We Can Only Save Ourselves Page 20

  She put the tip of the blade up to the dog’s skin, near his chest, through the coat of coarse hair, and she pressed. She thought she might throw up. He barked, then cried, and she pulled the knife out. For a moment the blood didn’t come, and then it did. The knife was so little, the slice so neat, like a surgical incision. Again, said Kathryn, just to be safe.

  This time, she moved her hand to another spot and pushed the knife in harder. This, she thought, would be like piercing Randy Neely with a knife, Randy who had turned out well, whom she’d seen shirtless at the beach last summer, his stomach all muscle, no softness. This time, instead of pulling the knife right out, she dragged it down, like she was pulling a lever, and then took it out. Alice! came Kathryn’s voice. That’s enough, I think.

  “Oh my God,” Alice said. She dropped the knife. Kathryn released the dog onto the floor, but he didn’t move, and blood was beginning to pool around him.

  “Don’t look,” said Kathryn. “Go into the bedroom and grab some things. Be careful not to touch anything you won’t take with you. I’ll get stuff from out here.”

  Alice, stunned, floated into the bedroom the couple shared. There was a necklace on the nightstand. A pair of earrings. She put them all in her pocket. She found herself in the bathroom and then wandered back into the living room.

  Kathryn came in with the man’s wallet, and she held it up, waving it. “A bonus,” she said. “Let’s go. I have the knife.”

  “Is he dead?” asked Alice.

  “He will be soon,” Kathryn said. “His breathing is very shallow.”

  Alice took a step forward, but her view of the dog was blocked by the couch. “Don’t look,” Kathryn said.

  “It’s cruel to leave him there suffering,” said Alice. “We can slit his throat.”

  “He’s fine, Alice,” Kathryn said. Alice watched Kathryn look down to the ground and step carefully around something. “He’s almost dead.”

  “I’ll slit his throat,” said Alice. She was meant to, she knew. Now Kathryn was walking around the couch toward Alice, moving quickly, the knife in her hand. She passed Alice and headed for the back door. Now that Kathryn was gone, Alice moved so that she could see the dog. There was so much more blood than she had thought. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing, his abdomen rising and falling and covered in puncture wounds.

  “Did you—do it more?” Alice called after Kathryn. “To the dog.”

  “No,” came Kathryn’s voice from the back of the house. Alice followed the sound to find that she already had the back door wide open.

  Outside, the air seemed cooler than it was when they went in, and only then did Alice realize she was damp with sweat. Kathryn jogged down the two steps and toward the fence, where she picked up the baseball bat that had never made it inside the house. She stood on the plank of wood running perpendicular to the fence slats and dropped the bat, then the knife, back into the girls’ yard. “Take your gloves off,” she said to Alice. “You’ve got blood on them, and we don’t want blood on the fence.” She held her hand out to Alice, who, as she peeled them off, was shocked to see how red they were. How, when she only cut the dog twice? Kathryn dropped the gloves over next and then propelled herself up and over the fence.

  Alice followed behind her, and when she landed back in her own yard, Kathryn was on the back patio, wearing only her bra and stepping out of her pants. “Strip,” she said. “These are all going straight into the washing machine.” Alice didn’t move. “For goodness’ sake, Alice,” Kathryn said, “do I have to do everything?” She took a step closer to Alice. “Arms, please,” she said. Alice lifted her arms, and Kathryn peeled the shirt off of her. “Shoes,” she said, and Alice removed those herself. Then Kathryn reached over and pulled down Alice’s pants so that she could step out of them. “Okay,” said Kathryn. “You’re fine. You did it. You did a great job.”

  “There’s a necklace in the pocket,” Alice said, pointing to the pants on the ground. “And earrings, I think.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Kathryn.

  The back door opened, and Hannah Fay and Apple stuck out their heads. “What happened? You never came out,” Apple said. “So I just pulled the van back into the driveway. I didn’t want anyone to see me loitering out there.”

  “Hang on,” Hannah Fay said, pushing past Apple and coming to Kathryn and Alice. “Why are you in your underwear?”

