Lunar Park

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 2

12. the dinner party

I woke up in the master bedroom for what seemed like the first morning in weeks, stretching pleasurably in the empty bed, refreshed by the Ambien from last night, and in the kitchen Jayne was preparing brunch, and I took a leisurely shower before getting dressed to join the family. I stared at my reflection in the mirror before heading downstairs—no bags under the eyes, my skin was clear—and realized, shockingly, that I was actually hungry and looking forward to eating something. Sunday brunch was the one meal of the week with no dietary restrictions: sesame seed bagels and cream cheese, bacon omelets and sausage, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts and French toast for Robby (who again mumbled about the scratching sounds outside his door last night) and hot chocolate and pancakes for Sarah (who seemed withdrawn and tired, probably due to the new cocktail of meds that had been prescribed last month and were now finally kicking in), but because of the reshoots Jayne had only a banana soy milk smoothie and tried to downplay her anxiety about leaving for Toronto next week. For once, I was the one member of the family doing okay on that Sunday. I was mellow and content, even after leafing through the papers, which were filled with follow-ups on the Maer Cohen disappearance, as well as lengthy recaps of the (now) thirteen boys who had vanished in the last five months. Their photos took up an entire page in the County section of the local paper, along with physical descriptions, the dates they disappeared, and the places they were last seen. (Tom Salter rowing a canoe on Morningside Lake; Cleary Miller and Josh Wolitzer outside the post office on Elroy Avenue; the last image of Edward Burgess was of him walking serenely through the Midland airport, caught on film by the security cameras.) It was a yearbook page for the missing, and I simply put the paper aside. Once Robby and Sarah went upstairs Jayne and I traded thoughts on how to get out of the Allens’ dinner that night, but it was too late. It was easier to just suffer through it than to blow them off, so I planned my day accordingly until seven o’clock, at which time we’d leave.

I spent the rest of the morning putting the furniture in the living room back in its original position but realized while doing this that I liked how the furniture had been rearranged—and felt a weird pang of nostalgia as I pushed the couches and tables and chairs around. And the carpet—though still discolored—was spotless: the footprints stamped in ash were no longer evident, and even though the wide expanse of beige Berber bordering on green shag was bothersome, the room was no longer open to interpretation. I then went outside to the field and checked on the blackened wet patch; to my relief, it had almost dried up, and the hole was beginning to refill itself, and as I looked out over the acres of field leading out to the dark bank of woods, taking in deep breaths of the fresh autumn air, I briefly felt that maybe Jayne was right, that this was a meadow and not a place where the dead reside. Next I went upstairs to look at the scratches on Robby’s door, and when I knelt down and ran my hand over the grooves I’d seen on Halloween I could detect no change. Again: relief. I felt now as if the bad news Kimball had brought yesterday was being balanced out. The afternoon was long and quiet and uneventful. I watched football games, and Aimee Light still hadn’t called me back.

At six o’clock Jayne dressed me in a pair of black Paul Smith slacks and a gray Gucci turtleneck and Prada loafers—chic yet conservative and imminently presentable. While she took the next hour to pull herself together I went downstairs to greet Wendy, the girl who was going to watch over the kids tonight since Marta had Sundays off. Wendy was a not unattractive student from the college, whose parents Jayne knew and who also came highly recommended by all the mothers in the neighborhood. Jayne had initially resisted calling Wendy since we were only going next door for a few hours and could simply bring the kids with us, but Mitchell Allen mentioned something about Ashton’s ear infection and subtly vetoed our plan. And considering what Kimball had told me yesterday, I was grateful to have someone in the house to look after the kids. While waiting for Jayne I downloaded onto the computer the pictures she’d taken on Halloween: Robby and Ashton, both sullen and sweaty, already too old for the holiday; Sarah looking like a child prostitute. An image of the cream-colored 450 SL initially caught my interest, but it no longer seemed fixed with meaning—it was simply someone’s car and nothing more. I realized this after uselessly trying to enlarge the photo and locate the license plate, but it had been washed out in the glare of the street lamps and, as with everything else that Sunday, didn’t seem to matter much. I skipped any shots that I was in, but the photos that bothered me most weren’t the ones of me looking frightened and blitzed but those of Mitchell Allen and Jayne posing in front of the Larsons’ house on Bridge Street, Mitchell’s arm wrapped protectively around Jayne’s waist, his lips raised in a mock leer. That seemed far more worrisome than the small and innocent car I’d briefly become so afraid of on Halloween night and now no longer was.

