Julie couldn’t spot a thing out of place.
Then she realized, and lifted a hand to her head. She ducked, expecting a gray-winged missile to dive-bomb her, as she approached the cage Callum had made.
It was empty.
The opening Callum had cut in the slats was closed, the hasp he had attached securely hooked. No way could a bird escape, and even if it had, it wouldn’t have locked the door behind itself. Julie looked around for stray feathers or droppings, but none were visible. It was as if the bird had disappeared in a poof from inside its cage.
Julie headed to the hallway outside the classroom, and when she passed the stage, the curtain shimmied. Just the slightest warble in the fabric, but Julie grabbed a fistful of cloth and yanked it back.
Peter stood on stage, a few sheets of paper in his hand, staring out at the room.
Julie sucked in a small breath.
“I started writing my lines and was practicing them,” he said for explanation.
Julie was torn between praising the boy’s industry and a need to bring him back in line. “Even so, you can’t enter the school before hours,” she said. “Besides, don’t you think we should hold tryouts for parts? Find out who can sing and dance and act?”
Peter threw her a look of such certainty and confidence, she could see the stamp of his heritage, like a crown and a stole, upon him. This was a child who’d never had cause to doubt he would get what he wanted.
But the play wasn’t the most pressing matter right now.
“Peter,” Julie said. “Where is the bird? Where’s Gully?”
Chapter Forty-Six
The boy lowered himself into a crouch, straightening the pages of his script.
“Peter?”
He had killed the bird. Julie was suddenly sure of it, and she took several steps away from the stage without realizing she was doing so. She had interrupted the boy’s machinations with the creature the first time, so he’d come to school early today to finish the job.
Disgust rippled through her. She forced words out. “Did you hurt Gully, Peter?”
The pages fell from his hand, sliding across the slick surface of the stage. “Why would I do that?” he mumbled, not looking at her.
“I don’t know,” Julie answered honestly. “But I’d like to. I won’t get mad at you, I promise. And if I’m upset, it’s just because, well, this is an upsetting situation. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to help you. That’s all I want to do.”
Peter’s features set in a stolid frown. “I didn’t hurt Gully—”
“Peter,” Julie said, feeling her hands form fists. She didn’t want to be frustrated with this child who was clearly in need of help, but he incited helplessness in her, confoundment of a sort only outdone in Julie’s life by grief. “You can tell me the truth—”
“I released him.”
Julie unclenched her hands. “Did you say you released him?”
Peter began sweeping his pages into place. “He needed to be with other gulls.” He sent a pleading glance in Julie’s direction. “He didn’t belong here with us.”
Julie stared back at him, sensing there was more to those words than just their surface meaning, but having no idea how to get at it.
Peter had returned to patting his papers into a neat stack, which suddenly he tore at. The pile was surprisingly thick—how much could the boy have written last night?—and he dropped a few of the pages, flinging others down in order to gut the remainder. He began to rip the sheets so violently that the skin on his hands sliced, vicious paper cuts that streaked the white leaves he let fly with bloody slashes.
“Peter!” Julie cried. She crossed the distance she’d put between herself and the stage. “Please stop!”
But the boy kept ripping and tearing, using his teeth as well as his hands, hurling smaller and smaller sections of paper into the air, a blizzard of destruction. His mouth opened in a snarl, his hands formed claws.
“Peter,” Julie said helplessly, but her voice was drowned out by his growls, a sound she recognized, frightening and shameful and familiar. The last time she’d witnessed sorrow like this, it had been her own.
Julie reached out, wrapping her arms around Peter’s biting, clawing, flailing body from behind, a hug of restraint and shared desperation, until finally he began to still, and the remaining riot of paper settled over the two of them like a shroud.
Peter looked at her as if he hadn’t until that minute known she was there, his blue eyes blank. “He didn’t belong here,” he said.
Then the barn doors opened and a crush of children ran in.
* * *
The students surged inside, all thrumming energy in their attempts to get dry, excited for the weekend ahead. Shedding coats, snapping umbrellas shut, but slowing in their efforts when they noticed the goings-on onstage. They stood in silent array, facing Julie and Peter.
Julie extricated herself as unobtrusively as possible, trying not to call attention to Peter’s shaking shoulders and bowed form. She got to her feet, sidling in front of the boy to shield him from view as the children looked on.
For a minute words failed her, no reasonable explanation occurring, and as the silence drew itself out, the children began to exchange looks.
“Peter was practicing,” Julie blurted out.
A pause, more shared glances.
“We thought there could be a storm.” It matched Peter’s current emotional state anyway, gave him motivation.
Macy pointed to the bits of paper on stage. “Like with snow you mean?”
Julie felt a jolt of gratitude as all the children turned to the older girl.
“We could make cutout flakes!” a kindergartner said.
“A winter storm would be epic,” said the seventh-grade boy, and Macy gave him a kindly nod before he could start cycling on about weather and cold.
“I agree,” Julie said.
“This play is going to be so mega,” a fifth grader announced, lifting her chin.
“Yeah!” said several more.
“I wanna practice too!” complained one of the younger children. “Is Peter the only one who gets to?”
