The Sense of Reckoning

by Matty Dalrymple

  “I did not ... I ...” his father spluttered. After a pause he said, “You, get out.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Uncle Edward.

  “I need to speak to her.”

  “You can speak to her with me in the room.”

  There was a long pause. Chip inched forward and pressed his ear to the door.

  Finally he heard his father speak, a strangled sound. “I never thought of you like an elevator or a croquet court, for God’s sake. You were ... you are ...”

  There was another long pause, and then his mother. “I am what?”

  Then Chip heard the scrape of wood on wood. What was happening in there? Before he had a chance to think, he pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.

  His mother and Uncle Edward stood next to each other, dressed in their day clothes but looking rumpled, like they had slept in them. His mother’s hair was down—he thought of how she had looked earlier that day, when she had stood in front of the window and undone her hair from the clip that held it, but only to fasten it more neatly into its restraint. She never kept her hair down except when she was in their quarters on the top floor, when she would sometimes let Chip brush it. Chip was suddenly jealous that Uncle Edward was getting to see her in this private state.

  They faced his father, who was wearing his pajamas and a robe and slippers—an adult version of Chip’s own clothes. The scraping sound he had heard was his father pulling out a chair, the back of which he was leaning on, his knuckles white, his face a frightening shade of gray. The three of them turned to Chip.

  Uncle Edward said, “Damn,” and looked down at his feet.

  “Darling—” said his mother. She started toward Chip, but his father stopped her with his words.

  “Don’t even think about it. You’re no mother to him. Stay away from him.”

  “But—”

  “No. Go. Now.”

  His mother looked from Chip to her husband, and then to Uncle Edward, whose eyes were still on the floor. “But I can’t just—”

  “I mean it. Go now. When you and”—his father gestured to Uncle Edward with his chin—“get wherever you’re going, you let me know and I’ll send your things. I want you out of here.”

  His mother looked back at Chip. Her eyes were weary and disillusioned—as if she expected life to be difficult and people to be cruel, and life and people had lived down to her expectations.

  Chip’s heart was thudding in his throat. “I can ...” he began, then realized he couldn’t, whatever it was. He was too young. He was too small.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” said his mother. His father began to speak again, but she silenced him with a gesture, without even glancing in his direction. “Chip, I need to leave for a while, but when things settle down we’ll work things out. You’ll be a good boy for your father, yes?”

  Chip tried to say “Yes,” but the word caught in his throat.

  His mother got her hat from the shelf by the back door and her purse and a sweater from the closet and, with a quick backward glance at Chip, stepped out the door, followed by Uncle Edward.

  “And don’t you take my truck!” his father called after them in a choked voice.

  Chip stared wide-eyed after them, and then turned to his father, who still held onto the back of the chair. His father’s face was pasty and his breath whistled in his throat.

  “Go upstairs. Go to bed,” he said thickly.

  Chip backed out of the kitchen, through the swinging door, then turned and ran to the lobby and stood at the window until he saw Uncle Edward’s truck go by, his mother a dark silhouette in the passenger seat. As the taillights receded down the drive, he heard his father’s steps behind him and he turned, tears of confusion and fear in his eyes.

  But his father looked less furious than defeated, and his voice was weak. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.” He turned back to the kitchen and in a minute Chip heard the faint sounds that meant he was making coffee.

  Chip crept up the three flights of steps to the top floor, glancing into his parents’ room as he passed. He noticed that only one side of the bedclothes was rumpled. He went to his own room and closed the door, then huddled under the covers with Timothy, wondering miserably how his life had become so bad so quickly.

  In the morning, Chip’s father didn’t talk about what had happened. The days went by, and still he didn’t talk about it. Chip heard some of the guests asking his father where his mother was, and his father telling them that she had had to leave unexpectedly to take care of a sick relative.

  A week or so later, a policeman showed up at the hotel carrying an envelope. He and Chip’s father went into the office behind the registration desk and stayed in there with the door closed for some time. Chip positioned himself in a corner of the lobby where he could watch the door, and when they emerged his father held the envelope. Even from across the lobby, Chip could see his hands trembling. His face was ashen. The policemen touched the brim of his hat to his father and his father turned back into the office and shut the door again.

  Late that night, when Chip heard his father go to bed, he went downstairs and searched the office but found no envelope. He eventually discovered it, several days later, in the Bible in his parents’ room. It contained a clipping from the Portland newspaper of a traffic fatality—a car had hit a tree when, according to witnesses, the driver swerved to avoid a wounded moose that had staggered into the road from behind a granite outcropping. The truck was owned by Edward Blaine; the driver was Evangeline Lynam. According to Mr. Blaine, Mrs. Lynam was headed to Mount Desert Island at the time of the accident.

  After that, Chip’s father hired a woman from Bar Harbor to manage the staff. Chip came in from playing one day to find his bed had been moved to his father’s room to make room for the new manager. His box of toys, with Timothy in it, was gone. Chip’s father never talked about that, either.

  Chapter 15

  Loring finished his story and sat back, looking at Garrick expectantly. Ellen had reached such a fever pitch of agitation that Garrick had sent her into the lobby.