I had actually gone to Camden with Mitchell Allen but barely knew him there, even though the school was a tiny and incestuous place. What had surprised me to discover was not so much that Mitchell Allen was now living next door to Jayne, but rather that he was married and had fathered two children: Ashton, who because of their close proximity was Robby’s default best friend, and Zoe, who was a year younger than Sarah. Given what little I knew about Mitchell at Camden I had assumed he was bisexual if not, in fact, totally gay. But back then, before AIDS hit, everyone was basically screwing everybody else during that brief, sexually freewheeling historical moment. After we graduated and the eighties passed, it was not unusual for the “lesbians” I’d known during that era to have married and become parents, and the same held true for many of the Camden men whose sexual identities remained hazy and blurred during their four years in New Hampshire. It was considered cool at Camden to be bisexual—or at least to be perceived as bisexual—and the student body not only was inordinately tolerant of its own sweeping pansexuality but actively encouraged it. Most guys shrugged off the occasional one-night stand with another male and some even wore it as a badge; Camden girls thought it was hot, and the Camden boys considered you mysterious and dangerous, so it opened doors and increased your desirability level and made you feel, within the context of everything, that you were more of an artist, which was really what we all strove for—to let our peers know that there were no boundaries, that everything was acceptable, that transgression was legitimate. And after getting over my initial surprise (because my only memories of Mitchell were composed of rumors that he’d initiated a lengthy affair with Paul Denton, another classmate of ours) I recalled a girl named Candice whom he hooked up with during his last couple of terms, before he began graduate school at Columbia, where he met Nadine on the steps of Low Library, a replica of the ditsy, hot blonde Mitchell had dated as an undergrad. When we were first reacquainted this summer at a neighborhood barbecue in Horatio Park he pretended to mistake me for Jay McInerney, a lame joke that Mitch was so enamored of that he repeated it three more times to other couples he introduced me to, but since these weren’t readers they failed to “get it,” causing Mitchell to realize that he didn’t have an audience. Neither one of us was particularly interested in getting to know each other better or to reminisce about Camden and our respective raunchy pasts, even for the sake of our sons (the improbable best friends). For his part, Mitchell was simply too enthralled by Jayne to make any attempt at male bonding. We were older now and living in a different world, and Mitchell let Jayne’s presence reduce him to that peculiar desperation frequently seen in men who fall into close contact with a movie star. The cool, uncaring facade Mitchell played out in Camden—the exquisite vagueness, the stab at bohemia, the Christmas in Nicaragua, the Buzzcocks T-shirt, the punch he spiked with MDA, the screwing around and the moving away—all of that had been zapped out of him. This was due, of course, in part to age, but this erasure was also connected to his immersion in suburbia (plenty of men my age in Manhattan still retained some semblance of their youthful edge). The handsome and edgy sexual adventurer was replaced by a dorky guy nearing forty with a slavish devotion to my wife. Nadine noticed this too and kept a tight rein on Mitchell whenever school activities or the occasional dinner party brought the four of us together, and I didn’t really care; I had my own proclivities, and I knew that Jayne was so not interested. It was the inevitable outcome of being early-middle-aged and bored and having a beautiful wife. But when Nadine flirted shamelessly with me—that was when the tiredness and the cliché of suburbia would dampen whatever enthusiasm I had for my new life as a man trying to form himself into the responsible adult he probably would never become.

After we said goodbye to the kids (Robby was flopped in front of the giant plasma screen watching 1941 and barely acknowledged us, while Sarah sat with Wendy on the other side of the room, going over the CliffsNotes for Lord of the Flies) Jayne and I stepped out onto Elsinore Lane and on the brief walk to the Allens’ she patiently reminded me who everyone was and what they did since I always seemed to forget, which in this circle was considered bad form. Mitchell was, of all things, a member of the investment banking community, while Mark Huntington was a golf course developer and Adam Gardner was yet another semimobster whose supposed career in waste management was clouded with fuzz—just a group of regular dads, living in the soft dreamlight of wealth we had all created, joined by our generically beautiful wives in trying to secure our perfect children’s ascension in the world. A slight wind caused leaves to scratch along the pavement as Jayne and I walked from our house to the Allens’. Jayne held my hand and leaned into me. I moved away slightly so she couldn’t feel the bulge of the cell phone in my pocket.

