by Jodi Picoult
At that, Ian almost laughs. He wouldn't live in this state if it were the last place on earth. "Give me an hour and I will."
He leads them to an Avis dealership and rents a car, signing it out on a Pagan Productions corporate credit card. Mariah remains in the background near a bank of phones, unwilling to risk being seen by someone who might later identify her or Faith. As he returns with keys in hand, Ian checks his watch and scowls. He has less than an hour to get to Michael.
"Do you know where you're going?" Mariah asks as they turn onto the interstate.
"West. I thought it might be better to get outside the city." And closer to Lockwood.
"You drive like you know your way."
"I come here a fair amount on business," Ian lies. "There's a little place in Ozawkie that rents cabins on Perry Lake. I've never stayed there, but I must have passed their sign a hundred times. I figured we could stop up there and give it a try first."
"Can we go swimming?"
Ian grins at Faith in the rearview mirror. "Don't think your mama's gonna let you swim when it's this cold. But I can't imagine she'd get angry at a little fishing."
In a while they turn off and drive across the flats from Missouri into Kansas. Mariah glances out the window, staring at stubbled fields where corn was recently harvested. Faith's nose is pressed to the glass. "Where are the mountains?"
"Home," Mariah murmurs.
As Mariah looks at the beaten shacks that comprise Camp Perry, she tells herself that beggars can't be choosers. She and Faith might have found more luxurious accommodations, but, as Fletcher has said, they'd also be easily traced. She watches him circle the manager's office and knock on the door, then step up and peer into a window. When no one answers, he shrugs and walks toward the car. "Looks like--"
"Can I help you?"
A little old lady with the look of a wren about her opens the door of the manager's office. "Why, yes'm, you can," Fletcher says, his voice dripping with charm. "My wife and I were hoping to rent one of your charming establishments."
Wife?
"We're closed for the season," the woman says. "Sorry."
Fletcher stares at her for a moment. "Surely a good Christian woman like yourself would be willing to make an exception if it furthered the work of Our Lord."
Mariah nearly chokes on her tongue. "Mommy," Faith whispers from the backseat, "how come he's talking weird?"
She cranes her neck back. "Ssh. He's putting on a show. Like a play for us to watch."
"Jesus told me to pack it all up October first," the woman says.
"That is a pure shame, ma'am." Ian shakes his head. "Because He told me to listen to His voice right here at Camp Perry." He comes forward, extending a hand. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Harry Walters, a preacher from Lou'ville. This here's my lovely wife, Maybelle, and my daughter Frances."
"Frances is a fine name," the woman says. "My maiden aunt's name."
"We thought so ourselves."
The woman cocks her head. "You say you're a preacher?"
"That I am. And a musical one at that. I'm the director of the Greater Kentucky Hymn Sing, and this year the Lord's called me to fashion a few new tunes in His name."
"I been to those hymn sings myself. Always did believe in offering up a joyful noise."
"Amen, ma'am," Fletcher says.
The woman throws up her hands. "Well, who am I to stand in the way of the Lord? I can't promise you regular housekeeping, but I imagine I can poke around and find some sheets yet." She walks back into the manager's house, presumably to find a key.
Ian Fletcher turns toward Mariah and Faith and gives a nearly imperceptible bow. Mariah bursts out with a startled laugh. The nerve of the man! He approaches the car and opens her door. "Maybelle, honey," he says, smiling hugely, "looks like I got us a temporary home."
"Maybelle? You couldn't have picked Melissa, or Marion, or--"
"I like Maybelle. It seems bovine."
Mariah glares at him, then turns to the backseat. "Come on, Faith--"
"Frances," Ian interrupts.
"Whatever." She helps Faith tug her knapsack from the car as the old lady comes out of the manager's house.
"You got bungalow seven. I go to bed at nine o'clock, and I don't care if it is Jesus you're singing to--you make sure it's quiet then." She turns and leaves them to their cabin.
Crossing the threshold, Ian becomes another person entirely. "Christ. Did someone die here last summer?"
