The Good House Part 6

"Jesus," Angela said, jamming the brakes. Her heartbeat fell mum.

"What?" Naomi said. Onyx had been gazing out of the window with a dog's euphoric devotion, and only Naomi's hug kept him from toppling to the floor after the sudden stop.

"Tariq is here. That's his van," Angela said. She stared hard, as if she thought the van would disappear if she gazed at it long enough. It didn't make sense. "What thef.u.c.k is he doing here?"

"Slow down, Angela. Look at the van," Naomi said with uncharacteristic calm. "Tariq isn't using that van unless he's been driving with two flat tires. See?"

Angela's eyes followed Naomi's pointing finger. The van favored one side: Both the front and rear tires were flat on the side facing the road. The ground near the doors was littered with aluminum cans and food wrappers. Local kids were treating the van as an abandoned vehicle, probably using it for a clubhouse, make-out den, and G.o.d knew what else.

When Angela exhaled, she felt as if the three-hundred-pound man who'd decided to sit on her chest had moved on. Now, her heart was racing again. She wished Mrs. Everly had warned her that the van would still be parked outside.

"You're right. He must have left it here. It's probably been here..." Ever since the Fourth of July, her mind calculated. She might have been the last person to drive this van, when she went to the grocery store to get more ice for the party. She hadn't even reached the house yet, and the memories were potent enough to startle her.

No, this was not going to be like staying at a spa.

Naomi suppressed a laugh. "I wish you had seen the look on your face just now when you thought he was here. I know it's not funny, but I would not have wanted to be that man if he'd really been sitting up in your house."

"No, you wouldn't," Angela said, rememberingSoldier of Fortune . Her voice was venom.

Naomi's lips turned up playfully, but her eyes shone with concern. She gave Angela a quick hug, engulfing her in Giorgio. "You gonna be all right now?" she said.

Angela nodded. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't wish the way I feel about him on anyone. It eats you. There is nothing worse on this earth than a liar."

"I heard that."

The two of them struggled up the stone steps with their rolling flight bags, while Naomi kept Onyx from scurrying free by keeping a tight grip on his leash. Despite being in good shape, both women were breathing heavily by the time they reached the top. This was the hardest part about visiting Gramma Marie's house, just making it up the twenty-one steps, especially with luggage. Angela remembered looking up at the house from Toussaint Lane as a child and feeling as if it would be like climbing to the top of Jack's beanstalk.

"Those steps areserious," Naomi huffed, slumping onto the white wooden porch bench. Onyx, barking manically, tangled his leash as he ran around her leg.

"Sorry about that. I...s.h.i.t-"Angela nearly dropped her pocketbook, where she'd been searching for Gramma Marie's key.

If Angela had just taken a courtroom oath at that moment, she would have sworn that she was seeing Tariq's hulking shoulders appear from the corner of the porch on the right side of the house, where a garden path led to the backyard. She would have sworn that she could see his face, intent on her as he approached. But instead, her eyes overpowered her imagination and she realized it was only white-haired, balding Joseph Everly, dressed in overalls, with a small stepladder balanced across his shoulder. Mr. Everly wasn't nearly Tariq's height, but maybe the ladder had thrown her off. A moustache of perspiration was perched above Mr. Everly's top lip. Freckles or age spots, she wasn't sure which, dappled his bald crown.

No wonder Onyx was barking, Angela realized. He'd heard him coming. Or smelled him.

"Sorry, Angie, didn't mean to sneak up on you," Mr. Everly said. He had bright new dentures, and they fit his mouth so well that they seemed to take years off his face, although his walk had a halting quality that bespoke his age. "Welcome home, little gal. We've missed you."

"Missed you all, too, Mr. Everly," Angela said.

"I see you brought a watchdog with you this time. How you do, miss?" Mr. Everly's half-bow in Naomi's direction was polite, but he clearly had no idea who she was. Freed by Naomi, Onyx raced to Mr. Everly's ankles, sniffing them furiously. Once introductions were over, Mr. Everly rested his ladder against the house and wiped perspiration from his face with a grimy towel from his front pocket that was so dirty, Angela expected it to leave stripes on his face. "I wanted to catch you as soon as you got in, Angie. I hate to greet anyone with bad news, but I don't think this can wait."

