Page 69 of The Hitchhikers
Simon was calling her name. He sounded scared, his breath ragged. She forced herself to open her eyes, wished she hadn’t. Now she could see all the blood on the carpet. The cream carpet that her mom made the housekeeper vacuum in one direction, so the lines were straight.
Simon was standing on that beautiful carpet that wasn’t beautiful anymore and he was wearing his shoes, which would infuriate her mother, but her mother had fallen between the kitchen and the living room. One of her arms was flung wide. The other was across her chest, hand over heart. The front of her pink aerobics leotard was torn and dark with blood. Strands of blond hair clung to her lips, stuck there by blood. Her sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Robert had died face down, trying to crawl to the back door. He’d left palm prints on the walls, the marble counter, sliding down the polished surface of the cabinets, and a trail of blood across the white porcelain tiles.
“Babe. We have to go.” Simon crouched and rested his hand on her knee. His palm was hot, his cheeks flushed and shiny. She wondered if her skin was cold. She felt cold.
“Where?” It helped, somehow, in that moment, to think that there was another place. Somewhere outside of that house where nothing bad had happened.
He thought. “I don’t know. The marina first.”
“I need to see my bedroom,” she said. “My things.”
He hesitated, but he knew why she was asking. Why it was important.
“Okay, but fast.”
They went upstairs. Her closets were empty. Her drawers. Her shelves cleared. All her favorite books and dried flowers from her performances were gone. Same with the framed photos of her father and the box of the rocks they’d collected together.
Her mother had taken everything from her.
They stood in silence. Then Jenny rushed down the hall to her mother and Robert’s room. Simon behind her. She opened the closet and began pulling her mother’s expensive clothes out. She ripped and tore at the fabric. Buttons popped off. Blouses split.
Simon opened the balcony doors. They tossed all the clothes into the darkness.
Next, her mother’s high heels. Pair after pair, following with the coats, the mink wrap, and the stole with the fox head still on it that Jenny hated. The leather gloves and silk scarves.
Then her mother’s favorite framed portraits—all of herself. Glamour shots. One in herSwan Lakecostume. Jenny dropped that one first, listened to it smash below the house.
She moved over to Robert’s dresser. His cuff links, his cologne. When her mother had started dating Robert, she’d sniffed every bottle in the department store until she found the one that he wore. Then she’d held up the green bottle of Paco Rabanne Pour Homme like a trophy.
It’s French, Jenny. French!
The photo of him winning a literary award was framed in gold. He was smiling wide, his white teeth flashing, his black hair swooped back. She’d thought he was a celebrity when her mom first met him. He dressed so fancy, in turtlenecks and velvet blazers.
Their wedding photo was in a silver frame. Jenny hated it the most. The three of them standing in front of a church. Jenny had been glad to be in a family again. That was before she realizedthat Robert hadn’t really wanted a daughter. He’d only wanted to impress her beautiful mother and make her happy. He hadn’t learned that her mother’s happiness was an ever-changing thing.
She lifted her arm and swept everything onto the floor with a loud crash. She turned around. Simon was going through her mother’s jewelry box.
“It’s costume jewelry,” she said. “Everything’s in the safe.”
“The code?”
She shook her head. They went downstairs. He pulled Robert’s wallet out of his back pocket and checked for cash. He took the bills and dropped the wallet. Then he used a towel from the kitchen to pick up the knife. He wiped the handle and tossed that into the sink.
When he led Jenny past her mom’s body, she nearly collapsed, sagging against his arm, but he held her up and kept her moving. They were in the foyer. He was searching her mom’s purse on the console, his bowed head reflecting in the mirror. He slipped the cash into his pocket. She dropped her gaze to her bare feet. Blood was between her toes. She’d left bloody footprints all over. They’d mixed with the tracks of his shoes, following, crossing, leading.
Simon crouched to pick up Jenny’s sandals, held them out to her. She slid her feet into them and followed him out the door, focusing on his wide shoulders, his straight back.
The world was quiet and dark. It seemed impossible that no police were waiting, there’d been so much screaming.
The phone in the barn had stopped ringing. Jenny stared at the dusty handset, the yellowed-plastic dial, the curled cord. Simon would want her to smash it. Tools were on the bench. She picked up a rusted wrench, and looked from the phone to the barn doors, then around to the few chickens who’d followed her andwere scratching at the straw. She tested the heavy weight of the wrench, imagining it crashing down on the phone. It wouldn’t take much.
If she had called the police that night, that would’ve been it. None of this would’ve happened. William and Ruth would be eating cookies and drinking iced tea together.
The feverish feeling was back, the skin on her cheeks feeling hot and stretched tight. Dust from the hay and straw itched in her throat and nose. She licked her dry lips. Water.
She put down the wrench, shifted a pile of rags to cover the phone. What if it rang again? What if she picked it up? She shook her head. She needed sleep. She needed to get out of the dusty barn and her confusing thoughts.
