The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  Ms. Van Owen apparently had a soft touch for animals as well as people. No fewer than four bird feeders dangled from hooks on the aluminum roof sheltering her carport, and a pair of plastic Canada geese stood silently on the six-by-nine strip of grass serving as her front lawn.

  White ruffled curtains fluttered at the open window—no air conditioning in June?—and the sound of a whirling fan roared through the screen. Peyton knocked on the door, and a moment later heard the sounds of movement.

  “Coming!”

  The door opened. Mary Grace Van Owen was sixty-five if she was a day, with stark white hair pulled back in an old-fashioned, anti-style style. A softly patterned housedress cloaked her solid figure, while plain white Keds covered her feet.

  In the bright light of the summer sun Peyton could see that age had painted dark spots on Mary Grace’s square face, especially her cheeks and forehead. But pink lipstick provided a bright note, and her blue eyes gleamed as gently as a happy baby’s. “You must be the lady from the paper,” she said, her voice a mild croak in the hot afternoon stillness.

  Peyton felt a slow smile spread across her face. “I am. King Bernard said you could help me.”

  The woman’s grin widened, showcasing a perfect set of yellowed dentures. “How is ol’ King doing? Still got that adorable little boy?”

  “The boy’s grown now; he’s a sophomore at USF. But King’s fine and he still thinks a lot of you.” Peyton paused to swipe at her bangs, damp with perspiration now that she stood in the sun. “He said you were some kind of genius when it came to dealing with people.”

  Mary Grace chuckled. “Well, I don’t know about that, but you come on in, and we’ll talk for a few minutes. My ride comes at 2:20, though, and I can’t miss my jail time.” One corner of her bright pink mouth turned up. “Gladys—she’s the lady who drives me—always gets a kick out of hearing me talk about my jail time.”

  “I can see why,” Peyton murmured, her gaze sweeping past the woman into the trailer.

  Mary Grace opened the door wider, and Peyton stepped in, inhaling the scents of dust, heat, and Lysol. Her first impression was dark. No lights burned, but perhaps the shade helped the place feel cooler. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw a small, spotless kitchen to her left, a living area to her right. The kitchen seemed unremarkable except for an abundance of crochet—a hand-worked orange-and-green cover for a Crockpot, several blue potholders on a wall hook, and a little apron for the bottle of dish soap by the sink. Very grandmotherly, Peyton decided, and even the darkness seemed appropriate. After all, most of Florida’s retirees lived on fixed incomes, and electricity cost a bundle.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Mary Grace lifted her voice to be heard over the roar of a box fan in the hall. “It’s awful hot today.”

  “No, thanks.” Peyton turned to face the living room, paneled in dark walnut, with darker brown shag carpeting on the floor. A faded floral sofa sat against the wall, most of its surface covered with pillows and—she felt her heart lurch—babies. For a moment she thought she’d stumbled onto some sort of mad grandmother kidnapper, then she realized the infants filling the sofa, a chair, and a cradle were dolls.

  “Wow,” she said, placing a protective hand over her heart. In time, it might settle back to a normal rhythm. “You must be a collector or something.”

  “Aren’t they adorable?” Mary Grace scooped up one black-haired infant, nestled it in the crook of her arm, and pointed to the sofa. “Just pick up a sweetie and make yourself at home. The babies like to be held, and it doesn’t do us any harm to hold ’em, either.”

  Peyton looked for the least crowded space on the couch, then picked up the doll sitting there. She had grabbed it by the arm, but it felt so fragile in her grasp that she reflexively dropped her backpack and caught the doll’s body with her free hand. A cold panic started somewhere between her shoulder blades and prickled down her spine. Holding the doll in front of her, its head lolling from one side to another, she cast a look at Mary Grace, who had settled into a padded rocking chair.

  “They even feel real,” she murmured. Like an honest-to-goodness Chuckie doll . . .

  “They’re weighted,” Mary Grace answered, propping her elbow on the chair’s armrest. “They use these dolls in all the TV shows like ER and General Hospital. Whenever there’s an infant in the scene, you can almost bet they’re using one of these babies.”