“Peter, when do we get to rehearse?” asked an older kid.
Julie turned back to the boy onstage. “Gather up that snow,” she instructed.
It took Peter a second, then he set to the task. “Snow. Yeah.”
Julie hopped off the stage. “Soon,” she promised the assembled students. “But first I have some news for you. Gully made an especially fast recovery and this morning was set free!” Julie figured she didn’t have to specify who had done the freeing.
“He was?” said a fifth-grade boy, sounding suspicious. “Already?”
Julie held up a restraining hand before the rest of his peers could join him in mutiny. “I wasn’t sure how sturdy the cage was. It’s a bit makeshift, remember? Besides, Gully is better off in the wild with his friends,” she concluded.
And prayed she was right.
* * *
Despite her prior plan of being hands off, Julie kept Peter inside at lunch, appraising his mood after the morning’s meltdown. She also wanted to ask him about the still-absent Eddie. Peter had made that cryptic comment after the party about not being able to be friends with the younger boy, a statement belied by his position as lord high ruler of the school.
The pronouncement Martha had made when Julie arrived at the Rainbow Pavilion gave her an opening. She waited until Peter had swallowed the last of his sandwich, then said, “Did Eddie come to the party at your grandparents’ house alone?”
Peter pulled a granola bar out and proceeded to unwrap it. “No.”
“With his parents? His father, I mean?” she amended, recalling Scherer’s words.
Peter ate half the bar in one bite. “His dad told Eddie to go play with us �
�cause he had work to do.” He put an ironic emphasis on the word, sixth graders being far too worldly and mature for play.
“So Mr. Cowry suggested his son hang out with you all on those rocks.” Did the dad know he was setting Eddie up for a world of trouble, or was he just out of the kiddie social sphere as most parents were? “What do you mean, he had work?”
Peter stood up, crushing his lunch bag into a ball. The boy’s hands had been slivered by the script, and his friends had admired the red etchings on his skin all morning, like gang badges or tattoos. “Mr. Cowry does stuff for my grandmother and the Captain. That’s how come we can’t be friends. Who wants to hang with a kid whose family tells your dad what to do?” He gave a shrug. “Besides, they’re dubs.”
There was a crushing weight to Peter’s words, an understanding, but nowhere near a full one, of the order of things, how it trapped people in cages they could never escape.
Both sides in cages. One of them was just bigger and finer.
* * *
The rest of Friday passed quickly, the students working together on the script that Peter had begun, and which turned out to be quite an original take on the tale. Julie explained that she would serve as director and be involved with casting, but other than that, the kids could be in charge of what they had decided to call Rapunzel Returns.
Aside from Peter, the sixth-grade boys seemed uninterested in performance, for once not following their king’s lead. Although they did react to the idea of sets and carpentry with a series of fist bumps and ideas for how to construct something they described to each other in whispers behind hands, telling Julie that she had put them in charge, so this would be a surprise. The limited number of roles in both the fairy tale and its retelling was turning out to be a boon for the girls who liked costume design, as well as the too-cool-for-school team on hair and makeup. Julie watched the children collaborate, breaking into groups and making plans, with a tidal surge of joy in her heart. They were doing great.
Most of them.
Eddie’s second day in a row of absenteeism was a concern, especially given Scherer’s stern warning. Since Dad worked for Peter’s grandparents, Julie might just get lucky and find him there. For it had struck her that perhaps she’d gone to the wrong mother first.
It wasn’t Martha who held the reins over the Hempstead clan, the woman really in command. To find that person, Julie needed to pay a visit to the grandmother’s home, the drab, crumbling carapace, which had birthed Martha. Learn more about whatever had driven her and her son from the house Julie now occupied and into the furious burst of color known as the Rainbow Pavilion.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Eddie first, though.
The prior teacher had listed an address, but no phone, for the elder Cowry. Landlines were a luxury on Mercy, which meant inquiries about students had to be made not just pre-email or text, but pre–Alexander Graham Bell.
With no lunchtime outing, Depot was in dire need of exercise, bounding along the shoreline and up the road that led to town. The rain had stopped, but a gray pall lay over the island, thick and cottony. Moisture condensed on Julie’s clothes and Depot’s fur as they walked, the air wet enough to drink.
Eddie and his father lived in a shack on what had to be one of the least scenic patches of land on the island. Julie stood on tiptoes, peering through a cracked window. The house appeared to have once been an outbuilding, now crudely winterized with exposed puffs of fiberglass insulation and divided into a meager pair of rooms. There was nobody home, but Julie left a note asking Mr. Cowry to get ahold of her at school, then set off again, hoping she would find him at her next stop.
When Julie came to the foursquare of cottages, however, she decided to pause, and knocked on Ellie’s door. Depot lagged behind, his forepaws poised and snout pointed toward the woods. Julie addressed him over her shoulder. “Not going home yet, sorry.”
Ellie greeted them both with her customary smile, and a glass of wine in her hand. Julie must’ve winced—or startled—some involuntary tell, because Ellie’s smile faded.
“Shit,” she said. “I told you. I never stick to it.”