  “Change of plans,” said Kathryn. “Where’s Wesley?”

  “Out for a walk,” said Hannah Fay. “He said he couldn’t be here for what was about to happen.” (Cowardice disguising itself as importance. What kind of man gets girls to do his dirty work?)

  “We can talk about it inside,” Kathryn said. “We have some laundry to do.”

  “Alice,” said Hannah Fay carefully, “is that blood on your clothes?”

  “Kathryn wouldn’t let me slit his throat.”

  “Inside,” Kathryn said, and she put a hand on Alice’s bare back to guide her. Kathryn’s hand was warm, and Alice wanted to be wrapped up inside it, like a tiny creature held securely in the palm of a giant.

  “Go take a shower, Alice,” Kathryn said once they were inside. “Do you want me to run the water for you?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Apple, taking Alice’s hand. “Come on.”

  “What happened?” she heard Hannah Fay ask as they left the room.

  “Alice went nuts in there,” said Kathryn.

  Had she?

  “We couldn’t get ahold of the dog, so we killed it,” Kathryn went on. “She stabbed it a bunch of times.”

  Alice looked at Apple to see if she had heard. “I thought Kathryn did it,” said Alice. “All those other times.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Apple.

  “We’ll never get the stains out,” Alice said.

  “Probably not,” Apple said. “But it’s okay.”

  They were in front of the shower now, and Apple pulled back the curtain and turned the knob, stuck her hand under the streaming water to test the temperature. When Alice was little, she would wake up and hear the water running in her mother’s bathroom. She’d go in and sit on the toilet, the lid closed, as her mother showered, letting the steam envelop her. Her mother would say “Alice?” when Alice first came in and closed the door, and Alice would say yes, but beyond that, they didn’t speak. When her mother turned the water off, Alice would slide off the toilet and leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Then Alice would wait for her in the bedroom or the kitchen or the living room, and her mother would come in and greet her as if this were the first encounter they’d had all morning. Alice thought it was funny her mother always made sure it was her—who else would it be? But now she knew how permeable the imaginary borders around someone’s home were, how easily they could be crossed, and she shivered when she imagined her mother in the shower, hearing the opening and closing of a door, the light sound of feet. She could have told herself it was only Alice, the way it was every morning, but what if, one day, she’d been wrong?

  “Warm,” said Apple. “Go on.”

  Obediently, Alice took off her bra, which fit a little more loosely these days, and panties, and stepped in. She closed her eyes and let the water run over her body, and a minute later she heard Apple shut the door, and she knew she was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  KATHRYN TOOK THE rest of the day off, calling the library to say that she’d become ill, and the girls all took turns waiting on the front porch or peeking through the windows to see what would happen when the elven couple arrived home. They were jittery and restless, and when Hannah Fay began making paper cranes out of magazine pages, soon they all joined her. The coffee table began to disappear beneath the small glossy birds. “We could make a mobile from these,” Alice suggested, “for the baby.”

  “Alice,” said Hannah Fay, “what a sweet idea.”

  After the shower, Alice had felt better—she had done what needed to be done. The other girls wer
e tender with her, treating her as if she were a sore or maimed part of themselves that needed care. This, to Alice, almost made it worth it.

  Wesley still wasn’t home when they heard the neighbors’ van pull into their driveway. Kathryn was on the front porch with Janie; later, Alice felt grateful it was Kathryn, unflappable and cold, and Janie, who wasn’t anywhere near either house when it all happened, who were outside. Alice watched through the window as the neighbors walked into their house, screamed, and ran out. She couldn’t stop herself.

  The girls inside could hear him approach the porch and ask Kathryn and Janie if they had seen anything. There had been a break-in, he said, and later Janie told them his face had been pale, sick looking. If they hadn’t seen anything, had they heard anything? The dog barking?

  Nothing, said Kathryn. Oh God, how frightening. Should I call the police?

  I can, said Janie, getting up.

  No, the man said. We’ve already called them. Whoever did it, he killed our dog. My wallet is missing, but that’s it.

