Chapter Six
Sarah sleeps restlessly that night. The wind outside the windows scrapes its nails against the glass, calling her into the woods. It promises the woods will keep her safe. No one will be able to find her there. The pines will enshroud her like they did Jacob Vass and the other men.
She jolts awake, heart pounding, wondering if the woods drove those men mad or if they were mad in the first place. Alone, alone, alone, the wind sings. Or maybe the song is coming from inside her head. It doesn’t matter.
The wind howls its agreement.
In the morning, Caleb drops off breakfast and takes away the dinner dishes. He’s in a rush, meeting Sarah’s eyes fleetingly. She wants to reach out and touch him again, but doesn’t. “I need to go back to the motel,” he says brusquely. “Elijah will bring your lunch.”
He hasn’t glanced at her bruises again, but that’s fine. It’s easier to let him think Ben had always been rough. She doesn’t want to tell him what really happened, because she’s afraid he won’t be so kind anymore.
And so she sits at the vanity and sips her coffee, disappointed he didn’t ask to re-bandage her foot.
She also wishes she’d asked him for a radio.
Something to drown out her thoughts and her thudding heartbeat.
The wind and the house and Jacob Vass’s ghost are her only company.
Caleb’s father leers up at her from the framed photograph.
Join me, he seems to say, his hand curled over his wife’s shoulder.
Sarah smells stale tobacco and knocks the frame face down, shoulders heaving.
It’s the scent of the coffee, she tells herself.
But there’s no avoiding the discolored doorknobs, or the pockmarked headboard and hardwood floor, or the threadbare seat of the recliner. All souvenirs of an angry, violent man.
She understands why neither Caleb nor Elijah have moved into this room. We always put clean sheets on the bed in case Dad comes back. Ten years is a long time for a man to be missing, presumed dead. But can Jacob Vass really be gone when he’s shaped so much of who they are?
How long will Ben keep his residence in her head? Will she keep the metaphorical sheets on his bed in case he comes back?
No. He can’t come back. It’s over. It ended in their apartment kitchen as soon as the knife had touched him.
But Jacob Vass’s story ended in the lonely, hungry woods, and his sons still keep a room for him.
Snow whirls around the window, and in the distance, the boughs beckon.
The glass is sealed with plastic film in the annual Canadian tradition of weatherizing old windows.
Sarah thinks of the parlor with its vinyl runners and the layers of plastic cocooning Elijah’s studio.
It’s as if Sweetside Manor is hermetically sealed.
A bubble to keep its inhabitants in and—
And what out?
She picks up Macbeth and settles into the recliner. It’s a day for witches and prophecies. The trees peek through the window above the bed. Malcolm’s living forest, marching ever closer.
A knock sounds as Lady Macbeth is scrubbing her hands. “Hi, Sarah,” Elijah says outside. “Caleb told me to leave your lunch by the door, but do you want to come downstairs instead?”
Sarah jumps at the chance for a change of scenery. “Sure. Just give me a minute.”
Be careful around him. She can’t believe there’s anything to fear from Elijah, with his sweet, sad face. But she digs the washcloth-wrapped knife out of her backpack and tucks it into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.
She unlocks the door. Elijah grins, happy to see her.
The sleeves of his sweater are a little too long, making him look like a schoolboy.
She immediately feels foolish for bringing the knife.
Caleb had probably meant she should be extra kind to him.
Of course, neither brother would be the same after their father’s death.
The death of a close family member—who was also an abuser—would dredge up conflicting emotions. They’re as wounded as she is.
“How long have you been up?” Sarah asks as Elijah leads her down the stairs.
“Since about eleven. I’m usually in bed by four or five. I don’t need to stay up now that the motel’s closed, but I like it when it’s quiet. I try to listen for the screams the men heard.”
Another person might think he was joking. “And have you heard them?” Because she thinks she has.
His face falls. “No. Not yet.”
In the kitchen, a loaf of bread and a bundle of cold cuts sprawl on the counter next to a tub of pre-washed lettuce, a jar of pickles, and another of mayonnaise.
Elijah hands her one of two plates, but she takes both of them.
“Here, I’ll make yours too. It’s the least I can do for eating your food,” she says.
She understands why Caleb stays when Elijah rewards her with a brilliant smile. Someone this ingenuous needs protecting. She washes her hands and looks around for a knife to spread the mayonnaise. “There,” Elijah says, pointing to the drawer closest to the fridge.