Mariah, standing in the doorway, cannot fault his observation. To call the cabin rustic would be a stretch of flattery. A ratty braided rug with numerous stains graces the floor. Off the central room are two doors, one leading to a bathroom the size of a closet and one leading to the only bedroom. There's a coffee table, a frayed plaid couch, and a battered kitchen table, on which rests an assortment of mismatched, dusty Tupperware.
"This is gross." Faith scowls. "I don't want to stay here."
Mariah immediately forces herself to smile. "It's an adventure. Like camping out, except we have a bed." She peers into the bedroom. "Well, one of us has a bed."
Ian snorts. "You and Faith can sleep in it. I'll risk the communicable diseases growing on the couch." He sits down heavily on it and bows his head, his shoulders shaking in silence. For a stunned moment Mariah thinks he might be crying, but then a guffaw spills out of him as he tips back his head. "God, if my producer could see me now," he says, wiping his eyes. "The Winnebago is a goddamned palace compared to this."
It is at the mention of his producer that Mariah realizes what's been niggling at the back of her mind. She's terrified of being recognized, although she and Faith are still far from familiar faces. However, Ian Fletcher is a household name, a celebrity. And yet he can walk up to the Avis counter without causing a rush of fans; he can pretend to be Preacher Harry Walters and no one recognizes him. "How come?" she asks quietly. "How come she didn't know you?"
Ian grins. "This is the Bible Belt, sweetheart. We got hymn sings and little old ladies who want to please Jesus, but not a huge population of atheists. I've got a built-in disguise here, because I'm not real high on the must-see-TV list of most of these religious folk."
Mariah raises a brow. "You couldn't have known by looking at her that that old lady's never seen your show."
"I'd stake my bets."
Annoyed by his certainty, she crosses her arms. "Because she's elderly? Because she couldn't see through your snow job?"
"No, Miz White." Fletcher leans forward and flicks on the battered TV set to reveal a screen of static. "Because she doesn't have cable."
By the time Ian gets to Lockwood he's an hour and seventeen minutes late. He's left Mariah and Faith at the cabin with the excuse that he's going to find food at the market. Now he flies into the recreation room, where he usually finds Michael. Peering through the door, he sees Michael still sitting in his usual corner, tossing down cards.
Tempered with the wash of relief that Michael's waited for him is the bitter realization that there's nowhere for him to go.
"Hey." Ian pushes inside and draws up a chair. Sweat runs down his temple, but he doesn't remove his coat just yet. He knows the routine; first Michael has to acknowledge him.
A red card falls. Then a black one. Ian rubs his temple against his collar.
"Three-thirty," Michael says quietly.
"I know, buddy. I'm an hour and twenty minutes late."
"It's four fifty-one. Twenty seconds. Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-four--"
"I know what time it is, Michael." Irritated, Ian shrugs off his coat.
"Three-thirty. Three-thirty on Tuesday. That's the time that Ian comes." Michael begins to rock gently in his seat.
"Ssh, Michael. I'm sorry now. I won't let it happen again." Recognizing the warning signs, he moves slowly, holding his hands up as he comes closer.
"Three-thirty!" Michael yells. "Three-thirty on Tuesday. Not on Monday. Not Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday! Tuesday
Tuesday Tuesday!" As quickly as the outburst has come, it's over. He pulls his chair away from Ian, into the corner of the room, his shoulders hunched over his deck of cards.
"You were late."
Ian turns to find one of the psychiatrists who come daily to Lockwood standing a few feet away. His smile twists. "So I've been told."
"Michael has a gift for that, doesn't he?" The doctor laughs. "Your flight was late?"
"No. I got hung up on my way here."
"Well, in his world there's no room for mistakes. Don't take it personally."
Ian calls the man as he turns to go. "What do you think would happen if I came back tomorrow? Or a couple of days after?"
"You mean other than Tuesday at three-thirty?" The psychiatrist considers Michael, in the corner. "I think it would set him off again."
Ian nods and looks away. He'd thought so, too. It means that he has seven days, exactly, to get Faith White back here.
He sighs and pulls up a chair directly behind Michael. Ian can see the crown of his head, peppered with gray now, and it depresses him. What kind of life has it been here, for so long?
