21 Shades of Night, page 447
Normally, the line was annoying, though right now, it was a welcome sign she believed my lies and was moving past them. “Of course, Mrs. Cuthbert. I’d be happy to. I even bought Terrence a little balsam airplane to fly over there.”
“Did you, now? That was nice of you.”
By this time, we’d made it to the nursery. Terrence came bounding over to me and grasped my legs as if I were a wide tree trunk. “Ivy, you’re back! Lorraine’s no fun. She’s too creaky, and she says her ankles are too swollen to take me to the park.” Lorraine was their cook, and she was seventy-five if she was a day, so I understood Terrence’s frustration. His brown hair swirled in every direction and his cheeks were a hearty pink. He’d been dressed in a neat pair of beige linen trousers, but he’d managed to scuff the knees. “Ivy! Take me outside. Will you? It’s so boring in here!” He groaned and held on tighter.
“Let go of her legs and she might be able to, Terrence,” Mrs. Cuthbert said.
She went back to her tea party while Terrence trailed along with me to my room. I dropped my suitcase and belongings on the bedspread. He jumped up on the bed and leapt around like a chimpanzee.
“Watch me, Ivy, I’m flying,” he yelled, waving his arms. “I’m a hawk, no, I’m a plane.” He jumped even higher, wrinkling my coverlet and disturbing the contents of my suitcase, some of which jolted over the rim and onto my bed.
I didn’t have time to set everything right or discipline him, because I was madly scrambling around, sorting out my clothes and hanging them up as quickly as possible. Terrence was a sweet boy, but spoiled, and lonely for other four-year-old friends. His mother was keeping him at home until he started kindergarten next year. And she didn’t think often enough about introducing him to potential playmates.
“Okay, little man, time to stop your cavorting.” I gestured toward the door. “Let’s get to the park before it rains.”
He jumped off and stumbled, landing on his rump and screeching in pain. “Ouch, Ivy. Help me up!”
I lent him a hand and we crept along the back hall, shooting down the old servants’ stairs and across Fifth Avenue. When we were safely on the grass, Terrence dashed off ahead of me, badly in need of a good run. Sitting on a bench, I kept careful watch. I also studied the sky. It was getting darker and the humid air was rapidly becoming windy, blowing the overhead branches about. When he’d had twenty minutes to run, I called him over and held the present behind my back. “Which hand?”
“That one. No, that one!” Terrence hopped from one foot to the other as he changed his mind.
I thrust my hands in front of me. He took the paper bag from my hand and tore into it. “Careful, you’ll rip your present,” I warned. That inspired him to tear in to it a tiny bit slower.
“A plane! A flying plane.” Gripping it in his chubby hands, he thanked me and then raced it around in circles on the grass. I was delighted, even shocked that he liked it so much, because his room was chock-full of much more extravagant toys. He had the newest Big Performing Circus, a Lionel electric train, and even a pedal car with real electric lights.
Heavy clouds were gathering while I showed him how to open the balsam wings, tip it upward, and flick his arm so it would soar instead of flopping to the ground. He was just starting to get the hang of it when the sky let out a frightening crack of thunder, and rain began to pour down in dense sheets.
I shielded my eyes with my palm. “Come on, Terrence, we’ve got to get back.”
“No! Let me fly in the rain. I like rain,” he insisted.
“Terrence, it’s dangerous to stay out in a thunderstorm.” Almost as if to prove my point, a booming thunderclap reverberated through the trees. It was so deafening that it seemed mere yards away.
Panicked, Terrence ran and stumbled, this time landing right on his wooden plane. Even through the ruckus, I heard the dreadful crack. He rolled off it, and, holding up the shattered thing, he wailed, “It’s broken! My airplane.”
He wouldn’t let me take it for safekeeping, so I showed him how to take the battered wing in one hand and the body of the plane in the other, in order to prevent further damage. The thunder kept on coming, each time sending him into another tailspin of startled bawling.
