The Other Side of Everything

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  For Chris

  There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

  LEONARD COHEN, “ANTHEM”

  ADEL

  HER SHOES HAD COME OFF during the struggle. One lay next to her head, near its crown, where her hair had become matted with blood the color and texture of crushed cherries. The other was gone. A clock ticked out the time in rhythmic staccatos, filling the house with bored urgency. In the kitchen, an egg timer went off, calling for her with its certain and persistent buzz.

  She was not a young woman. The skin on her face was loose, the folds around her eye deep. Her eye itself was brown and open and staring, it seemed, at the hemline of her living room curtains. The other eye had taken the blow that killed her, and was no longer intact. Its vitreous humor oozed onto the floor, pooling with blood and broken tissue; the eye itself—the yellowed sclera, detached retina, puffy iris, and perfect lens—was now lodged in the cavity behind her nose.

  The house was not particularly bright. The curtains were drawn and the furniture dark, the appliances brown. Pictures in equally dark frames lined the walls and covered tabletops and shelves. Her favorite, the one from her wedding, had overturned during the struggle and fallen to the floor. So her husband, handsome in his military blues, had not seen her get struck with the heavy cast iron kettle he’d given her for their sixth wedding anniversary. But the others could see her just fine. Her sisters and brothers, children and grandchildren, parents and friends, could all see her now—her mouth agape, her blood staining the cold terrazzo floor.

  An hour after the egg timer began to buzz, the oven started to smoke. Smoke streamed from the oven and drifted from room to room, touring the three-bedroom ranch the way a guest might. The smoke found the house’s corners, its closets, its secret places, but did not trigger any of its five smoke detectors, which watched the smoke without warning of its arrival. When the house was nearly black with it, smoke exited slowly through the cracked mechanics of the house’s old, jalousie-style windows. It poured from the house in thin, steady streams, appearing to lift it from its foundation, as if on strings.

  Then, it began to rain.

  The rain was soft at first—tapping politely on the flat white roofs; dribbling down blades of grass; collecting in droplets on large, saucer-like leaves. Then, the rain began to drive, battering the large, bushy fronds of cabbage palms, disturbing delicate bougainvillea blossoms, and hammering the ground, causing mud to rise among perfect blades of St. Augustine grass, creating puddles where the driveways met the streets of Seven Springs, Florida. A ribbon of lightning split the sky, its thunderous sound causing the geckos, anoles, and skinks, which had been jumping to and fro in the soft rain, to scurry beneath shrubbery, into drain spouts, under doorways, and into houses.

  The rain grew harder, denser, louder. It pounded against windows, drummed against streets, flooded garages. Curtains of it rained down on the golf courses, swimming pools, and highways in and around Seven Springs, causing whiteout conditions and minor traffic accidents. Another thread of lightning shocked the dark gray sky, causing a boom so loud it rattled the windows of houses and tripped the alarm sensors on a half dozen parked cars. Still, smoke poured through the broken seals of the little yellow house where the old woman had lived and died, darker now.

  Several blocks away, a man stood in his backyard with a shovel, sweating, though the rain had made it cool. He began to dig a hole.

  AMY

  FROM THE HEIGHT AND DISTANCE of the highway overpass, Amy saw the smoke as a trick of the eye—a string of thermals reaching down to lick the rooftops, a brushfire that appeared closer than it was. That it was something else entirely occurred to her only as she exited the highway and drove north. The closer she got to home, the larger the plume appeared—dark and thick and dangerous-looking. She kept expecting to turn and realize it was down some other street, that it had arranged itself over some other house. But she made a left, and it was closer. A right, and it was closer still. Amy felt her arms and legs grow heavy. She made her final right and drove toward it.

  At the lip of her driveway, Amy stopped and watched the smoke rise steadily over her house. “Fuck,” she said and threw her car into park. Amy ran toward the house, thinking of her cat, who would have burrowed deep into the bedcovers, and of her husband, who would blame her no matter what. She touched the doorknob cautiously, afraid that it would be hot. When it wasn’t, Amy swung open the door, prepared for a shock. But the house was just as she’d left it—breakfast dishes in the sink, a basket of laundry by the door. No smoke.

  “I’m going crazy,” she whispered, and believed it until she walked through the house and out the back door. There, she saw it—smoke, gray as lead—coming from every hole and seam and crack of her neighbor’s tiny, perfect, yellow house. Briefly, Amy was dazzled by it—the dreamscape of color, the weightlessness of smoke. She imagined the plume as a hot air balloon that would carry the house away, and nearly closed her eyes to wish that it—that something extraordinary—would happen. Then there were sirens, deep and mournful. She let out a breath.

  Back inside, Amy thought briefly about getting her camera or sketchpad to capture the scene—some version of her would have. But this version, the woman who lived alone on SW Eighth, opened a screw-top bottle of wine and carried a cigarette outside. There, she took in details of the evening calamity: the dark gray of smoke against the deeply bruised purple horizon, the deep-orange blossoms of her royal poinciana standing in for flames. Amy thought of the difference between the true gray of smoke verses the blue-gray of the evening sky. Then of the woman who lived there, whose hair was gray and skin sometimes too.

