Why was she resisting me so much? I couldn’t figure it out. There I was, trying to reveal something about myself and share it with her. I am Bartlett House, Judy. Don’t you see! At very least, she could pretend to be interested.
“Oh, come on,” I said cheerfully. “It would be a lark. Who knows what we’d find down there? Maybe even moldy wine.”
She crossed her arms and shivered. “It’s like being buried alive.” Her face was sickly pale. Something was wrong. I’d struck a nerve—but what?
“You really don’t want—” I stopped myself.
Her expression had hardened into a mask. She wasn’t having it, so I let the door close.
* * *
At dinner, Judy and I sat side by side, Sophie at one end and Dad at the other, with Bonnie to my father’s right. One chair with a place setting remained empty. “Who’s that for?” I said. “Mr. Bartlett?”
“Quincy,” Sophie said. “He’s running late.”
I was thrilled—and surprised. Quincy was at the top of the list of things I missed about my summers in Harpers Ferry. Six years older than I am, he taught me how to play gin rummy, build a campfire, catch a frog, and hold a tennis racket, although I never could manage to hit the ball—or catch a frog, for that matter. He loved war stories and spy novels, like The Red Badge of Courage and The Thirty-Nine Steps, and he read them to me with gusto. I remember when he told me about the secret passage and led me down the stairs to the cellar. “The catacombs,” he called it. We spent hours speculating about whether or not there were other secret passages. We invented melodramatic stories about the Bartlett family: We mused about Old Thaddeus’s missing rare coin collection, which we were sure was hidden somewhere in the house. We hunted for Miss Nancy Bartlett’s woeful spirit, who still roamed the halls searching for her dead baby. When Quincy turned eighteen, he joined the Coast Guard but never saw any action in the war, which, according to Dad, is why he joined the police academy. I was dying to see him. I wondered if he’d have changed as much as Sophie.
“We’ve wanted to have him over for dinner,” Dad said. “Isn’t that right, Bonnie? But he never dropped us a line.”
“He’s not watching his manners,” Sophie said with a little tut.
“Young men get caught up in their own lives,” Bonnie said. “It’s only natural.”
“His new job—it must be difficult,” I said, feeling loyal to Quincy, especially since he wasn’t there to defend himself.
“Yes,” Sophie said, laying her shaky hand on mine. “From what I can tell, he’s been quite busy. He’s had to cover shifts and work long hours.”
Sarah Yolland, Sophie’s help from town, bustled into the dining room with a tray of soup bowls. She placed the creamy, onion-scented broth in front of each of us and garnished it with parsley. The formality of it struck me as funny. Sophie was so old-fashioned—not narrow-minded, just nostalgic—and somehow, she’d roped Sarah into playing the role of the dutiful servant in their little period piece. In truth, Sarah and Sophie spent most mornings drinking coffee and gossiping and laughing, more peers than employee and employer.
While we slurped soup, we chatted about current news. Judy asked everyone if they thought Alger Hiss was a spy. Most of us agreed that he is; Judy believes he’s only the tip of the iceberg. Dad mentioned Babe Ruth’s death, shook his head, and said, “End of an era.” Sophie asked us if we’d seen Olivier’s Hamlet. She just adores Lawrence Olivier. None of us had. Aiming to be the most outspoken person at the table, Judy asked us what we thought about California ending the ban against interracial marriage. No one responded. Bonnie just smiled politely and glanced at Dad. Terrified that Judy would think me backward, too, I said, “Well, I guess it’s overdue.” Sophie winked at me. Dad frowned and, clearly sarcastic, said, “Truman desegregated the military, so why not continue to shake things up? It’s sure to go smoothly.” Then Judy said, “Has anyone heard about the Jackie Peabody murder case?” Suddenly, we’d leaped into ancient history—and personal territory. What was she up to? “She was my adoptive parents’ only offspring. She was violated and murdered and dumped in the Anacostia.” Sophie was taken aback; the wrinkle on her forehead gave her away. She was well acquainted with death. She’d lost her husband to the bottle and my mother to childbirth. She didn’t approve of talking about dead family members so casually. I was embarrassed for Judy.
“Well—” Sophie said.
