“Are you going to tell me what you saw?” Reece asked.
“I’m still trying to get my bearings, Reece. I feel fried. Like I just walked up and touched an electric fence.”
“Sorry.”
They rode in silence and were turning into her neighborhood when Ruth nudged a book with her toe and, opening her eyes, said, “Shirl Kasper’s biography of Annie. You read this?”
“Kasper doesn’t believe Annie’s hair turned white after the train accident. She says it turned white suddenly weeks later, for unexplained reasons. Maybe the stress of jumping forward or back did it. You said you felt fried. In her session with the shrink, Annie said it was physically painful, and he noticed the shake in her hand. Maybe it takes a while to develop control. But maybe there’s also a limit to how many times you can have visions or time travel.”
“Which means you have to pick your battles and make the most of each visit.”
Ruth sat up straighter, eyes on Reece. “Okay. I saw a figure in the grass. Someone lying down, maybe hiding, facing a green sports field, where Scott was—or will be—standing.”
“That’s all?”
“That part was the clearest. Then I saw a lot of people next to the field and in the bleachers. But I think by that point I was becoming suggestible. The sounds in the café were bringing me out of the vision. But I did try harder this time, Reece. I did. And I think it’s possible to see more.”
When they pulled up to the house, Ruth spotted something on her front stoop, a white package gleaming in fading evening light, and a lockbox hanging from her doorknob.
“I wish it were from Nieman,” she said, squinting. “But I’m pretty sure it’s from my realtor.”
Reece scooted down in his seat. Ruth followed his gaze toward the neighbor, who was currently ambling toward the curb where the sign had been mistakenly planted. They both watched as he pushed at the half-fixed hole with his foot, then bent to pat a dislodged chunk of turf back into place, trying to repair the damage.
She whispered to Reece, “Why are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding. I just don’t want him to come over and make small talk. He’s an asshole.”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him. Rockets, remember?”
“But Van is retired.”
“He volunteers, which makes him the worst kind of coach. Too much time on his hands. We don’t need his help, but they won’t let us use the gym or any of the equipment without a sponsoring adult.”
“So he helps out the Rockets?”
“Mostly he gets in the way trying to help or just stands and watches, being creepy, and for that, they give him plaques and Applebee’s gift cards.”
She still felt she was misunderstanding. “So you don’t like him.”
“Like him? Van Vorst? He’s a fucking pedophile.”
“That guy? My neighbor? You’re messing with me.”
“Correction: pedophiles don’t always act on their urges. Coach Vorst does. He’s a fucking sex offender. He just hasn’t been caught.”
“He goes after young girls?”
“And guys. The shy kids, the misfits. All I know is what I’ve seen in friends’ texts. He’s an equal opportunity offender, evidently. Maybe he just chooses whoever won’t talk.”
“The school shouldn’t let him get near kids, then.”
“Right. But I don’t think he has a police record or anything. Rumor was that he was asked to retire early. So he’s officially off payroll to satisfy parent complaints, but then kids graduate and parents move away and everyone forgets. Then he returns to volunteering. What’s to stop him?”
They were still sitting in the car, both of them hunching as the engine ticked and cooled, watching as Vorst walked slowly back to the far corner of the house, where he fiddled with an empty bird feeder hanging from the branch of a spruce tree.
“Don’t say it,” Reece muttered.
“What?”
“That he can’t be that bad a guy, feeding birds and all that.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Even Hitler loved dogs.”
“I bet.”
“And was a vegetarian.”
“Noted.”
Ruth had no idea what to do with this new information about her neighbor. Had her mother known Van Vorst was a creep? Were the stories true? She didn’t think Reece would spread that kind of gossip carelessly.
“His family settled this area back in the 1800s,” Ruth said.
“Good for them.”
“Homesteaders. They used to own this whole street and some farmland near here, too.” She remembered the homework assignment and going over to his house to interview him during the first week of seventh grade. It was her history teacher’s bright idea, once she learned Ruth lived right next to the man descended from a well-known local pioneering family.
Vorst had told her how the woods had looked before there was ever a school or subdivisions. When she was young, she’d loved the forest, its quiet depths and magical light, but it seemed more threatening once she reached adolescence and came to equate shadowy places with people who might want to do her harm.
She remembered sitting on Vorst’s couch. The scratchy fabric made her legs itch. He was only a foot away with the scrapbook on his lap. She could smell the licorice on his breath as he talked. Gradually he inched the scrapbook closer until it was balanced on one of her thighs and one of his, which made it harder to scoot farther away. The vinyl of the cover stuck to the skin of her bare leg.
That’s all he did. He didn’t touch her or say anything provocative, but maybe men like him rarely did on a first visit. And Ruth was sure on that day, sitting next to him on the couch, that there would never be a second. She kept wishing she’d worn pants instead of shorts so the scrapbook wouldn’t stick to her thighs, making her aware of her own body, her own trickling sweat, her physical self, which was changing, awkwardly and imperfectly.