Is Ellie the right friend for you to be having? Julie heard Callum say. She reached out and grabbed her friend’s arm. “Oh God, I’ve turned into one of those obnoxious, judgy sober saints. I’d rather be a drunk.”
Ellie laughed. “No, no, you’re totally right. It’s just not a good time for me to quit. And to save you having to get all sanctimonious—and then feel guilty about it—yes, I know that’s an excuse, and yes, I still want a refill. Can I pour you a Diet Coke?”
“Sure,” Julie said, entering the cottage. “Mind if Depot comes in?”
The dog had stayed facing the woods. He chose to lie down on Ellie’s front stoop, hind and forelegs dangling off the sides, instead of prolonging the visit cooped up inside.
Julie followed Ellie toward a small kitchen. “This place is so cute.”
There were blue and green throw pillows on the couch, embroidered with old-fashioned needlepoint A’s and E’s, and watercolor seascapes on the walls.
“I feel lucky to have it,” Ellie said. “My mom—my parents, I should say, considering who the real wage earner was—paid off the mortgage, so it’s just a matter of maintaining it.”
Julie sipped her soda. “Hey, mind if I pick your brain about something?”
Ellie lifted her empty glass and examined the red tinge at the bottom. “Let me just open another bottle. Unless this is going to be a problem for you?”
“Not unless you’re planning on a scotch chaser.”
Ellie squeezed behind Julie, accessing a tiny space by the back door. She stooped down and opened the flaps on a carton of wine bottles. As she took one out, Julie saw a couple of items in the empty partitions.
She frowned, joining Ellie beside the box. “What’s this?”
Ellie crossed to a little bistro table and set the bottle down. “Crackers?” she said, twisting to look while tugging at a corkscrew. “I get my fix and my food from Amazon mostly. Perry’s only gets me so far.”
Julie shook her head, pawing between grocery items. “This,” she said, holding out a package of leashes.
Unexpectedly, Ellie’s eyes filled.
Julie jumped to her feet.
Ellie had filled her glass to the rim; now she drained it, swallowing steadily before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The skin came away smudged purple.
“El?” Julie said.
Ellie sniffed loudly, and blotted her face. “I never really answered your question about being a dog person, did I?”
Julie thought back to the day they had met. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I was just being nosy. And weird.”
Ellie shook her head, pouring a liberal serving from the freshly uncorked bottle. Ruby-colored liquid sloshed over the side of her glass, spotting the table. “You’ve seen me quit cold turkey, then fall off the wagon like five seconds later. And I’ve seen you have sex for the first time since your puritanical husband stopped pleasing you—”
Julie cut in, laughing. “Callum and I have not had sex!”
Ellie flapped a dismissive hand. “Whatevs, you will soon. Anyway, point being, I should be able to tell you this, close as we’ve become.”
Julie felt a smile build that was totally inappropriate, given the story she sensed she was about to hear. She hid her expression, focusing on the spilled wine.
Ellie swiped at it with a cloth. “The dog I had since high school died. Just a few months before you got here actually. We rescued him as a puppy, and he lived longer than anybody had a right to expect. Outlived both my parents. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
Julie bowed her head. She could imagine the pain Ellie was suffering.
“Sometimes I still buy stuff, just out of habit.” Ellie
lifted her glass to her lips. “It’s dumb, I know. It’s almost like…I forget that he’s gone.”
“That’s not dumb,” Julie whispered. Her throat felt as if it were wedged with clay. There was so much she still had to share with Ellie. “What was your dog’s name?”
A smile briefly lit Ellie’s face. “Smarmy.”
“Smarmy?”
Ellie nodded happily. “Oh, and he so was. Smarmy thought he knew better than anyone else on the planet.” She paused. “You know what? He pretty much did.”
They both laughed.
Ellie sank down in a chair. “Remember the first day I thought I had a ball for Depot? I buy those sometimes too.”
Julie thought back, made an aha face when it hit her.
“What was it you wanted to pick my brain about?” Ellie asked.
It took Julie a second to pull herself back to the events of her day. “I’m going to see the Hempsteads after this. Anything more you can tell me about the grandmother?”
Ellie’s smile evaporated, and she even seemed to forget her wine, glass dangling from her hand. “I thought we said you were going to be kind of hands off for a while.”
“I know, we did, but I don’t think I can be. He freaked out in the classroom before school started today.”
Ellie bore down on the cloth she’d used to wipe up the wine spill, knotting and balling it with her free hand.
“Stop murdering that dishrag,” Julie said. “Look, what’s the big deal if I talk to the Hempsteads? You’re the second person to try and steer me away from them today. I went to talk to Paul Scherer, and he all but ordered me to focus on Eddie Cowry instead.”
Ellie’s mouth twisted bitterly.
“What?” Julie asked her.
Ellie didn’t respond.
Julie leaned forward, catching her friend’s hand in hers. “El, listen, there’s a child at risk here, and I don’t even know who it is. I’m stumbling around in the dark and it’s like there are all these forces amassed and I can’t even see what I’m facing—”
The Second Mother Page 23
