The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  Something in her words seemed to jar Ellie, and she burst out, “I bet Scherer was working on a house, right?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was,” Julie said slowly.

  Ellie nodded her head with a vicious jab. “A rental property. And guess who it belongs to? The Hempsteads. I can say so without even hearing which house it was. Ninety percent of Scherer’s contracting or handyman jobs are on places owned by the Hempsteads. Another portion of his income comes from his position as superintendent.” A deliberate pause. “Know who’s head of the school board?”

  Julie felt like she was in a room with walls that were being pushed farther and farther out, its perimeter no longer visible. Just how far was the Hempstead reach?

  Ellie gave a sharp, jagged lift of her shoulders. “Scherer’s also constable, an elected position. And the island election committee is headed by none other than—”

  Julie interrupted her friend. “This still doesn’t explain why Peter is so troubled.”

  Ellie shook her head. “Peter’s the island golden child, always has been, ever since he was born. You’re just seeing the effects of great wealth and unchecked power.”

  Julie recalled Scherer’s assessment of the situation. Could the behaviors she had witnessed come down to the boy’s bereavement? It made a certain amount of sense. But some instinct, deep at Julie’s core, which had once driven her to double-check the stroller in The Everything Store and was probably shared by the whole constellation of her law-enforcement relatives, told her there was more to this.

  She turned back toward Ellie. “Adolescence changes things. Peter’s starting to see himself, his family, his whole life in ways he never has before. To question people and places and situations he’s always taken for granted.”

  “Well, he’d better not question the Hempsteads,” Ellie said.

  They heard a scrabbling at the door, and Julie went to let in Depot.

  “I lied to you before,” Ellie called out.

  Julie turned, her hand on the doorknob.

  “Remember?” Ellie said. “I said I’d been asked to give you a tour of the island?”

  “Sure.” Julie pulled the door open, and Depot greeted her with a boisterous bark. Julie leaned over. “One second, Deep,” she whispered into his velvet ear.

  “Well, I didn’t ask. I volunteered. I really wanted—”

  Ellie broke off and Julie walked a few steps back, leaving the door open and Depot waiting outside.

  “I really wanted us to become friends, Julie. And I’m afraid…”

  Julie frowned. “Afraid of what?”

  Ellie’s narrow shoulders sloped. “Never mind. I’m drunk. I just told you about the dead dog I never talk about. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.”

  “I just want to help a child who’s hurting. What could be wrong with that?”

  “Not one single thing,” Ellie said, and offered a swift, luminescent smile.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Julie asked Ellie if she’d mind walking Depot back; the dog had been wanting to go home ever since leaving school that day. The woods were growing dim when Julie entered them alone, a thin gruel of mist floating in the air. The moon and stars would be blotted out by fog tonight, but for now Julie still had light. She stuck to the path, estimating that her house and the mansion sat at right angles from this spot. Then she struck off, ducking beneath the heavy limbs of trees, skirting saplings.

  Tendrils of vapor swirled around her. Julie had to stop to clear her vision, wipe condensation off her face, and the quiet of the woods assailed her. She’d expected to see or hear the ocean by now, and its absence was unsettling. There was so little wildlife on an island, and the lack of birdsong or scampering feet rendered the woods almost silent, with the fog adding its own deadening blanket.

  Then Julie heard something.

  Coming from a different direction than she’d expected the mansion to lie, but Julie turned and followed the sound. She had gotten disoriented—the tightly packed trees, the muffling mist—and couldn’t be sure anymore of the mansion’s location. The sound soon resolved into a voice, and from there into singing.

  Julie shouldered her way between columns of trees, twigs snapping in her wake. If the sea did lie near, she wouldn’t be able to see it for the soupy fog. She paused to listen for surf, but the sound of the voice, high and sweet, subsumed everything else.

  Julie muscled past another tree, moving faster now, branches whipping.

  Notes climbed to a glass-shattering pitch.