“My parents, Bart and Edith…” Judy interrupted. “They were so knocked out by Jackie’s death that they needed a replacement quick.” I detected a shift in her voice, a crack. “Ta-da! I was the new, replacement Jackie. Everyone wins.” The bile was seeping through. “All’s better, everything’s dandy.”
I didn’t know what to do or say, but I was sure this was connected to her sudden shift in mood earlier. She wiped her lips with her starched napkin. Sophie broke the silence, once again regaining command: “I’m sorry for you, honey. It must be so awful for you.”
Judy smiled at Sophie, but it was a false, vampish smile.
* * *
We were about to dig into apple pie à la mode when Quincy strolled through the dining room door, out of breath. “Apologies!” he said. “I ran from the station. Did I miss dinner?” He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he was still wearing his patrolman’s blues, and his thick black hair was mussed and cowlicked from his patrolman’s hat. He dropped his bag and kissed Sophie on the cheek. In turn, she gave him a gentle hug, her hands hovering before touching his back. She was clearly in pain. Something was wrong. Dad rose to shake his hand, and Bonnie pushed back her chair and greeted him. When I stood, he turned to me: “Wow, it’s hard to believe! You’re all grown up. I haven’t seen you in… how long?”
Feeling strangely shy, I muttered, “Four years.” Quincy looked taller and thicker through the neck and shoulders. Perhaps it was his uniform.
He smiled and opened his arms, and the tension broke. I hugged him, feeling his solid body under his uniform. “How are you?” he said in my ear. I didn’t answer; I just clung to him as if I held on tight enough, he and everyone around us would stop changing. “You look great,” he said, releasing me. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”
“Who is this?” he said, looking at Judy, who was standing behind me.
“My friend, Judy Peabody.”
Judy held her hand out, palm down, which briefly confused Quincy. As he took it, he bowed his head as if he thought he should kiss it but caught himself. It was her sly criticism of Sophie’s formality and his earnestness. She was testing him, and he’d almost failed. I wondered if I’d made a mistake in inviting her. Nothing about Harpers Ferry or my family seemed to suit her. Quincy, despite his initial awkwardness, didn’t seem fazed by her now. He took her as a matter of course. I wondered if he knows girls like her.
“I made it in time for dessert,” he said, scanning the table.
We sat again, and Sarah brought out a foil-covered plate of the baked chicken, potatoes au gratin, and string beans saved from dinner for Quincy. The rest of us devoured the mushy, creamy, brown-sugary apple pie.
“We’d love to have you over for dinner in the city,” Dad said, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “If you can spare the time, that is.” Dad has genuine affection for Quincy; he’s the son he never had, I guess.
“I should’ve reached out sooner,” Quincy said, glancing at Sophie. “I’ve been busy. Today has been no different. I almost didn’t come. A prominent Washington family has reported their child missing. He’s been gone for twenty-four hours. There’s serious concern, of course, but we’re not all-hands-on-deck yet. But, you understand, we have to be accommodating to the prominent locals.”
“Of course,” Bonnie said dimly.
Dad nodded.
Judy perked up: “So, who’s missing?”
“Hmm,” Quincy said, squinting at Judy. “I’m not sure I should say.”
“Come on,” I said, smiling. “We’re not the press.”
> “Philippa,” Dad said sternly.
“He may not even be missing,” Quincy said. “You know how these things go.”
“Then it won’t hurt you to tell us,” Judy said, her manner direct, even pushy. I glanced over at her, and her dark eyes caught mine. I knew what she was thinking: She wanted to know if the missing person was Cleve. He hadn’t been in school on Friday, which given his confrontation with Miss Martins wasn’t surprising, but recently, he’d been so reckless and distraught. Maybe he’d run away from home—or done something even more rash.
“Don’t let the girls pressure you,” Dad said, scowling at me. “We don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“It’s none of our business,” Bonnie said.
“Was the missing boy Cleveland Closs?” I blurted out impatiently.
Quincy’s eyes grew wide, and he blinked. “How do you know that?” he said. So, it was Cleve.
“We’re schoolmates,” Judy said, saving me. “He’s been a mess lately.”
“And he wasn’t in school yesterday. He never misses school,” I said, further justifying our lucky guess.
“Howard and Elaine Closs—well, just Mr. Closs—called in, worried that he hadn’t come home Thursday night.”
