her fingers. The phone slipped from her hand and dropped to the
tile floor. The plastic back popped off, and the battery skidded away. It was
dead. She heard Gary knocking on the closed door. He was inches away from her.

    'Amy?'
he called.

    She
backed up. The knob turned; he was coming in. She grabbed the shower curtain,
and the rings popped from the rod one by one, and she followed the curtain to
the floor. The door opened. He stood there, watching her from the doorway. His
face showed no emotion or surprise. He knew; he'd been waiting for this to
happen. She had to run. Get up, get past him. Except there was nowhere to go.

    Amy
crawled two steps, and her knees gave way. She was unconscious as her face
struck the floor.

    Mark
Bradley made the ferry crossing through Death's Door and drove to their
favorite open-air market between the towns of Ellison Bay and Sister Bay. It
was one of the few farmers' markets that was open year round, baking hot pies
daily and lining the shelves with produce canned in the kitchen at the rear of
the store. He loved the smell of sugar and flowers and the samples of mustards
and cheeses between the open wooden bins. He carried a paper bag through the
aisles, filling it as he went. Some of the locals stared at him, but he
shrugged it off. He didn't care what anyone thought of him.

    He
only cared what one person thought. Hilary.

    The
morning had felt like a turning point between them after a bad, bad night. He'd
slept alone, feeling her absence. He hadn't blamed her for doubting him, but
he'd worried that doubt was like a genie you couldn't put back in the bottle
once it was free. Every day for the rest of their lives, he feared that she
would look at him and a single thought would flit through the back of her mind,
even if she never said it out loud.
Did he?

    Then
Hilary came home. She arrived on the first ferry to the island in the morning.
They didn't say a word. Something shook loose in both of them. Her lips were on
his, and his fingers were on her clothes, and they stripped on the new carpet
he'd laid in the living room and made frantic love, soundless except for the
pace of their breathing. The tenderness of their bruises didn't matter. The
graffiti hiding under the fresh paint didn't matter. They were alone and
connected for the first time in days, and in the aftermath, as he stroked her
bare skin, he felt as if he'd won her faith back.

    She was
sleeping now. He'd left her a note that he was going to the mainland for a few
hours.

    At
the bakery counter, Mark ordered a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread and a cherry
pie, warm from the oven. Everything in Door County was cherries. Fresh
cherries, cherry pies, cherry soda, cherry caramels, cherry jam, cherry cider,
cherry ice cream, cherry wine. There were cherries in tomato sauce, cherries in
cheese, cherries stuffed in peppers, cherries stuffed in olives, cherries
stuffed in roast beef. He didn't really even like cherries, but that was like
living in Chicago and not rooting for the Bears. He'd become a cherry fan out
of sheer necessity, because you couldn't escape them here.

    He
balanced the pie box on his hand. The tin was hot through the cardboard, and he
juggled it. At the end of an aisle, he put down his shopping bag and dipped a
pretzel stick in mustard. It was cherry mustard. Of course. He actually liked
it. He took a jar and put it in the bag.

    Mark
heard his phone ringing. He had a special ring tone for Hilary, which was
Aerosmith's 'Dude Looks Like a Lady'. She'd got very drunk one night at a bar
in downtown Chicago and danced to it solo, and he'd never let her forget it.

    'I
really needed to sleep,' she said.

    'I
figured.'

    'That
was a nice way to come home.'

    'Will
I get the same treatment tonight?' he asked.

    'Come
home and see.'

    'Soon.
I'll swing by the Pig for groceries and get some wine at the liquor store and
then head for the ferry. Do you need anything?'

    'You.'

    'That's
a date,' he said.

    He
hung up the phone and realized he was smiling, because he felt a glimmer of the
life they'd enjoyed in their first year. Before Tresa. Before Glory. When they
were first living on the island and commuting together to their teaching jobs,
he'd wondered what he had done to deserve that kind of happiness. He'd feared
in his secret soul that one day fate would want to take it all back and even
the score.

    Sure
enough, fate did.

    Even
now, he couldn't escape it.

    Mark
looked up, holding his phone in his hand, still smiling at the thought of going
home to Hilary. He found an older man with slicked, jet-black hair standing in
front of him. Alcohol wafted from the man's breath. They were nearly the same
height, but the man's shoulders were rounded by age, and he held himself at an
angle, as if one leg was weaker than the other. The man jabbed a finger in
Mark's face.

    'I
know who you are,' he said.

    Mark
had no interest in a confrontation with a stranger. He picked up his shopping
bag and tried to squeeze past the man in the aisle. 'Excuse me,' he said.

    'Do
you know who I am?' the man asked sharply.

    'I
have no idea.'

    'My
name's Peter Hoffman.'

    Mark
stopped and took a deep breath. 'OK. All right. I've heard of you. What do you
want, Mr Hoffman?'

    'I
know what kind of man you are,' Hoffman snapped. His voice grew louder and more
belligerent. People in the market turned to look at them.

    'I'm
leaving,' Mark said, but Hoffman blocked his way and put his hand squarely on
Mark's chest.

    'You
stand there, and you listen to me,' Hoffman told him.

    Mark
felt his heart rate accelerate. His fist tightened around the phone in his
hand. He imagined Hilary standing next to him and what she would say.
Stay
calm. Don't make it worse.

    'What
do you want?' Mark asked. 'Because if all you want is to accuse me of things I
didn't do, then you're in a long line, and you'll have to take a number.'

    'You
think you're funny? You think this is funny?'

    'No,
I really don't.'

    'Do
you have any idea what I lost? My daughter? My grandchildren? Do you know what
it's like to watch your family die?'

    Mark
felt the flush of embarrassment on his face. A crowd was gathering, and he wasn't
the sentimental favorite in this contest. 'Mr Hoffman, I do know what you went
through. I can't imagine how horrible that was for you. You have my sympathy,
you really do.'

    'I
don't want your sympathy.'

    'Then
please move aside, so we can both leave in peace.'

    'I've
killed men, Bradley. More than I want to remember. I did what my country needed
me to do, and I don't regret any of it. But you. I don't know how you live with
yourself.'

    'That's
all. We're done here.'

    'Then
you have the goddamn nerve,' Hoffman continued, his raspy voice growing shrill,
'to hide behind the man who killed my whole family. How dare you. I won't let
you do it. I won't let you get away with it.'

    Mark
pushed past Hoffman, their shoulders colliding. For an old man, Hoffman was
solid, and even drunk he was fast. Mark never saw the punch coming. Hoffman's
left fist shot up from his hips and connected with the underside of Mark's jaw,
snapping his head back. Mark staggered. The pie tumbled from his hand, spilling
out of the box as it fell to the floor, spraying cherries and filling on to the
ground like blood. His phone flew. Mark lost his balance, stumbling backward
into shelves lined with canning jars. The shelves dropped, and dozens of jars
clattered downward and rained a mess of sauce and glass. His face and clothes
dripped with stains.

    Mark
regained his balance. He rubbed his jaw, which was stiff, and ran his tongue
along the back of his teeth to see if any were loose. He shook his clothes, and
bits of glass sprinkled around him. The crowd in the shop around them froze in
silence. Hoffman cocked his fists, expecting Mark to retaliate, but Mark had no
intention of hitting an old man. He just wanted to get out of the store.