by Regina Doman
“I wouldn’t want her job,” Bear said.
He wondered again about his stonework idea. It was a little extraordinary, he knew, but he had a feeling he could make something of it. If only everything else works out, he thought. If only Blanche...
Rose nudged him. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered, and Bear got to his feet as the studio door opened and a tall, harried-looking man in a tweed suit and a silk shirt with a handsome profile entered the room, carrying several bulky black leather bags. Seeing them, he brightened up.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, taking each of their hands, speaking with the barest trace of an accent. “I am so very sorry for keeping you waiting so long.”
He chatted with them as he divested himself of the camera equipment, mentioning the fine weather and a bit of what had kept him so long—an attempt to photograph a flock of pigeons flying away from the pier. “It’s not as easy as you might think. Pigeons are not the type of bird you can hurry,” he explained. “You must forgive me for detaining you.”
His easy charm made Bear and Rose feel rewarded for waiting so long. With this personality, it was no wonder Mr. Van Seuss could keep such an unpredictable schedule without frustrating his clients.
He ushered them into his office, which was a bit more disheveled but far more comfortable, with large, soft, black leather chairs. Coffee? A drink? Rose said yes to a soda. He took one himself and then leaned forward on his black wood desk, saying, “Now, how can I make myself of assistance?”
Bear pulled out the photograph of Blanche, and Mr. Van Seuss’ eyes brightened.
“You would want to know if I took this photograph?” he queried.
Bear said he would.
“Yes, I did. Such a lovely girl, isn’t she?” His eyes traveled to Rose. “And you must be related to her.”
Rose admitted that the girl was her older sister.
“Wonderful. A most bewitching family. How else may I help you?”
Bear asked how he had come to take the portrait.
“That is both simple and not as simple to tell. I was asked to go to a home to take a photograph of a man and his wife about two weeks ago. Of course I do not give out my clients’ names. But I will tell you what I can. The man, you see, is very ill, and his wife wanted a last portrait of them together. That portrait did not turn out so well. The man is very ill. He does not look his best. I did what I could. It is very sad.
“Now, as a photographer, I have learned one must be spontaneous in the search for art. Such as today—I have to photograph pigeons, but the pigeons will not cooperate. But while I am waiting for the pigeons, I find incredible puddles along the dockside, with the wind making ripples. So I photograph the puddles and the reflections of the clouds. Just the same thing with this shoot I was telling you of. The beautiful black-haired girl—your sister—she is there. She is visiting the sick man. She is enchanting. So I ask her, may I take your photograph? She does not mind.
“I take the photo, but it is not exactly as I want. So I take some more. Not what I want. So I ask her to sit down for me. She sits on the chair as you see, here, and I photograph her. But her beauty is playing games with me. I cannot capture her as I want. So I move the chair, I play with the light. She is very patient, she smiles, and she has this wonderful ironic smile, like the Lady with a Secret. I try her in a number of poses until I use the whole roll. So much that the lady of the house—whose husband I came to photograph—I think she is becoming annoyed with me. And as I said, that photograph of her and her husband does not turn out so well. But as for these pictures—miraculously beautiful!”
Bear wondered aloud how Blanche came to have the picture.
“Oh, well, of course, when I come back with the photographs for the couple to choose, I bring a few of the girl as well, in case I see her. I should admit I was hoping to see her again. She is so very lovely and with such a gracious manner. One enjoys talking to a girl of that sort, especially when one is my age. And I was happy to find her there. She is so dedicated in visiting the sick man. He says it means the world to him, and I, seeing her, can understand. I showed the girl the pictures, and she is surprised and happy at how they look. She asks me if she may purchase this for her mother, and if she may come to look at the others later on. I gave her the one. Then, you see, the lady of the house—who does not seem to enjoy having such a beautiful young thing so near to her husband—comes in and is cross with me because she does not care for the pictures I took of her husband and herself. So the visit does not end well, but that is not the girl’s fault.”
Mr. Van Seuss rose. “Would you care to see the other pictures I took of her?”
Rose and Bear said they would. Despite what Mr. Van Seuss had said about not giving out his clients’ names, Bear was hoping that he might tell them more.
Mr. Van Seuss sorted through his pictures, each set in its own thick white envelope of textured paper marked with his red and white trademark symbol. Not finding anything, he checked his calendar for the day and consulted with Renee, then re-emerged brandishing another envelope.
“They were in my second-best briefcase!” he exclaimed. He took out a stack of glossy black and whites and smoothed them out on the burgundy leather cover of the desk with a professional hand.
Blanche’s features, white and black, gazed up at Bear from the table. Mr. Van Seuss had indeed managed to capture Blanche’s elusive expressions of quiet allure. Each one was a little better than the previous one, although none was as stunning as the one Blanche had chosen for her mother. Bear wondered to himself that Blanche hadn’t mentioned the photographs to him. Perhaps she had intended to surprise him with one.
He was pulled out of his reverie. “Who is this?” Rose asked, pointing to another photograph that had slid from the envelope.
Bear stared at the black and white image, and felt a tremor run through him as though he had been swiftly and silently rammed by a truck.
