Lunar Park

I looked away from Mitchell and Nadine and up to the second story of their house, where I could see Ashton silhouetted against the curtains of his room, and he was talking on a phone, and when my eyes moved back to our lawn I saw Robby holding my cell to his ear, his head turned slightly away from me, nodding.



That’s so you can’t hear what he’s saying.



I looked back up to Ashton’s window, but he had moved away from it.



How could Robby make a phone call when he had been weeping with fear only ten minutes ago? He had been urging me to kill the thing only ten minutes ago—how was he able to manage a phone call when I could barely move? What was he hiding from me? Why was the actor back? Hadn’t we tearfully reconciled only hours ago?



I was staring at Robby when suddenly Officer Boyle appeared in my line of vision.



He was leaning into Robby and asking him something.



Robby immediately looked over at me and then nodded.



Robby stood up and clicked off the cell as Officer Boyle kept talking to him, their conversation dotted occasionally by Robby’s nods and the glances he kept giving me.



Marta had arrived, and Sarah asked me to put her down.



I was unaware I had been holding her all this time until I handed her to Marta.



Marta was arguing that there was no need to file a police report since it would ultimately end up in the press. But her attitude was the same as mine: if everyone was okay, let’s just get the kids to the hotel.



Two of the officers walked out of the house.



Predictably, they’d found nothing.



Yes, doors were scratched. Yes, force had been applied to each. Yes, two doors were unhinged. But no windows were broken or open and all the doors leading into the house were locked.



Whatever I had seen must have gotten into the house earlier that day.



This was the consensus view.



I asked Officer O’Nan, “Did you check under the bed in the master bedroom?”



O’Nan turned to an Officer Clarke and asked him if he had looked under the bed in the master bedroom.



Officer Clarke walked up to us and said, “Yes, we did, sir. There was nothing there.”



“So the thing’s still in the house? Is that what you’re telling me?” I was not supposed to say this—I just couldn’t help myself at that point. The question came out in a croak.



“Sir . . . I don’t understand.”



“Wasn’t there a doll—a bird—under the bed in the master bedroom?” I had turned away from Marta and Sarah, and lowered my voice when I asked this.



“Why would this doll be under your bed, sir?”



“So it’s still in the house?” I asked myself, murmuring.



“Sir, what is still in the house?” O’Nan asked me this with a clenched patience.



Clarke stared at me as if I was wasting his time. But what is he going to do? I thought angrily. What were any of them going to do? I was married to Jayne Dennis. I was a famous writer. They had to put up with this. They had to do whatever I felt was required of them. Marta was identifying herself. They regarded her seriously.



And then a scene began arranging itself on the front lawn.



“If there are no broken windows and all the doors are locked, then that thing is still inside.” I was answering my own questions.



“Mr. Ellis, we found nothing in the house.”



Another officer appeared and asked, with barely disguised skepticism, “Mr. Ellis, could you give us a description of this intruder?”



I shuddered. Later, the writer reminded me of what I said. He had the transcripts.



“We were sleeping and . . . a noise woke my son up . . . it was . . . I don’t know what it was . . . it was maybe a couple of feet tall and . . . it had a blond coat of hair and . . . it was growling at us—actually, no, it was making hissing noises . . . and it chased us . . . it chased us through the house . . . it broke the doors . . . it wanted something . . .”



Someone commented on the fact that I was out of breath.



It was at this point that one of the officers walked out of the house with Victor.



The officer was holding the dog by its collar as he led the animal to the group assembled on the lawn.



Victor was panting and had a glassy expression.



There was a knowing and conspiratorial silence.



I recognized it and something flared up within me.



I wheeled around.



Flashlights scanned the tired dog, who kept squinting up at us.



Victor sat down on the lawn. He noted our stares and was oblivious to them.



And then it seemed as if I was the only human he was directing his attention at.