All the Little Pieces - Jilliane Hoffman

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face with her sleeve and put the car in drive while her brain kept throwing around rationalizations.

       All three might’ve been on drugs; they might have robbed you.

      She pulled out of the parking lot and onto Southern Blvd.

       They could’ve hurt Maggie. Or worse. God knows what might have happened if you had opened that door. As Jarrod once said, ‘It’s hard to appreciate the tragedy that would have been when the plot is foiled before the bomb is built.’

      She spotted the sign for Florida’s Turnpike.

       All three of them were long gone from there. And you don’t even know exactly where ‘there’ is, Faith. You’d have to retrace your steps with the police, and they wouldn’t do that with you once they’d placed you under arrest. You’d be in custody. You’d be headed to booking. Getting ready to have your mug shot taken and be fingerprinted and then strip-searched in some local Podunk jail.

      She set off, heading south. There were a few other cars on the road now. That was comforting.

       It was a deer, Faith. Deer can cause nasty damage. You weren’t going fast, so it wasn’t hurt too badly and it scampered into the cane. That’s why there was nothing there.

      It was past three when she pulled into her driveway. She looked in the back seat. Maggie was like Jarrod – she could sleep through anything. Faith leaned her head back on the headrest, feeling both intense relief at having made it home safe and overwhelming shame for the same reason. Like a character in a Grimms’ fairytale, she had left the haunted forest with all its perils and dangerous, strange inhabitants far, far behind her, and had arrived back at the castle. She took a deep breath and checked her rearview one final time. The rationalizations had worked like shoddy patchwork on a leaky roof: they’d done the job for now. It would hold, but there was no telling for how long.

      Then she hit the garage-door button and with a chilling sense of impending dread, watched it close on the night with a heavy thud.

       10

      ‘Hey there, honey,’ Jarrod whispered, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘What time did you get in?’

      ‘’Bout three,’ Faith answered softly, her face buried in a pillow, most of her head and body burrowed under the comforter, her eyes still closed. The house was freezing; Jarrod liked to keep it like an igloo when they slept.

      ‘Why aren’t you at your sister’s?’ He sounded distracted.

      She could smell the fresh scent of soap and his Bulgari cologne; she heard the crisp rustle his jacket made when he checked his cell phone and put it into his suit pocket. Without opening her eyes, she could tell he was dressed for court and probably running late.

      ‘Long story,’ she mumbled. ‘I … I wasn’t feeling well; I didn’t want to stay.’

      ‘What?’ His hand found her forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘My stomach … I’m OK now.’

      ‘Did you get sick?’

      ‘I didn’t feel well. It’s all right, I’m OK.’

      She could tell he was checking his cell again. ‘You must have some great stories to tell about last night.’

      Faith buried herself deeper into the pillow.

      He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sleep in; it’s early. I got a motion in Palm Beach, so I gotta run. I’ll take Maggie to school.’

      ‘Maggie’s up?’

      ‘Up and downstairs and ready to go and, boy, is she in rare form. She actually wants to go to school today. Mrs Wackett is in for a treat. Did she sleep at all?’ he asked, his voice fading as he moved toward the bedroom door.

      ‘In the car.’

      ‘That must have been some ride home …’ he said, his voice rising on the word ‘some’ as he opened the door and headed out into the hall.

      She opened her eyes. ‘Huh?’ The room was dark but for a slice of weak light that leaked onto the carpet where the drapes didn’t meet.

      ‘Love you!’ he yelled from downstairs. She heard him hurry Maggie into the car, then his garage door opened and shut and he was gone.

      When she woke up again the bedroom was still dark. For a few blissful seconds while she lay there tuning in to the day, she forgot about the night before – the party, the fight, the storm, the girl, the strange men. But with just a few blinks, the static was gone and it all came rushing back. And along with the assorted upsetting memories came guilt, accompanied by a heavy, awful, queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she had drunk a shot of glue. She looked over at the clock and sat up with a start. It was already eight thirty. She hadn’t slept that late in ages.

      Her head throbbed and her body ached. Physically, she felt like she’d been hit by a truck. Emotionally she felt just as drained, like the mornings after she and Jarrod had had an argument and she’d spent most of the night crying. After she’d put Maggie to bed last night she’d finally had that cigarette, along with a generous shot of Stoli, out on the back patio. That was probably a bad idea in hindsight, but she could not sleep when she first got home. She could not calm down. She couldn’t turn her brain off. She had reached for the phone a few times, only to put it back down before even punching a number. More than three hours had passed since she’d seen what she’d seen. Then it was four. With every slip of the minute hand, the sense of urgency seemed to wane. Nine-one-one. What is your emergency? Well, I guess it’s not really an emergency any more, Operator, now is it? I’m back home and those people are long gone back into the woods. Where, you ask? I don’t have a clue. Make a left at the cane stalk and then drive around in circles for a long time. The same fear-stoked rationalizations popped back into her head, fighting off the guilt, aided and abetted by the boozy effects of the vodka, which finally worked its magic. She’d gone upstairs somewhere around five, staring at the shadows of the palm fronds that violently danced on her ceiling, courtesy of the patio light that she had forgotten to turn off outside.

      She got out of bed now, moved over to the drapes and hesitated, looking at the nondescript light slice on the carpet, her hand on the cord. What’s behind curtain number two, Bob? Show us what she’s won!

      Faith hoped it would be sunny and beautiful outside – a normal, enviable Florida day. Bright blue skies, puffy white clouds. She hoped it would look nothing like the day before. A do-over – a symbolic fresh start. But when she opened the drapes her heart sank: it was gloomy and rainy. In fact, it looked exactly as it had when she’d pulled out of her driveway yesterday. The glue shot churned in her stomach. She scanned the backyard below. Everything looked the same as it had twenty-four hours earlier – same lounge cushion in the pool, same pink impatiens in the garden, same swingset in the corner, same toppled-over umbrella.

      Everything looked the same. Everything was completely different.

      She turned on the TV, raising the volume so she could hear it in the bathroom as she showered. The local morning news was over, so she clicked on Headline News. The DOW was up. So were oil prices. A child murder from 1957 was finally solved. Another corporate swindler was indicted. The polar ice sheets were melting faster than scientists had predicted.

      No missing persons in Florida. No dead girls found in sugar cane fields.

      Downstairs she put on a pot of coffee and scanned the Sun-Sentinel – even the sports section, in case the girl from last night was some high school track star who hadn’t shown up for practice. There was no mention of any missing girls, in Florida or anywhere else. She felt a tiny bit better, although she knew something that had happened in the middle of the night would not make the morning paper. It might make the TV news, though, and there was nothing there, either.

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