Dad, Bonnie, and Sophie wore expressions of concern.
Quincy set down his fork and asked, “How well do you know him?”
Judy knocked her knee against mine. “Not well, but he stands out. He has white-blond hair,” she said, as if that explained everything.
Adjusting her napkin in her lap, Sophie said, “Terrible news.”
Was it terrible news? Strange news, for sure. The skirmish between Cleve and Miss Martins was still fresh in my mind. He’d called her a whore and a horrible person. He’d attacked her—and Judy. But maybe there was more to him. Did I actually believe that? Did I care? What if something had happened to him? Gee, what if he’d done something to himself? And we might’ve been the last ones to see him before he vanished. Chills crept up my spine.
“Are you girls alright?” Bonnie said in a maudlin warble.
“We’re fine,” Judy said, looking at me. “Like I said, we don’t really know him.”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed, and she clamped her lips. She didn’t like Judy; I could tell. Perhaps it was Judy’s gaffe of talking too bluntly about Jackie or all this about Cleve. I didn’t want her to sum Judy up like that, and I didn’t want Judy to judge her either. My aunt stood from her chair and gave us a flickering smile. Dinner was over.
JUDY, OCTOBER 24, 1948
The second that I stepped inside Philippa’s aunt’s house I knew I shouldn’t have come. It was full of Philippa’s history; it was all about her. I have no home to speak of, no place stocked with good memories—or memories at all. Crestwood is my only constant, but its shabby halls hardly count. As for Château de Peabody—well, it’s a little like sleeping in a mausoleum.
Then Philippa thought it would be a lark to go spelunking in the cellar. Staring down those stairs was like staring at the pit of hell. The thought of going underground gives me the shivers. I’ve always been that way. Needless to say, a mood grabbed ahold of me. At dinner, I lobbed opinions out over polished silver and the severely starched white tablecloth, hoping something exciting would happen—and finally, something did. Quincy, Philippa’s first cousin, arrived and brought news: Cleve is missing!
Once we were back in our room, Philippa flopped on her bed and said, “I think we may have been the last people to see him before he disappeared.”
“Hmm.”
“We could help,” she said, grabbing her pillow and hugging it in her lap.
“If we’re going to help anyone, it’d be Miss M,” I said, sitting on the twin bed across from her. “Let’s lay it all out.” I took a moment to collect my thoughts. “First, we noticed that tension was running high between Cleve and Miss M. He was threatening her. Then he attacked us on his bike.”
“Soon after that, she kicks him out of class.”
“And you walk in on her and a man—not Cleve—fucking.”
“Jesus.” Philippa pursed her lips.
“You’re such a prude.” She glared at me. “Okay, ‘making love.’ ” I threw my hands together in prayer, doing my best impression of an ironic angel.
Philippa rolled her eyes and said, “The next day, she isn’t at school.”
“And her apartment is empty.”
“And now we’re up to the night in question.” Philippa released her pillow, stood, and began to pace. “It gets physical between Cleve and Miss M. We witness the tussle. He wants something from her, or he knows something about her.” She looked at me, her eyes unseeing and whirling with thought. “There’s definitely something wrong.” Then her face crumpled a little. “Poor Miss Martins.”
“And…” I said, waving my hand like a magician. “Poof! He is vanished.”
Her face snapped back, smooth and white. “So, do you think she did something to him?” She blinked nervously.
Annoyed that she’d jumped to that conclusion, I said, “No, never.” This was about Cleve’s erratic behavior, not Miss M’s.
“What happened then?”
“I don’t know. Cleve will turn up.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you?”
Philippa flopped on her bed and said, “He’s a jerk, but—”
“But what? He ran us down. Jesus, Philippa. Who cares what happened to him?”
“Okay, but there’s more to him. He struggles with that stutter. It can’t be easy.” I couldn’t believe she had even an ounce of sympathy for him. I wondered if I’d misjudged her character. Cleve wasn’t someone we should waste time trying to empathize with. Then she added, “And he reminds me of someone I once knew.”
My curiosity was piqued. “Who?”
“This boy—Blake Le Beux.”
“Oooh, do tell!”
