Page 48 of Brutal Husband

I’m too agitated to sleep, and so I open the back door and step out into the garden. It’s raining, a steady, soaking downpour, just like the night my husband went missing. Did I come out into the garden then as well? Didn’t Mrs. White mention the garden the following morning?

Mrs. Lombardi, there’s blood in the hallway, and I noticed that in the garden…

She broke off what she was going to say when she saw the bruise on my face. The next time I looked at the garden, I didn’t notice anything out of place that I can recall.

I take out my phone and dial Mrs. White’s number while I watch the falling rain. She answers on the third ring.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Mrs. White. I wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m able to come tomorrow if that’s what you need, Mrs. Lombardi.”

“No, it’s not that. The night my husband disappeared, what do you remember about the house the next morning?”

“The house?”

“You said there was blood, and something about the garden. It might seem strange, but would you please tell me everything you remember that was different that morning?”

“Your husband asked me the same question. There were drops of blood in the hallway, and footprints. Wet ones that had dried.”

“Just one set of footprints?”

“Yes, I think so. Small ones, so I think they were yours, coming in from the garden. The dirt was all churned up at the bottom of the garden, so I called Mr. White, and he came and raked it flat and sowed some grass seeds. Oh, and the hose was running. It had flooded the right-hand side of the terrace, and I turned it off.”

I wonder if I washed dirt off myself with the hose. That would explain the dried footprints and why I woke up in wet clothes. But why was I dirty?

“Mrs. White, if… If I asked you to guess what happened that night, what would you say?”

“Do you not remember, Mrs. Lombardi?”

“I don’t. I can’t remember anything,” I confess.

“Oh, you poor dear. I’ve always thought that you and Mr. Lombardi had a fight, you got hurt, and you told him to get out. Then you went down to the bottom of the garden to express your hurt and anger by taking it out on the dirt. My mother used to hit pillows and things after she had a fight with my father. I saw her in a storm of tears plenty of times. Then you rinsed yourself off with the hose and took yourself to bed.”

I imagine myself on my knees in the dirt, tearing at the ground with my bare hands and screaming out my rage. Is that what happened? I try to force the memory out of the corners of my mind and back into my consciousness, but nothing happens.

“Is there anything else you wanted to know, Mrs. Lombardi?”

I want to know the truth, but Mrs. White has given me as much as she possibly can. “No, that’s all, and thank you.”

Mrs. White hesitates. “Mrs. Lombardi, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I hope Mr. Lombardi treats you better this time.”

I hear her disapproval down the phone line. My stomach is so uneasy that it’s making me want to throw up. “Um, yes. Good night, and sorry again to disturb you.”

I shove the phone into my pocket and walk out into the rain. It patters on my cheeks and eyelashes and soaks through my clothes, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other, heading for the dark place at the bottom of the garden.

There’s just enough moonlight filtering through the clouds for me to make out the dirt spotted with tenuous blades of grass. It looks like it always has. Again, I try to picture myself losing control and scrabbling at the dirt in a panic like I did all those times Mom locked me in the basement. What if I wasn’t panicking that night? What if I was looking for something? Or hiding something?

I go to the shed, get a shovel, and push it into the soft earth. I dig until my arms burn and rain drips down my face. When I’ve dug several holes two or three feet deep, I hit something hard, and the shovel makes a gritty, crunching sound.

The shovel has cut through something that smells terrible. I’ve hit a bone. It gleams white in the moonlight.

I yank the shovel out of the dirt and get down into the hole, scooping the earth away with my hands and knees, praying that I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s dark fabric, of the kind men’s pants are made from, and then some waterlogged leather, and a belt buckle.

I recognize that belt buckle. It’s the one Nero always used to wear.

No.

No, no,no.

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