A better one than it almost was. The voice in his head is an absolution. Lockwood is a supervised-care facility, just one step away from a residential group home, and considerably better than an institution. One day, maybe, Michael will be ready to live on his own. Until then, this is the best care money can buy.
Wearily, Ian glances at his watch, and sits in silence for the rest of the hour, because even if Michael is not speaking to him directly, he's fully aware of how long Ian stays. He watches Michael rock, a metronome, and wonders how a man like himself, who has no use for the Bible, has become his brother's keeper.
By the time Ian returns to the cabin, the sun has set. Still rattled by Michael's outburst, he absently walks up the gravel path, lets himself inside, and stops dead. The small open room of the cabin is lit by candles, the scarred kitchen table covered with a checked table runner. Clean silverware and chipped dishes are laid out at place settings. Mariah has moved some of the furniture around to hide watermarks on the wooden floor and suspicious streaks on the walls. It's still not the sort of room to which he's accustomed, but it looks...almost cozy.
Mariah and Faith freeze on the couch like two deer caught in headlights. After a moment Mariah gets to her feet and wipes her palms on her thighs. "I figured if we were going to be here awhile..." she says, letting her voice trail off.
Ian's gaze falls to Faith and to the battered game of Yahtzee sprawled across the coffee table in front of her. The girl draws her knees up, hiding her face, and rattles the dice in her cupped palm. He fights the urge to sit beside her, to kick off his shoes and set his stockinged feet beside the Yahtzee tumblers.
"...in the car?"
It is a moment before Ian realizes Mariah is speaking to him. What stuff in the car? Groaning, he remembers his excuse for leaving--the groceries. "I, uh, haven't gotten around to it yet," he says, backing toward the door. "I'll head out now." He all but flees outside, before Mariah can ask him where he's been all this time, before he breaks down and simply tells her.
It begins to rain as he drives away from the cabin. In the rearview mirror he sees Mariah standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the yellow light from the candles. Where did she find those candles? Or the board game? Or any of the other stuff, for that matter? Ian's hands tremble on the steering wheel as he tries to remember the way to the nearest Piggly Wiggly. The frayed rugs, the battered games, the woman waiting on him--they circle in his mind. He forces himself to make a mental list of what he'll buy: milk and juice and eggs, cereal and soda pop and macaroni, item after item crowding out the unsettling thought that the life he has been leading, for all its luxury, is nowhere near as fine.
Her mother keeps skipping the good parts. It's bad enough that Faith has no books for a bedtime story--in spite of what her mother said, Reader's Digest doesn't count--but now her mom can't even get through a memorized version of Little Red Riding Hood without telling it wrong. "The basket of food," Faith prompts. "For Grandma. Remember?"
"Right." Her mother keeps looking at the door. Faith guesses it's because she's hungry. Ian Fletcher was supposed to bring dinner, but he'd spaced out, and so all Faith had was a handful of Tic-Tacs from her mother's purse. If she closes her eyes and tunes out her mother's voice, she can hear her stomach gurgling, like the falls down by the New Canaan Dam.
"So Red Riding Hood gets to the door and knocks and the wolf--"
"You didn't even talk about the wolf yet," Faith complains. "He has to eat Grandma."
"For God's sake, Faith, if you know it so well, why don't you just tell it to yourself!"
When she was getting into her nightgown, Faith had said something like she hoped God could find her all the way out here in Kansas, and her mother had jumped at her and said she absolutely, positively couldn't talk about God in front of Ian Fletcher. Now her mother doesn't even want to tuck her in. Faith rolls onto her side. If she cries right now, she doesn't want anyone to see it. "Fine," she mutters.
She feels her mother's hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."
"Whatever."
"No, it was wrong of me. I'm hungry and I'm tired, but that's not your fault." Her mother scrubs the heels of her hands into her eyes and sighs. "I'm not up for a bedtime story right now, Faith, okay?"
"Okay," she murmurs.
Her mother smiles and kisses her hair. "Thanks."
As she gets up, Faith reaches for her sleeve. "I don't like it here." Her voice catches in her throat, which embarrasses her, but she doesn't know how to stop it. And before she even has a chance to try to stop them, the tears come. "It smells funny and they don't have the Disney Channel and there's nothing to eat."
