The Secret Hour (28 page)

 
“They’re hungry,” he said. “Winter’s coming.”

 
“I know.”

 
Matt went to his truck and took out a closed container of slops from one of the island restaurants. Kate’s stomach clenched—he’d gotten in trouble before, rooting through garbage, taking food for himself and the ponies. She watched as he pried open the lid, scattered the wilted salad and carrots and cole slaw over the sand, as the ponies stepped forward to eat.

 
Matt’s beard was long, almost all gray. The sight of her brother broke Kate’s heart all over again.

 
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 
He stepped aside without a word, let her pass through the door.

 
His cabin was its usual mess. He had insulated it since she was last there—pink fiberglass bales covered the rough-board walls, uncovered by beaverboard or any kind of wall material. Dirty dishes overflowed from the sink, onto the counter and formica table. A cigarette burned in a heaping ashtray, stale acrid smoke filling the air. Bonnie investigated the room, then curled up by the smoldering wood stove.

 
By the room’s single armchair were a wide table and an oyster knife. A bucket of discarded shells sat half-filled by the chair’s side. A second bucket, bound for the market, was filled with glossy, shimmering oysters, ready to go into his refrigeration unit out back. On the table, a small dish of pearls caught the light.

 
“Still looking?” Kate asked, smiling in spite of herself.

 
“Yeah,” Matt said, scowling, picking up his cigarette and taking a long drag. His fingers and the beard around his mouth were stained yellow with nicotine. He wanted to look away, anywhere but at Kate, but she pulled his gaze to her, and his eyes began, reluctantly, to smile.

 
“Still searching for Queen Pearl,” he said, the smile moving to his lips. Passing the bowl to his sister, he watched as Kate let the white, cream, pale pink, silver, and near-black pearls trickle through her fingers. Some were perfectly round, others were misshapen. All came from the sea, from Matt’s beloved waters, soft layers of nacre made by the oysters he brought home in his boat.

 
“They’re beautiful,” she said.

 
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? That such beauty can come from terrible pain? You know that’s how it works, right Katy? Sand gets into the oyster, irritating it so badly…the oyster tries to expel it, and makes a pearl instead.”

 
“Beauty from pain,” Kate whispered, closing her eyes, hearing the pine boughs brush the tin roof, hearing the ponies whinny as they galloped down the beach.

 
“Gotta find Queen Pearl for Willa,” Matt said. “So I can hand it to her when she gets home…”

 
“Matt,” Kate said. Her eyes flew open, and she took her brother’s hand. She tried to lead him to his chair, but he wouldn’t budge.

 
“Tell me here,” he said, his eyes burning, his teeth gritted. “I don’t have to sit down.”

 
“Willa’s gone, Matt.”

 
“Gone? Gone how?”

 
“That killer I told you about? The one who killed those girls in Connecticut? I talked to his lawyer. They were at the same place—at the same time. The exact spot—they were both there.”

 
“And what?”

 
“The killer took her, Matt.”

 
Matt stood still for thirty seconds, breathing neither in nor out. He was a statue, frozen in place. But Kate could see his mind working—his eyes on fire, flicking back and forth. He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

 
“What other explanation could there be? Why wouldn’t she come home? Why would she put us through this?”

 
“She had an affair with your asshole husband,” Matt said. “She’s ashamed of herself.”

 
“We were getting past it, Matt, Willa and I. She knew I’d forgive her,” Kate said, although the words hurt, reminding her of the breach that had existed between her and her sister.

 
“Maybe she didn’t forgive herself—you ever think of that?”

 
“She wrote me a letter, a postcard. I know she was coming home! We were in touch…she wanted us to talk. She wanted us to meet, and so did I. We were on our way to working it out!”

 
“Self-loathing,” Matt said, “is a powerful thing.” He spoke quietly, as if all the worry and intensity had drained out of him, and lit a fresh cigarette, taking a long hard drag.

 
Kate’s mouth dropped open. She was speechless and furious. She’d always known her brother was weird, antisocial, probably mentally ill in his own right—but couldn’t he, just once, take an explanation offered him and not turn it into some warped version of his own view of the world?

 
“You’re crazy,” Kate said.

 
“Yup,” he said. “Probably so.”

 
“You had to be there,” she said. “In this godforsaken parking lot in the middle of Nowhere, Massachusetts—in fact, the town was so full of rusty fishing gear and rust-bucket boats I thought of you, thought you’d probably
love
it there—after dinner, me investigating Willa’s gas purchase, and out of the dark comes Greg Merrill’s lawyer—tracking down, I swear Matt, the same thing!”

 
“So what?”

 
“It’s too much of a coincidence…and he told me, Matt. Told me that Merrill had confessed to being there.”

 
“Confessed to who?”

 
“To him—his lawyer! He’d have no reason to lie.”

 
“Did he confess to taking Willa?”

 
“No, but—”

 
“Did he confess to hurting her?”

 
“No! But listen, Matt—”

 
“YOU LISTEN!” he roared, stepping back with such force he knocked over his pail of oyster shells and the dish of pearls. They scattered, rolling, all over the floor, like pellets in a pinball game—caroming off the chair leg, the table leg, a pile of books, the refrigerator, down the crooked floorboards to the east wall.

 
Kate, shocked by her brother’s outburst, froze.

 
“She’s not dead, okay? She can’t be dead,” Matt said, the cigarette dangling from his cracked lip as he talked, as he rubbed his chapped and callused hands together over and over, as if trying to wash them of the truth.