When she was standing at the door ready to leave, he said her name and she turned. He was holding a camera. “Take your picture?”
She wanted to say no, but she couldn’t. It was just a photograph. He wasn’t standing close to her. He wasn’t even forcing her to smile.
“If no one had bothered to take those pictures from my parents’ day, I wouldn’t have a scrapbook to show you. You said you like history? I do, too.”
That made sense. And then she had opened the door and walked down the path to the sidewalk and turned left, eyes down, still uncomfortable but embarrassed to feel that way, blaming herself often that year for being uncomfortable for seemingly insufficient reasons.
When she got home, Ruth told her mother about the encounter. The details of what she’d said eluded her now. That Vorst had acted strangely? That she didn’t like him taking her picture? That she didn’t like his licorice breath? It didn’t matter. All she remembered was her mother’s response.
“You’re not being nice.”
Girls were supposed to be nice. And adults could do no wrong.
“Did you thank him?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“No—I mean yes.”
“You don’t sound sure. When you get an A+ on that report, you go show him. And thank him properly.”
The oral history came back with a C−, which might as well have been an F. Ruth had never gotten anything but A’s before.
“I never liked him,” Ruth told Reece now.
“A minute ago, you were shocked when I said he was a pervert.”
“I was and I wasn’t. I felt something before and I didn’t want to put a name to it. I think I’ve been telling myself to ignore it for years.”
They watched Vorst retreat into his house, pulling the door closed. The action-sensor light over his porch went out. Ruth
sighed, and Reece sat up straighter. “I wouldn’t even want to live next to that guy.”
“Me neither,” Ruth said. “You got another couple hours free?”
Ruth carried in the white package, stuffed with flyers, another clear package with additional real-estate info, a brown envelope with no return address, and a card from the realtor, who had shown up at 6 p.m. Ruth had forgotten about the appointment. Did she want to sell this house or didn’t she?
Yes. More now than ever.
She looked at her phone: two missed calls. “Nothing from Nieman.”
“I’m going to find him for you,” Reece said. “We’re going to talk to him.”
“Correction,” Ruth said, opening the mystery envelope first. But it wasn’t good. “It’s a prepaid express envelope for the return of the journal, and a note, but not from him.”
It was written in a light, uneven hand:
He’d like the journal back immediately, please. Sincerely, Hetta.
“From a woman.” Ruth showed Reece. “Wife? Sister?”
Hetta had added in an even shakier hand, as if she were in a hurry or simply battling her own self-censor: This was a blow to him. He has stopped work on the project.
“He stopped,” Ruth said, “because of me. He had good questions about provenance and possible chain of custody. And we didn’t even get that far. Because I stopped him from looking.”
“And why did you?”
“Because . . .” She hadn’t tried putting it into words before. “Because I thought I could go back and have the healthy mind I used to have, the life I used to have, if I resisted believing in anything farfetched.”
“Ha!”
“What’s so funny?”
“You wanted to go back in time. So you resisted believing that another person—someone you’ve been studying for years—could go back in time.”
Ruth let that statement soak in, turning it around in her mind.
Reece added, “You can still help Nieman, though. Give him solid evidence. Get him back in the game.”
Ruth sighed. “Right. And then we have this.”
The realtor’s note was friendly enough, given the gaffe. But she did give Ruth some firm instructions. I heard from the inspector he needs to come by a second time, which sets us back, but we’re ready and agreed on the listing price unless he finds something you haven’t already disclosed. I’ve left some tips on house preparation ahead of showing, and I have some more papers for you to sign. Let’s keep pushing this boat out to sea! Best wishes, Jan.
What followed was a laundry list that exceeded what the home inspector had already told her. Ruth knew she had a lot of stuff to move, floor space to open up, walls to reveal.
Jan had written, Applies to your home in particular: we have lots of buyers concerned about mold.
“I don’t see anything about not storing things in the garage, as long as there’s a cleared zone so they can see the interior walls,” Ruth said to Reece. “Want to earn fifty bucks?”
“If we’re talking three hours or less, sure. After that, I have to get home.”
She dropped onto the couch and opened her laptop. “Okay, let me check my email first.”
Reece remained standing. “I hear that’s a great way to get started on any horrible cleaning project.”
Ruth patted the cushion next to her. “No, you’re going to like this. It’s from Sophie, my foundation contact.”
First, I’m sorry to inform you that Lila Walters passed away last February at the age of 94. I thought you would have seen it in the newsletters.
“Who’s Lila?”
“Lila Walters,” Ruth explained. “Like Sophie, she is—was—related to Annie Oakley. High up at one of the foundations. I missed the obit entirely.”
It was the end of an era. Ruth had always wanted to interview Lila, but Lila had always refused and Ruth had taken no for an answer too often. No longer.
But on to happier news. I’m in Minneapolis to talk to some nonprofits about foundation funding, and Wednesday I’ll be seeing a friend at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. I believe that’s three hours from where you are? Care to meet for dinner? You asked me a question, and I’d like to answer it, but not by email. It’s complicated. In any event, I thought it would be a pleasure to finally meet.