"What?" Angela said, her heart already sinking. Had something happened to his wife?

Mr. Everly beckoned her off of the porch. "Come on down with me a quick minute. This is something I have to show you."

He stood before the ma.s.sive, ropy trunk of the black walnut tree, which still had most of its leaves although less hardy trees in the yard had already begun shedding theirs. With garden-dirty fingernails, he pointed to the center of the trunk. "You see this? Come get a good look. This tree's got to come down, Angie."

A rotting V-shape sliced the tree's trunk straight down the center, and there was nearly enough room for a grown person to fit inside the growing crevice. It was a miracle that the tree hadn't simply fallen apart already. Once the tree split fully, one huge side of it would fall against the house. The tree was still standing, but it was as good as dead.

s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t.

Gramma Marie's house would seem naked without this tree. Its leaves shaded the front of the house, littering the porch's roof with green fruitlike casings that, once opened, revealed soft walnuts inside. Angela's second-floor bedroom window had looked out on this tree when she was a child, and she'd thought many times about using the st.u.r.dy branches to stage a daring escape into the night. She'd never tried it, but she'd always felt rea.s.sured knowing that shecould . And once, after an argument, Myles Fisher climbed that tree at one in the morning to beg her to go to the senior prom with him. She'd said yes, and they had made love on prom night. This tree was her running buddy from way back.

Besides that, Gramma Marie used to tell her that the spirit of her grandmother lived in this tree, and that she herself would come rest there among its branches after she died. It had sounded like a fanciful wish at the time, but somehow didn't anymore.

"I sure am sorry, little gal. I'm sure this tree means a lot to you."

"What happened?" Angela said, running her fingers across the dark, moist area of rot.

"Can't say it's any one thing. Mostly, I think it's age, Angie. Catches up to all of us. Trees live a long time, but they don't live forever. And now that the rain's started up again, this one can't handle its own weight."

"I want to have a few days with it. Can you wait until I leave to have it taken down?"

"Could be, but don't dawdle too much. She would knock an ugly hole in your house. We don't want the rain working on her too much longer. It's already worse from the last time I was here, and the wind's picking up to boot, especially at night."

Naomi didn't say anything about the exchange when Angela returned to the porch to unlock the front door, but Angela thought something in her friend's knitted brow said,I can't believe ya'll were out there making that big a fuss over a sick tree.

City folks, Angela thought.

"By the way, Angie," Mr. Everly called from the yard as she pushed the door open, "I don't suppose you've been back long enough to hear what happened to your neighbor."

Considering the bad news at the start of her visit, Angela's return to the house went better than she'd thought it could. Having Naomi with her was a big help, a distraction. Serving as Naomi's tour-guide, Angela was able to see the house through fresh eyes without dwelling on the memories of Corey preserved in each room. Naomi's exclamations gave Angela new feelings of delight at each turn:Your grandmama looks like an Ashanti warrior princess in this picture, and just lookat that fine hunk of man next to her. Angela, this piano is wonderful!Is this all original furniture in the living room? Does this water pump in the kitchen really work? I bet some of these books in the library are a hundred years old. I love the little sinks in the bedrooms-I've never seen that before. Angela, you never told me this house was so big. If you sell it, call me first.

Naomi's enthusiasm was contagious. She loved the cushioned window seat on the second-floor landing positioned to stare out the quarter-mile distance to downtown Sacajawea and the river beyond it, she loved the old-fashioned daybed in one of the guest bedrooms, the ruffled curtains, the carved designs that decorated the wooden bannister, the black-and-white checkered kitchen tiles, the porcelain figurines collection, the smell of cedar and lavender that sat in the house. She loved details of the house Angela had stopped seeing before Naomi reminded her: the coved ceilings in strategic spots, the Greek key mosaics built into the borders of the flooring in the living room and library, the large butler's pantry beside the kitchen that evoked a different time, the sunny breakfast nook with so many large windows it seemed more like a patio, even the faded old wallpaper against the staircase, patterned with bouquets of pink flowers gilded with tiny golden bows. Naomi did not miss a single manifestation of grandness in Gramma Marie's house. Their tour took a solid hour.