Mitchell opened the door and hugged Jayne tightly before remembering to shake the hand I was holding out in midair. We were the last couple to arrive, and Mitchell ushered us in quickly since Zoe and Ashton were about to perform the yoga poses they had learned the previous week for the adults. In the living room we nodded at Adam and Mimi Gardner and at Mark and Sheila Huntington, all of us standing in that vast space while Zoe pretended to be a tree for something like five minutes and her brother demonstrated his impressive breathing exercises in a downward dog stretch. (Ashton looked as if he’d been crying—his eyes red, his face flushed and swollen—and he obediently went through his routine as if forced, though at the time I blamed his apparent misery on the ear infection.) They both did the “sideways plank” and then they curled up into a “rock pose.” This was all capped off by Zoe and Ashton’s balancing beanbag pillows on their heads until the adults applauded. “How cute,” I murmured to a delighted Nadine Allen, who I hadn’t realized was standing beside me and whose hand was resting on my lower back. She smiled generously at me (a Klonopin rictus) and then reached out for Ashton, who abruptly turned away and stalked out of the room. Nadine’s face flickered with worry—but only for a second—and then became the smiling mask of a hostess again. It was a significant moment. I was already stricken and exhausted.

The Allens’ house was an almost exact replica of our place—palatial and minimalist and immaculate. There was even the same chandelier in the high-ceilinged foyer and the same curving staircase connecting the two floors, and Mitchell started taking drink orders once the kids had gone to their rooms and Jayne glanced at me when I asked for a vodka on the rocks and I returned the glance jokingly when she demurred and decided on a glass of white wine I knew she really didn’t want, and we settled into cocktail chatter with a Burt Bacharach CD playing in the background—a knowing, kitschy touch presented with an ironic formality, operating not only as a dig at our parents’ tastes, a way of commenting on how bourgeois and middlebrow they were, but also as something comforting; it was supposed to take us back to the safety of our childhoods, and I suppose that for some it worked like a balm, as did a menu that updated the meals our mothers had served: chicken Kiev (but with a Jamaican touch—I could not imagine what that would taste like) and au gratin potatoes (but made with manchego cheese) and that seventies stalwart sangria, which like so many artifacts from that era had made a comeback.

When we sat down to eat I took inventory of the people in the room, and the remnants of my good mood evaporated when I realized how very little I had in common with them—the career dads, the responsible and diligent moms—and I was soon filled with dread and loneliness. I locked in on the smug feeling of superiority that married couples gave off and that permeated the air—the shared assumptions, the sweet and contented apathy, it all lingered everywhere—despite the absence in the room of anyone single at which to aim this. I concluded with an aching finality that the could-happen possibilities were gone, that doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted was over. The future didn’t exist anymore. Everything was in the past and would stay there. And I assumed—since I was the most recent addition to this group and had not yet let myself be fully initiated into its rituals and habits—that I was the loner, the outsider, the one whose solitude seemed endless. My wonderment at how I had arrived in this world still hadn’t deserted me. Everything was formal and constricted. The polite conversation that carried over from cocktails into dinner was so stifling that it carried a certain ruthlessness, so I honed in on the women, carefully weighing Mimi versus Sheila versus Nadine, all of whom I found attractive (though Jayne outshone them all). Mitchell was leaning into my wife and Nadine kept pouring me sangria that I was positive had no alcohol in it, and everywhere I glimpsed the withholding of a once casual promiscuity and it made me feel old. I briefly imagined all of us involved in an orgy (not a disagreeable fantasy considering how well put together the women were) until I heard that Mimi Gardner owned a Pomeranian named Basket.

