Widow's Walk, page 19
Running his thumb over the surface of the coin, he wondered if he could use it to buy a candy bar or gum. On second thought, he would keep it to bring to Grandma as a present. She would like it, and might even be able to tell him where it came from. The candy bar could wait. Grandma would have the coin as a present from him.
The rain came harder, stung more. It was time to take his chances in the woods. A quick brush over his clothes moved the leaves and small branch aside. He stood on legs tight with cold and damp and turned to the rock he had leaned against. His eyes widened, his jaw slackened.
There was a name carved in the rock.
His name.
Next to his name was today’s date.
He licked his dry lips and stared unseeing at a far off point. Darkness tugged at the back of his mind. It turned him inward and beckoned to a safe place where he was more than willing to go now. His eyes rolled up into his head; the eyelids fluttered with myriad thoughts. There was nothing left to do and nowhere else to go but inward.
Inside the dark, he would be safe from the laughter on the wind and from rocks that held his name. It promised him safety from anything that could hurt him.
The darkness opened its arms to him.
He went to it.
Chapter 23
Light from the bare bulb in Kenzie’s store glowed under the door of Eleanor Trippett’s room like a flashlight in a deserted campground. The cash register rang almost non-stop and added to the din of excited conversation. She knew they were all islanders by the now familiar voices, and they were all men. It seemed the women had better things to do before a storm than last-minute gossip in a drafty building tainted with the smell of old bait, spilled beer, and stale tobacco smoke.
Slowly and methodically, she pulled the black veil over her face, pinned it in place then slid the gloves over her hands.
Kenzie’s warnings last night finally superseded his quest for additional pocket change when he suggested she leave the island immediately. She had acknowledged his advice with a nod then refused. Concern for her safety in this rickety building during a storm, or outside in the harsh elements, was dismissed as unimportant sometime before Kenzie even approached her.
The storm, eventually, would pass, the damage totaled, and the repairs began. But some things could never be repaired so she would stay and do what she could to prevent it.
Taking a deep breath, she stood tall, opened the door to her room, and stepped over the threshold.
Conversation ceased. The myriad acts of loading canned goods into boxes halted. All eyes turned to her and waited.
She met their gazes. “I’m looking for a man.”
They looked at each other as if collectively agreeing on the topic of conversation after her departure. No doubt, the subject would be Eleanor Trippett.
A grizzled man wearing faded coveralls wheezed, coughed then spat a stream of brown tobacco juice in the direction of a bucket in the corner of the room. He ran a hand across his mouth and smiled at her with his few broken teeth, and took a deep swig from a beer.
“Well, you ain’t gonna find a man dressed up like that, I can tell you.”
A ripple of guarded amusement traveled through the men congregated around the cash register.
“That’s God’s truth. ’Course with a little fixing up, you might be worth a second look.”
“But what’s she gotta look at, Gabe?” The man in a rain parka smiled broadly. “A woman’s gotta be blind, and stupid to boot, to take up with the likes of you.”
Gabe snarled then slowly recognized the joke. “Maybe so. Maybe so. I’ve had my fair share of the ladies, and can’t no one tell you otherwise.”
The man in the parka winked. “Stockpiling centerfold pictures doesn’t count.”
“C’mon boys, enough already.” Kenzie leaned his beer-induced girth against the cracked wood counter, stroked his beard with a fleshy hand decorated by a horseshoe-shaped diamond ring, and cleared his throat. “What can I do for you, little lady? You say you’re looking for someone?”
“That’s right.”
“Has he got a name?”
“Richard. He works for Sybil and Winston Mann. Where might I find him?”
Gabe stumbled toward her, stopped short, then tried to check his sway while peering closely through her black veil. “Who are you with such high and mighty talk?”
“Back off, Gabe,” Kenzie ordered.
“Won’t do it, Kenzie, and you can’t make me.” He leaned toward Eleanor. “And what business have you got asking for folks that have better things to do with their time, when you won’t even show us what you look like? What are you anyway? A ghost?” His laugh turned to a wheeze and a rattling cough.
She closed her eyes at the stench of alcohol from him, but never moved. “Do you know where I might find this Richard person, Mr. Kenzie?”
“I’d be more than happy to give a call over to Winston and find out, Mrs. Trippett, but I’m afraid the phones are out. Could be days before they come back on.”
“Trippett?” Gabe dipped precariously to one side then caught himself with a step back. “I know that name.”
“It’s getting kinda dangerous out there.” Kenzie nodded at the window. “But I suppose you might still have a chance at making it to their house if you’ve a mind to do that. I wouldn’t advise it, though. Wind could knock a little thing like yourself clear out to the next island.”
“I’ll take my chances, Mr. Kenzie.” She skirted the drunken Gabe and walked to the door.
Gabe reeled after her. “I know who you are now. Yes, I do.”
“C’mon, Gabe,” Kenzie said. “Don’t do this.”
“It was a long time ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. You were at Manchester Place, weren’t you?”
Kenzie came out from behind the cash register. “You’re cut off, Gabe, no more beer. And I think you better head on home now.”