  She had once given Amy an armload of mangoes from her tree, and Amy had eaten them all in a single sitting, unable to stop after one. She’d stood at the kitchen sink and eaten one mango after another, letting the juice run over her hands and face, the front of her T-shirt, the kitchen floor. By the time Pete arrived home, she was sick from sugar and covered in sticky pink syrup. He stood in the doorway staring at her, his white oxford and loosened tie in stark contrast to her concert T-shirt made sticky by the binge.

  “What the hell did you do?” he asked.

  “I . . . mangoes,” she said finally, not sure what else to say.

  “Jesus, Amy,” he said, downshifting into exasperation. “Clean it up.”

  Just thinking of it, Amy could feel the heady ringing of sugar against her cheeks, the sting of her husband in the afternoons. She swished the last of her wine around in her mouth and went inside to make a sandwich.

  AMY USUALLY LIKED how quiet the house was in the evenings, she and Pete having settled things more or less for good, but tonight it would have been nice to talk to somebody—to share the experience of driving home and seeing the plume; the relief of seeing her house perfectly intact. She thought about walking around the corner to see what had happened, and talk to some neighbors, but she didn’t want to be one of those people who gawked at tragedy. So she continued with her nightly ritual, washing that day’s dishes, folding yesterday’s laundry, and taking a shower.

  She had gotten a tattoo recently, a quarter-size phoenix on the inside of her wrist, and she took care with it
in the shower, careful not to break the scab that had formed along the edge of the wing. Out of the shower, she covered it with ointment, as she had been instructed, and rubbed cocoa butter over the thin smile of her hysterectomy scar and the zigzagging train tracks that ran across her chest, a result of the double mastectomy she’d had two years before. She covered her face with the expensive night cream her sister had sent her for her birthday, and pulled on the robe Pete had given her before she went into the hospital that first time. It was red and silk and long. “Like something a woman in a soap opera might wear,” she had said when he’d given it to her. And, when she saw that her reaction hurt him, “I mean, I love it.”

  Amy was just about to make a pot of tea when someone knocked on her door, a rare occurrence if there ever was one. She thought of her neighbor, gray-on-gray, and tightened the sash of her robe.

  On her stoop stood the man she and Pete had always referred to as Angry Dad. She was pretty sure she had never spoken to him, but had once seen him tear down his mailbox with a baseball bat, and often heard him ripping around the neighborhood on his Harley, after, she always assumed, a bitter argument with his wife.

  “The old lady that lives behind you was murdered today,” he said. “I just thought you should know.” The words came easily, as if he had rehearsed them, or perhaps repeated them over and over as he walked down the street, knocking on doors. He said that I-just-thought-you-should-know but stood there, a beer in his hand, staring at her.

  Amy thought of the fire—the smoke. “Are you sure?”

  “Buddy’a mine’s a cop. Said he saw the body. Someone beat her up pretty bad, is what he said.”

  “Who?”

  “That’d be nice to know, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her and Amy took an involuntary step back.

  “OK. Well. Thanks.” She started to shake, and put a hand on the door to steady herself.

  “You OK here? Your husband been out of town or something?”

  “No. He’s here.”

  “OK, you have a good night. Be sure to lock up.”

  Amy was shaking as she walked through the small, ranch-style house, turning on lights. In each room she checked the windows, which did not lock but shut with a crank. She tightened the crank on each, doing what she could. Back in the kitchen, she stood on a stool to reach above the refrigerator for the bottle of brandy she sometimes sipped from. Once she had poured a drink, Amy lit a cigarette and watched the light fade from the picture windows.

  AN HOUR LATER she could hear the phone ringing in the other room but was too drunk to answer, so she let the machine do it. It was her father, who frequently read the Miami Herald online, wanting to know what life was like for his daughter here, in the dense suburban sprawl between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. “Call me back and let me know you’re OK,” he said, short and sweet and typical of him. Ten minutes later her sister called: “Amy—Dad’s worried. Come on, pick up.” Sometime after that—Amy couldn’t be sure when, but it was fully dark—Pete called.

  “Hey,” he said, “my mom called me. She wanted to call you, but . . . she doesn’t know how to deal with you. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just . . . Let me know you’re OK, all right? Call whenever.”

  Amy knew that she should call someone, but she realized that, at this point, she’d likely slur her words and cry into the phone. Instead, she made a cup of tea and carried her laptop to bed.

  She turned on the television to put some noise in the room, and navigated to the adoption website, to look at the kids.

  There were 105 tonight, more than there were the last time she’d checked. Each had a photo listed alongside his or her height, weight, ethnic background, and eye color. There were more teens than toddlers, and of the toddlers listed, most had a developmental disability, or an older sibling, some impediment to an easy, happy ending. Still, Amy found comfort in their presence, in the hope that they held. She liked to imagine that, when she was ready, she would place a phone call or click a link and little José or Janie would be hers.

