21. Zelda
ZELDA
Outside Suri’s house, I get as far as the gate before I have to stop.
He said it. In that room, with Dax sitting where he could hear every word. Jeremiah said I never touched her.
I put a hand over my mouth. The sound comes through anyway.
For weeks I have imagined him saying it. Usually he comes to me afterward, and I cry against him, and something in my chest finally gives way. I had not imagined standing alone beside a hedge, trying to get my glove back on because my fingers have gone cold.
The front door stays closed.
I wanted him to say it then. When I was holding the mug. When I asked him to take me home. The relief is so fierce it hurts, and I am angry that he could have given it to me so long ago.
My phone is in my bare hand. I read his correction again without touching the picture above it. I don’t need to hear my own voice.
Zelda never touched Candace.
I want to call Hedy. I want to call him.
Instead I put on the glove and walk to the bus stop. When the bus comes, I miss the step and have to catch the rail. The driver asks if I’m all right. I nod too hard.
At Hedy’s I take off my coat and begin to cry before I have got both arms out. She helps me with the second sleeve.
“He told them,” I say.
“I know.”
“I thought I’d feel?—”
She waits. I don’t know how to finish.
We sit on the sofa with my coat still across my knees. Later Jeremiah sends a message. He has corrected the people he told privately too. Dax has refused to remove the video.
I read that part twice.
“It’s still out there,” I tell Hedy.
She takes my cold hand between hers. I let her hold it while I read the first sentence again.
Near the end of January, I sign for the apartment.
The key turns smoothly. I test it with the door open, then shut it and try from inside. Hedy watches me do it again.
“The landlord won’t give you a prize for a hundred.”
“I want to know I can lock this door.”
“You can.” She lifts the box at her feet. “Now let me through it.”
I laugh and move aside. The laugh surprises me. There is room for it in here, echoing off walls that don’t know either of us yet.
Otto’s room has shelves low enough that one day he will be able to pull every book off them. I asked the agent how much they would hold. She crouched beside me to look at the brackets, and I found myself telling her about the books I already had.
I put Hedy’s bird book on the lowest shelf.
Then we go for the rest of my things.
Jeremiah is waiting at the house, expression tense. “Did everything go through with the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He swallows. “I mean, I’m glad you got the one you wanted.”
I take off my coat. There is still a hook for it. I lay it over the banister instead.
He has gathered the things I asked for, but left the desk drawer for me. The badger drawing is under a folder, one little paw disappearing into an extravagant waistcoat. I remember drawing the badger, then watching Jeremiah add the waistcoat.
I smile before I remember he is in the doorway.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“I kept the photograph I took. That’s the original.”
I tuck it into my work folder. The paper bends slightly beneath my thumb, and I smooth it with more care than it needs.
Upstairs, the glass star lies in its padded box. Candace found it for us. We caught it between our hands when I let go too soon. I held his shirt afterward and asked him to hear me the next day.
I lift the ribbon. The glass turns, catching a pale strip of window light.
Hedy calls from downstairs to ask which box goes next. I set the star back in its hollow and close the lid.
I take the nursery folder from the drawer. On the dresser is the empty space where I kept my perfume. I don’t look at the wall. I carry the folder downstairs with both hands.
Jeremiah reaches for the heavier box.
“I can bring this over this evening.”
“That’s alright. We’re making two trips.”
“All right.” He picks it up. “Which car?”
Outside, a man from his business is coming through the gate with a parcel. I know him from dinners. He saw me at Suri’s first party too.
“Zelda.” He steps aside. “I’m glad everybody knows now. You must be relieved to put it behind you.”
I have a box against my stomach. I shift it because the corner hurts.
“She shouldn’t have had to keep explaining it,” Jeremiah says.
The man turns to him.
“I knew she was innocent before the anniversary. Correcting it doesn’t put it behind her.”
“Of course,” the man says. “I only meant?—”
Hedy opens the car for me.
I put the box down. My hands have started shaking, and I hide them in my coat pockets before I realize I don’t have to answer. Jeremiah has the parcel. The man is speaking to him.
I get into the car.
As Hedy pulls away, I look back at the house. Jeremiah is still outside, holding a package he hasn’t opened.
At the rental, we eat sandwiches on the floor because the table isn’t assembled. Hedy has to leave for her shift. I tell her to go, then ask her to stay while I finish the last bite.
She does. She complains about the amount of mustard I use and takes the other half of her sandwich with her.
“Ring if you want me.”
“I will.”
I lock the door after her.
For a little while I stand listening. A washing machine turns across the street. Somebody upstairs drops something and says a word clearly enough to make me smile.
Then nothing happens.
I take out my phone. Jeremiah’s name is still near the top. I could tell him I’m in. He would ask whether I need anything. I can hear the way he would say it, careful now, and I want to hear it enough that I sit down on a box.
After a minute I put the phone away and open the table’s instructions.
One leg resists until I realize I have it backward. I swear at it as loudly as the person upstairs. When it stands, I put it beneath the kitchen window and set the badger drawing against the wall.
The laundromat sign comes on while I’m finding a mug. Pink light falls over his ridiculous waistcoat.
I make toast. I carry the plate and my book to the table. There is no one to tell how well the drawing looks there, and I wish there were.
I turn on the lamp anyway. Another chapter before bed.