And then talk turned to Buckley, which was really the only reason the four couples were sitting at the round table below the dimmed lights in the austere and barren dining room in the Allen home—all of our kids attended the school. We were reminded that it was parent/teacher night tomorrow, and would we be there? Oh yes, Jayne and I assured the table, we would. (I shuddered at what the consequences would have been if I had said, “Under no circumstances are we attending the Buckley parent/teacher thing.”) The conversation leaned toward the shallow endowment, the deep denial, the value distinctions, the grand connections, that large donation, the right circumstances—big and personal topics that demanded specifics and examples but there was just enough anonymity hovering over them to make everyone feel comfortable. I had never been to a dinner party where all talk revolved around children and since I was basically the new dad I couldn’t grasp the emotional undertow and anxiety pulsing below the casual chatter—and there was something off about the obsession with their children that bordered on the fanatical. It wasn’t that they weren’t concerned about their kids, but they wanted something back, they wanted a return on their investment—this need was almost religious. It was exhausting to listen to and it was all so corrupt because it wasn’t making for happier children. What happened to just wanting your kids to be content and cool? What happened to telling them the world sucks? What happened to getting slapped around a little? These parents were scientists and were no longer raising their kids instinctually—everyone had read a book or watched a video or skimmed the Net to figure out what to do. I actually heard the word “portal” used as a metaphor for “nursery school” (courtesy of Sheila Huntington) and there were five-year-olds with bodyguards (Adam Gardner’s daughter). There were kids experiencing dizzy spells due to the pressure of elementary school and who were in alternative therapies, and there were ten-year-old boys with eating disorders caused by unrealistic body images. There were waiting lists filled with the names of nine-year-olds for acupuncture sessions with Dr. Wolper. I found out that one of the children in Robby’s class had drunk a small bottle of Clorox. And then it was: cutting the pasta from the school lunch program, and the nutritionist who catered the bar mitzvah, and the Pilates class for two-year-olds, the sixth-grader who needed the sports bra, the little boy who tugged at his mother in the upscale supermarket and asked, “Does this have carbs in it?” A conversation began about the connection between wheezing and dairy products. After that: a bogus debate about echinacea. The concussions, the snakebite, the neck brace, the need for bulletproof classroom windows—it all kept coming, things that to me seemed futuristic and pointless and hollow. But Jayne was nodding in agreement and listening thoughtfully and making helpful comments and I suddenly realized that the more famous Jayne became—and the more people expected from her—the more she seemed like a politician. When Nadine gripped my arm and asked me what my feelings were about a topic I hadn’t been following I offered vague generalities about the despair in book publishing. When this didn’t get any kind of reaction from the table, I understood then that what I wanted was to be accepted. So why wasn’t I volunteering at computer classes? Why wasn’t I coaching the tennis team? Nadine saved me by mentioning the hopeful rumor that one of the missing boys had been spotted on Cape Cod, before excusing herself from the table to check on Ashton again—which she did, by my count, seven times during that dinner. I started reaching for the sangria with a frequency that caused Jayne to move the pitcher away from me after I had filled my glass to its rim. “But what will happen when my drink needs replenishing?” I asked in a robot’s voice and everyone laughed, though I wasn’t aware I had made a joke. I kept glancing over at Mitchell, who was staring at Jayne with his dull carnal gaze while she uselessly explained something to him, his only response a constant panting. It took three hours for dinner to complete itself.

The women cleared the table and went into the kitchen to prepare dessert while the men sauntered outside to the pool area to smoke cigars, but Mark Huntington had brought four prerolled joints, and before I realized what was happening we started lighting up. I wasn’t a pot fan but I was surprised at and grateful for its arrival: it was going to take forever to get through the rest of the evening—the sorbet with fresh fruit and the lingering goodbyes and the dreary promises of another dinner—and without getting stoned, falling into bed seemed impossibly distant. After the first toke I collapsed onto one of the chaise longues that were set in some particular and artful arrangement around the large yard, which unlike ours sat off to the side of the house instead of the back, and the night was dark and warm and the light from the pool shadowed the men’s features in a ghostly phosphorous blue. From where I was slumped on the chaise I was facing the side of our house, and while taking deep drags off the joint I squinted my eyes and studied it. I could see through the French doors into the media room, where Robby was still lying on the floor in front of the TV and Sarah was still sitting on Wendy’s lap as the babysitter read her the story about those stranded boys on that lost island, and above them was the darkened master bedroom. And surrounding everything was the great peeling wall. Yesterday morning, up close, the patches on the wall hadn’t seemed as large as they looked from this angle. The entire wall was now almost entirely covered with pink stucco, with only small patches of the original lily white paint remaining. A new wall had been uncovered—it had taken over—and this was alarming enough to spread a chill through me (because it was a warning of some kind, right?) and after I was handed another joint and took a heavy toke, I hazily thought, How . . . strange . . . and then my thoughts drifted away to Aimee Light and I felt a faint pang of lust followed by disappointment, the usual combo. The silhouettes of the women could be seen in the kitchen and their voices, distant and muffled, were a gentle backdrop to the men’s conversation. The men were trim with flat stomachs, their hair expensively colored, their faces smooth and unlined, so none of us looked our age, which I supposed, while yawning on the chaise, was a good thing. We were all a little detached and had a tendency to snicker, and I really didn’t know any of them—everyone was still a brief first impression. I was looking at a weather vane on the Allens’ roof when Mitchell asked me with an actual aura of concern and not the overlay of malice I had braced myself for, “So what brought you out to this part of the world, Bret?” I was drowsy and scanning the dark field behind our neighbors’ house.

I aimed for the right note of detachment, and snickered. “Well, she read too many magazine articles about how children raised in fatherless homes are more likely to become adolescent delinquents. And voilà. Here I am.” I sighed and had another toke. An enormous cloud was billowing across the moon. There were no stars.

A chorus of grim chuckles were followed by even more snickering. And then it was back to the children.