  I’m so sorry, said Janie. I wasn’t even here.

  The other girls? the man said. I know there are—lots of you who live here. Or are visiting? And—your husband?

  Family, said Kathryn. She did not elaborate, and she said later the man nodded, in a dazed kind of way, thoughts elsewhere.

  We’ll ask them, said Janie. But if any of them heard anything, we would have called the cops. We all have to look out for each other.

  The world is a terrible place, said Kathryn.

  Yes, said the man. Alice couldn’t see him, but she imagined him in front of the girls, small-boned hand on balding head, looking in the distance for any kind of information, anything to fill the gaps of the horror story that had taken place.

  We’re happy to talk to the police, Kathryn said. If you need us to.

  I’ll tell them, the man said. My wife won’t go back inside. I’m going to take her to a friend’s house.

  I’m so sorry, said Janie. We can send over a meal.

  Cookies, said Kathryn. I think we have ingredients for cookies.

  Thank you, the man said. I need to tend to my wife. And to the house. It’s very—messy.

  Do you need some help? Kathryn asked.

  The man must have shaken his head. But thank you, he said.

  Good luck, said Kathryn. Let us know if you need anything.

  He seemed like a good dog, said Janie.

  He was, said the man. Good-bye. And Alice went to the window again, watched him cross over to his own yard, and then he turned out of sight.

  Kathryn and Janie came inside after a beat. “I think we’re in the clear,” Kathryn said. “They won’t suspect us.”

  When Wesley finally came home, he said the same thing. “Brilliant,” he said, slapping his knee as he listened to Kathryn and Alice recount what happened. “Really. This is the best outcome I could have imagined. We’ll finally have a good night’s sleep.”

  They sat in the living room, all of them but Hannah Fay, who was making dinner in the kitchen; it was nearly dark when Wesley strolled in, chipper and hungry, wondering what there was to eat. Now the last shards of light cut in through the window, sharp and cool as a blade.

  “No one ever thinks girls could do something like that,” Wesley said.

  “That seems vaguely sexist,” said Apple.

  “No, no, no,” said Wesley. “The rest of the world is sexist. Not me. I know you’re just as capable as a man in certain regards. Or that Kathryn and Alice are.”

  “I could have done it. You know that,” Apple said.

  “I don’t,” said Wesley. “You haven’t proved it.”

  Apple rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She looked at Alice. “Have fun sucking his dick as your reward for slaughtering a defenseless animal,” she said and walked into the kitchen.

  “Apple,” said Wesley, her name a sigh.

  Janie laughed. “She’s fine,” she said. But she got up too. “I’ll go set the table.”

  “Alice, Kathryn,” said Wesley. He shifted from where he sat on the loveseat so that he could see them both: Alice sitting cross-legged on the floor, Kathryn in the chair above her. His voice was tender, eyes solemn and dark. Feet planted on the floor and knees far apart, hands clasped together, elbows on his thighs. “I knew it would happen eventually, that the first blood would be spilled. I didn’t know the circumstances, but I knew it was coming.” He closed his eyes and leaned back a little and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “I guess I don’t mind telling you,” he said, opening his eyes again, “that things haven’t been moving as quickly as I had thought they would. I thought that our night missions would wake everyone up the way I wanted, but it isn’t happening. It just keeps”—he opened his hand like he was scattering ashes—“not happening.”

  “I know,” said Kathryn. “I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t because of you,” Alice said.

  “I know,” said Wesley. “It’s them.” The three of them all looked toward the front window; night had finally fallen, and Alice could see nothing, but she thought of the world outside the way Wesley saw it: not only in darkness that would lift in twelve hours but in a darkness that would never lighten, a blackness that only they could penetrate. Out there were her mother, her friends, all of us whom she had known and (we thought) loved. But she had seen for herself that our lives weren’t what she wanted, that there was a darkness there, thick and choking. She didn’t feel that way here, with Wesley, with the girls, where a brightness had begun to appear around the edges of her life and seemed to spread until all around her there was light. In the desert, she knew, it would be even brighter.