“I ain’t going nowhere.” Gabe pointed his finger in Eleanor’s general direction. “You killed that boy sure as I’m standing here. Weren’t no effen proof, but I know it had to be you since no one else was there.”
Eleanor Trippett turned to him and stood frozen in place.
He hesitated, eyes widened, then took two steps back. “You don’t scare me.”
“Don’t I?”
Gabe spit, wiped his hand across his mouth, then backed to the counter and the cash register with the other men. “Damn women. Aw, hell with it.”
“Don’t I scare you?” She slowly walked to him. “I should. If someone’s killed once it’s easier the second time, you’ve heard that, haven’t you? The second time is much easier because there’s nothing left to lose. And there needn’t even be a good reason for killing again. In fact, there needn’t be a reason at all, but you’ve given me plenty of reasons. Should I list them, or will you figure that out all by your drunken self?”
Gabe’s face paled. He slid down the front of the counter and turned away from her. “I didn’t mean nothing by it,” he whimpered.
“Hell with it?” She bent over him. “You don’t know what hell is.”
Smoothing the black dress and the veil across her face, she turned on the heel of her pointed black shoes and walked out of the store.
“Get up, Gabe, you old fool. As if a storm outside wasn’t enough, you had to go and get one started in here. Damn fool.”
She paced the wooden planks outside the store. Damn fool was right, but Gabe was just one of many. Maybe she was, too. Sybil’s passing mention of this Richard fellow yesterday, and his growing romantic interest in Annie Cameron, had planted the seed in Eleanor’s mind. If she could talk to him, convince him of her theory, then maybe Annie and her son would have a chance. It was worth a try, however absurd it sounded. So maybe Gabe was not the only fool in the store this day.
The disagreeable drunkard had done something right, though, something she never thought possible anymore. He had made her angry. After two-and-a-half decades of feeling nothing, any emotion would have been progress. The first to show itself after so long was anger, and it felt good. It felt great. And there was a lot more where that came from.
“This is pretty bad weather for taking a walk, don’t you think?”
He was wearing blue jeans tucked into brown boots. A flannel shirt poked out from under a heavy jacket. He smiled at her from a handsome face covered in two days worth of beard and crowned by a mass of dark, curly hair.
“Are you a friend of Annie Cameron?”
His face a blank mask one second, reddened the next. “In a way, I guess. Maybe. In a way.”
“I’ve been trying to find you.”
“My name’s Richard.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I don’t think I know who you are.”
“Annie’s in trouble and needs your help.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Eleanor sat down on the bench by the door to Kenzie’s store and patted the place next to her.
“Sit. I don’t expect you to believe what I’m going to say, but I hope you’ll hear me out anyway. You’re the only one who can help.”
Chapter 24
The rain stung her cheek then clung to her like a second skin. Sybil wiped a bare hand across her forehead, pushed away tentacles of wet hair, and squinted in the overcast gray dawn. By her calculations, it was a little after six.
Fallen leaves stuck to her booted feet. A pile of twigs, damp from the rain, bent then snapped with her weight. She jumped at the sound. It was sharp compared to the almost hypnotic one of rolling wind, and rain rhythmically dropping through trees and shrubbery to ground. The harsh sound seemed almost out of place in the quiet the storm had brought.
Maybe it was the sedative she had taken that brought the contrast so harshly to her ear. The little pills were still as potent as she remembered, and as effective in bringing about a much-deserved calm. She could cope with anything now.
Her feet moved at a pace separate from her will. She would have them take their time, but they were on a mission of their own. It was a task of goodwill if she remembered correctly.
Yes, goodwill. That’s right. She would see that Charlie was okay then smuggle him back to her house for a hot meal, a warm bath, and a comfortable bed with a kiss on the forehead before his eyes closed to sleep. He deserved a little calm, too.
A twinge of anxiety penetrated the drug then dissipated as quickly. She smiled at the thought her plans would be realized then hoped she would know what to do for Annie. Annie was just as much a victim as Charlie, more so in a way, but Annie was an adult. By virtue of age and experience, adults weren’t supposed to be as vulnerable.
She stopped suddenly. If that idea were true, what was the defense for her deeds at Manchester Place? Taking a deep breath, she claimed the calm again by refusing the bad thought and patted her pocket to make sure the pills were where they had been a few seconds ago. They were. Sighing deeply, she allowed her feet to carry her farther into the woods.
It was a circuitous route to the big house on the bay, but a way to keep out of sight of the windows. A squirrel scurried in front of her and disappeared into the underbrush. Her feet were moving, the animal ran off, yet things were suddenly slowed, as if someone had shifted a record from seventy-eight to thirty-three. The time wasn’t right. It was all too slow; there was too much time.
She patted the cylindrical bottle in her pocket, just to make sure.
If she had the little pills at Manchester Place, maybe things would have been okay. Phillip would be here, Winston would read to him every night, she would make tea and sugar cookies, and everything would be just the way it should. They would be a family again, they would be happy, and Phillip would always be their little boy.
She leaned into the wind, ignored the rain stinging her face, and traced the edges of the pill bottle in her pocket.
