The Lovely Bones (29 page)

Samuel slowed his pace and she joined him. Their T-shirts were locked onto their bodies like paste.

Lindsey had fought off a cramp in her side, but as the cramp lifted she ran with Samuel full-out. Suddenly she was covered
in goose bumps and smiling ear to ear.

“We’re getting married!” she said, and he stopped short, grabbed her up in his arms, and they were still kissing when a car
passed them on the road, the driver honking his horn.

When the doorbell rang at our house it was four o’clock and Hal was in the kitchen wearing one of my mother’s old white chef’s
aprons and cutting brownies for Grandma Lynn. He liked being put to work, feeling useful, and my grandmother liked to use
him. They were a simpatico team. While Buckley, the boy-guard, loved to eat.

“I’ll get it,” my father said. He had been propping himself up during the rain with highballs, mixed, not measured, by Grandma
Lynn.

He was spry now with a thin sort of grace, like a retired ballet dancer who favored one leg over the other after long years
of one-footed leaps.

“I was so worried,” he said when he opened the door.

Lindsey was holding her arms over her chest, and even my father had to laugh while he looked away and hurriedly got the extra
blankets kept in the front closet. Samuel draped one around Lindsey first, as my father covered Samuel’s shoulders as best
he could and puddles collected on the flagstone floor. Just as Lindsey had covered herself up, Buckley and Hal and Grandma Lynn
came forward into the hallway.

“Buckley,” Grandma Lynn said, “go get some towels.”

“Did you manage the bike in this?” Hal asked, incredulous.

“No, we ran,” Samuel said.

“You what?”

“Get into the family room,” my father said. “We’ll set a fire going.”

* * *

While the two of them sat with their backs to the fire, shivering at first and drinking the brandy shots Grandma Lynn had Buckley
serve them on a silver tray, everyone heard the story of the bike and the house and the octagonal room with windows that had
made Samuel euphoric.

“And the bike’s okay?” Hal asked.

“We did the best we could,” Samuel said, “but we’ll need a tow.”

“I’m just happy that the two of you are safe,” my father said.

“We ran home for you, Mr. Salmon.”

My grandmother and brother had taken seats at the far end of the room, away from the fire.

“We didn’t want anyone to worry,” Lindsey said.

“Lindsey didn’t want you to worry, specifically.”

The room was silent for a moment. What Samuel had said was true, of course, but it also pointed too clearly to a certain fact—that
Lindsey and Buckley had come to live their lives in direct proportion to what effect it would have on a fragile father.

Grandma Lynn caught my sister’s eye and winked. “Hal and Buckley and I made brownies,” she said. “And I have some frozen lasagna
I can break out if you’d like.” She stood and so did my brother—ready to help.

“I’d love some brownies, Lynn,” Samuel said.

“Lynn? I like that,” she said. “Are you going to start calling Jack ‘Jack’?”

“Maybe.”

Once Buckley and Grandma Lynn had left the room, Hal felt a new nervousness in the air. “I think I’ll pitch in,” he said.

Lindsey, Samuel, and my father listened to the busy noises of the kitchen. They could all hear the clock ticking in the corner,
the one my mother had called our “rustic colonial clock.”

“I know I worry too much,” my father said.

“That’s not what Samuel meant,” Lindsey said.

Samuel was quiet and I was watching him.

“Mr. Salmon,” he finally said—he was not quite ready to try “Jack.” “I’ve asked Lindsey to marry me.”

Lindsey’s heart was in her throat, but she wasn’t looking at Samuel. She was looking at my father.

Buckley came in with a plate of brownies, and Hal followed him with champagne glasses hanging from his fingers and a bottle
of 1978 Dom Perignon. “From your grandmother, on your graduation day,” Hal said.

Grandma Lynn came through next, empty-handed except for her highball. It caught the light and glittered like a jar of icy
diamonds.

For Lindsey, it was as if no one but herself and my father were there. “What do you say, Dad?” she asked.

“I’d say,” he managed, standing up to shake Samuel’s hand, “that I couldn’t wish for a better son-in-law.”

Grandma Lynn exploded on the final word. “My God, oh, honey! Congratulations!”