Angela avoided the trouble spots, of course.

The wine cellar at the end of the foyer remained in shadow, its door firmly closed. Likewise, Angela was glad to discover that Mrs. Everly had closed the door to Corey's room, and Naomi had sense enough not to ask her to open it. Angela felt an ache when they walked past Corey's white door-the door to the room that had been hers in high school, but would be Corey's forever. Again, distraction got her through the moment gracefully. She would go in there, she knew, but not now. Not today. Angela did show Naomi the room Tariq had been using, and she was glad to see that although his van was still parked outside, all other traces of his presence had been removed, either by Mrs. Everly or by Tariq himself. Just a made-up bed and wicker furniture. Thank G.o.d for small blessings, she thought.

But Angela wasn't happy about everything she saw. The large bedroom upstairs that served as storage s.p.a.ce-a repository for furniture, junk, and papers collected by Angela, her mother, Gramma Marie, and probably even Elijah Goode before her-apparently had not been aired out in some time, and the musty smell crept beneath the closed door before Angela opened it to show Naomi. The smell irritated her. Mrs. Everly knew she wanted those rooms aired out regularly. She did not like the smell of old, unused things. When Angela glanced inside, she felt a twinge as she realized that Corey had been in the midst of straightening this room as part of his a.s.signed ch.o.r.es just before he died, and the memory of their arguments resurfaced before flickering away. The room was so dusty, she could see dust motes floating in the sunlight like swarms of tiny insects. The only attractive feature in the storage room was its closet door, painted a bright blue that matched the exterior of the house. The closet door was open, revealing more mess on the closet floor.

The bigger problem was the upstairs bathroom.

The bathroom's appearance was soured by a narrow ring of dark residue around the claw-foot bathtub's drain. There was a similar patch of black, grainy residue hugging the bottom of the toilet bowl. She also saw a soggy yellow-brown leaf Mrs. Everly must have carelessly dropped inside without flushing it away. Those kinds of sloppy touches weren't like Mrs. Everly, and they shouldn't be, as much as she was paid. All it took was a blast of water from the faucet to melt away the ring in the tub and a single flush to clear the toilet. Mrs. Everly was getting old too, she thought.

Still, the bathroom seemed most unchanged of all to her, with its old-fashioned sink with bra.s.s double-faucets, authentic claw-foot tub of cast iron rigged with a shower spout, a toilet with a pull-chain dangling down, a rusting washboard decorating the wall, and Gramma Marie's wooden shower stool still sitting in the corner from the days when it had been more difficult for her to bathe herself. The tall, rectangular mirror above the sink, with its regally designed ornamental bra.s.s frame, had reflected pa.s.sing faces for a hundred years. Within this bathroom's intimate s.p.a.ce, Angela felt closest to the house's past inhabitants, as if their voices were murmuring against the wallpapered walls.

Corey's voice was in here, too. Her ears couldn't hear him, but something inside her could.

Angela taught Naomi the tricks and nuances of operating the house's appliances and gadgets-always let the water mingle in the sink in the bathroom because the water heater is set so high you might get scalded otherwise, don't use the hand-pump in the kitchen because it leaks beneath the sink, don't leave any luggage in front of the wall's electric heaters.

It was after two before they knew it, and they hadn't eaten lunch yet. With the arrival of the food, the visit felt like a slumber party. They both sat in their slippers in the living room on the Oriental rug in front of the fireplace, eating slices of a large no-cheese, all-veggie pizza from Pizza Jack's, the only pizzeria in town that delivered. Angela found a bottle of Merlot in the kitchen cabinet, someone's offering to the Fourth of July party, so they busted their diets and emptied it together. Soon, they were both giggling over the renditions of the songs on Gramma Marie's piano rolls, so off-key they were unrecognizable. After they tired of the piano and Naomi turned on the CD player-where the same Coltrane CD from the party still sat-Angela didn't turn it off even when the first song, "A Love Supreme," brought a clear image of Corey's face to mind, from the party. Music could do that. The intensity of the flashback nearly made her stomach lurch, but the feeling pa.s.sed quickly. Angela finished off her gla.s.s of Merlot, feeling a wave of sadness as she remembered the problem with the walnut tree. And the worse news, which had come out of the blue.

