The Last September: A Novel

Eli was no kind of witness. But he didn’t need to be. What Daniel had said about Eli’s being the only suspect had been true at first. But then this other evidence began appearing. So instead of watching the Moss house, the police had been traveling to Amherst to interrogate Deirdre. To impound her car, and search for traces of Charlie’s blood, which they found, in addition to the leather string Charlie had worn around his neck.

Meanwhile, Eli had been able to leave the Huber’s kayak at Crosby Landing and walk back along the shore to his father’s house. An innocent madman was not a priority. Why would they look for him at all once the real perpetrator was found? Eli was left to fend for himself, as he’d always been. It was only a coincidence that he turned up to find me the day before they arrested Deirdre.

I didn’t know where in Amherst she lived. Maybe they arrested her there, or walked into the new restaurant where she worked, if she still worked in a restaurant at all. Maybe at some gallery, or a studio where she was working on a portrait of Margaret Garner. Maybe she was studying seriously now, painting more conventional subjects with a better practiced hand. The police would have walked into class, students looking up, a part of Deirdre relieved at being caught, because what must it have felt like knowing that Charlie was gone forever? Whatever happened to her now would work itself out over the coming months or years. Charlie and I had trained ourselves so assiduously not to talk about her. Now all I wanted to do was sit down with him and ask him if he ever realized she might be dangerous. In my mind, she had been so sad, anemic.

Charlie, I wanted to ask. Sometimes I wanted to ask him gently. Sometimes I wanted to shake him in accusatory rage. Weren’t you worried about what she might do?

And then I remembered without him answering. Charlie never worried about anything.

LADD, LIGHTFOOT, AND I returned to Daniel’s house in bright afternoon, a faint chill in the air, along with the thin scent of crab apples. All I wanted to do was collapse on the couch—the nearest spot—but Sarah barreled through the living room with Mrs. Duffy close behind her, throwing her arms around my bone-weary legs. I picked her up and lay down with her sitting on top of me. I waited for Ladd to leave us, but he didn’t.

Outside a car drove up, slowly, and I knew it would be Daniel. I felt myself fill with the longing to see him, his confident stride interrupting the intimacy with Ladd, ready to do what needed to be done, entering the house with an expectation of completing necessary tasks, which in this case meant pouring glasses of whiskey without ice and distributing them. I sat up, one arm tightly wrapped around Sarah, who smelled wonderfully rich and clean, of baby things like diapers and soap, but also the scent that all infants and toddlers carry, a cousin of sweat but so much sweeter. A low-note fragrance, rife with the business of growing. Daniel had left the front door leaning open, allowing a cross breeze to move through the room. I took a deep drink, it tasted dark and medicinal, sending a little shudder through my body, along with a wave of anger at Charlie—that he had never told me about Deirdre’s persistence, that he had brought her into our lives in the first place, that he was brilliant at talking everybody down from ledges except for the women who loved him.

I took another sip, and this time, along with the shudder, came tears. Sarah started a little, and then began crying, too. But instead of silencing me, her tears made me cry harder. Ladd stood up and took her from my arms. I let go easily, watching through a haze as he carried her—peering back at me over his shoulder, her face scrunched and sobbing—into the kitchen. I barely noticed Daniel as he got to his feet and then knelt in front of me.

“And now,” Daniel said, placing his hands on my knees, and looking into my face. “There will be a time of crying. Lots of crying.”