  Garrick gazed tiredly back at Loring. “That is your story.”

  “Yup.”

  “And that in some way bears on your sister’s request for you to identify the location of the lady?”

  “Well, not that story particularly,” said Loring, examining his nails. “I’m just giving you some useful background information.”

  “What’s going on in there?” called Ellen from the lobby.

  “We’re finishing up our conversation. Stay there. I’ll be out shortly.”

  He heard a faint huff from Ellen. He turned back to Loring.

  “Loring, if you don’t intend to give your sister the information she is seeking, perhaps it would be kinder for you to simply state that and let her pursue some other option for saving the hotel.”

  “And miss the opportunity to spend this quality time with you?”

  Garrick glared at Loring for a few moments then, after a glance toward the lobby, said in a lowered voice, “Might you be willing to reveal the location of the lady to someone other than me?”

  Loring snorted out a laugh. “And who else do you suggest I give that information to? My pool of conversational partners has gotten a little limited, what with me being dead and all. Hell, not only can’t I make myself heard to anyone, I can barely hear them myself anymore. I could hear my sister for a while, but even she’s fading out now.”

  “I’m suggesting the possibility of involving another senser. I’m not the only person who has this ability. Even though others’ abilities may be less than mine, they might be able to perceive your answer should you be willing to give it to them.”

  Loring shook his head. “Garrick Masser, admitting he is not up to the challenge. Thought I’d never see the day.”

  “Obviously I’m ‘up to the challenge,’ as you put it, but if you refuse to put our previous differences behind us and give me the information, I’m willing to brin
g in someone whom you might find more congenial.”

  A slow smile spread across Loring’s face. “Is she pretty?”

  “Yes. Very attractive,” said Garrick briskly.

  “Garrick, are you pimping out a lady senser?”

  Garrick stood up. “You have the emotional maturity of an adolescent. I will tell your sister you will not cooperate.” With a whirl of his long coat he strode toward the door to the lobby.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your girlfriend, Garrick,” Loring called after him.

  Ellen, who had been sitting in one of the chintz chairs, shot to her feet when Garrick entered the lobby. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing useful,” Garrick growled.

  Ellen flopped back into the chair. “What am I going to do, Garrick?”

  Garrick drew his gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. “Ellen, are you sure you don’t want to engage another senser? Loring’s animosity toward me might prove to be an insurmountable challenge.”

  Ellen popped back up out of the chair. “No, Garrick. If it’s just you, it will be okay, but if someone else knows ... no, no one else. You promised.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said gloomily. “Very well. I will do my best.”

  They walked to the front door.

  “Tomorrow night, same time?” asked Ellen, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” Ellen opened the door and Garrick stepped outside. “Ellen, the lights,” he said irritably.

  “It’s only a short distance. Don’t you have a flashlight?”

  “You are going to be the death of me,” said Garrick, and drew the flashlight out of his pocket. He clicked it on and followed its oval of light to the Cadillac, folded himself in, started up the car, and glided slowly around the circular drive and down the road.

  *****

  Garrick made it a practice to concentrate only on driving when operating a motor vehicle, but tonight he could hardly avoid having his thoughts veer back to Ellen Lynam and the impending deadline.

  He remembered a day many years ago when a less worn, less harried, teenaged Ellen had started engaging him for sensings at the hotel. There was an especially thorny financial situation to be dealt with and Ellen had asked him to come to the hotel to attempt to contact her father—efforts that had always in the past proven unfruitful. He advised against the continued attempts, but Ellen had insisted and Garrick himself had bills to pay and so he had agreed.

  It had been a dreary late afternoon in March and there was an unpleasant slush of old snow on the ground. The front door of the hotel was unlocked and Garrick stepped in and heard voices coming from the office behind the reception desk. Drat. He had dared to hope that Loring might have business elsewhere—his presence would merely make the entire undertaking even more awkward than it already was. He stepped around the desk to the door of the office.

  Loring, then in his late twenties, was seated at the desk, papers strewn across its surface, a bottle of beer beside him. Ellen was standing, her arms crossed.

  “It’s my money, Lore.”

  “I’m not arguing that it’s your money, Ellen. I’m just saying that there are better things to spend it on than—” Loring glanced over and saw Garrick in the doorway. “Well, speak of the devil.”

  Ellen turned. “Garrick, I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Always a sneaky one,” said Loring, taking a drink from the bottle.

  “Should I return later?” asked Garrick stiffly.

  Loring picked up a pencil and bent over the sheets on the desk. “Don’t let me interfere with your little get-together.”

  “Lore, don’t you want to ask Daddy—?” began Ellen, and Loring cut her off.

  “No, I don’t want to ‘ask Daddy.’ He couldn’t take care of the place when he was alive, I sure as hell am not going to rely on him to give us advice on how to take care of it now that he’s dead.”

  Ellen’s lower lip began to quiver.

  Loring glared at Garrick, then stood and crossed to Ellen and put his hand on her arm. “Ellen, it’s been ten years. Dad’s gone now. Let it go. If you’re going to waste your money on this stuff, at least pick some other dead person to try to have a conversation with.”