Even Buckley let loose, slipping out of the knot that usually held him and into a rare joy. But I saw the fine, wavering line
that still tied my sister to my father. The invisible cord that can kill.

The champagne cork popped.

“Like a master!” my grandmother said to Hal, who was pouring.

It was Buckley, as my father and sister joined the group and listened to Grandma Lynn’s countless toasts, who saw me. He saw
me standing under the rustic colonial clock and stared. He was drinking champagne. There were strings coming out from all
around me, reaching out, waving in the air. Someone passed him a brownie. He held it in his hands but did not eat. He saw
my shape and face, which had not changed—the hair still parted down the middle, the chest still flat and hips undeveloped—and
wanted to call out my name. It was only a moment, and then I was gone.

* * *

Over the years, when I grew tired of watching, I often sat in the back of the trains that went in and out of Suburban Station
in Philadelphia. Passengers would get on and off as I listened to their conversations mix with the sounds of the train doors
opening and closing, the conductors yelling their stops, and the shuffle and staccato of shoe soles and high heels going from
pavement to metal to the soft
thump thump
on the carpeted train aisles. It was what Lindsey, in her workouts, called an active rest; my muscles were still engaged
but my focus relaxed. I listened to the sounds and felt the train’s movement and sometimes, by doing this, I could hear the
voices of those who no longer lived on Earth. Voices of others like me, the watchers.

Almost everyone in heaven has someone on Earth they watch, a loved one, a friend, or even a stranger who was once kind, who
offered warm food or a bright smile when one of us had needed it. And when I wasn’t watching I could hear the others talking
to those they loved on Earth: just as fruitlessly as me, I’m afraid. A one-sided cajoling and coaching of the young, a one-way
loving and desiring of their mates, a single-sided card that could never be signed.

The train would be still or stop-starting from 30th Street to near Overbrook, and I could hear them say names and sentences:
“Now be careful with that glass.” “Mind your father.” “Oh, look how big she looks in that dress.” “I’m with you, Mother,”
“… Esmeralda, Sally, Lupe, Keesha, Frank…” So many names. And then the train would gain speed, and as it did the volume of
all these unheard phrases coming from heaven would grow louder and louder; at its height between stations, the noise of our
longing became so deafening that I had to open my eyes.

I saw women hanging or collecting wash as I peered from the windows of the suddenly silent trains. They stooped over baskets
and then spread white or yellow or pink sheets along the line. I counted men’s underwear and boys’ underwear and the familiar
lollipop cotton of little girls’ drawers. And the sound of it that I craved and missed—the sound of life—replaced the endless
calling of names.

Wet laundry: the snap, the yank, the wet heaviness of double-and queen-sized sheets. The real sounds bringing back the remembered
sounds of the past when I had lain under the dripping clothes to catch water on my tongue or run in between them as if they
were traffic cones through which I chased Lindsey or was chased by Lindsey back and forth. And this would be joined by the
memory of our mother attempting to lecture us about the peanut butter from our hands getting on the good sheets, or the sticky
lemon-candy patches she had found on our father’s shirts. In this way the sight and smell of the real, of the imagined, and
of the remembered all came together for me.

After I turned away from Earth that day, I rode the trains until I could think of only one thing:

“Hold still,” my father would say, while I held the ship in the bottle and he burned away the strings he’d raised the mast
with and set the clipper ship free on its blue putty sea. And I would wait for him, recognizing the tension of that moment
when the world in the bottle depended, solely, on me.

W
hen her father mentioned the sinkhole on the phone, Ruth was in the walk-in closet that she rented on First Avenue. She twirled
the phone’s long black cord around her wrist and arm and gave short, clipped answers of acknowledgment. The old woman that
rented her the closet liked to listen in, so Ruth tried not to talk much on the phone. Later, from the street, she would call
home collect and plan a visit.

