Read Online All Saints by K.D. Miller - Free Book Online Page B

It’s just Cass out here. Rick won’t bother you again. And Dave is—he’ll be back soon. Are you okay? Do you want me to come in? I could make some tea. Em?”
    Barney. Shiny-eyed, pink-tongued Barney. Every morning. As early as her mother would let her, she would knock on the neighbours’ cottage door. Now, you make him go where you want to go, the lady would say, snapping Barney’s leash to his collar and handing the end to her. Don’t just follow along behind. Or he’ll get spoiled.
    She wasn’t spoiling him. Wherever Barney wanted to go was exactly where she wanted to go. She wanted to zigzag through the dust of the road leading up to the highway. She wanted to sniff under leaves as big as plates and woof at seagulls screaming overhead and spend a long moment with a flattened frog. She didn’t know that she wanted to do any of those things until Barney led her to them. But once she got there, yes. Of course. She was Barney, and Barney was her, all that long summer. The leash tingled like a nerve in her palm.
    â€œEm? It’s me. Cass and Rick are gone. So is—you know. She won’t be back. Ever. I promise. And Cass says she and Rick are going to stay away all day. Give you and me time to work this thing out.”
    Em sighs. Lifts her face from Garth Marples’ pillow. Pushes her coat down so she can breathe. The old-fashioned springs of Garth Marples’ bed squeak and jangle beneath her as she turns over on her back.
    â€œEm? Will you open the door? Will you let me come in? Please?”
    The ceiling of Garth Marples’ room is plaster, done in big swirls with a little nippled flourish in the middle of each one. There would have been an art to that. A learned gesture, practiced over and over. Something to take pride in. She can imagine the master plasterer atop his ladder, demonstrating to the apprentices craning their necks below.
    â€œEm? Will you just let me know if you’re okay?”
    Okay. Is she okay? She feels one spot on her scalp that’s especially tender. Did Liz actually get any hair? There’s a mirror on Garth Marples’ dresser. She could go and look.
    â€œEm, please open up and let me in. I need to see you. I need—”
    She takes off a shoe and throws it clunk at the door. Dave stops talking. She turns on her side. Jangle. Squeak. Garth Marples’ night table is inches from her nose, with the empty water glass and the picture frame. Did he ever wash the glass, she wonders. There’s a cloudy high tide mark halfway up. Maybe when he went into the hospital he just left the last of his water to evaporate.
    The picture frame is empty too. Strange. For weeks, she’s been wondering about a photograph that isn’t even there. Just a rectangle of brown cardboard under glass, surrounded by cheap black-painted wood. But there must have once been something in the frame. Nobody puts an empty picture frame beside their bed.
    â€œOkay, Em. You don’t want to look at me. I can’t blame you. But will you listen? Please? Will you just listen?”
    Where could that photograph be? Did he take it with him to the hospital? Was it that precious?
    â€œYou remember a couple of weeks ago? When Rick and I went out drinking and came back real late? Well, Rick had invited Liz along. He always liked Liz. He got a kick out of her. He always thought we shouldn’t have broken up. Babe, what can I say? I had a few. I went back to her place. I was a stupid asshole. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    Or did he hide it? Was Garth Marples afraid of anybody finding out whose picture he kept beside his bed? Maybe he got rid of it, then. Yes. That would make more sense. Because when you die, people go through your things. Your effects. Paw through them. Show them to each other. Talk. Better get rid of it, then. Get good and liquored up, fumble it out of its frame, rip it into smaller and smaller pieces. Pause to swipe