“That is the couple whose picture I went to take, as I told you,” Mr. Van Seuss said apologetically. “As I said, it was not a very successful venture.”
The man in the picture looked frail, very frail. But the woman stood beside him, tall and tanned and beautiful, and as archetypal as all the blond beauties lounging on the yachts in the waiting room outside.
He should have known. It had been there all along.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Van Seuss,” Bear heard himself saying as he got to his feet, so unexpectedly that Rose was startled. She said something in a questioning tone to him, but he barely heard what she was saying. It was time to go.
Chapter Twenty
Perhaps they think I look like her, but inside I’m not the least bit like the Blessed Mother, she thought to herself, walking back to the high school, swept suddenly again by the feeling of self-consciousness she had lost while serving the friars’ neighbors. But of course, nobody could really be like the Blessed Mother. All of us are sinful, or at least terribly inadequate—
“Nora!”
She halted, and looked at the door to the friary kitchen. Brother George hurried down the steps to her and handed her a piece of paper and the bottle. “I had one of my old colleagues look up the serial numbers on the pills. Here’s what it is.”
She read the unfamiliar ingredients, and looked up at him quizzically.
“Does your friend have heart problems?” the friar asked.
“No, not at all. He said he was lucky that way.”
“Well, then I’m not sure why he’d have a bottle of these pills. This is heart medication.”
“Heart medication.”
The friar nodded. “It would introduce a subtle toxicity into the patient’s system that over time could cause dizziness, confusion, even hallucinations. He’d be very sick. Not exactly what someone with a brain tumor would need.”
“Would it kill him?”
“It’s hard to say, but it might. It’s not a poison, but it could start heart problems that could kill him or put him into a co
ma if not used properly.” He paused. “Now, I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know if there might be some other problem he’s having that would require this medication. But I’m going to make an educated guess here. The bottle you gave me was a supply bottle. It may be that he obtained it without a prescription, and didn’t realize the effect it would have.”
“I see,” she said mechanically.
“But on the surface, I would say, he shouldn’t be taking this. Not without specific instructions from a very good doctor.” He looked at her. “This sounds like a bigger situation than a nineteen-year-old girl can handle.”
“It is,” she said.
“I hope you’ll consider getting some help,” Brother George said with concern.
She nodded and took a deep breath. “I will. Maybe Father Francis can help me…First I’ve got to get changed. Then I can think about it—Thanks very much, Brother George,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried on.
“You’re welcome,” Brother George turned to go back up the steps.
Her heart beating faster, she opened the door with the replacement key Father Bernard had given her. “Cappu! Shin!” she called, remembering her promise to Brother Leon to not go off alone. There were no answering barks.
She glanced around the courtyard, but the dogs were not in evidence. Perhaps they were tracking down a rat somewhere.
Well, I can at least go inside and get changed, she thought. Then I have to go and see what can be done…
As she opened the door to her room, pulling the bobby pins out of her veil, she heard a faint noise. A rat? She dropped the hood of the veil and looked into the shadows in the corridor beyond. A creeping sensation came over her. Someone was inside the building.
“Who’s there?” she called, in case it was one of the friars.
There was a footstep, and a figure came around the edge of the corner. She could see the green eyeshade.
Run. She turned, gathered her skirts, ready to run back towards the door.
“Blanche.”
She knew that voice. It was similar to Bonnie’s voice, but deeper, richer. Younger.
“That is your real name, isn’t it? Don’t go yet. I just want to talk to you.”
Go. She started towards the door again.
“Is there any harm in listening to me? Just stay by the door and listen. Did they really say you couldn’t even speak to me?”
Hand on the door, poised to run, she looked warily over her shoulder at the figure in black.
“That’s right,” the woman said, shuffling closer and halting about ten feet away. She wasn’t wearing her blue hat, and lank black hair hung around her wrinkled face, still covered with the green visor. “But now you call yourself Nora: the dark girl. That’s what you want to be, right? You don’t want to be a silly young thing needing to obey orders to be kept safe. You’ve grown, you’ve learned how to survive in the night.”
“What do you want?” the girl asked brusquely, feeling a chill on the back of her neck. I can still run if I need to, the girl told herself. I can still run.
For an answer, the old lady bent down, opened one of her bags, and pulled out an apple. She bit into it, and munched, looking at the girl meditatively.
“You’re not running away from me now, are you? That’s because you want to know. You don’t want to be a pawn of monks, or men. You want to be independent. You want to be free. A girl of the night, a lady of the dark. Just like me, Nora. Just like me.” She dabbed a hand into her bag again and held something out. An apple lay in her palm, round and red and shiny. “Would you like one? They’re fresh.”
The girl shook her head, no. I’m not that stupid.
The woman laughed. “So you’re a better girl than Eve?” she chuckled. “Smarter than that unlucky lady, are you? Or are you just afraid to know? Would you rather trust in some man, or in some patriarchal God who’s never been in your shoes?” She paused. “What’s that in your hand?”
The girl covered the bottle with her long sleeves and looked at the old woman guardedly.
