The Good House: A Novel (32 page)

Peter walked over to the counter and started opening cabinet doors. “Where do you keep your drinking glasses?” he asked. “Oh, here they are.”

I heard him fill the glass with water, then put it on the table in front of me. Next to it he placed a small pill bottle, filled with tiny white tablets.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t like to take pills. I feel fine.”

“Please, Hildy, I can smell the booze on you. You must have had some time of it last night. Just take one. It’ll help you take the edge off. I’ve already taken a couple myself.”

Peter was gazing down at me, and I quickly looked away.

“I told you, I don’t like taking stuff like that.”

“Well, sometimes we need to. When the doctor tells us to. Hildy? Hildy, did you hear what I said?”

I reached for the pill bottle and held it against my chest so my shaking hand wouldn’t rattle its contents.

“I had such an awful night last night, Hildy.”

“Why?” I asked. “What did you do?”

“I thought Rebecca might come here after I got that crazy call from her. I wanted to talk to her. To both of you. When I stopped here, your car was gone. Where were you last night, Hildy?”

“I was out with some business associates. Why do you care?” I was weeping. My eyes were filled with tears, my nose dribbling everywhere, and my tissue was a sodden piece of pulp clutched in my tight fist. One of the dogs suddenly scampered across the floor in the living room.

“KNOCK IT OFF,” I hollered. “Sorry,” I said to Peter. There was no response.

“Peter?” I turned and looked around. Where had he gone?

I sat back at the table. I knew I had tissues in my purse, so I lifted it from where it hung on the back of my chair and started fishing around in it. That’s when I felt Peter hovering over me.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, spinning around in my chair. He was staring down at me and again I saw death in his gaze.

Die. Die. Die.
The thoughts pulsed in the air all around me, becoming louder and stronger, beating in time with my heart.

Now I recalled the way he had told me he had such confidence in me, just a few days before. The way he had told me that he knew I wouldn’t drink. He knew how to plant a negative suggestion as well as I did. It was like telling a child that you know they won’t touch the candy that you left out for them—tell a person
not
to think about something and you plant an obsession. Did he plant the suggestion that I get drunk?

He wanted to “make sure” I wouldn’t tell anyone about him and Rebecca. How was he planning to make sure of that?

“Hildy. I think you should take the medication. I’m worried about you. You seem a little unstable. Please. Take the medication now.”

That’s when I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck—my “hackles,” as my aunt used to say—rising, and I felt my fingers and toes grow numb. Sometimes my aunt would get a very angry person in her home for a psychic reading (sometimes a complete nut job), and she said she always knew they were unbalanced because her “hackles” would go up the minute they entered a room.

“Hildy, look at me,” Peter said. I had been looking down at the glass of water. I knew he could read emotions, and fear is the easiest emotion to read—easier than anger, even. I sniffled and dabbed at my eyes with the sodden tissue, then I dug around in my purse some more, avoiding his gaze. Rebecca and I were the two people who stood in his way, who threatened his future. What had he been planning for us?

“Excuse me, Peter,” I said. I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m just going to get some tissues from the powder room.”

Peter placed his large hand around my wrist. His hand was so cold. “No. Stay where you are,” he said. Then, in a gentler tone: “Your pulse is racing. It’s best to sit quietly. Have some water. I’m worried about you.”

We stayed like that for a moment, his large hand on my wrist, my eyes fixed on the table.

“You’re in shock,” said Peter. “You’re withdrawing from alcohol—that’s what a hangover is, just withdrawal—and you’re in shock from the news about Jake. You need to rest now.”

I really needed a drink. I wondered where Rebecca was. I wondered, again, why Peter had been out looking for us last night, two women with the knowledge and power to destroy his life. He’d been out hunting two witches last night; now he had his hand clenched around my wrist. My head was pounding.
Oh, God, for just one drink
 …

“I know you’re thinking about how much you’d like a drink now, Hildy, but it’s not a good idea. Take the pill. It’ll soothe your nerves.”

Babs and Molly were suddenly skidding and barking across the floor in the other room again, which made Peter turn in his chair. That’s when I managed to pull away from him and stagger to my feet.

“What was that?” asked Peter.