She had known she would make a pilgrimage to see it before the developers closed it up. Her fascination with places like the
sinkhole was a secret she kept, as was my murder and our meeting in the faculty parking lot. They were all things she would
not give away in New York, where she watched others tell their drunken bar stories, prostituting their families and their
traumas for popularity and booze. These things, she felt, were not to be passed around like disingenuous party favors. She
kept an honor code with her journals and her poems. “Inside, inside,” she would whisper quietly to herself when she felt the
urge to tell, and she would end up taking long walks through the city, seeing instead the Stolfuz cornfield or an image of
her father staring at his pieces of rescued antique molding. New York provided a perfect background for her thoughts. Despite
her willed stomping and pitching in its streets and byways, the city itself had very little to do with her interior life.

She no longer looked haunted, as she had in high school, but still, if you looked closely at her eyes you could see the skittery
rabbit energy that often made people nervous. She had an expression of someone who was constantly on the lookout for something
or someone that hadn’t yet arrived. Her whole body seemed to slant forward in inquiry, and though she had been told at the
bar where she worked that she had beautiful hair or beautiful hands or, on the rare occasions when any of her patrons saw
her come out from behind the bar, beautiful legs, people never said anything about her eyes.

She dressed hurriedly in black tights, a short black skirt, black boots, and a black T-shirt, all of them stained from serving
double-duty as work clothes and real clothes. The stains could be seen only in the sunlight, so Ruth was never really aware
of them until later, when she would stop at an outdoor café for a cup of coffee and look down at her skirt and see the dark
traces of spilled vodka or whiskey. The alcohol had the effect of making the black cloth blacker. This amused her; she had
noted in her journal: “booze affects material as it does people.”

Once outside the apartment, on her way for a cup of coffee on First Avenue, she made up secret conversations with the bloated
lap dogs—Chihuahuas and Pomeranians—that the Ukrainian women held on their laps as they sat on their stoops. Ruth liked the
antagonistic little dogs, who barked ardently as she passed.

Then she walked, walked flat out, walked with an ache coming up through the earth and into the heel of her striking foot. No
one said hello to her except creeps, and she made a game of how many streets she could navigate without having to stop for
traffic. She would not slow down for another person and would vivisect crowds of NYU students or old women with their laundry
carts, creating a wind on either side of her. She liked to imagine that when she passed the world looked after her, but she
also knew how anonymous she was. Except when she was at work, no one knew where she was at any time of day and no one waited
for her. It was an immaculate anonymity.

She would not know that Samuel had proposed to my sister and, unless it trickled down to her through Ray, the sole person
she had kept in touch with from school, she would never find out. While still at Fairfax she had heard my mother had left.
A fresh ripple of whispers had gone through the high school, and Ruth had watched my sister cope with them as best she could.
Occasionally the two of them would meet up in the hallway. Ruth would say a few words of support if she could manage them
without doing what she thought of as harming Lindsey by talking to her. Ruth knew her status as a freak at school and knew
that their one night at the gifted symposium had been exactly what it felt like—a dream, where elements let loose came together
unbidden outside the damning rules of school.

But Ray was different. Their kisses and early pushing and rubbings were objects under glass to her—memories that she kept
preserved. She saw him every time she visited her parents and had known immediately that it would be Ray she took when she
went back to see the sinkhole. He would be happy for the vacation from his constant studying grind, and, if she was lucky,
he would describe, as he often did, a medical procedure that he had observed. Ray’s way of describing such things made her
feel as if she knew exactly what it felt like—not just what it looked like. He could evoke everything for her, with small
verbal pulse points of which he was completely unaware.

Heading north on First, she could tick off all the places she’d formerly stopped and stood, certain that she had found a spot
where a woman or girl had been killed. She tried to list them in her journal at the end of each day, but often she was so
consumed with what she thought might have happened in this or that dark overhang or tight alleyway that she neglected the
simpler, more obvious ones, where she had read about a death in the paper and visited what had been a woman’s grave.

She was unaware that she was somewhat of a celebrity up in heaven. I had told people about her, what she did, how she observed
moments of silence up and down the city and wrote small individual prayers in her journal, and the story had traveled so quickly
that women lined up to know if she had found where they’d been killed. She had fans in heaven, even though she would have
been disappointed to know that often these fans, when they gathered, resembled more a bunch of teenagers poring over an issue
of
TeenBeat
than Ruth’s image of low dirgelike whisperings set to a celestial timpani.