By the time we got inside, mucus and tears were smeared on his face, and I was at my wit’s end. I wasn’t a mother, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the skills for it. I had to think fast though. His mother’s tea party was still in full swing, and I wasn’t about to bother her after my first inopportune appearance. So, I promised Terrence I’d fix the ruined wing—somehow.
“You can? You will?” He beamed up at me through his waterworks.
Guiding him into my room, I wiped his face with a clean handkerchief and then gave him the second present—my shell collection from the Asbury beach. “Play with this while I locate some glue.”
As he sat on the floor, cross-legged, he was at least temporarily absorbed enough to put down the broken plane. He began to pile up shells and see how high he could stack them before they tumbled down in a heap.
Time is of the essence, I thought. I ran to the bathroom and flung open the medicine cabinet. Was this where folks kept their Casco’s Milk Glue? No, there was nothing in there but aspirin, Coca Cola syrup for rumbling tummies, and hand lotion.
Where else? I tiptoed into the kitchen and peeked into the various drawers. No glue, only silverware, string, a mess of grocery and breakfast cereal coupons, and multiple corks for the wine. Might string work? I decided not.
The last possibility would be in Mrs. Cuthbert’s private bathroom closet. Once in a while, she asked me to go in there for towels. I’d never gone without permission, though this was an emergency. Terrence was starting to call for me.
I slunk through her room and into the adjoining bathroom. Before, I’d always grabbed a towel and hurried off. But upon closer inspection, I saw that her private cabinet shelves held a wealth of objects: a bowl of golden necklaces and earrings, lipsticks of many colors, neatly folded silk pajamas, and—
Mrs. Cuthbert stormed in the room. “What are you doing in my private closet?” she asked, her green eyes firing off bullets. Before I could answer, she wagged some flat paper objects at me. “And why did you give these evil cards to my Terrence to play with? Is this your idea of a child’s game?”
I saw, with spreading horror that she was holding up the three most off-putting Tarots—the skeleton of death, the hanged man, and the red-horned devil.
“Well?” she spat, wagging them closer to my face.
I stumbled on words to get out a semblance of an explanation. Instead, my embarrassment, frustration, and fury from the last couple of days tumbled out in a kind of nonverbal frenzy that seemed to electrify the very air.
In that elemental force, the cards were mysteriously yanked from her hand. They flew up, grazing her cheeks, and staying aloft in a holding pattern. Then, just as swiftly as they’d flown from her grip, they fluttered to the ground. All face up and staring at us.
Mrs. Cuthbert stepped back and warded me off with raised arms. Her face contorted in a grimace of terror. “What are you, Ivy, some kind of witch? A dark person aligned with the devil?”
Terrence ran in. “What did you do with my cards, Mama? I was playing with them.”
When he saw them and tried to pick them up, she took his hand, pulled him close, and held him behind her. “I’ve been only kind to you, Ivy. And you repay me with this… this teaching my son the devil’s cards? Get out! Pack your bags and leave. Immediately. And give me back the money refunded for those two extra hotel days.”
“I… I can’t.”
“Why not?” Her glittery eyes were scary.
“I tried. The hotel manager refused. He—”
“Poppycock! You’re a thief, too?”
“No! You have to believe—”
Was it the spike in my upset that had the cards literally flying up again? This time, they careened around her neck, nicking her skin like paper razors. Thankfully, they didn’t cut through her skin, but made a trail of raised, pink lines. How could that be?
Frantically waving them off, she turned on her heel and hauled Terrence off with her. She and her guests scurried to take refuge in the study off from the main living room. My hearing seemed quite acute. More than I remembered it ever being. I could hear her slide the deadbolt on the double doors and the hissing of frantic explanations. “I said out, now!” she called through the door. Terrence began to wail anew.
I ran into my room, where he’d scattered one of my Tarot decks all over the rug. As I cursed at the cards, I cursed at all the spoiled little boys in the world. For he had not only thrown my cards about, he’d smashed many of the seashells I’d so lovingly collected for him. My heart ached and my eyes stung, but I couldn’t afford to cry. Not now, not yet.