  “How interesting.” Though her stomach had clenched tight, Peyton forced a smile and sat down, settling the wide-eyed baby on her lap. She would have dropped the doll to the floor, but something in Mary Grace’s solicitous manner warned her that might not be a good idea.

  She’d have to ignore the spooky thing. Resting the doll’s head against her knees, its bare toes brushing her belly, she leaned forward and pulled her backpack to the sofa. “I need to grab my notebook and a pen . . .” She lowered her head to dig in the depths of her bag.

  “You never had children, did you?” Mary Grace’s voice was soft, filled with quiet sorrow.

  Peyton stopped digging, but didn’t look up. “No,” she said, struggling to maintain her control. “My husband and I didn’t have time to start a family.”

  From the corner of her eye, Peyton saw Mary Grace nodding in the slow rhythm of the rocking chair. “You were a young widow, then. So was I. Pneumonia took my Donald back in ’54. Of course, they have better drugs today.”

  Peyton found her notebook and pencil, then let the mouth of her backpack droop over the baby in her lap. The woman was a good observer, but reporters were trained to observe, and she’d undoubtedly noticed that Peyton had no clue how to handle a baby. Mary Grace wasn’t a mind reader, after all.

  “How do you know my husband died?” Peyton said, keeping her voice light. “We could have divorced.”

  Mary Grace gave Peyton a bright-eyed glance, full of shrewdness. “Divorced women don’t usually wear their wedding bands, not even on their right hand like you’re doing.”

  Peyton reached for the slender gold ring and spun it on her finger. “You didn’t know this was a wedding band. It could have been simple costume jewelry.”

  “Don’t think you’re much into froufrou.” Mary Grace lifted a finger and pointed. “You’re wearing a wide leather watch. Sort of a mixed look, don’t you think? Sportswoman’s watch and engraved gold band? I could be wrong, but I doubt it. There’s a story in you.”

  Peyton froze, her mind reeling in momentary panic. This woman knew everything. She could read minds. Peyton would have to leave, escape this stifling heat and these creepy dolls—

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep, slow breath. She would not panic. The air was not growing thin; her pounding heart was only demanding more oxygen because this trailer was as hot as Hades. Mary Grace Van Owen could not see into Peyton’s past. She was a skilled observer, an exceptional reporter. After all, King had recommended her, and only pretty spectacular people earned his recommendation.

  She counted to five, then opened her eyes. “Maybe there is a story,” she said, forcing herself to focus on the woman. “And I can see how you picked up the details. But you could have been wrong, too, so how am I to know—”

  “There’s a story in everybody.” Mary Grace gave her a soft smile of concern. “You can’t spend all your energy looking at the forest, honey. You’ll miss the trees if you do.”

  Not certain how to respond, Peyton stared at her hostess.

  Mary Grace’s bright blue eyes grew larger and darker, the black pupils training on Peyton like binoculars. “People are like newspapers, sweetheart, and most of them don’t want to open up when you first meet ’em. They’ll show you their front pages, maybe even let you read some ads on the back page. If you take a little time and ask the right questions, you might be trusted enough to peek at the masthead on page two. But if you really want to read everything, you’ve got to convince them to open up all the way. Not until then will you be able to read the fine print of t
he soul.”

  “The classifieds?” Peyton forced a laugh, her heart sinking with disappointment. She’d hoped for some concrete tips on dealing with grief-stricken people, but this woman had given her nothing but generalities and metaphor. “How, exactly, do you get people to open up?” she asked, shifting on the sofa. The doll slid from her lap, but she caught and repositioned it, resting its head against her clammy legs. “In the next two weeks I’ll be interviewing people who lost a father in the crash of Flight 848. I won’t have much time, but I want to get to the heart of the matter without evoking a lot of grief.”

  One of Mary Grace’s penciled brows tilted uncertainly. “You want to mine gold without digging and scraping?”