“That’s tomorrow,” Ruth said. “She wants to have dinner. I think she knows something.”
“About our journal?”
“No telling. Maybe just about restricted materials. I think she’s tempted to share.”
Ruth tried to muster energy in light of this good news—and not just out of the blue, but from a potential ally, practically a friend. A road trip. She hadn’t driven outside town limits in ages.
Scratch that. She hadn’t driven at all.
She no longer drove.
And she had the inspector coming a second time on Wednesday. Of course, she could cancel. But Ruth recognized the signs of self-sabotage and knew the house should have been sold and vacated ages ago.
“I’ll do it. But it’s going to be hard,” she said, noting the bus schedule: ten hours, a transfer in Minneapolis.
“Getting to Rochester? That’s hard?”
“As hard as cleaning up this disaster of a house.”
“We’ve got that part covered.”
“I’m just . . . really tired.”
The attacks always drained her, but this last one had come close on the heels of the previous one, plus she’d allowed it to go on longer. She shut the laptop lid fast and stood up, not wanting Reece to see her hand trembling.
In the bathroom, she washed down some ibuprofen with water and found herself gripping the sink, staring into her reflection. It looked wrong, like her eyebrows were a touch too high, a shadow at her chin too dark, her whole face blurry. The lighting in this bathroom had always been terrible, but this was something else. It bothered her again that she couldn’t find her last few Xanax at the moment she most needed one.
She eased herself down to the floor, where she remained for several minutes. When lights began to strobe behind her eyelids, she opened them wide again and hoisted herself to a standing position. She splashed herself with water, leaving splatter all over the sink and mirror.
When she came out, Reece had already prepared a plate of Ritz crackers, a dollop of peanut butter, another dollop of cream cheese, a small mound of raisins and two limp, nearly white sticks of celery. It looked like snack time for toddlers at a nursery school.
“It was the best I could do before you got distracted with all the boxes and crap,” he said. “You need to eat something.”
It didn’t look appealing, but she swiped a Ritz into the peanut butter and found to her surprise that it hit the spot: sugar, protein, carbs, salt. She’d probably needed this back at the café.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You know, I think this may be the first time you’ve said that.”
He dipped an albino celery stick into the cream cheese and added a line of raisins. “May I? Here’s what I propose. You get to Rochester and be back by Thursday.”
“Why Thursday? The house inspection is Wednesday, but I don’t have to be here for it.”
“Thursday because you rescheduled your visit to Holloway’s class, remember?”
“Oh, shit.”
She kept forgetting things. Her ability to think clearly was in serious doubt.
“Listen,” he said. “You go to Rochester, squeeze this lady for everything she knows, come back Thursday before Holloway’s class, and I promise to bring you Nieman’s real name and phone number. Right now, let’s make your house less like a reality show about hoarders.”
It was a kind offer, especially the cleaning part. If time travel really were possible and common, everyone would skip past these things: house sales, physical and mental rehab
ilitation, waiting for your ex to marry and have children with someone else.
“Maybe I’m wrong about everything,” she said.
“No one’s wrong about everything.”
“Maybe the journal is a big joke, and I’m just projecting everything from my own life onto Annie Oakley, like the idea that a woman her age would suddenly have a crisis that made her revisit the darkest chapters of her life.”
“If all that’s just your imagination going into overdrive,” Reece said, “why does Sophie want to meet with you?”
24
Caleb
Wednesday
Tuesday, Caleb hadn’t gone to school. When texts started arriving from Reece asking why he hadn’t shown up for Rockets practice, Caleb ignored them. He was alternately thinking about someone else and trying not to until it got so bad he wished he could jam a stick through the spokes of the wheel of his consciousness just to stop it.
He was still thinking about the Kennidy girl, who was related to the historian coming to talk to their class. Maybe the woman knew that her sister had been deep in Vorst’s clutches, which could’ve had something to do with her eventual overdose, though of course the coach didn’t see it that way. Maybe the woman knew nothing at all. Caleb’s parents sure didn’t.
Caleb wanted a sign, any sign. He wanted someone to tell him what to do, how to deal with the scream bottled up in his chest, ready to explode.
After school yesterday, he’d come home and argued with his stepdad, then gone straight to his room, where he proceeded to ignore the outline he was supposed to write for Mrs. Holloway’s World History class on top of the new assignment they’d just been given to get ready for Ruth McClintock’s upcoming visit. Already, Caleb was behind on the imperialism paper by two weeks.
After Holloway had started the timer on partner discussions in class, Jared, the football dude on Caleb’s right, said, “I dunno. Imperialism’s bad, I guess. I’m writing about that.”
“You got an iPhone?” Caleb asked.
“Yeah. So?”
“So, it’s made in China? At the direction of overlords based in California.”
“I’m not writing about China. Maybe England or something.”
Annie and the Wolves Page 17