“So he’s taking methylphenidate”—Adam pronounced it effortlessly—“even though it really hasn’t been approved for kids under six,” and then he went on about Hanson’s and Kane’s attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, which naturally led the conversation to the 7.5 milligrams of Ritalin administered three times a day, and the pediatrician who discouraged having a television set in the kid’s bedroom, and Monsters, Inc.—so old school—and Mark Huntington had hired an essay writer for his son, who’d pleaded with him that he didn’t need one. And then the talk turned to the missing boys, a lunatic, a recent bombing in New Orleans, another pile of corpses, a group of tourists machine-gunned outside the Bellagio in Vegas. The marijuana—which was pretty strong—had turned our speech into thick parodies of drug talk.

“Have you ever tried the deaf-daddy routine?”

I wasn’t asked this, but I sat up, intrigued, and said, “No, what is it?”

“When he starts whining just pretend you don’t understand what he’s saying.” This was Mitchell.

“What happens?”

“He gets so annoyed he simply gives up.”

“How many hours did you spend on Google to get that info, Mitch?”

“It sounds excruciating,” Adam sighed. “Why not just give him what he wants?”

“I’ve tried that. It does not work, my friend.”

“Why not?” someone asked, even though we all knew the answer.

“Because they always want more” was Mark Huntington’s response.

“Hell,” Mitchell said with a shrug, inhaling, “they’re my kids.”

“We play hide-and-get-lost,” Adam Gardner said after a long silence. He was also sprawled on a chaise, his arms crossed, staring up at the starless sky.

“How do you play that?”

“Kane is ‘it’ and has to count to a hundred and seventy.”

“And then?”

“I drive over to the Loew’s Multiplex and catch a matinee.”

“Does he care?” Adam was asked. “I mean—that he can’t find you?”

Gardner shrugged. “Probably not. Just goes and sits in front of the computer. Stares into that damn thing all day long.” Gardner pondered something. “Eventually he finds me.”

“It’s a whole different world,” Huntington murmured. “They’ve developed an entirely new set of skills that sets us way apart.”

“They know how to handle visual information.” Gardner shrugged. “Big fucking deal. I, for one, am not impressed.”

“They have no idea how to put things in context,” Huntington again murmured, spacing out as he took another hit off a fresh joint. We still had two going now and everyone was toasted.

“They’re fragment junkies.”

“But they’re more technologically advanced than us.” Mitchell said this, but I couldn’t tell from his flat and detached tone if he was arguing with Mark.

“It’s called disruptive technology.”

I could suddenly hear Victor barking from our yard.

“Mimi doesn’t want Hanson playing Doom anymore.”

“Why not?” someone asked.

“She says it’s a game the U.S. military uses to train soldiers.” A deep sigh.

The only thing separating our property from the Allens’ was a low row of hedges, yet the houses were spaced so widely apart that any complaints about a lack of privacy were irrelevant. I could still see the children in the media room but my gaze traveled upward, and the lights in the master bedroom were now on. I double-checked, but Wendy was still sitting in the chair, holding Sarah.

Again I thought, How . . . strange . . . but this time the thought was laced with a low-level panic.

I was sure the lights in the master bedroom hadn’t been on before. Or had I just noticed this? I couldn’t remember.

I refocused on the house, glancing first at the media room, but then a shadow behind the window in the master bedroom caught my attention.

Just as suddenly, it was gone.

“Look, I’m not exactly a strict disciplinarian,” one of the fathers intoned, “but I make sure he takes responsibility for his mistakes.”

I shifted restlessly on the chaise, still peering at the second floor.

There was no movement. The lights were still on but there were no more shadows.

I relaxed slightly and was about to rejoin the conversation when a silhouette darted past the window. And then it reappeared, just a shadow, crouched down as if it didn’t want to be seen.

I couldn’t make out who it was, but it had the shape of a man, and it was wearing what looked like a suit.

And then it disappeared again.

Involuntarily, I looked back at Robby and the babysitter and Sarah.

But maybe it wasn’t a man, I automatically thought. Maybe it was Jayne.

Confused, I sat up and craned my neck to look behind me into the Allens’ kitchen, where Nadine and Sheila were filling bowls with raspberries and Jayne was standing at the counter pointing out something in a magazine to Mimi Gardner, both of them laughing.

I slowly reached for the cell phone in the pocket of my slacks and I hit speed dial.

I saw the exact moment that Wendy’s head bobbed up from the book she was reading to Sarah, and she carried her to the cordless phone hanging near the pool table. Wendy waited for whoever it was to leave a message.

The silhouette appeared again. It was now framed by the window and simply standing there.

It had stopped moving when it heard the phone ringing.