  More metaphor. Peyton sighed. “I don’t want these interviews to get . . . messy. You talk to prisoners all the time, right? How do you keep the conversations focused? Surely you have a technique for keeping people on track during an interview, a way to avoid emotional jags and pitfalls—”

  “Honey, I just let them talk.” The expression of good humor faded from the curve of Mary Grace’s painted lips as the depths of her eyes shone with a serious light. “The most precious gift you can give a hurting soul is the freedom to express pain and pleasure. Go in to the interview empty-handed; leave your notepad and pencil outside. Ask one question, only if you have to, then sit still and listen. People will talk if you give ’em a chance. It’s when you try to direct things that they fall silent. When you’re as quiet as a held breath, that’s when other people open up.”

  Peyton looked at the woman, letting the silence stretch. Maybe Mary Grace had a point, because the quiet that wrapped around them now was anything but comfortable. The air seemed to grow thin again, and if the silence continued, she’d have to go outside for some fresh air—

  Mary Grace’s lined face crinkled in a smile. “I think you’re getting the idea, hon. Humans are sociable creatures, so not many of us take naturally to silence. Your interview subjects may cry, they may get hung up in all kinds of what you call pitfalls, but their pages will open. You mark my words, that’s when you’ll find your story. More than that, you’ll likely find a friend, too.”

  Peyton could have melted in relief when a car honked outside. Mary Grace shifted her weight forward and pushed off the rocker’s armrest. “That’ll be my ride,” she said, standing.

  Peyton picked up her backpack and stood, too, feeling a little foolish as she propped up the creepy baby she’d displaced on the sofa. One of the advantages of advanced age, she supposed, was being allowed to bring one’s eccentricities out of the closet.

  “Thank you, Mary Grace.” More than ready to leave, she extended her hand, and felt the soft warmth of the woman’s crinkled skin. “I’ll try to remember what you said.”

  She tried to withdraw, but Mary Grace held on, bringing her free hand up to cover Peyton’s in a double grip. “I’ll be praying for you, hon,” she said, her eyes blazing with a light that had nothing to do with the darkened trailer. “I have a feeling our little talk wasn’t what you expected, so I’ve got one bit of practical parting advice. Remember—if you want to really know people, you have to love them. To love them, you have to forgive their faults. If you forgive folks enough, you’ll belong to them, and they to you, whether either of you likes it or not. It’s a natural law James Hilton once called squatter’s rights of the heart.”

  “James Hilton?” Peyton asked when Mary Grace released her hand. The name didn’t ring a bell.

  “A novelist, one of the greats. He wrote Lost Horizon, Random Harvest, and Good-bye, Mr. Chips.” Her voice softened. “He was one of my college professors, and I admired him greatly.”

  Peyton looked away as heat stole into her face. Faced with Mary Grace’s plain appearance, quirky collection, and Southern speech, Peyton had forgotten to consider the woman’s education and background. Clearly, if she intended to conduct successful interviews in the coming weeks, she’d have to do thorough preliminary research and pay more attention to her subjects.

  She moved to the door and opened it, then inhaled deeply of the fresh air. Compared to the stifling heat of the trailer, the shady carport seemed cool and invigorating. She moved down to the first concrete step, then turned. “Thank you, Ms. Van Owen. I hope you’ll read my column for the next few days. The story I’m following could be interesting.”

  Mary Grace took a moment to lean out the door and wave at a woman in an older-model white Lincoln on the road, then she gave Peyton a pink-rimmed smile. “I’ll look forward to it, hon. You take care now, and God bless.”

  As Peyton began the walk back to her Jetta, she heard Mary Grace yell, “Just a minute, Gladys. Let me grab my pocketbook.”

  Peyton sighed as she slid into her own car, turned the key, then lowered her perspiring face into the AC’s frigid blast. She wasn’t certain she’d be able to use anything Mary Grace had told her, but a savvy reporter tucked everything away in a mental trivia file. One never knew when a contact would come in handy.

  She shivered as she put the car in gear and turned to check the road. If she ever had to do a column on baby dolls, she knew exactly where to go.