  “This man who came over,” Wesley said. “He was frightened?”

  “Yes,” said Kathryn. “He was very upset.”

  Wesley nodded. “He was awake,” he said. “He was in the now. He could see that the world was a different place than he thought it would be.”

  “The world is a terrible place,” Alice said, echoing Kathryn’s words to the man from next door.

  “Not for us,” said Wesley. “Not if we’re together. That’s why it’s important we stay with each other.” He shifted so that he was once again facing the front window, and pointed. “Out there is where all the bad things are,” he continued. “People who want the world to stay asleep, stay blind. People who want to hurt us. That’s why we have to go to the desert. We’ll be safe there when everyone wakes up and everything comes crashing down.”

  “But when?” asked Alice. “Do you know now? Now that we’ve—done what we did?”

  “Soon,” Wesley told her, nodding. “I have ideas. Things we can do to kickstart it. You’ve inspired me.” He grinned, his white teeth like a wolf’s. “There’s one thing left to do over there, though. At the house next door. Something is missing.”

  “What is it?” asked Kathryn. “We were very careful.”

  “A picture. Like we’ve left at the other houses,” Alice said.

  Wesley pointed at her. “Bingo. We want them to know it’s all connected. When they figure it out and piece it all together, we need them to know this is something big happening to the world. And this is only the beginning.”

  “All right,” said Kathryn. “Do you know which picture? I can slide it under the front door.”

  “One of Alice,” he said, and Alice flushed with pleasure. This was the prize he was giving her. She wanted to tell Apple. “I know the exact one. It’s in my portfolio on your bedside table, Kathryn. She’s at a party by the pool, but you can’t see her face, of course. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Got it,” said Kathryn.

  “There’s more to do,” Wesley said. “But we won’t discuss it now. Tonight we’ll eat, and we’ll sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. I’m going to cancel my meeting with the art dealer. I’ll admit that I was wrong. It isn’t art that’s the way.”

  “Oh no,” said Alice. “But you’ve worked so hard. You’re so gifted.”

  �
��Don’t do it, Wesley,” said Kathryn sternly. Alice tilted her head so she could see Kathryn’s face. She was frowning. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s important to carry on with business as usual. Don’t give anything away.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll consider it.”

  “Have you mentioned this to the others?” Kathryn asked. “To Hannah Fay?”

  “No,” said Wesley. “Only you two for now.”

  Hannah Fay’s voice came from the kitchen, calling them for dinner.

  “I’m not sure I can stand,” Alice said, leaning her head back against Kathryn’s chair. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Then I’ll help you,” Wesley said. He stood up from the couch and walked over to her, then bent down, placed one arm around her back and one under her legs. He stood and lifted. She felt her body glow.

  “You feel like my bride,” he said.

  “I do,” she said and laughed.

  He carried her into the kitchen, where everyone, even Apple, clapped for her, for them, for strength, for beauty, for the warmth of their little sanctuary, for a savior, a leader, for a street that was, finally, quiet.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  WESLEY DID CANCEL his appointment with the art dealer. “I was beginning to wonder if he even had a meeting at all,” Hannah Fay confided in Alice, and Alice didn’t tell her she had wondered the same thing herself. “I bet those people all talk to each other.” That was all she said, but Alice could fill in the rest: the gallery owner might have said to the dealer, If Wesley calls you, don’t answer. I feel positive he broke into my house once. She cringed imagining the conversation. “He’ll get it figured out,” she told Hannah Fay.

  Wesley began spending more time alone, going for walks and then runs, from which he would return shirtless and sweaty, dark hair shiny and limp, the hair on his legs dark, too, curled in places, slick in others from where sweat had flattened it. Sometimes he didn’t shower after, just stood in front of the open refrigerator until he had cooled off and then left his damp running shorts draped over the railing on the front porch to dry. At night, he told them frightening stories about all the terrible things happening in the world: the wars being fought overseas, the hatred men held in their hearts for one another, what it could do to them, to Wesley and his girls. Often he talked late into the night but then woke up early and disappeared before anyone else was up.