“That’s crazy complicated,” Alan said.
Bob nodded. “It was ambitious to say the least. It’s the kind of thing that only a twenty-five-year-old director would attempt, but once it’s rolling, you can’t bear to let it go unfinished. And I kept it quiet, too. I used different crews as much as possible for the extra footage. I hid expenses and snuck around. I had one lawyer negotiate all the contracts so I could use the footage in the future. I think only ten people in the world know what I was up to. Eleven now.”
“Wow,” Alan said. “What a story. You should make a movie about that—about the process.”
Bob sighed. “I am. Or I was. I’m not sure. My wife said the same thing when we started, so we filmed a video diary of the process through the years. I was going to release that a few months after Gaucho and pull back the curtain. I wanted Gaucho to stand on its own first. I wanted startle everyone and make them guess at how I had put that movie together. I swore everyone to secrecy.”
“And then Ophelia overdosed?”
“Yup. Hope passed away. She was a bright young woman. You’d think I would have gotten to know her better after all these years, but I barely knew her. We started with sixteen babies for Summary—eight girls and eight boys. I swear, if you go back to that movie you can spot her. She pops off the screen like a beacon. Even that young you can see how compelling she’s going to be.”
Alan shook his head. Until that day, Bob hadn’t talked all that much. One of the things he liked about hanging out with Bob was that the two of them shared silence so well. But that story was so incredible. Bob’s quiet simplicity never suggested such depths.
“Sorry to burden you with all that,” Bob said.
“No—it’s no problem at all. That’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in weeks,” Alan said.
“It’s hard to think about,” Bob said. “I end up feeling sorry for myself—all the time and effort I wasted—and then I feel guilty because I’m worried about myself when such a bright young life has been snuffed. What difference does my stupid movie make when her life was wasted like that?”
Alan thought of things to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Bob didn’t need any platitudes. He needed time to grieve for the young woman and for his own project.
Bob stood up and dusted off his pants.
“I’ve got a couple more hours,” Alan said. “What else is on your list today?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Haunt
OCTOBER 9
ALAN HAD his flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. The old rake handle was carving sore spots in his hands as he pulled at the leaves. He heard the bus down the road winding its engine and beeping as it turned around in Gates’s driveway. Alan bunched up the last stragglers, and swept the pile of leaves out towards the center of the lawn. He would enlist Joe to drive the riding mower around, pulling the leaf sucker attachment.
“Hey, Joe,” he said.
Joe walked up and slowed as he approached the lawn. He had ditched his sweatshirt and jacket somewhere and only wore his t-shirt. That was fine this afternoon—it was almost hot out—but tomorrow morning would be cold.
“Where’s your jacket, Joe?” Alan asked.
Joe didn’t answer. He was looking up at the house. The sun reflected off the upstairs windows. Joe shielded his eyes.
Alan glanced up to where his son was looking. The sun dazzled his eyes.
“Who’s that?” Joe asked.
“Who?”
Joe pointed at the house.
Alan walked down the slope of the lawn to where Joe stood. He put his hand up to his own eyes and looked at the house. The big black front door was open to let in the afternoon air, but the screen door was closed.
“Where?” Alan asked.
“On the stairs,” Joe said. The house was fronted with wide stairs made from slabs of granite.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last week you lost your hat. Then, somehow, you came home in gym shorts the other day because you’d lost your jeans. Did you leave your jacket at school, Joe? It’s going to be forty tomorrow morning. Are you going to wait for the bus in your t-shirt?”
“Dad,” Joe said. “Who is that?”
Alan looked at his son. Joe’s eyes were welling with tears.
Alan moved a little closer to the house. He could see better as he moved closer. The reflection from the windows wasn’t hitting his eyes. Through the screen door, he saw the house’s staircase that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Alan stopped. Halfway up the interior stairs, someone stood. Alan moved closer to the house.
He got to the granite steps and glanced back—Joe was still standing on the lawn, watching.
“Hello?” Alan called. “Can I help you?”
It was a woman on the steps. Alan could see the outline of her dress. She reached her hand for the bannister to steady herself. He couldn’t see her face. The sun streaming through the upstairs windows was lighting her from behind, leaving her face in shadow.
“Excuse me—this is a private residence,” Alan said.
He reached for the handle to the screen door. It was locked from inside. That afternoon the front hall had felt stuffy, so Alan had opened the front door to let a breeze in, but he’d never bothered to unlock the screen door. Somewhere in the mechanism, a little piece of metal was keeping Alan from confronting this woman.
Alan looked back at Joe and considered his options. He could run around the house and go in through the shed, but the woman might run away. He could send Joe around, but what if the woman was some crazy murderer? His cell phone was on the charger in the kitchen.
“Answer me, or I’m calling the police,” Alan said. The woman came down one step. Alan thought if she just came a tiny bit closer, he might be able to see her face. He collected the other details so he could relate them to the authorities. Her hair was fairly short, making a backlit halo around her head. The dress came down to the stairs and the sleeves down to her wrists. It was pink, or maybe rose, and had lace at the neck and wrists. He still couldn’t see her face.
Alan clamped his teeth and tugged at the screen door. The latch held, but it felt weary. Alan tugged again, hoping that the handle would outlast the catch. The woman on the stairs raised her free hand to her mouth. Beneath the groan of the screen door’s latch giving out, he thought he heard the woman gasp.
The screen door pulled free and Alan swung it open.
He stepped up and through the door as his eyes darted up and down the stairs—she was gone. Alan reached out for the door frame to steady himself. The screen door banged shut behind him.
“Where’d you go, lady?” Alan called. “Hey.”
“Dad?” Joe asked from the lawn. “Dad come out here.”
“Hold on, Joe. Lady! Crazy lady in the dress? Come out here. The cops are on their way.”
“DAD!”
Alan backed through the screen door. He shut it and pressed his hand to hold it shut. When he turned, Joe was pointing.
“What?” Alan asked.
He turned slowly. Alan looked through the screen door again and saw her. She was crouching, still halfway up the stairs, and she was hiding her face in her hands.
“What the hell?” Alan whispered. He kept his eyes glued on the woman as he opened the door. As the metal door frame passed before his eyes, the image of the woman disappeared. It was like the screen was a magic lens, and without its aid, he couldn’t see the woman.
“Call Mom, Joe,” Alan said. He threw open the door and walked in. There was nothing on the stairs, but Alan strode up the stairs and swiped through the air. He expected to meet resistance. He found only air. There was no woman, no dress, nothing. Alan backed away. He stepped back through the screen door and closed it again. He looked through the screen at the stairs. There was nothing.