“Wendy, it’s Mr. Ellis, pick up,” I said into the machine.

Wendy immediately lifted the receiver to her ear, balancing Sarah in her arm.

“Hello?” she asked.

The silhouette was staring into the Allens’ yard.

“Wendy, do you have a friend over?” I asked as carefully as possible.

I swung a leg—it was tingling—off the chaise and looked back down into the media room, at the three of them there, oblivious to whoever was upstairs.

“No,” Wendy said, looking around. “No one’s here but us.”

I now stood up and was moving unsteadily toward the house, the ground wobbling beneath me. “Wendy, just get the kids out of there, okay?” I said calmly.

The silhouette continued to stand in front of the window, backlit, featureless.

I ignored the inquiries from the men behind me as to where I was going and walked along the side of the Allens’ house and unlatched a gate, and then I was on the sidewalk, where I still had a view of the second-story window through the newly planted elms that lined Elsinore Lane.

As I got closer to the house I suddenly noticed the cream-colored 450 SL parked out front at the curb.

And that’s when I saw the license plate.

“Mr. Ellis, what do you mean?” Wendy was asking me. “Get the kids out of the house? What’s wrong?”

At that instant, as if it had been listening, the silhouette turned from the window and disappeared.

I froze, unable to speak, then moved up the stone path toward the front door.

“Wendy, I’m outside the front door,” I said calmly. “Get the kids outside, now. Do it now.”

Victor kept barking from somewhere out back, and then the barks turned to howls.

I started knocking on the door rapidly until it became pounding.

Wendy opened the door, startled, still holding Sarah, who smiled when she saw me. Robby was standing behind them, apprehensive and pale.

“Mr. Ellis, no one’s in the house but us—”

I pushed her aside and walked into the office, where I opened the safe in a matter of seconds and grabbed the small handgun, a .38 caliber, I kept there, and then, breathing heavily and dizzy from all the grass, tucked the gun into the waistband of my slacks so as not to frighten the kids. I began moving toward the staircase.

But I stopped as I passed the living room.

The furniture had been rearranged again.

Footsteps stamped in ash crisscrossed the entire space.

“Mr. Ellis, you’re scaring me.”

I turned around. “Just get the kids outside. It’s okay. I just want to check something.”

Saying that made me feel stronger, as if I was in control of a situation I probably wasn’t. Fear had been transformed into lucidity and calmness, which in retrospect I realize came from smoking Mark Huntington’s grass. Otherwise I wouldn’t have acted so recklessly, or even thought about confronting whatever it was in the master bedroom. What I felt walking up those stairs was, I had been expecting this. It was all part of a narrative. Adrenaline was smoothly pumping through me yet I wasn’t moving quickly. My steps were slow and deliberate. I kept gripping the railing, letting it assist in my ascension. I felt so neutral I might as well have been in a trance.

At the top of the stairs I turned. It was dark in the hall leading to the master bedroom, and it was silent. But my eyes soon adjusted, and the corridor took on a purplish tint. The strength it took to walk through that hall came solely from a rising panic.

“Hello?” I called out into the darkness, my voice vibrating hoarsely. “Hello?”

I kept saying this as I moved down the hall toward the door at the end of it.

A sconce flickered and then dimmed as I passed it.

Another one followed suit.

And then I heard something. A shuffling sound. It came from behind the door of the master bedroom.

And from where I was standing in the middle of the darkened hallway, I saw, in the gap below the door, the band of light go black.

And then I heard giggling.

I moaned. The giggling continued from behind the door.

But it was giggling disconnected from humor.

The sconces had stopped flickering, and the only light in the hallway was the moon flooding through the large window that looked over the backyard. I could see Victor sitting on his haunches, staring intently at the house, as if he was standing watch (But against what?), and behind the dog was the field, which in the moonglow resembled a flat silver sheet.

The giggling turned into a high-pitched squeal.

I blindly made my way toward the master bedroom; I couldn’t see anything. I was letting the wall I was leaning against guide me toward it. I was only a couple steps away when I heard the door opening.

“Hello? Who is it? Hello?” My voice was toneless. I reached under my shirt for the gun.

The squealing had stopped.

In the darkness the door opened and something rushed out.

It was padding toward me but I couldn’t see anything.

“Hey!” I yelled, then it leapt into the air and flew by me.

I spun around, flailing at it.

And then the door to Robby’s room slammed shut.

I was now holding the gun by my side and felt my way in the darkness, once again relying on the wall, until I was at Robby’s door.

“Mr. Ellis?” I heard Wendy call. “What’s going on? You’re frightening the kids.”