Philippa’s face darkened; something was bothering her. Despite her pink sweater sets, saddle oxfords, ankle socks, and irritating bows—God, the fucking bows!—this ripple in her smooth waters suggested something—gravity or sincerity or both. It was strangely reassuring.
She approached the window and looked out at the night. “He committed suicide,” she said. “I didn’t really know him, but I noticed him in the hall, in some classes we had together. He never seemed like someone who would do a thing like that, whatever that might look like, but he did seem… burdened by something, like it physically weighed on him.”
The wind stirred the trees just beyond the panes of glass.
She turned abruptly and said, “Tell me about Roy Barnes.”
My stomach lurched. How the hell did she know about him? Then I got it: “Did that bitch Ramona tell you?”
“She said you took a photo of him…”
She was judging me, deciding I was some sort of bully. I had no doubt that Ramona had told her about the photos, so I said, “Did she tell you why?”
“She said you didn’t like him.”
“Didn’t like him?”
“That’s what she said.”
I gazed up into her blue-gray eyes, measuring their receptiveness, searching for a way to explain myself. The silence between us grew thick. Eventually, she let out an impatient gasp, which I responded to by blurting: “He forced himself on me! Are you happy?” Her freckled forehead wrinkled, and her bottom lip dropped open. “Last year, when I played Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest, Roy was on the carpentry crew. He’d been flirting with me for weeks. One afternoon we were working after school, and he found me backstage, cornered me, and he… that’s when…” I left the rest for her to imagine.
He hadn’t forced himself on me, not exactly. He had propositioned me, and I’d agreed to it. I wanted to know what it felt like. He seemed like a nice fellow, like he’d guide me through it. But he just shoved down his pants, flopped on me, and entered me like I was beside the point, an excuse to validate his manhood, a trophy. I was furious�
�and full of regret. I told him to stop, but it was too late. I was trapped. I had to watch his face twist upward as he came, his eyes lost in the fly rigging overhead. So yes, I embarrassed him. I ran him out of school. Let that be a lesson!
“I’m so sorry,” Philippa said, sitting next to me and sliding her arm around me.
“It’s okay,” I said, hanging my head. I didn’t want to lie to her but didn’t know how else to explain it. I pulled away: “So, tell me more about this Blake fellow.”
She smiled and said, “There’s nothing more to tell.”
* * *
PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 24, 1948
This morning, Quincy and I took Judy on a tour of Harpers Ferry. The sky was high and blue, and the air chilly. We wandered down the steep streets to Arsenal Square and over to the site of the old armory where, during the Civil War, Union soldiers, outnumbered and without reinforcements, had set fire to their own stash of supplies and weapons. As we climbed the steep hill and wandered through Harper Cemetery with its ancient tombstones sprouting up at angles, Judy took my hand and, in her best brooding Heathcliff, whispered, “You lie to say I have killed you. Catherine, you know I could as soon forget you as my existence! While you are at peace I shall writhe in the torments of hell?” It was Cathy’s deathbed scene. I paused a moment, noting our Gothic setting, the hillside strewed with weather-beaten graves, and then clutched my chest and wailed, “I shall not be at peace! I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted!” Quincy lagged behind us, baffled by our behavior, I’m sure. Holding each other’s hands, we flung ourselves through the cemetery, weaving through the graves as if they were an obstacle course and laughing. God, how we laughed! When we reached the top, palms still sealed and breathless, I didn’t want to let go. The gap that had grown between us over the past day had closed, and I didn’t want to risk opening it again.
After lunch, Judy and Quincy paired up for a game of checkers, and Sophie asked me if I wanted a reading. She led me into the library, a book-lined parlor, once Mr. Bartlett’s study. The room smelled of moldy books and sun-warmed leather. It soothed me and made me drowsy. Sophie gestured toward a small oval table in the corner. “Sit,” she said. “Clear your head.” I sat, but my mind drifted to a reading that she’d given me when I was ten or eleven. I couldn’t remember all of the cards she drew, but I recall the Empress, pregnant on her throne, and Aunt Sophie reaching over and laying her hand on mine. I realized then that, to her, I was that hope that had been plucked from a pyre of tragedy. I felt special and loved and burdened with an immense weight. Like Judy, I guess, I’d inherited something I neither understood nor asked for. Was it a blessing or a curse?
The Savage Kind Page 10