  Comment by Mary Grace Van Owen, 67

  Retired Feature Writer for the St. Petersburg Post

  What did I think of Peyton MacGruder? Oh, honey, you don’t want to get me started. I could tell you plenty about that one, but I doubt she’d like me making presumptions about her. Seemed pretty evident there’s plenty she doesn’t want anyone to know . . . and maybe she doesn’t want to know herself.

  I’m no professional interpreter of body language, but any observant person knows that when a woman sits with her arms crossed over her chest, she’s either being defensive or she’s got a stain on her blouse. And no ordinary woman picks up a baby with one hand, even if it is a doll. Most telling was the way she covered the baby’s face with that canvas thing she carried instead of a purse—what do they call them these days? Bookbags? Backsacks? Whatever.

  Yes, I’d bet my old manual typewriter there is a story behind the wedding ring, the leather watchband, and the wide-eyed look she gave my babies. But Peyton MacGruder changed the subject real quick when I attempted to draw her out. So whatever her story, it’s locked deep inside, probably behind a wall as thick as Gibraltar.

  There was something else, too. I’m not sure, of course, and wouldn’t gossip for all the world, but at one point Peyton went all pale and fluttery, like she’d discovered a hunk of slime at the bottom of her soft drink glass. I was about to point the way to the bathroom, but then she seemed to get control of herself.

  She changed the subject, anyway, and that seemed to keep her from bolting from the sofa.

  Maybe I’m wrong . . . maybe she was feelin’ poorly on account of the heat. Florida summers can sometimes affect people that way, especially if they’re not used to it. The heat can make a person feel downright lightheaded.

  It’s like we always say here at Lakeview: “If you can’t stand the sun, go back up north.”

  SEVEN

  MONDAY, JUNE 25

  In her glass-walled office on the twenty-first floor of the World Trade Center, reporter Julie St. Claire clicked her mouse and moodily stared at her computer monitor. The crash of Flight 848 was old news now, but no one could deny that it had been good for WNN and the network’s star reporter. The fledgling network, which had been struggling to compete with CNN ever since its debut, had soared last week to the top of the ratings heap, largely because of Julie’s extensive on-scene coverage. Fortunately, Walt Rosenberg, head of the news division, was smart enough to realize who had attracted so many new viewers.

  Just this morning she’d typed Julie St. Claire into the Google Internet search engine and pulled up three newspaper articles specifically commending her work. “Not since the Gulf War produced Arthur Kent, the ‘Scud Stud,’ has reporting been so intrinsically linked to personality,” wrote a reporter for the Dallas Morning News. “Now Julie St. Claire, the ‘Babe from the Bay
,’ has charmed her way into our hearts with her concise, comforting, and often confrontational coverage of the PanWorld crash.”

  Crossing her legs, Julie smiled at the computer screen. Her producer had thrown a fit the day she told the cameras to roll and then stopped a navy diver to press for details about recovered bodies, but she knew the confrontation would look good on tape. The diver, exhausted and mentally drained, had no patience left. His crude remark, edited so it was visible but not audible, won Julie boatloads of sympathy and increased her ratings by ten percentage points. In the end, her producer had admitted the encounter made sense, and Julie enjoyed the affirmation of one of her core beliefs: people watched television news for entertainment first, information second.

  Let Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw read the news in their conservative dress shirts and ties. They might as well be on radio for all they seemed to care. Julie, on the other hand, had come to value the unblinking eye of the camera. It could be harsh, but it could caress a reporter who knew how to handle it.

  Yes, the tragedy of Flight 848 had been good for her. She almost hated to see the coverage fade. There would be at least one more report once the FAA published its findings about the cause of the crash, but their investigation could take months.

  Out of habit, she logged on to Nexis, the information database, then clicked her way to the search screen that would limit her search to data entered in the last twenty-four hours. Once again she typed in Flight 848, then snapped the enter key. She doubted she’d find any new information, but as long as the FAA investigation remained active, the tight ship of bureaucracy could always spring a leak.

  Only two stories appeared in the results list. The first was an updated report on PanWorld’s plummeting stock. The second caught her attention: