The Singing Bone (35 page)

Detective Torres steps back, pulls the last swab from Alice's cheek, and carefully seals the evidence in a thick plastic bag. “Not so bad,” she says.

“Murder will out,” Alice replies.

Jack Wyck's attorney hesitates. “What was that?” he asks.

“Work talk,” Alice says. “You wouldn't understand.” She holds her hand up at him. “Go,” she commands, as imperious as a queen. Molly is lying on the floor beside the bed. She is reaching her hand towards Alice's
. Oh sister, oh sister, give me your hand
, she sings
.

“Well,” Hans says, sliding into the booth across from Ariel. “Lee Frank won't see us.” Hans had tried one last time, writing a letter, telling him about the film, but Lee is in for life, and there's no reason—unlike Jack, who sees freedom in every new week—that he should reveal anything to anyone.

Lee has an extensive criminal record—Ariel shows Hans the copies she made at the courthouse that day. “I wonder how they met.” Ariel has her finger on the final sheet of his arrests—she points to February 1980: Sing Sing. “Lee and Jack, I mean.” Her finger travels up the sheet, over the prior arrest dates. She puts Jack's arrest record next to Lee's to compare the two. “I guess in jail. See?” She shows Hans, turning the papers towards him. He does. They were both arrested in the summer of 1972. They would have been in prison together.

“Jack could tell you—though he'd probably lie about it.”

“I read that sociopaths lie habitually—about anything and everything.” She stretches, turning in her seat. Hans thinks she looks tired. “They'll lie about what they ate for breakfast.”

“What do
I
want for breakfast?” Hans picks up the menu and then puts it down. He no longer needs it. He has the choices memorized.

“Waffles again?”

He nods. “Waffles again. How are you sleeping?”

“Like crap.”

“Dreams?”

“I keep dreaming about the
Death Christ
premiere—but instead of The Doing, it's Jack Wyck.”

Hans nods. He reaches across the table for Ariel's hand. Right after the premiere, she'd spent all of her time at Hans's apartment watching TV. She made Hans order all the cable channels for her. He set her up in the guest room and let her do whatever she wanted—which for a few weeks wasn't more than holding the TV's remote and staring, her mouth slightly open, a blanket around her, her knees pulled into her chest. Hans checked on her in the morning and in the evening. He decided she would come back when she was ready. And Hans didn't think there was anything even slightly wrong with Ariel's behavior—he only wondered why he didn't sit down next to her. But he started at every sound—which made living in New York hard. The idea dawned on him that he and Ariel should go away—someplace where The Doing couldn't reach them.

Ariel chose the Seychelles, and so for a month they sat on a white beach. Ariel read
Middlemarch
. Hans finally finished
The Magic Mountain
. They didn't talk much. In the mornings they ate fruit and then dragged umbrellas over the white sand. No one bothered them and Hans felt peaceful, for he wasn't bothering the world.

He looks down at Lee's arrest record and thinks he shouldn't have involved Ariel in this. “Ariel,” he finally says, looking up. “You don't have to be a part of this.”

“Are you kidding?” Her eyes are bright. “I wouldn't be anywhere else. Well—” She sighs. “Maybe I'd be in the Seychelles.”

She's like him, he thinks, and like her father. She must see how deep the well is.

There were new characters at the house. Mr. Wyck called them The Roberts. Sometimes Mr. Wyck invited The Roberts to go with Alice, winking at her, and Alice held their hands and led them upstairs. Other times, Trina or Molly got the wink, the invitation. If Mr. Wyck said one of The Roberts was special, they all went with him, turning him this way and that until he couldn't stand it anymore. Once, one of the men said to Alice, “Why are you doing this?” and she gave him a long stare.

“I want to know how the play ends,” she said.

“What play?” he asked. Alice rolled her eyes and got him undressed. Why did they all keep pretending? It was so tiring. Soon he didn't care anymore why Alice was doing what she was doing.

She told Mr. Wyck what he said. “He's out,” Mr. Wyck said. “I had high hopes for him.”

“He was good,” Alice said. She meant that he was a good actor, but Mr. Wyck took it the other way and raised his eyebrows at her and pinched her hard on the nipple and slapped her across the face. After that, she never said anything about any of The Roberts to Mr. Wyck, but she noticed that the good actor had been fired.

One day, Mr. Wyck said, “I'm tired of these dresses. You're my little creeper, my wee black angel. Go out and buy yourself something. Lee will drive you to the mall.” He handed her an envelope. It was full of cash.

“I don't need all this,” she said, counting. There were seven one-­hundred-dollar bills—each one as stiff and clean as if it had just been made.

“Yes, you do, Creeper. I want to see you in colors. Buy a coat, too. You're always shaking.”

It was true. Alice had started shivering. She couldn't stop it and it didn't happen all the time, just sometimes. Then she shivered so much her teeth chattered. “I'll just take what I need, then,” she said.

Lee drove Alice to the mall on the other side of the river. Alice sat in the van and looked at the mall. “It's so big,” she said. “And clean. When will you be back?”

“Out you go, Freak,” Lee said, waiting. “Meet me back here in two hours.”

“Two hours is a long time.” Lee didn't say anything, so Alice unlocked the door. “What time is it now? How will I know when two hours has passed?”

Lee looked at his watch. “Come back here at five o'clock,” he said.

Mr. Wyck had said Lee should stay with her, but Alice gathered Lee had other plans. It was freezing—the first day of February—and the temperature had dropped into the single digits. Alice hadn't wanted to go anywhere, but she did want Mr. Wyck to be happy, so she went to Bloomingdale's.

Inside, a few of the other shoppers stared at her and moved away. Alice tried to ignore them, but it was hard. She followed them instead, silently arriving next to them when she was sure they'd forgotten about her. When she got bored with that, she went to find a salesgirl. The store's white walls and tiled floor reminded Alice of the scene in the movie
2001
when the space pod landed in the bedroom. She clicked the heels of her black boots slowly along the white tiles, moving as stiffly as she would if she were in a space suit. Alice hummed the theme song.

“Can I help you?” the girl said.

Alice looked up. “I'm here to buy some new costumes.”

“Costumes?” the girl asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I mean clothes.”

“What sort of clothes do you need?”

Alice thought. She wanted to be specific. She wanted to use as few words as possible. More than just a few words and she would start talking about the play again. “Everyday casual.”

The girl gave her a half-smile. “Okay,” she said, drawing the vowels out.

Alice imitated her: “Ohhh—
kay
.”

The girl brought her to a display of blue jeans. “Everyone loves these. You can wear them with a gold belt.” She held it around her waist so it was loose. “Like this. And high shoes.”

“That's sexy,” Alice said. “Mr. Wyck will love that.”

“What size are you?”

Alice looked down at herself. She shrugged.

“Maybe a four—or a two, even.”

Alice took the jeans back to the dressing room and the girl brought her shirts. She showed Alice how to tie the bow neckline and fasten the belt. “There,” she said when she'd finished. “You look really pretty. Your mom will be so happy. My mom hates it when I wear all black.”

“My mom?” Alice said, and then, “Oh. No. I don't have a mom. I have a Mr. Wyck. Mr. Wyck says I need a coat. Do you have coats here?”

The girl hurried away. When she came back, she had a brown coat and a red coat. “I thought the red coat would look pretty with your coloring,” she said. Alice took the coats and closed the door. She sat down on the stool in the dressing room and looked at the brown coat and the red coat. Red, Alice decided, and she'd just buy everything. She had a plan to sneak over to McDonald's and eat a cheeseburger—maybe two. And drink a Coke. She hadn't had any of that stuff since she moved in with Mr. Wyck. Alice put on her dresses again and wrapped the frayed scarves in an interesting way, and then she carried everything out to the register.

A voice behind her said, “Alice? Is that you?” Alice turned and there was Greta. She was wearing a gray sweater dress with a belt loosely hooked the way the salesgirl had demonstrated. Alice stared at Greta. According to the play, the babysitter had gone back to her parents, who missed her
so much
.

“No,” Alice said. “It's not me.”

“Are you all right?” Greta took in Alice's black dresses and her scarves. Alice had worn three dresses that day, one right on top of the other, because it was so cold. Greta stepped closer and sniffed. Greta wore tall suede boots. A soft knit beret sat at an angle atop her braided blond hair.

Alice reached out and touched the hat. “Where did you get this?” she asked. “Where's your prop closet?”

“My what?”

“Who's doing your costumes?” Alice said, growing impatient. Why didn't anyone ever tell Alice what the next scene was going to be about? She wasn't good at improvising. At Mr. Wyck's it wasn't a problem. If she stayed in character at Mr. Wyck's, nothing new happened. Out here, everything was different. “Feed me a line,” she said to Greta.

Greta took Alice by the hand. “Is something going on?” she said. “Are you in danger?”

Alice shook her hand off. “I have to buy these clothes. Mr. Wyck says I need to dress in more colors. He sent me here. So I won't be a creeper or a freak anymore. Colors help that way.” Alice had started shivering.

“Your uncle sent you here?” Greta brought the back of her hand to Alice's forehead. “I think you're sick. Here,” she said, taking Alice to one of the
2001
chairs. “Sit down.” The chair was soft, a light sickly green.

“Uncle?” Alice couldn't remember who her uncle was supposed to be. She rubbed her eyes. “Can we start this scene over? Allegra was the mother,” she said, touching her index finger, “Trina is the daughter.” She touched her middle finger. “Molly is the other cousin. Wait. I forget. Is she my sister?” Alice asked. She couldn't remember. She was relieved to finally be talking about the play with Greta. “Oh, right.” Alice pointed at Greta. “Mr. Wyck is my uncle. Uncle Wyck.” Alice snorted. She sat down in the chair. “I'm so tired,” she said. She let the clothes fall on the floor.

“You're shaking,” Greta said. “You're sick.”

“Wait. No. I
was
sick when Mr. Wyck didn't want the b—” Alice put her hand over her mouth. “I should shut up,” she said. She sighed. “Don't you hate improvising?”

Greta tried to get the salesgirl's attention. “I think we need some help here,” she called.

“No, no, no. I'm pretty sure that's the wrong move.” Alice didn't want to see the salesgirl again.

“You're saying things that don't make any sense, Alice.”

“Because we should be working independently of the script. The script is secret. You're not supposed to know. I saw Robert in a red sack.” Alice rose from the chair.

“What are you saying?”

The two women stared at each other and then it seemed the truth of the matter began to arrive for Greta, because her mouth opened and she stepped back. “The whole thing.” Greta reached for Alice's shoulder, but Alice stepped away. Greta sat heavily in the sickly green chair. Her hat fell from her head. She looked up at Alice. “Tell me I'm wrong.” Her eyes were round and so were Alice's—glassy with hunger, anemia, a lack of vitamins B and D, exhaustion from the nights she got up and crept through the house looking for the thing they had to keep their eye on, making sure it didn't escape.

“Is everything all right over here?” the salesgirl said, and Alice backed away.

“Alice—” Greta said. “Come talk to Bob. We'll help you. You're sick.”

But Alice began to run. She ran clumsily, slipping on the white tiles, her arms flailing. She didn't need help. She ran into the mall, into the white noise of the rushing fountain, the echo of the piped music, the numb chatter of conversation. All the while, she could hear Greta calling after her.
Alice,
she said.
Alice, come back
. Soon everyone would be after her. She found a ladies' room and went into one of the stalls. She locked the door and climbed up on the toilet so no one could see her feet. What had she done? She clutched herself, touching her face, pulling at her hair, biting her nails, picking a scab on her lip. She had broken through the fourth wall, stepped out and let the audience see that she was acting. The play no longer had borders and scenes. She was off her mark. She was ripping out pages, tearing through the reading. Her black clothes the letters, the ragged hem the serif, her skin the white spaces, her mind the pages she flung away from her as she tore the book apart.

“I've been getting harassed,” Alice tells Detective Torres. They are sitting in Alice's living room. Someone had broken into her house that day. Her computer is gone. “The Wyckian Society, apparently. I filed a report.”