  Julie began to run. A final web of branches sought to block her, but she shoved past it, nearly falling over the downed tree that came next. It had the body of a beast, a brontosaurus that had toppled. The trunk jutted out from a massive snarl of roots, four feet off the ground, and angled upward from there. At its crown, another six feet higher, stood Peter, given a little end-of-the-week freedom maybe, and belting out his song.

  He looked like an extension of the tree, its tawny leaves interlaced with locks of his hair, his waving arms like the topmost, spindly branches. Peter danced upon the upper reaches, a creature of the forest, a wild child, shirtless and barefoot, notes rising effortlessly from his throat while ghosts of mist swirled on the ground below the trunk.

  The song finished on a wailing note of need, and Julie began to clap, loud and ferocious.

  As the echo of her applause petered out, silence reigned over the woods once again.

  Peter stood, feet planted, toes splayed out in order to keep himself steady on the log, leaning over to peer at Julie as if she were the apparition.

  “Ms. Weathers?” he said, incredulity in his tone.

  Julie took a step forward, mist lapping at her legs, and as the uncertainty evaporated from Peter’s expression, his features settled into their customary neutral configuration, giving nothing away.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Julie had no idea what her next step should be, but she sensed there was a right and wrong one, a choice that could allow her to get to know Peter better, and another that would drive him away. She fell back on a strategy she knew from her law-enforcement family and teaching both. When trying to get a suspect, or a child, to talk, say nothing.

  Sure enough, Peter flinched first. “No one’s ever been here besides me. Like, nobody on the whole island, I don’t think.”

  Julie had a direction now. Act impressed. Then try to impress him back. “I can believe it. This place is way hidden. But I’m pretty good at finding things in the woods. I come from a place with a lot of mountains,” she added, wagering that mountains would strike an exotic note with an island kid. “Hey, this is an awesome tree.”

  Peter looked proud. “It’s my hideout. For when I can sneak away.”

  “I wonder when it fell?” Julie asked, though she knew it had to be fairly recently, judging by the amount of decay in the trunk and how much soil clung to its roots.

  “Like, forever ago,” Peter replied breezily. “Probably before I was born.”

  Julie concealed a smile.

  “I mean, I just found it last year. But it’s always been here. You can tell.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Hey, what was that song you were singing? I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.”

  Peter grinned. “You haven’t. Macy made it up for me.”

  “Macy made it up?” Julie repeated, disbelieving.

  Suddenly, Peter jumped down, disregarding the height, and landing on all fours in a crouch. The kid was a soloist and a Cirque du Soleil acrobat.

  He stood up, brushing dirt off his hands. “Where’s Depot?”

  “I leave him with a dog sitter now.”

  The boy looked troubled. “Who?”

  He probably knew every person on the island, and thus that there were no dog sitters as such. Julie had checked. Depot would be a
ttending school for the foreseeable future. But Julie didn’t want the boy to be able to predict her dog’s whereabouts.

  She offered up a diversion. “How do you get onto the tree?”

  It was high enough off the ground that a dead hang and a pull-up would’ve been required, and Julie didn’t think a child as slim and preadolescent as Peter would have the strength.

  He took the bait instantly, heading for the enormous carpet of soil at the foot of the fallen tree, then barreling through its Medusa’s head of roots, using them like a jungle gym to emerge at the base of the trunk. From there he walked upward, one foot in back of the other, as if he were on a balance beam.

  “Cool,” Julie called.

  Peter jumped down again.

  “You must be getting cold out here,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Nah.”

  But his bare flesh shone, damp from the fog and prickly with goose bumps, while his lips looked blue in the descending dusk.

  “Is it a long way back to your mom’s house? Or,” she added, striving for a casual note, “your grandmother’s?”

  Peter stared at her, before letting out a totally spontaneous laugh. “Ms. Weathers,” he said, “you are hella awesome to have found this place, but you’re also pretty dumb.”

  Julie decided not to take offense. “Oh yes? Why’s that?”