 
“Matt…”

 
“She wouldn’t die,” he said, his eyes flashing. “She’s my baby sister. I go first, then you,
then
Willa. We raised her, Katy. We were like her parents…”

 
“I know,” Kate said, tears pooling in her eyes.

 
“She was our baby girl; she made me so happy. It’s because of her I look for pearls, lookin’ every day for the big one, the prettiest pearl of all…It’s for her, Katy. You—

you’ve got everything you need. The fancy degrees, the ritzy job, that town house you got on Capitol Hill…”

 
Kate listened, crying softly, thinking of how much she had and how little Matt did.

 
“That’s why she went for Mr. Hotshit,” Matt continued. “She wanted a little of the big time, a little of what her big sister had…she went with your husband so she could be you for a little while…”

 
“Stop, Matt!”

 
“Don’t say he loved her—I won’t believe that. He already had you, the stupid idiot. He had one pearl—why go diving for another? He’s the one, Katy—you want to go BLAMING SOMEONE…” Mart’s voice rose in rage and anguish, “BLAME YOUR HUSBAND!”

 
“Matt!”

 
“Your big, stupid, power-hungry selfish husband. He drove Willa away, Kate. Wherever the fuck she lies today, that’s on him. On Andrew. Don’t give me any of that Greg Merrill garbage—Andrew did it.”

 
“Oh, Matt,” Kate said.
I know
, she wanted to say.
I think that, too
. But she wouldn’t speak the words, tried not to even think them. What did the reasons for Willa’s going away matter? For months, all that counted was that Willa come back. And now, all that mattered was that she wasn’t going to.

 
“He did it, Katy.”

 
“Andrew didn’t kill her,” Kate said woodenly.

 
“He might as well have. He corrupted her, and she put herself in exile—from you, from us. Her family.”

 
“You’re right,” Kate whispered. “She did.”

 
“I’d like to kill him myself,” Matt snarled. “My brother-in-law…”

 
“Don’t,” Kate begged. “Then I’d lose you, too.”

 
At her words, or perhaps at the heartbroken tone of her voice, Matt stopped raging. He fell to his knees, gathering up all the pearls he could find. He held them, cupped in one hand, as ashes sprinkled down from the cigarette in his mouth.

 
“Could you go now, Katy?” he asked, his voice cracking. With his head facing down, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew—from his gasping breath, from the storms she had seen before, that he was crying.

 
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said, touching his back.

 
He leaned into her fingertips for a few seconds, then shook them off, crawling to the next pearl.

 
“Life hurts sometimes, Matt. But we can face the truth together. We’ve done it for so long…”

 
“She’s fine, you’re fine, I’m fine. Hear me? I’m facing all the truth I need!”

 
“By shutting yourself off like this? Living like a hermit? Not listening to what I know to be true, because I flew north to check it out?”

 
“You don’t like my way? Leave!”

 
“Matt, please…”

 
“Go,” he said. And then, the volume building, “
Go
, GO!”

 
Kate took a deep breath. Dizzy and sick from the smoke, she backed to the door and walked out. The air was fresh, salty, and cold. It seared her lungs, dried her lips and nose. Seagulls circled overhead, crying loudly. The thud of hooves sounded down the beach, the ponies moving from one dell to the next.

 
Kate longed for the yellow plane.

 
She knew she could wait for the Bumblebee to come back, but instead she began to walk; she trudged down the sandy roads of her youth, the magical roads of oysters, gulls, ponies, Matt, and Willa.

 
Faster she walked, Bonnie keeping up beside her, and then she started to run. She couldn’t wait to start the engine, get the propeller turning, take off into the sky. She thought of her white silk scarf, a piece of herself, of Willa, left behind in the north, with Maggie.

 
Life and truth. That’s what the O’Rourkes represented to Kate. She had just left a den of death and lies: Matt was killing himself slowly, smoking himself to death, lying his way through life about anything that hurt.

 
Pearls and oysters and ponies, she thought. Those were Matt’s family now. Running along, Kate cried to think of her life, of what was real and what was lost, and the fact that she missed—more than she could understand or dream possible—a family that she had met for just a brief time.

 
A white scarf, a single kiss: The salty Chincoteague wind took them both, swirled them together, took them spinning over the pines and dunes, the white sands and silver waves…curling, Kate imagined, all the way north to Connecticut, to Silver Bay, to the O’Rourkes.

 
Maggie hated writing thank-you notes.

 
They usually took up too much time, kept her from playing and reading, and sounded stupid when she was done. Stilted, kind of phony, no matter how sincere she was when she wrote them.

 
But this note was different.

 
Sitting in her bedroom upstairs at Gramps’s house—still no sitter had come to fill the position, making Maggie think that she and Teddy must be baby-sitter poison; other kids, all her friends who didn’t have moms at home, had baby-sitters that stayed and stayed—Maggie leaned over her desk and wrote like mad.

Dear Kate,

 
I love the scarf. I know it was supposed to just be for my Halloween costume, which was great because I went as Amelia Earhart and even though people couldn’t guess at first because it wasn’t as obvious as people who went as Britney Spears or vampires or samurai warriors, once I told them who I was, everyone thought it was cool.

 
But even though it was supposed to be just for my costume, actually I wear the scarf all the time. I have it on now, wrapped around my neck, even though I’m in my PJ’s. Getting ready for bed—finished my home work, yeah. All of it! Give the girl an A for effort, right? (Ha, ha.)