“So you do know what’s going on, don’t you? It’s silly to have pretenses any longer. Don’t you want to know the other side of the story? Her story, instead of his story?”
“I’m sure you have some way of justifying yourself,” the girl said at last.
“I’ve been wondering why you’re doing this for him. Do you even know what you’re doing? Is it for the money? Or are you just in love with him?”
The girl faced the old woman stolidly. “I’m not in love with your husband.” She pushed her hand on the door to leave.
“I’m not talking about my husband.”
The girl froze, and looked around.
Seeing she had made an impact, the woman sucked in her breath. “You don’t know as much as you think you do, do you? It can be dangerous to meddle in matters that are too big for you.”
Suddenly the woman darted forward and pulled her away from the door, spinning her around. Now she was between the girl and the door. She made a grab for the bottle, but the girl held it away from her and screamed. They struggled as the woman yanked at the girl’s arm, but the girl wrapped the bottle tightly in both hands. Breathing hard, the woman pinched the nerves at the base of the girl’s neck. Black spots swelled up before the girl’s eyes.
The woman’s voice whispered mockingly in her ear. “Sleep, sleep, black night girl, snow white girl, and dream of your phony prince…”
II
“Has anyone seen the dogs?” Charley asked, pausing in the doorway of the refectory.
“I haven’t seen them,” Brother Herman said, and the other friars around the table shook their heads.
“I think they escaped again,” Charley groaned. “Shin’s the worst. He’ll sneak out when I’m not looking all the time.”
“Needs more discipline,” Brother Matt said.
“Well, I guess they’ll be back when they’re hungry.” Charley sat down at the table with resignation. “I’ve got to get busy building a pen before they get lost for good.”
“You’ll build it tomorrow,” Father Francis said, pointing at him to indicate that Charley was under obedience. “Remember—I am the Big Dog.”
Charley panted and inclined his head. The others chuckled.
Leon put down the plate of steamed cabbage leaves he was serving. “Aren’t the dogs with Nora in the high school?”
Brother George cocked his head. “I’m not sure, but I heard her calling them when she went back to her room.”
Leon reminded himself not to be too preoccupied with Nora, and focused his attention on meal prayer. But after the blessing was prayed, he got up. “Father Bernard, can I go check to see if the dogs are in the high school with Nora? She shouldn’t be there by herself.”
“You may,” Father Bernard said, handing him the key, while Matt raised his eyebrows slightly.
Leon paid no attention to him, but hurried out to the high school, crossing the courtyard in the dim light. The sun was almost down.
Anxious despite himself, he banged on the door. “Nora?” he called as he pushed the key into the door and turned it without waiting for an answer.
The door creaked open, and he flicked on the hallway light. Nora lay on the ground, and someone stood over her. The light glinted on a green eyeshade. Seeing Brother Leon, she turned and fled down the corridor.
In an instant, Leon was at Nora’s side. She was groggy, but aware.
“Are you okay? Can you get up?”
Nora glanced down at her empty hands. “She took the bottle.”
“What bottle?”
She stumbled to her feet. “That’s what she wanted, all this time.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “I have to—”
“—Go get help.” He could hear the intruder racing up the steps of the high school to the second floor. Plunging into the shadows, he followed her up.
Up and up the steps he ran, past the locked door to the fi
rst floor, the second floor, up to the third floor door, which he knew was unlocked. The echoes of his coming distorted sound, and when he reached the top of the steps, he couldn’t hear where the intruder had gone. He listened, his heart beating, praying for guidance. The doors at the far end of this floor were locked, so he guessed that Nora’s assailant was still on this floor.
Carefully he looked through the window of the door at the top of the steps into the shadowy hallway. Nothing moved.
He pushed the door open silently and stepped into the corridor. It was still lit with the late summer evening sun, peering through the glass doors of the classrooms. Along the sides of the hallway were the stacked-up desks, movable blackboards, chairs, and other furniture they had moved out of the classrooms. Any of these obstacles could provide a place to hide.
Step by step, he moved down the corridor through the stacks of furniture, scanning for movement, listening intently. Fortunately the classrooms were mostly open and bare. A quick look inside each told him they were empty.
At last he was coming towards the double doors at the far end of the corridor. He knew they were chained shut. As he moved closer, a dark figure suddenly rose up from the ground before the doors.
“Don’t make a sound or I’ll shoot you!”
It was Bonnie’s voice. She was standing in front of the doors in her battered black trench coat, brandishing a gun, a streak of sunset red hitting the muzzle. The green eyeshade still covered most of her face, but the hat was gone. No longer hunched down over her bags, she was taller than she usually seemed, taller than Leon himself. And clearly not an old woman.
Help would be coming soon, Leon knew. He raised his hands, grateful that she hadn’t fired first.
“Where’s the closest exit?” she demanded, tossing her head so that the long black and gray hair flew to one side, making it suddenly obvious that it was a wig.
Leon nodded his head back over his shoulder. “Behind me.”
“You’re going to walk me there without calling attention to yourself,” she directed, training the gun on him.