Happened a week ago Thursday, out on Main Street, in the middle of the day,Mr. Everly had said. Terry Marlow was taking a logging rig around the corner, you know, on his way to the Four, and Rick Leahy walked right into it. Crossing the street, you see. Marlow was in the right, that's what Sheriff Rob Graybold says, and a half-dozen witnesses say so, too. Rick Leahy walked smack into the truck. It about near tore him in half. They say he had a bad ear on his left side, and that's the way the truck came. Maybe he didn't hear it. Shame about the kids, though. He left behind a whole trailer full.

"So...did you know your neighbor very well?" Naomi said, following Angela's thoughts.

"No, not really, to be honest. I met him a few times. He used to ride his horses on my property once in a awhile. His son was Corey's only real friend here."

Naomi stared wistfully into the fireplace's flames. "I'm sorry, but it sounded so casual, the way that old dude put it. Both of ya'll looked like you were about to break down crying over that tree, and then he gives you this terrible news about your next-door neighbor like he's talking about the weather. Like, 'Hey, by the way, your neighbor walked into a logging truck, don't you know. Guess he should look both ways before he crosses the street.' "

Naomi was an excellent mimic, and her imitation of Mr. Everly's nonchalant speech made Angela laugh. She'd pinned him. "Yeah, that's Sacajawea for you. They like to gossip, and folks here can be cold when you're new. Mr. Leahy hadn't lived here that long before Corey met his son that last summer." Angela realized that this was the most casual reference she'd made to the summer of 2001 in as long as she could remember, and also the most times she had mentioned her son's name without tears. "I don't think the town ever warmed up to him. He was probably just a stranger to them, so they consider it an interesting story to tell."

Angela wondered what had happened to Sean and his foster siblings now that their father was dead. Sean had lost his friend and then his father, a lot of loss for a kid. If the kids were still in town, she would have to see the boy and give him her condolences.

"How are you feeling?" Naomi said.

"Good. I hate to say it, but I don't think I have too much room for other people's tragedies today. I'm still working on my own."

"True."

"This visit is great for me, Naomi. I really owe you."

Naomi winked at her. She was about to say something else when she suddenly looked away, glancing around the room. "Where's Onyx?" she said. "I can't believe he's not in my face trying to steal my pizza."

Onyx wasn't in sight. It might be a half hour or longer since Angela had seen him. Naomi had sworn the little dog was house-trained, but Angela was convinced she'd find at least one soiled rug during this visit. Naomi whistled loudly. "Onyx?" she called.

They heard a bark from nearby, but Onyx didn't come. Naomi came to her feet, calling again. Angela felt slightly dizzy when she stood up to follow Naomi-too much wine, she chided herself. Naomi was in the foyer, where Onyx was before the front door, looking at them over his shoulder. He stood against the door on his hind paws, scratching in a flurry of black fur.

"s.h.i.t. Naomi, don't let him do that-"

"Onyx,stop," Naomi said, then she crouched next to Onyx. "He never goes to the door like that in a new place." Angela examined the door for scratch-marks, and was relieved to see none. Her grandfather had built this door, and she'd hate to have to kill her friend's dog the very first day. "Can I let him out front by himself? I don't have my shoes on."

"I wouldn't let him run free if I were you. There's no fence and sixty acres," Angela said.

"You sure, girl? Onyx knows not to go far."

"Trust me, you don't want a poodle out there running loose. The coyotes would love him."