“It was just the dogs,” I said. I was backing away from him now. “They bark like that all the time, Peter. They … they drive me insane.”

“Where are you going?”

“The bathroom.” I was afraid to turn my back on him, so of course he could really see my fear now.

“Hildy, you look like you’re going to faint.”

Peter took a step toward me.

I turned and ran.

I ran past the powder room, through the old pantry, and then I flew down the stairs into the cellar. I made sure to pull the door behind me first, though, and it slammed shut for an instant, just long enough for me to duck into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. Then Peter opened the door, which cast a yellow shaft of dust-speckled light down the center of the old wooden steps. The bulb in the cellar’s only light fixture, a dangling ceiling socket, had burned out weeks before. I’d never gotten around to replacing it. I could hear Peter trying to click the light switch at the top of the stairs on and off, to no avail. Now I was on my knees, crawling behind the hot-water heater. The heater isn’t terribly far from the stairs, but it’s in a dark corner and there’s a little space between where it stands and the wall. I was trying to wedge myself into that space.

“Hildy”—now the tone was kind and gentle—“it’s me, Peter.”

My heart was racing.

“Hildy, it’s just me, Peter.”

I was quiet as a mouse.

“Hildy, I think you’re being paranoid. This is how you get when you have a hangover, isn’t it? You start imagining things. You think people are thinking unkind thoughts about you. I’m not, Hildy. I’ve always admired you. I remember you when you were just a teenager. Remember? You and Allie and Mamie and me? I remember once we stopped at your house to get something and your mother was sitting on the porch.”

The tears had started again, but I had to be careful not to sob. He was walking tentatively down the stairs. The cellar door had partially closed behind him and he was feeling his way along each step with the toe of his shoe.

“She was so beautiful, your mother. I remember that she had a cat on her lap and she was smiling at all of us.”

Oh, the tears. It was so hard to breathe.

He was at the bottom of the stairs now and had turned and was making his way slowly through the dark. I had a vivid recollection of playing hide-and-seek with him when he was a little child and Allie was baby-sitting him—when I was really still a child myself—and I recalled the way Peter had loved it when we would jump from our hiding places and scare him silly. The hunter turned into the hunted, that was his favorite part. Now I was the prey and I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest. I wondered how close he was, when I heard the crashing of bottles a few feet away from me. He had stumbled into my empties. They had been there all winter. I was keeping them there until the spring, when I planned to take them to the dump. In the early morning, when nobody would be there.

“Oh, Hildy, please let me help you. You can get better. Your denial, your delusional paranoia right now, it’s all part of the disease. Why are you hiding? It’s just me. It’s me. Your friend Peter.

Then the strangest thing happened. I saw myself from a different perspective. I saw myself as Peter must have seen me. As, perhaps, everyone saw me. I saw myself as a drunk. A pathetic old alcoholic. Maybe I was not really the dynamic businesswoman, successful mother, and various other titles that I liked to attach to my name. Maybe I was like those people in those sad meetings. Maybe I was just Hildy. Nobody special—just an old alcoholic. Hildy Good, alcoholic. A regular old garden-variety alcoholic.

“Hildy, let people help you. You can get through this. You have so many people who love you. Your daughters, your grandson.”

Why had I run into the cellar? What a crazy thing to do. Why was I trembling behind the hot-water heater? I really had a vision of myself, then, a frantic, strung-out old lady, hiding in the cellar from a doctor—a friend—who was trying to help. A man I had known since he was a toddler, whose father was so kind to us,
so kind,
after Mom’s death. Not an unhinged murderer who was stalking me. What a delusional idea. It was Peter Newbold.

“It’s just me, Hildy. It’s just Peter.”

“Peter,” I whispered. Then I managed to stand up. “I’m over here.”

I felt his arm around my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said. Then he led me back to the stairs. He had to help me walk up. I felt so weak. His arm was around my waist.

“Take some deep breaths, Hildy. We’re almost there. Just a few more steps.”

“Okay,” I sobbed. “Okay.”

When at last we arrived at the top of the steps, Peter reached over my shoulder to push the door open, but before he actually touched it, it had flung open wide, and there stood Frank.

I fell into Frankie’s arms. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I did go out in my car last night.”