  Peter walked beneath the high, sloping ceiling of the trunk, scarcely having to duck. Dancing forward on nimble feet, he parted branches in a stand of trees before them.

  On the other side stood the mansion.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “Well,” Julie told Peter, catching up as the boy ran ahead. “I guess I’m even better at navigation than I thought. Because I was trying to find this place.”

  He stopped and turned back to look at her, the skin on his forehead wrinkling. “You were? How come?”

  “I want to let your grandmother know how talented you are at performing.”

  “She’ll be so glad to hear that,” the boy muttered, but he led the way across the platters of stone that made up the walkway to an expanse of front porch. It was as wide as a river, and sank beneath foot a bit just as if it really were water, the wood beginning to soften with the ever-present moisture in the air.

  Dutifully wiping dirt from the soles of his feet on a mat in front of a pair of high double doors, Peter twisted a finely etched knob. As soon as he got inside, he sprinted up a flight of stairs that divided at a landing, and vanished.

  Damn, Julie thought. There couldn’t be a much worse plan of approach for someone as proper as the grandmother. Julie hadn’t even knocked.

  She took a look around the foyer. Ellie’s description had been spot-on. The walls up and down the long hallway were a dull cream, in need of a fresh coat of paint or perhaps just a brighter shade, and the furnishings, a settee and sideboard, were dark and heavy. Probably priceless antiques, but nothing contemporary or quirky or new, not so much as one offbeat knickknack. Framed oils depicted island scenes, heavily skewed toward rainy skies and storm-driven seas.

  “Hello?” Julie called. Her voice wavered, and she coughed to clear her throat. “Mrs. Hempstead?”

  Slow, shuffling footsteps approached the front hall.

  Julie looked up as the grandmother’s tall stature would require, wondering at the woman’s diminished pace. Instead of the grandmother, the Captain appeared.

  “Hello,” he said, smoothing back the thick hair on his head. “Who might you be?”

  Julie hesitated. “Captain, I’m Ms. Weathers, the new teacher. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced. Peter let me in.”

  “Peter,” the Captain repeated, an uncertain echo that added years, decades, to his demeanor. “Peter, Peter, of course…”

  Julie offered a tentative smile.

  “The schoolteacher visiting, that is an occasion,” the Captain said, his voice gaining surety. “Martha always does well in school. Melinda, now she’s another story.”

  The name made clear the fact that the man was temporarily residing a generation in the past. Melinda must be the other daughter. I had a sister, Julie heard Martha say.

  The Captain’s gaze had wandered, but he looked back at Julie with the smile that he’d worn upon their first encounter. “Might I offer you a drink?”

  “Um, no, thank you though,” Julie replied. Making this announcement to someone not in his right mental state felt easier. “I don’t drink.”

  The lines beside the Captain’s eyes crinkled. “Not even coffee?”

  Julie smiled. “Coffee. Now that I will take you up on—”

  A voice called out from the hidden shadows at the top of the broad staircase. “That’s not true. You drink, Ms. Weathers.”

  Julie swiveled slowly.

  Peter began descending. “I saw it,” he said. “A bottle on the kitchen counter. The night I hid in my old room.” He arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “It was empty. So I guess you must’ve drank it all.”

  Julie swallowed, an audible click. She had no idea why Peter had chosen to confront her like this. Thank goodness the Captain wasn’t exactly sharp and aware at the moment; there was only one response Julie could make if she didn’t want to lose the trust she’d begun to build with the boy. “You’re right. I used to drink. But I don’t anymore.”

  Peter’s eyes, right now the blue of glaciers, held hers.

  “Peter!” the Captain said on a note of recognition. “It’s good to see you, son.”

  “You just saw me an hour ago, Cap,” Peter replied cheerily. “Hey, is it okay if I take a shower?”

  The Captain faced the boy head-on, his gaze boring into his grandson’s.

  Peter lowered his eyes. “Sorry. May I take a shower, Captain?”