“Call the police,” I shouted, making sure the thing in Robby’s room could hear me. “Call 911 now, Wendy. Just do it!”

“Dad?” This was Robby.

“It’s okay, Robby, everything is okay. Just get outside.” I tried to keep my voice from wavering.

I breathed in and slowly opened Robby’s door.

The room was completely dark except for the screen-saver moon glowing from the computer. The window looking onto Elsinore Lane was open.

I thought I sensed movement in the room and about four steps inside I heard something breathing raggedly.

“Who are you?” I shouted. Fear was crawling through me. I had no idea what to do. “I have a fucking gun,” I shouted uselessly. (That you don’t know how to use, I could imagine the thing chuckle, mocking me.)

I backed up and ran my free hand up and down the wall until I found the light switch.

And that was when something bit me on the palm of the hand that was reaching for the light switch. There was a hissing noise, then a stinging sensation in my hand.

I shouted involuntarily and flicked on the lights.

Holding the gun in my outstretched hand, I swept it across the room.

The only thing that moved was the Terby, which had landed on the floor and lurched forward before tilting over onto its side, its strange eyes fixed on me.

It was lying next to a small dead mouse that had been gutted.

But there was nothing else in the room. And I almost broke down with relief.

I swallowed hard and slowly moved to the open window.

When I heard the screeching of tires I ran toward it.

Outside on Elsinore Lane, the cream-colored 450 SL disappeared around the corner onto Bedford Street.

I stumbled down the staircase and out the front door, where Wendy and Robby and Sarah were now standing, dumbstruck. Wendy reached down and picked Sarah up and held her tightly, a protective gesture.

“Did you see that car?” I was panting and suddenly realized I was going to be sick. I turned away from them and leaned over and vomited onto the lawn. Sarah started crying. I vomited again—this time more violently—in spasms. I wiped my mouth with the back of the hand holding the gun, trying to regain my composure.

“Did you see anybody get into that car?” I asked again. I was still panting.

Robby stared at me with disgust and walked back into the house.

“You’re crazy!” he shouted before I heard him furiously burst into tears.

“I hate you!” he screamed, his voice filled with such sureness and certainty.

“What car?” Wendy asked, her eyes wide with not fear but an awful incredulity.

“The Mercedes. That car that just drove down the lane.” I was pointing at an empty street.

“Mr. Ellis—that car just happened to be driving by. What is going on?”

“No, no, no. Didn’t you see the person get into that car and drive off?”

Wendy was staring at something behind me. I whirled around.

Jayne was walking slowly toward us, her arms crossed, her face grim.

“Yes, what is going on, Bret?” she asked quietly, nearing me.

I mistook the expression on her face for compassion but then saw that she was furious.

“Wendy, could you take Sarah to her room?” I walked up to the babysitter, who backed away as I reached out a hand toward Sarah, who turned her head from me, crying so hard she was drooling.

Jayne brushed past me and whispered something to her daughter and then to Wendy, who nodded and carried Sarah back into the house. Still panting, I wiped the spittle from my mouth as Jayne walked to where I was standing, limp with exhaustion. She was staring at the gun and then back at me.

“Bret, what happened?” she asked quietly. Her arms were still crossed.

“I was sitting in the Allens’ yard talking with the guys and looking up at the house and I saw someone in our room.” I kept trying to control my breathing but failed.

“What were you guys doing out there?” She asked this in the tone of a professional who already knew the answer.

“We were just hanging, we were just—” I gestured at something invisible. “We were just hanging out.”

“But you were smoking pot, right?”

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t my idea . . .” I stopped. “Jayne, there was something—a man, I think—in our room and he was looking for something, and then I came over here and went upstairs to check but he pushed past me and ran into Robby’s room and—”

“Look at yourself.” She cut me off.

“What?”

“Look at yourself. Your eyes are completely red, you’re drunk, you reek of grass and you freaked out the kids.” Her voice was low and rushed. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do anymore. I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

Our voices were contained because we were standing on the front lawn, out in the open. I involuntarily scanned the neighborhood again. And then, wracked with frustration, I said, “Wait a minute, if you’re telling me the grass caused me to hallucinate that thing upstairs—”

“What thing was upstairs, Bret?”

“Oh, fuck this. I’m calling the police.” I reached for the cell.

“No. You’re not.”

“Why not, Jayne? There was something in our house that should not have been there.” I kept gesturing. I thought I was going to be sick again.

“You’re not calling the police.” Jayne said this with a calm finality. She tried to reach for the gun but I pulled away from her.

“Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“Because I am not having the cops coming over here to see you in this pathetic condition and scaring the kids even more than they already are.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, teeth clenched. “I’m scared, Jayne. I’m scared, okay?”