She pulls the drawer open and peers down at the empty slot in the silverware tray. Remembering what Caleb said the previous day, she checks the dishwasher. The basket only holds a pair of coffee spoons.
“Are you looking for a knife? He’s not supposed to have knives,” Elijah says.
The back of Sarah’s neck prickles. “You mean Caleb?”
“I threw them all away after Dad died. He fits the profile of those who disappeared from the motel. Big men who don’t talk about their feelings. He’s so much like Dad.”
Sarah swallows hard, conscious of the weight of the knife against her belly. How else is Caleb like his father? Elijah says, “Oh, he’s told you. Don’t worry, he’d never hurt me, but it’s like he—he’s got a storm inside him.”
Don’t they all, a voice in the back of Sarah’s head says.
“I was afraid he’d hurt himself,” Elijah adds.
Who’s taking care of whom? Sarah almost laughs out loud. The only knife in the house is the one in her pocket. It explains all the convenience foods in the fridge.
She grabs a spoon from the drawer and spreads the mayo on the bread with the back of it.
Elijah seats himself at the table. She sets down the sandwiches and takes the seat opposite him, startling when he reaches across the table and clasps her hand in his.
His cold fingers twine around hers, and she relaxes, touched he would seek human connection with her. “Let us give thanks.”
“To whom?” She hasn’t seen any signs of religion in the house except for Bulfinch’s Mythology.
“The woods, of course.”
She should’ve known from the paintings that the woods are Elijah’s god. A merciless Old Testament god who demands devotion and sacrifice, but a god nonetheless. Elijah bows his head. She follows suit, silently thanking the woods for hiding her.
Elijah releases her hand. “Any luck with the phone charger?”
“No. Caleb said he wouldn’t be able to get one in town.” She slumps at the table, shoulders rising to her ears under the weight of her despondency. “I need to call my brother. Graham could come get me, and I’d be out of your hair.”
“Is he older or younger?”
“Older.”
“Like Caleb.”
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Yes. The older one, the responsible one. I’m worried about him, though. He and his wife split up earlier this year, and then he took a teaching job at a college as far away as possible. I don’t think he’s taken the change well. Though it’s hard to say.”
“You’re not close?”
“No, he’s pretty tight-lipped about his feelings.”
“Exactly like Caleb.” Elijah gestures to the phone hanging on the wall. “Go ahead, you can call him.”
Hope lightens the weight on her shoulders, but her instinct is to still play nice. “It’s long distance. I only have his cell and it’s a Toronto number.”
“That’s okay, I’m sure it’s not expensive.”
“But Caleb said—”
“It’s my phone too.”
Sarah shoots him a grateful look. She puts down her sandwich and gets up from the table.
The piece of paper with Graham’s number is in her back pocket.
She pulls it out and picks up the receiver, scowling at the rotary dial.
“Is this the only phone in the house?” She doesn’t remember seeing one in the other rooms.
“Uh-huh. Caleb’s got a cell, and no one ever wants to talk to me.”
It takes forever to dial eleven digits. Sarah taps her foot restlessly as Graham’s phone begins to ring.
Too late, she realizes if he doesn’t recognize the number, he might not pick up.
She can always leave a message—but what can she say?
How can she sum up the past few days—and months—in thirty seconds?
To her relief, Graham answers. “Graham Ng speaking,” he says.
“Graham!” she blurts out.
“Sarah? Where are you calling from? That’s not a Toronto area code.”
“I know. I’m in Sweetside. It’s a little town about a couple hours north of Toronto.”
“What the hell are you doing there? Is Ben with you?”
Her knuckles whiten around the receiver. “No. Listen, I need your help. I was coming to see you, and my car broke down, and it’s going to be a while before it gets fixed.”
“Why don’t you call Ben?”
“I left him.” She doesn’t say where or how she left him.
Graham’s slow exhalation rattles in her ear. “What’d you do that for?”
She twists the phone cord around her fingers. “It was a long time coming,” she says weakly.
“Jesus, you’ve been together for what—eight years now? Did you go to relationship counseling?”
“No. He—he’s not a good person, Graham. Counseling wouldn’t have helped.”
“What, did he hit you?”
She closes her eyes briefly. “Well, no.”
Graham’s breath rattles again. Sarah adds, aware of Elijah’s curious eyes on her, “He was cheating on me.”
“He’d never do that. Do you have any proof?”