Naomi fixed a devastating look on Angela at the wordcoyotes . Maybe it had never occurred to her that if there were deer and elk nearby, there would also be coyotes and other less cuddly creatures. Gramma Marie had always had cats for mousing, but she'd kept them indoors after losing her favorite tabby to a howling pack of coyotes. But Gramma Marie hadn't begrudged the coyotes; she'd told Angela a story from Red John's grandfather about how the Coyote spirit made the Columbia River and protected men from monsters, and how he and a host of other protective spirits dwelled in her backyard. She said her land was a crossroads where all the spirits met.

"Look, the coyotes aren't going to come break the door down, sweetie," Angela said, seeing Naomi's face. "But I live near the woods, and that's what woodsare, a place where animals live. Racc.o.o.ns, bobcats, deer, coyotes. Nothing's going to bother us, but Onyx needs a chaperone."

"What about bears?" Naomi's eyes were comically wide.

Angela laughed, shaking her head as she climbed the stairs to retrieve her shoes. "Oh, Naomi, stop. There might be a black bear or two around, but Gramma Marie told me they aren't p.r.o.ne to attack people. It's the grizzlies you need to worry about, and we don't have those," Angela said. "You forgot to ask about the lions and tigers, hon."

"This ain't funny," Naomi called after her. "And whatabout lions?"

"This is Sacajawea, sweetheart, not the Serengeti."

Despite all references to uncivilized forest creatures, after Angela and Naomi walked the dog and drove into town to rent the mom-and-pop video store's only copy ofHow Stella Got Her Groove Back ("I'm in shock that they even have this," Angela told her friend, clutching the video like a brick of gold), she and Naomi slept well that night. Angela would soon come to regard the memory of that Friday night with Naomi as her most pleasant time since Corey's death, in the most unlikely place imaginable. It was also her last lingering instance of tranquility in Sacajawea.

Neither Angela nor her friend would sleep well for long.

Six.

SAt.u.r.dAY.

BY MORNING,Onyx was missing.

Angela decided to postpone her early-morning run to whip up a home-style breakfast for her friend, using the recipe cards Gramma Marie had left in her strawberry-shaped cookie jar. Cooking had been like a religion to Gramma Marie. There were more than a hundred recipes in that jar, all of them unique to her: sweet potato biscuits she'd learned from a traveling teacher, oxtail soup and corn fritters she'd learned from her father, fried rabbit from a church elder, a salmon recipe from Red John, a recipe for a baked plantain loaf pa.s.sed on from hergrandmere 's African grandmother. Angela's attempts to recreate her grandmother's cooking were another way of keeping Gramma Marie's spirit alive. By 9:30A.M. , the lower floor was steeped in the smells of b.u.t.termilk biscuits, scrambled eggs, cheese grits, and salmon croquettes.

Angela heard Naomi calling for Onyx upstairs, her voice louder as she neared the kitchen. The dog would turn up, Angela knew. There were only so many places Onyx could go. She just hoped he wasn't leaving a trail of p.i.s.s and dogs.h.i.t behind him.

"If it's not the right day for your cheat meal, that's too bad!" Angela called out.

When Naomi poked her head into the kitchen, the sight of her was startling. As much time as Angela had spent with Naomi, even at the gym, she'd never seen her without makeup. Fresh from sleep, Naomi still retained her own brand of prettiness, but her mouth seemed slightly drawn, her skin was dull, and her eyes appeared much smaller without mascara. She looked like Naomi Price's plainer older sister. "I can't find Onyx," Naomi said.

"He's just exploring, I'm sure. There's nowhere for him to get lost."

Naomi shook her head. "No, Angela, this is weirding me out. He was in my room, and our door was closed all night. When I woke up, the door was still closed, but there's no Onyx. Did you let him out?" Her voice was thin and scared.

"No, sweetie," she said. Naomi's face fell, and Angela remembered how pet owners regarded their animals as children. The dog had probably gotten out through a cracked-open bedroom door. Angela dried her hands on Gramma Marie's strawberry-print dishtowel. "Don't worry, we'll find him. He can't have gotten far."