Dashing around, I collected the clothes I’d just hung up, the shoes I’d placed back under my bed. Something compelled me to collect the other three Tarot cards as an afterthought. Lastly, I scrambled through the kitchen, desperately searching on the countertop for a loaf of bread to toss in my suitcase for later. Mrs. Cuthbert must’ve tidied up for her guests, or given them her store of cookies and bread.
To make matters worse, she heard me rattling around in there and called, “Get out of my kitchen, you thief! Buy your own food. Scram before I call the cops!”
I thought of apologizing, yet what good would that do? She’d called me a thief, a witch, and worse, some kind of lady demon. Right in front of her son and her guests.
Well, was I? I’d often sensed people’s thoughts and emotions—knew what they were about to say before they uttered any words. And there was that uncanny connection I had with Peter Dune where our psychic wires seemed to cross. It had occurred not once, but twice now. What was happening to me? Whatever it was it was amplifying—swelling and spreading like the crimson stain of spilled wine. I’d never been able to move things out of someone’s hands or off a floor. Closing Mrs. Cuthbert’s front door one last time, I shuddered, fretting over the unearthly movement of the cards. We all saw it with our own sane eyes. Had I done that?
Impossible.
Chapter 9
IN THE DRIZZLE that marked the end of the storm, I started to cross East Sixty-Fifth Street. I intended to inspect the names on the mailboxes when I saw a distressed woman hurtling down the front stoop, suitcase and bags bumping against the iron railing as she flew. Stepping quickly back on the curb, I ducked behind a stout oak tree.
Poking my head out after a second, I saw it was Fiera! She was red-faced with tears streaming down her sensitive features, and she was walking at an unusually fast clip toward me.
Good Lord! This wouldn’t do. Not at all.
My chest burned as I tried to straighten up and adjust my torso in a sideways pose so the tree would still conceal me. I stuck my briefcase between my legs and prayed she wouldn’t spot me in this compromising and ridiculous position.
With the click of her boots approaching, I kept angling myself in increments to the right and held my breath. The rush of air and the scent of her woodsy perfume told me she’d passed me. It had worked. Still not daring to emerge from behind the tree, I stared at her as she continued her trek northward.
That was, until a matronly woman in an ill-fitting floral dress marched up to me and grumbled, “You should be ashamed of yourself, you looky-loo. Get out of my neighborhood or I’ll call the police.”
I was a cop—of a certain category. But I complied. Shadowing Fiera at a safe distance, I was relieved to see her heading into Central Park, where there were ample trees and bushes to hide behind. She made her way further northward, and then settled on a bench and set her bags on either side of her.
Her head bowed, she began to sob into her hands.
Had she gotten into a brutal disagreement with her employer? Or worse, had she been fired? I was tempted to come out of hiding and offer her a clean handkerchief. The possibility that she’d lost her job disturbed me more than I wanted to admit. Tim had warned me not to have feelings for this girl, and I knew it was foolhardy. Yet, my heartstrings pulled in many directions at seeing the shudder of her delicate shoulders, her hair dangling in damp clumps around her wet face, and her bedraggled baggage.
By the time she rose wearily from the bench, my knees and neck were aching from crouching behind a dripping laurel bush, with one ear cocked for pertinent sounds. That was part of my job description—to spy, often in uncomfortable settings. I had to obtain all details on the particular person of interest regardless of my comfort, my peace of mind, and my emotions.
I followed her again, this time in a westerly direction while avoiding the puddles in the sopping grass. She walked slowly, almost aimlessly, as though she was unsure of her destination. As she drew closer to the Great Meadow, my pulse throbbed in my neck. Good God! She was heading toward the filthy squatter village called Hooverville. Did she have no friends in this city?
Hooverville, I recalled, had started as a protest by military men denied fair housing options during this terrible time of food and job shortages. But it had swelled to a large, and squalid, homeless warren, with folks building shelters from corrugated paper, scrap wood, newspaper, and tin—basically anything they could get their hands on.
I watched as Fiera approached a family with two unkempt urchins. She spoke in halting sentences to the women, who, though she offered Fiera a faint smile, sent her off with a firm shake of her head. Fiera wandered on a little further and then paused as she surveyed the makeshift structures, trying, I suppose, to weigh her options.
It was all I could do to stop myself from dashing over and offering to help carry her bags, buy her a meal, or ply her with cash for a hotel room where she might take a warm shower and get a safe night’s sleep.
But it was against my job assignment, which was only to surreptitiously track, to observe, and to doggedly report back evidence of spiritualist or paranormal cons to the bureau. Or else get close to her strictly in order to obtain information. So far, that had backfired. I didn’t understand why she’d gone home from the beach so early. She’d told me she would be staying for a few more days. Had I offended her somehow? Sure, we were tipsy and acting wild, but I didn’t think… I raked a hand through my hair.
If I was being honest, there were moments of that night—no, more than moments—that were lost to me.
Abruptly, she spun around, as if she could hear my thoughts. She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes in my direction. Swiftly, I turned my back on her and pulled out a newspaper from my briefcase, sweating bullets she would recognize me from my stance or my clothing.
But the next time I dared peek behind me, she’d moved on, and was now speaking to a young lady, closer to her age, who stood in front of a canvas tent.
They engaged in what looked to be a hopeful dialogue. The woman was nodding and gesturing with her arms in a friendly way. But then, a burly man wearing suspenders came out of their tent. He frowned and slapped a wide arm around her, pulling her inside with no further word to Fiera.
Fiera picked up her luggage and moved on. Against my will, I felt proud of her. There were no more tears, only a fierce determination in her steps. Just past a line of flapping laundry set up between two tents, she paused. Why? Then I saw—she was smack in front of a large cardboard container, perhaps used to deliver a sofa or easy chair. It was torn and battered. Looking inside it, she must’ve determined it abandoned, because she kneeled down and crawled inside, dragging her bags in after her.
The post-storm light threw golden patterns on the shantytown, lending it a more utopian air than it deserved. If I was going to be here for a while, I might as well get off my feet. I chose a level area, far enough away so Fiera couldn’t identify me. Spreading my newspaper out to help soak up the sopping lawn, I sat down and gingerly adjusted my trouser legs so they wouldn’t split on me. I was tired, and hungry, and I could only imagine that if I was, her discomfort must be greater.
The scent of baked beans from the folks who were cooking over one of the barrels wafted over and made my stomach growl. The clamor of many conversations drifted over, too, though I couldn’t make out distinct words. I even lay down for a while, spreading more newsprint and resting my head in my arms. I stared up at the clearing late afternoon sky.
Again, it seemed more benign here, gazing at the clouds, than I knew it to be. And God only knew what might happen to Fiera after dark, alone in that flimsy edifice without a locked door. I’d heard sinister stories—of shantytown rapes, thievery, and brutal, bloody fights. I determined to do something that might help her without being seen, but what?
As I lay there, worrying myself silly, one of the Hooverville rogues suddenly towered over me. “You got money, mister? You look like you got some money.”
I startled to a sitting position, making sure my briefcase was secure in the crook of my arm. He wasn’t a man, rather a very tall boy of about thirteen. Stretching out his hand, he tilted his head expectantly, which made his long, stringy bangs flop over his forehead. His hand was grimy, his shoes rifled with holes. He needed a good, soapy scrubbing, likely even a delousing.
In a sharper tone, he repeated his demand. “I need money. Now, mister!”
The fact that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer gave me a chill, but the slightest wavering in his fierce, golden eyes gave me the courage to follow a sudden idea. “I might have some money, but you’ll need to earn it, sonny.”
“How’s that?” The boy crooked his head in the other direction.
I pointed to the large container Fiera was occupying. “See that big box?” The fella spun around and nodded. “I’m going to go buy you a bite to eat, along with a bite for the person staying in that box. When I come back, I want you to bring her the food, and leave her a paper flyer. When you go, tuck it in the side of that box.”
“Why don’t you bring it over?” the kid asked. He was quick to add, “Look, I’m jakearoo with doing the chore if I get paid, but…” He squinted at me. “How come you don’t want her to see you?”