“No, you’re wasted, Bret. You are wasted. Now, give me the gun.”

I grabbed her arm and she let me pull her toward the house, where I pushed the front door open. She was standing behind me when I pointed into the living room and the rearranged furniture. And then I pointed at the footprints, in some kind of sickly triumph. I waited for her to react. She didn’t.

“I arranged that furniture this morning, Jayne. This was not how it was when we left tonight.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, Jayne, and don’t take that fucking condescending tone with me,” I said, scowling. “Someone rearranged it while we were gone. Someone was in this house and rearranged this furniture and left those.” I pointed at the footprints stamped in ash and realized I was jabbering and soaked with sweat.

“Bret, I want you to give me that gun.”

I looked down. My hand was a white-knuckled fist clenched around the .38.

I breathed in and glanced at the palm of my other hand. The small puncture wound appeared to be healing itself already.

She calmly took the gun away and resumed talking in a hushed tone, as if to a child. “The furniture was rearranged for the party—”

“No, no, no—I rearranged it this morning, Jayne.”

“—and those footprints and the discoloration are also from the party, and I’ve already called a cleaning service—”

“Goddamnit, Jayne—I did not hallucinate this,” I said scornfully, bewildered by her refusal to believe me. “There was a car out front, and there was someone upstairs and—”

“Where is this person now, Bret?”

“He left. He got in the car and left.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you went upstairs and saw this person and then he ran outside and got into a car?”

“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t see him because it was too dark and—”

“He must have run past the kids and Wendy then,” Jayne said. “They must have seen him as he ran right by them to get into this car, right?”

“Well . . . no. No . . . I mean, I think he jumped from Robby’s window . . .”

Jayne’s face collapsed into disgust. She walked away from me and went into the office and put the gun back in the safe, locking it. I followed her silently, glancing around for any evidence that someone had been in the house and that this vision was not caused by too much sangria and marijuana and the general bad vibes that were now slouching toward me relentlessly. Jayne started moving up the staircase. I followed her because I didn’t know what else to do.

The sconces in the hallway were lit, bathing the corridor with its usual cold glow.

Robby’s door was closed, and when Jayne tried to open it she realized it was locked.

“Robby?” Jayne called. “Honey?”

“Mom—I’m fine. Go away” was what we heard from behind the door.

“Robby, let me in. I want to ask you something,” I said, trying to push the door open.

But he never opened the door. There was no answer. I didn’t ask again because I couldn’t bear what his reaction might be. Plus the Terby was in there, and the dead mouse, and the open window.

Jayne was sighing as she went into Sarah’s room, where Wendy had put her into bed. Beneath a lavender comforter, Sarah was holding that awful doll and her face was radiant with tears. I consoled myself with the lame fact that eventually the tears would stop, but how could I have asked her at that point how that thing had gotten from Robby’s room into her arms during this time frame?

“Mommy!” Sarah exclaimed, her voice trembling with dread and relief.

“I’m here,” Jayne answered hollowly. “I’m here, honey.”

I was about to follow Jayne into the room but she closed the door on me.

I stood there. That she didn’t believe anything I told her, and that she was moving away from me because of it, made that night even more frightening and intolerable. I tried in vain to downplay the fear, but I couldn’t. Frantic, I just stood outside Sarah’s door and tried to decipher the soothing whispers from inside and then I heard a noise from elsewhere in the house and I thought I’d be sick again, but when I walked downstairs it was only Victor scratching at the kitchen door, wanting to be let in, and then changing his mind. I kept peering out the windows, looking for the car, but the lane was quiet tonight, as it always was, and no one was out. What could I tell Jayne or Robby and Sarah that would make them believe me? Everything I wanted to tell them I witnessed would just serve as the potential catalyst for pushing me out of the house. Everything I had seen would never be believed by any of them. And suddenly, on that night, I knew that I needed to be in that house. I needed to be a participant. I needed to be grounded in the life of the family that lived there. More than anyone else in the world I needed to be there. Because on that night I came to believe that I was the only one who could save my family. I convinced myself of this hard fact on that warm night in November. What caused this realization had less to do with the phantom shadows I saw pacing the master bedroom while I sat stoned in the Allens’ yard, or the thing that rushed past me in the darkness of the hallway, or the Terby with the dead mouse, than with a detail I could never share with Jayne (with anyone) because it would be the last straw. It would be my exit ticket. The license plate numbers on the cream-colored 450 SL that had sat in front of our house only minutes earlier were the same exact ones on the cream-colored 450 SL my deceased father had driven more than twenty years ago.