"I know, honey. But Mr. Fletcher's going to fix that."
"How come he's even here? How come we have to stay with him?"
Her mother suddenly looks so upset that Faith wishes she'd never even asked the stupid question. "We'll go one day at a time," her mother says. "If living with Mr. Fletcher doesn't work out, we'll just take a plane somewhere else. Las Vegas, maybe."
That soothes Faith. She feels her mother curl up behind her. It makes Faith think of a hammock in their yard, a web of rope that she thought would unravel the first time she leaned back on it, but that managed to support her all the same. "Maybe we'll get lucky," Faith answers, yawning.
Her mother's arms come around her, hold fast. "Maybe we will."
First thing, he smells the smoke. Twin towers of fire reach up as far as he can see, making black spots before his eyes, but he knows that he has to get through them. His parents, Christ, they're burning--He dives headfirst into the heat, ignoring the pain that races up his arms and legs and flays the skin off his back. His eyes swell with the heat and the soot, but he can see five fingers, the outline of a hand, and he stretches toward it, slips palm against palm, and closes around a wrist. A yank--they're tumbling free now, and he lands clear, only to find that he's holding tight to his brother. His brother, who cannot be touched, who cannot bear to be touched, who stares at Ian's hands on his shoulders and screams loud, loud, loud--
"Mr. Fletcher." He jerks away, sweating, the covers pooled onto the floor. Mariah White kneels beside the hideous couch, touching his arm. "You were having a nightmare."
"It wasn't a nightmare," Ian insists, although his voice is still hoarse. It wasn't a nightmare, because that would mean he's been asleep for a while, and the chances of that are next to nothing. He shrugs away from her and huddles at the far end of the couch, wiping his sweaty face with the edge of his T-shirt.
He should have known better than to try to stay in Kansas City and pretend that it would be all right. The town holds nothing for him but rotten memories. Even if his ploy to get Faith and Michael together works, it's inevitable that he'll experience some of the fallout.
Mariah offers him a glass of tap water. Hand shaking, he takes it and drinks deeply. H
is eyes follow hers to the counter, where he's set the nonperishable groceries. When he'd come home last night, the door to the tiny bedroom had been closed and a stack of sheets and blankets left on the couch. He'd told himself that rather than bang around cabinets and wake the Whites, he'd just get to it all in the morning. Then he'd pulled out a pad and scribbled notes for next week's broadcast. It is the last thing he remembers, until finding Mariah White by his side.
"You were saying something about a fire," she says hesitantly.
"I'm sure I was saying a whole lot of things."
"I wouldn't know. I only just came out."
"I didn't wake your daughter, did I?"
Mariah shakes her head. "Faith sleeps like a rock."
"Then I apologize for waking you."
"Well, you didn't exactly wake me." A smile ghosts over her lips. "That mattress was a torture device in a previous life."
Ian laughs. "They probably used it to finish off the prisoners who didn't succumb to this couch."
His eyes meet hers. "I should check on Faith," Mariah says softly.
"Right. You go on ahead. And I'm sorry."
She reaches for the sheets, tangled on the floor, and snaps them into the air so that they billow over Ian and settle like a whisper onto his lap. Then she gives a quick, smooth tug at the satin edge of the blanket, bringing it up to cover him. A simple, instinctive move, a routine any mother knows by heart, and yet Ian finds himself holding his breath until she steps away, for fear he might break the spell.
"Good night, Ian," she says, and he nods at her, unable to find his voice. He watches the small, smooth curves of her bare heels as they strike the floor, watches as she pulls the bedroom door shut behind her. Then he picks up his pen and pad again and smiles, realizing that, for the first time, Mariah White has used his given name.
New Canaan, New Hampshire
Millie is going crazy. Would it have been so much trouble for Mariah to at least call from a pay phone and say they were all right? She's held up her part of the bargain--driving the car home, and taking care of the house in their absence, but she's on borrowed time and she knows it. Everyone saw her get out of the car alone. Sooner or later, when Faith and Mariah don't turn up, they're going to start asking questions.