Frankie held me for a moment and then he tilted up my chin and looked at my face.

“No, you’re all confused, Hil.”

“I was out driving last night, Frankie. I was drunk. I don’t remember. I hit something.…”

“She doesn’t know what she’s sayin’,” Frank said. He pulled me close. “Shhh,” he said.

“I didn’t see anything.” I sobbed into his chest. “All I remember is a loud crack and then wondering how such a thick cobweb got on my windshield. It was so hard to see on my way home. I had to look out the passenger window.”

“Shush now, Hildy, it was a dream. I was here with you all night. What’re you doin’ here, Newbold?” Frank asked.

“I had something I needed to talk to Hildy about,” I heard Peter say. “I’m leaving town today, and I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Hildy was with me all night,” Frank said. “She’s all confused.”

“Yeah, I know. Hildy, I’m leaving that medication for you. It’ll help. Bye, now. Good-bye, Frank,” Peter said.

“See ya,” Frank grunted.

When Peter was gone, Frank helped me to a chair and sat next to me. He put his hands on my wet cheeks and looked into my eyes. He brushed something, a cobweb or some cellar dust, from my hair and said, “They still haven’t found Jake, Hil. But Skully just brought your car back from Lynn with a brand-new windshield. They touched up the scratches on the hood. The guys down at the shop said it looked like you hit a tree. It was probably a limb that hit the windshield, based on the scratches on the hood.”

“I remember going out in the car last night, Frankie. I wanted to go to your house. I wanted to be with you. I felt so alone, and I missed you so much. I could have hit him. I could have hit anything. I just wanted to be with you.”

“Shhhh,” Frankie said. “Go wash your face, then I’ll drive you into town. You can help search for Jake. Don’t tell anyone you were out in your car last night. There’s no point to it. It was a tree. It had to have been a tree.”

“I can’t go now, Frank,” I said. “I need to rest. Maybe this afternoon.”

Frankie nodded. “Okay, go to bed, though. Go get some rest. Don’t talk to anyone, Hildy. Don’t tell anyone about yer car.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’m sorry.…”

“Shush, Hildy. Stop with that, now.”

*   *   *

I couldn’t sleep. I tried. I curled up on my bed and tried to sleep, but I kept having those wakeful dreams I so often had. Semilucid dreams. I don’t usually recall my dreams when I’m fully asleep, but when I’m trying to doze or relax, I will sometimes be carried off into a stream of dreamlike thoughts—daydreams, I guess you’d call them, not quite awake, not quite asleep. That afternoon, I dreamed that it was night and I was driving my car fast over some hardscrabble roads that caused my tires to skid. Something dark smashed against my windshield, sending tiny little faults, like the spreading fissures you see in cracked ice, all across my windshield, but I didn’t stop. I was speeding along, trying to see through my cracked windshield, and I caught a glimpse of the road here and there. A turn came in the road, and my foot flailing for the brake awoke me with a start just as my car started to flip over the guardrail.

I watched the shadows crawl across my ceiling. There was a fly buzzing against one of the window screens. Maybe it was a wasp. Then I was on the floor of my cellar, looking up at the ceiling there, but the cellar was filled with water and I was holding my breath. I wanted to swim to the surface, to the cellar ceiling. I wanted to shoot to the surface, to breach triumphantly, to suck in the good air above the sea in great gasps, but I didn’t because Jake was there, swimming above me, dog-paddling madly, his head just above the surface. I didn’t want to frighten him, so I stayed there, flattened to the floor of my underwater cellar until he lowered his face into the water. His face was gone, ravaged by crabs and minnows, and I awoke myself with my own scream.

I got out of bed. The dim afternoon sky gave me some comfort. It was almost the golden hour. Almost time for a drink. I never drink before five—only alcoholics do that—but I realized I might have to nudge it a little closer to four that day. My nerves were shot, I was shaking, my head was pounding, and I was plagued by the image of the swimming child. I wondered if I should tell Cassie about my vision, but I just couldn’t face her yet. And what comfort would it give her to know that I’d had an odd daydream about her son swimming in deep water? Like I said, I always have dreams of water. Still, I thought I should call Cassie. I couldn’t face her in person, but I wanted to hear her voice.