Calling and whistling in chorus, they started their search upstairs. By the second sweep of the house, Angela found herself opening closed room doors-even Corey's, where she caught a glance of her son's Janet Jackson poster on the wall before she hurriedly shut it again. Not a whimper from the dog.

After a time, the bad thoughts appeared. Had the dog gotten sick? Eaten something he shouldn't have, like a cleanser or poison? She glanced at the door of the wine cellar, but she would not go there, not for anything, and Naomi did not think to look there either. But they looked everywhere else-under the sofa, behind the piano, in cabinets. They abandoned reason as it began to feel more certain that something was wrong.

"Keep calling him inside. I'll go look outside," Angela said.

Naomi's head whipped around, her face worried. "Is there any way he could have gotten out by himself?"

Angela was already pulling on the black wool coat she kept in the closet beside the front door. The coat smelled like a stranger's, it had been so long since she'd worn it. "No way I can think of, but we haven't found him in the house. Don't panic, Naomi. Wewill find Onyx."

Angela heard a yappy bark outside as soon as she opened the front door. Naomi heard it, too. The women ran out onto the front porch, their eyes sweeping the front yard and its clumps of hedges. No Onyx. "Onyx? Here, boy! Come here, boy," Noami said, stooping to search the rhododendron shrub near the porch. But when the dog barked again, it was clear he was much farther than the front yard. The sound seemed to have come from the road.

Angela didn't see him until she'd nearly reached the top of the stone steps. From her perch, she could see Toussaint Lane below, and Onyx was in the tall gra.s.s beside Tariq's abandoned van, running back and forth in the frenzy dogs usually reserve for mail carriers outside their gate. The dog's tail wagged with recognition, but he didn't come toward her. He ran and barked, as if a fence restrained him on the other side of the road.

"You stupid dog! How did you get outside?" Naomi scolded Onyx after they had climbed down to retrieve him. He did a happy-dance around them as they stroked him, chasing himself in circles. Angela was happy to see him, and he was one happy little dog. Naomi wrapped her arms around Onyx's neck, and the dog washed her face with his tongue.

"Onyx, you scared the s.h.i.t out of me," Naomi said.

The episode cast a pall over breakfast. Naomi didn't talk about it, but Angela knew she had been shaken up. She had awakened to the idea that her pet was gone, that he might be hurt or dead or lost, with no warning or explanation. Angela knew that feeling of suddenness well. Although Angela was disappointed not to hear raves over her cooking, she let Naomi sort the morning out in her head as they sat and ate a silent meal together in the breakfast nook. Angela saw Naomi slipping Onyx pieces of her carefully prepared croquettes under the table, barely eating herself, and she understood. How long had the dog been out there? What if he'd met a coyote after all?

Their true visit had begun, Angela thought. This was not a trip to a spa or a girls-only slumber party. Life's meanness had brought them to Gramma Marie's house-a death had brought them to this house-and that particular brand of meanness surfaced anytime it d.a.m.n well chose.

This would be their last full day together, Angela realized. Tomorrow, Naomi would go back to Portland to catch a sevenP.M. flight to L.A. By Tuesday, Naomi had to be in Vancouver, British Columbia, to prepare for her three-week shoot. Angela would be alone here for the next few days and nights, with her own trauma to sort out. She'd lost a h.e.l.l of a lot more than her dog, and Corey wasn't going to be waiting for her outside in the gra.s.s by Tariq's van, no matter how much she wished for it. Corey's absence was going to fill up every crevice of this old house, not just the bedroom she would soon have to be brave enough to face.

Angela's eggs were cooked to perfection, and Gramma Marie's seasonings rang true, but that morning the food didn't have the slightest flavor.

Later, at mid-morning, with Onyx on a leash, Angela and Naomi made their way down Toussaint Lane, jogging west on River Drive, a road that sloped steeply downward for a quarter-mile, then they turned north onto Main Street. Angela planned to run past town to the boardwalk alongside the river, maybe as far as the bait-shop. She was impressed at how well Onyx kept up, his small legs skittering like a caterpillar's. "Onyx runs with Mommy four times a week. He's my personal trainer," Naomi said proudly.