  The Captain lifted one hand to grant permission, and Peter walked off, soldier-straight, keeping his hand upon the banister as he mounted the stairs.

  Any teacher would covet such rapid obedience. Julie smiled at the Captain.

  His voice struck a soaring note of command. “Andrea! We’ll have coffee for two in the parlor. And some of those biscuits I asked you to prepare earlier this morning.”

  There was no reply, nor stirrings of movement from another room.

  The Captain let out a sigh. “So difficult to find reliable help, isn’t it?”

  Julie couldn’t think how to respond. Probably it was, in a mansion this size, on an island this small.

  “I suppose that means I’ll have to attend to our refreshments myself,” the Captain said. He stopped for a moment, looking uncertainly down the hall.

  Julie tried to imagine where the kitchen would be in a house as vast as this.

  The Captain turned back to regard her. “A man can still be the head of the household, can’t he, if no longer the captain of his ship? I believe I might enjoy a cup of something warm now and again in the parlor. Even if ailing.”

  Julie wasn’t quite sure what the Captain was asking, but she found that she very much wanted to give the right response. “Yes, I think so—”

  “Captain!” A woman’s ringing voice. “What are you doing downstairs?”

  Julie turned and saw the grandmother.

  The ivory hair on her head was raked back so tightly, it could’ve been bare scalp, and her eyes, like Peter’s tonight, were icicle blue. “You know you shouldn’t be seen like this. It’s one of your bad days, dear.”

  The Captain shifted on unsteady feet. “Is it?”

  “I have your supper waiting in the east wing, as you requested,” said his wife.

  “I did?” The Captain’s cheeks reddened, a quick spark of shame, and he glanced at Julie. “I apologize, my dear—”

  “There’s no need—” Julie began.

  The grandmother glared at her, plucked eyebrows forming a vee of displeasure. “Will you be able to m
ake it on your own, Captain, or do you require assistance?”

  The Captain’s cheeks darkened to a ferocious brick. “No need for help.” He turned quickly, off-balance, and put one hand out to steady himself. Then he scuffed off in the direction of the staircase, his goodbye almost too low to hear.

  The grandmother turned, striding across the hall. Julie hurried to follow her into a parlor. There were nautical maps on the walls, hair-thin lines against a sickly green background, and a sextant displayed on a mantel. Here too the furniture was old, and valuable: a gray velvet chaise, an oak armoire rich with carving, a low table in front of two uncomfortable, pedigreed chairs.

  “And now, Ms. Weathers. Suppose you tell me why you’ve come.”

  * * *

  The grandmother took a seat in one of the chairs, drawing her elegant knees together and crossing her ankles, before offering Julie the other chair with a crook of her graceful, swan’s-neck arm.

  Julie sat down. “This place is spectacular.”

  The grandmother gave a gracious nod. “It used to be.”

  “It’s a lot to keep up, I would think.”

  The grandmother let out a snort that belied her usual dignity. “Oh, Ms. Weathers. You can’t begin to imagine.” Her gaze swept over Julie in wordless assessment. “Truly.”

  “I suppose I can’t.” Julie lifted her eyes to the grandmother’s. Her family once held a rarefied position in Wedeskyull, but they’d been cops, not landowners, and had never amassed any wealth. She felt put down, intimidated, then angry at herself for being so.

  The grandmother continued to regard her, raptor-sharp, as if sensing her advantage. Then the peaks of her shoulders settled, and she switched to a conversational tone. “How are you enjoying our island?”

  “I love it,” Julie replied.

  The grandmother smiled. “It isn’t like other places, is it? Tourists—even the summer people—think of us as behind the times on Mercy. More accurate would be to say that the island is a place out of time. Timeless.”

  “I can see that,” Julie said.

  The grandmother didn’t appear to hear Julie’s response. “Why, some of the men here still use wooden traps! Nobody I’d consider a real, working lobsterman, but still, on Mercy they exist. The old ways persevere.”