  “You’re a jerk!” Ellen burst out. She flung Loring’s hand off her arm and ran from the room, squeezing past Garrick, who still stood in the doorway. They heard the thump of Ellen’s feet on the stair to the second floor and then, more faintly, on to the third.

  Loring pointed his pencil at Garrick. “I hold you responsible for the fact that she gets herself all worked up over this kind of craziness.” Loring threw himself back into the chair behind his desk and took another swallow from his bottle. “Feel free to show yourself out. I think your work here is done.”

  Garrick turned from the office and went into the lobby. He started for the front door then hesitated, glanced toward the office, and then crossed the lobby to the stairs.

  He found Ellen sitting on a bed in one of the stripped-down guest rooms on the third floor, facing the window looking out over Lynam Narrows, her back to the door. He cleared his throat from the doorway.

  “Everything’s all screwed up,” she said with a sniffle, and then blew her nose loudly into the sodden tissue she was kneading in her hands. Garrick removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket, crossed to her, and held it out.

  Ellen gave him a little smile. “Thanks, Garrick.” She put the used tissue in her pocket and blew her nose again on his handkerchief. “I’m just trying to help Loring out with this mess we’re in. I think Daddy could help.”

  “Ellen, I don’t think your father could help even if I were able to contact him. I think it would be best if you tried some other way to assist your brother.”

  Ellen shrugged. “He says I’m still like a little girl. Even though I’m almost eighteen.”

  Garrick was silent.

  Ellen glanced up at him from under her bangs. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m eighteen tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Garrick speculated about what the appropriate response would be. He finally settled on, “Congratulations.”

  She laughed a watery little laugh. “A girl’s eighteenth birthday is supposed to be special. But I think tomorrow is going to be like pretty much every other day around here.”

  “Are you ... having a celebration?” asked Garrick.

  She gave a snort. “Hardly. Loring has to go to Portland to talk to some guy at the bank.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have a celebration when he returns,” said Garrick.

  “Perhaps,” replied Ellen, mimicking Garrick’s serious tone. She shook herself. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want a celebration.” She sighed, then looked up at him. “What do you want to do about the sensing?”

  “Ellen, I don’t believe your father wishes to be contacted. I believe we should stop pursuing that avenue.”

  She sighed. “Okay. I guess I knew that, but I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

  After a moment, Garrick said, “I’ll take my leave now.”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks for coming by.” She looked at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. “I’ll wash this and get it back to you.”

  Garrick made a little bow and left Ellen gazing out the window. He gave the office a wide berth on his way to the front door.

  Garrick had another sensing engagement that evening, but his thoughts kept turning to Ellen Lynam. What might a girl desire for her eighteenth birthday? Something frivolous, no doubt. It had been almost two decades since he himself turned eighteen—he barely remembered the event.

  He briefly thought of giving her a book from his library, but all his books concerned sensing and it seemed inappropriate to encourage her in that direction. The next day, he found himself in a gift shop in Bar Harbor, but fled when the sales girl approached him. He returned home and had almost convinced himself that it was not his responsibility to provide a birthday celebration f
or Ellen Lynam when a thought struck him.

  He went to his sparsely furnished bedroom and drew from the back of the top drawer of his dresser a small cardboard box. He opened it and examined the contents for some time, then closed it and went to his office. He found a sheet of heavy stationery, cut it to the appropriate size, folded it carefully around the small box, and fastened it with a tiny strip of tape. Then he went to his car and drove to Lynam’s Point.

  He found Ellen in the lobby, scrubbing angrily at a stain on the wooden floor.

  “This ... is ... never ... going ... to ... come ... out,” she puffed, each word punctuated by a stroke of the brush.

  “You shouldn’t be scrubbing the floor today,” said Garrick.

  She puffed a strand of hair out of her face. “Why not?” she asked challengingly.

  “Because it’s your birthday.” He extended the box toward her.

  Ellen jumped to her feet. “You got me a present? That’s so nice of you, Garrick!” She turned it in her hand, examining the wrapping. “Can I open it now?”

  “Of course.”

  She sat down on one of the chairs and gestured him to another one. Once they were seated, she slipped her finger under the tape and loosened the paper. She removed it and set it aside, then examined the box. “What could it be?” she said, playing out the event.

  “It’s a—” Garrick began.

  “No, don’t tell me!” exclaimed Ellen. “Guessing is part of the fun!” She shook the box, producing a slight rattle. “Something’s moving in there.” Evidently having drawn out the suspense as much as she could stand, she pulled the lid off the box.

  “Oh, Garrick,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful!” She lifted out a jade pendant, teardrop-shaped, with a tiny dragon intricately carved into its surface, the dragon’s tail swirling above its head. “Wherever did you get it?”

  “It belonged to my mother,” said Garrick.

  “I just love it—thank you!” Ellen jumped to her feet, ran to Garrick, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  Garrick stood abruptly. “I must be leaving. I wish you a happy birthday.”