She missed Phillip more than she thought she could after so many years. Winston was right. It never got better. Memories were pushed away, crowded out with the urgency of things that needed doing here and now, but they never went away. Like a flower or the fragile shoot of a tree in a broken sidewalk, memories pushed up and out when they should have been buried under cement.
Or under earth.
Sybil missed Phillip’s pranks, his puns, his crooked smile when he had been caught doing some minor infraction. If only she had just one more time to touch his face, tell him how she loved him, tell him she was sorry.
She stroked her pocket, pushed the bottle back and forth, back and forth. If she listened close enough, even over the wind that surrounded her, she could almost hear the few pills left rattle around in the bottle. This was the first time she had been here since it happened. She knelt, then pushed away a pile of damp leaves, and ran a finger over the carved letters.
Phillip Mann.
His name was engraved in cold marble. There was nothing else: no date, no inscription, no age. There was only a simple name unless one was lucky enough to know the person behind the name or underneath the marble.
Marble, like memories, decayed with time, withered away in the elements if it were given long enough. How long was enough? She brushed a leaf from the top of the stone as if brushing a strand of hair from the boy’s forehead.
Phillip had been feverish that night, trembling from the chill of pneumonia. She brushed sweat-damp hair out of his eyes and felt his high temperature on her lips with the kiss. He smiled at her through his illness and turned to his father for the next Chapter of Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Sybil had taken care of him, bathed away his chills, fed him when he was hungry, and still he looked to Winston for answers, for consolation with a scraped knee or a homework problem. He was the son, and she was the mother, and always there were responsibilities.
Winston departed after Phillip’s eyes closed, and the last word of the last Chapter ended the book for the tenth, maybe even fifteenth, time. He left his son to finish the chores before the cold, windy rain could cause any more damage.
It was dark that night, darker than it had ever been before on the widow’s walk. She had barely been able to make out the shadows of the big oak that grew near the walk, and squinted in the dark until she felt the low railing press against her. Any other night and the moon would have cast a warm tunnel-like glow across the bay. That night it was different.
The voice told her what she must do if she would see the light come across the bay. She wanted that light, wanted it more than anything. So every night, she had walked and waited, and every night ended in confusion, disappointment, and finally, anger that ate away at her until it found a small crack where it could escape.
Phillip.
Leaning against the cool of the marble headstone, she wished she could produce a tear. There were none left. Years of weeping had left her dry. Still, she wished things could have been different.
And maybe they would be now. She had one chance left, no more. Too many things were riding on her actions: Charlie, herself, and in hindsight, Phillip.
She pulled back from the marble, caressed it one more time, and promised him she’d be back. He wouldn’t wait twenty-seven years to see her again. Sybil rose slowly, fingered the bottle in her pocket then gasped. “Charlie?”
Fear held her feet solidly in place unwilling to propel her forward just as minutes ago they would barely stop.
He was pale, and still in a wind that should have knocked him over. His gaze stared past her. They were colorless eyes, dead eyes.
She stared at the wet shirt, and trousers plastered to his frail body. He was so little, so vulnerable. Father in Heaven, he had no shoes.
Sybil went to him. He tottered then fell into her arms like a piece of wood. “Boy, boy, boy. My little boy.”
She pulled Charlie to her, rubbed his arms, his chest, anything she could touch as if the act of stroking would warm him. Without ever losing a physical connection to him, she slid her coat down her shoulders, over her arms, and around him like a blanket. She yanked the scarf off her head and pulled it over his with a quick tie under his neck and a kiss to his forehead. God, he was cold. She lifted his chin with her hand and looked deep in his eyes.
“Charlie, talk to me. Are you okay?”
He stared past her with an expression she remembered seeing in old Mrs. Cameron. The look turned inward, away from the pain, away from things that were happening against her own will. Now that same expression was etched across Charlie’s face.
Sybil wrapped her arms around him, but it wasn’t enough. If she didn’t get him indoors and warmed up, he would die. She glanced back from where she came, scrutinized the other way, and knew there was no choice. Manchester Place was by far the closer.
What the hell was he doing out here in the first place? She shuddered at the thought, and knew the answer. It had already started in the house. They couldn’t risk going to Manchester Place, not now. Not ever. Closing her eyes, she wished for another pill from the small bottle but was afraid to let Charlie go. They’d have to make it back to her own house somehow.
He whimpered and blinked as if trying to orient himself. Uncontrollable shivering racked his body. He clung to her, dug his fingers into her flesh. She patted his head, brushed her hand across his cheek, and pulled back at the touch. Cold skin had turned hot. There was no way around it. He had to get to a house before he caught his death. Manchester Place would have to do.
Under her breath, she said words of hope, of help, then bundled him up in her clothes as tight as she could and propelled him across the debris-laden ground as fast as she dared. He went easily as if the wind dispersed any will he had left. She talked about a recent magazine article she had read on losing ten pounds in ten minutes, discussed the merits of wood stoves versus fireplaces, explained the difference between detergents, and spouted off the ingredients used in gingerbread.
Manchester Place loomed into view.
Holding him tight, she stopped the recipe recitation at the point the cake entered the oven. It was a mistake to bring him here; it was wrong. She should have taken him to her house, even if she had to carry him every step of the way.
