All Things Cease to Appear Read Free Page B

they were doing; it didn’t take much.

    He switched it off and went into the bathroom. The light was overly bright, the fan roaring. He turned it off and peed in the dark. He washed his hands and face. Unwittingly, he looked at his new reflection—the whites of his eyes, the curve of his lips, his vague outline—and it occurred to him that he was beginning to disappear.
    He removed his shoes and put them on the carpet and lay down on the bed fully clothed, pulling up the bedspread. What would they do next, arrest him? They wanted to question him again; what more could he tell them? He’d come home, found her, grabbed Franny and run out. Obviously, they were hoping for a confession. He had seen it happen often enough in movies, and the next thing he knew he’d be shipped off to some prison in chains. It could actually happen, he realized. Shockingly within the realm of possibility, it terrified the hell out of him. He didn’t think he could bear it.
    Just before six the next morning, he heard someone knocking. His mother stood in the doorway in her robe, drawn, withered. His father wanted to talk. He’d been up all night and had concluded that they should ignore Sheriff Lawton’s request and return to Connecticut immediately. Since George knew nothing, his mother emphasized, another meeting with the sheriff’s office would not be productive. Once they got to Stonington, they’d arrange for a lawyer. It was still early. They had time to stop at the farm to get a few things. George could take his own car and then they could drive in tandem to Connecticut. They’d be out of the state before Lawton even got to his office.

    It was cold, the sky white, the landscape drained of color. Evergreens, distant fields and barns, unmoving cows, sunless horizon. The house on Old Farm Road seemed defiant, dressed in police tape. A notice had been pinned to the door. Look, he said to his parents. I’m sorry about all this. I’m really very sorry.
    George’s father nodded. We understand, son. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened. A terrible thing.
    They waited in the car with Franny while George went in through the porch, just like he’d done the day before. He kept his gloves on. He knew not to touch anything. The surfaces had been dusted for prints, and a fine silt remained. This was a crime scene now, and even the most ordinary objects seemed to pulse with collusion: a plastic doll ruined with ink, candlesticks ornate with wax, one of his wife’s blue pumps sticking out from under the couch. These things he saw in flashes as he crossed the floor to the stairs, trying not to make a sound, as if someone else were already here, as if he were the intruder. He stood for a moment, just listening. He could hear the trees blowing around in the wind, Catherine’s wrangling chimes. He was sweating, his face, the back of his neck. Overcome with a sudden nausea, he wondered if he’d be sick.
    Again, he looked up the staircase.
    He had to go up. He had to.
    Clutching the banister, he climbed to the second floor and briefly stopped in the hall. It was cold, the air practically shaking with it. His daughter’s room was a bastion of innocence, the pink walls and stuffed animals flaunting their betrayal, and he could sense an awful strangeness, some lingering malevolence. He wanted very badly to leave. It was as if this house, this strange farm, wasn’t even his. It belonged to those people, the Hales. He knew it always would.
    In Franny’s closet, he found a small suitcase and filled it with whatever he could—clothes, toys, stuffed animals—and stepped back into the hall. The door to the master bedroom was ajar, an invitation that he didn’t think he could answer. Instead, he started for the stairs, hearing voices outside. On the landing, he saw they’d gotten out of the car. His mother was bouncing her granddaughter from hip to hip, singing a song. Franny had her head back, laughing. It didn’t seem right, he thought,