  She hovered over the photo of a three-year-old girl, and lingered for a bit, noting the girl’s tired eyes and crooked smile. Amy imagined making breakfast for her, and making up songs about tying shoes, teaching her how to paint, and walking her to school. She imagined a life in an instant, and, just as fast, it was gone.

  The phone rang again, and Amy clapped the laptop closed, embarrassed.

  It was Pete. He hardly called at all, much less twice in the same night.

  She took a breath, answered.

  “Hey,” he said, and she felt her eyes well with tears.

  “Hi,” she said, almost inaudibly, afraid her voice might crack.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “No more than you do.”

  “Are you scared?”

  Amy waited a beat before answering. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not there.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I mean . . . I’m sorry that this happened and that you’re there by yourself.”

  “I’m sorry that this happened,” she repeated. “I’ll put it on your tombstone.”

  “Oh, Amy . . .” he said, exasperated.

  “How’s San Juan?” she asked.

  “It’s great, actually. The work is going well.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “OK then, Pete.” Amy sighed. “Thanks for calling.”

  “Make sure you lock the doors,” he said.

  “The doors are locked.”

  “And Prissy Girl?”

  “Your cat is fine.”

  “Call me tomorrow, OK? Or . . . call my mom tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to talk to your mom, Pete.”

  “Fine. Well . . . I’m glad you’re OK.”

  “I’m glad I am too,” she said, and hung up.

  Agitated, Amy went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water and swallow a preventative ibuprofen. She walked through the house and turned off the lights, stopping at the back door to look out at the old woman’s house. It was too dark to see anything, so she tightened the sash on her robe, went outside, and walked barefoot through the grass to where her yard met her neighbor’s.

  There was hardly any sign of damage—just a small black hole in the back, near the kitchen window. It looked like a cigarette burn. It reminded Amy of a ruined garment—a small thing, a disappointment. She thought about what had happened inside that house not twenty-four hours before; the sheer and sudden violence of it. Amy watched a pair of gauzy clouds pass over the moon, amazed by how cruel the world could be, going on as it did.

  BERNARD

  BERNARD STARTED TO SMELL SMOKE just as the five o’clock news was coming on. He went into the kitchen to check his coffeepot and toaster. When he found them unplugged, he assumed that lightning from the storm had ignited some brush in the Everglades. He sat back down in front of the television, returning his attention to the news of the day.

  The storm had delivered four inches of rain in an hour, the weatherman said, and Bernard whistled, remarking to no one. Then there was something about a police shooting in Miami, something about a hit-and-run. It was the same stories every day. They were tragic, but boring. Fifteen minutes into the news, Bernard sighed, turned down the volume, and leaned his head back, allowing himself to doze.

  An hour later, he woke with a start. The smell of smoke was so strong that he was sure his house was on fire. He checked each room and went outside. When he saw the smoke rising over Adel’s house, he ran back in, called 9-1-1, and hurried over to her house.

  Bernard tried to get inside, but the doors were locked.

  “Adel!” he called, banging on the doors. “Adel!”

  He lifted a large piece of coral from her garden and threw it through a window, but the pane was too narrow to fit him and the smoke too strong, besides. Nothing else he could do, Bernard paced the str
eet in front of her house, certain that she was dead as the result of his complacency.

  It felt like an achingly long time, but it was only a few minutes before the fire department’s hook and ladder truck came roaring down the street, the police and paramedics in quick succession. A group of firefighters broke through the front door and quickly put out what had, it seemed, only been a small fire.

  Bernard watched as the paramedics and police rushed in, waiting helplessly in the street, his arms folded across his chest. Neighbors gathered alongside him, also waiting. But the paramedics and police did not rush out. They did not lead Adel outside to cough the smoke from her lungs. They did not give the all clear. Instead, they carried equipment inside—cameras and plastic cases of God knows what—and soon, they carried Adel out too, a slight lump under a white sheet.

  By then, a good crowd of neighbors had gathered in the street, coming out of their cars and houses to gawk and gasp and gossip with one another, trading stories about what they had seen and heard. When the police carried Adel outside, someone said, “She’s been there forever.” Another said, “Not anymore.”

  Then a policeman approached the crowd and motioned for Bernard to join him. Bernard followed the policeman until they were some distance away from the crowd.

  “Do you know if your neighbor had any enemies?” he asked.

  “Enemies?” Bernard asked, nonplussed.

  “Anyone who might want her dead?”

  “No, God no. Who would want to kill a—?”

  “What about medications? Do you know if she was taking anything someone might want to get their hands on?”

  “I suppose we all are . . .”

  “Just to be clear, you didn’t hear or see anything suspicious this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “What about recently? Anyone walking around the neighborhood that you don’t recognize?”