As she entered its penumbra the pupils of her eyes expanded; now she could see how the moonlight fell down between the branches, etching everything in a pale aura. It was like a song, a tune coaxed from a pipe, it was everywhere, every twig, every leaf, was given shape by it. Stepping lightly, she trod with sure feet through the forest, winding between the tree trunks and over rises and dips, making her way around outcroppings of rock. She traced her fingers over the fronds of last year’s ferns, leathery and dry to her touch. She came to a small stream and crossed it, the mud on its bank soaking her rag-wrapped slippers. Skunk cabbages poked up from the black earth, letting out their pungent smell. Kneeling on a stone she scooped some water from the stream to her mouth. She sat, looking around her. Above, a pair of screech owls called to each other, their sounds as infinite a part of the forest as all the other parts of it, the silver of the moonlight reflected on the ribbon of water, the scent of bark, the glimmer of a spider’s path drifting on an eddy of air, everything woven together in a world far from that which man strove to alter.
She wished she could stay there, never leave this night-lit world of the forest, become part of it. But she knew that when the sun came up, as it must, she’d then be subject to its rule, and far from her purpose. So she stood and went on.
Some time later she came to a place where the trees thinned. Beyond them was a pinkish, unnatural light, with the sound of traffic tearing the air apart. She changed course to the right, away from it. The moon had set and it was quite dark, but she knew she was near. Following a small ridge she came to the edge of the forest and peeked out. She saw a house below, its walls taking shape in the gray, predawn light. Stepping out a little farther she looked at it carefully. It wasn’t the right house, though why she couldn’t quite say.
Following the ridge, keeping within its shadow, she made her way along its flank. The nearing sunrise was just beginning to tinge the sky with seams of pink when she stopped to venture out again, looking below her at another house. It was a huge, elaborate thing, far larger than a house needed to be. Content with her travels she lay down by an outcropping of rock where a pile of chestnut leaves had drifted. Burrowing and wiggling, she tucked herself into them, leaving only her eyes and nose exposed. She breathed in their dry, brownish scent. A slow-moving insect crawled over her hand and she sighed—it was good to have company. She made sure not to move, so that she wouldn’t crush some tiny part of it.
The sun was well up when she woke. She stretched, brushing the leaves from her shawl. Moving cautiously she left the woods to get a better look at her house. It had a garage built to look like a stable block, with a cobbled forecourt and a green mansard roof. It simply stank of money. And though she couldn’t say how she knew, she was sure there was no one at home. There was another house across the street, but it could only be guessed at through the trees.
Gretchen picked her way down the hillside, unafraid of being seen—the house had no eyes. It simply waited for her. She walked along the back, looking at the doors, waiting to find one that would tell her it was unlocked. There it was.
She went inside, stooping to take off her muddy slippers first. Wrapping them into a bundle, she deposited them behind a sofa.
Going through the rooms she glanced at them, starting once when she saw a thin beggar-girl staring at her, but it was only herself, reflected in a large gilt looking-glass.
When she at last found the staircase she ran up it, opening the first door she came to. She closed it; she was looking for milady’s room, and that clearly was not it. The next one was.
A large room, longer than it was wide, it had French doors onto a balcony at the far end. It was a room that could only belong to a woman, with its Chinese wallpaper painted with peonies and birds, and its apricot velvet chairs. Or perhaps even a countess, judging by the bed, with its cascade of figured silk descending from a gilt coronet above it.
Gretchen was the only child of Ree Hollander’s who had known him. She knew his burnished, floating hair, how he strode about in frogged coats with wide cuffs, his jeweled peacock presence. She remembered her father as she floated barefoot through the mirror-paneled door, into the Connecticut contessa’s bathroom. She heard his voice rising above the guitars, and smelled the dust burning on the spotlights, saw him raise his arm in a gesture of magisterial grace.
The bathroom was done entirely in dusty pink marble, with a sunken bath. A gilt dolphin spat water into it when she turned the taps. Adjusting the temperature she left them on, then took a tour of the dressing table, where she found a bottle of Diorissimo. She poured a dollop of it into the bath, stripped off her clothes, and got in, letting it fill around her.
She sniffed an armpit, enjoying the earthy scent, then soaped herself thoroughly. When she’d done she lay back in the water, floating. Time passed, in which she thought of nothing, her mind as suspended as her body. Much refreshed, she washed her hair with some very superior shampoo she found, then rinsed it with a jet from the hand-sprayer. Ahh.
Sometimes, when things seem to be going too well, one gets a feeling of insidious worry that comes creeping along behind, a shadow that must follow even the best-loved thing. But sometimes, contrary to what might seem tainted by too much luck, things actually do go well. So Gretchen rose from her stolen bath surefooted and clean, scented with soap and Diorissimo. No ogre came stamping in, no door banged below. Lazy and warm, she walked into the bedroom and opened the other mirrored door.
Recessed halogen lights inside came on at the summons of the door. Gretchen looked into a gallery, a temple, as it were, of women’s clothing. Being Gretchen, she naturally did not gasp, but her face was expression enough. Running like a nymph to the first dress that caught her eye, she took it up on its hanger and laid it along her body. It fit. She, milady, was her size.
In fact, the Connecticut contessa was a wonderfully slim woman in her forties and very proud of keeping her figure, but more than that, was a woman who cared deeply and truly about clothes. Who had never thrown anything out that she’d looked good in, which meant very little had ever been tossed aside. She put tissue paper over her padded hangers and had been something of a fashion star in her day, when she’d looked so utterly fetching in a wide-brimmed, candy-spun hat and a strappy dress.
Her shoes were arranged on white shelves and her hats on Styrofoam mannequin heads. Rows of drawers were filled with belts and shawls and boas, every conceivable sort of handbag, hair ornaments and scarves smelling of faded Diorissimo.
Gretchen did not speak, it’s true, but you mustn’t think that her head wasn’t stuffed to the brim with words. The words to “Ziggy Stardust” cued in her mind as she tried on a madder of rose silk shirt. Woke up as a rock ’n roll staaar, she sang as she found a white camisole to wear beneath it. A pair of white leather jeans went on next, then a pair of high-heeled suede boots. She studied herself in a mirror. It needed a belt. One made of silvery mesh with squares of turquoise took her fancy, yes, that was it. Perhaps she’d nick the necklace with the jade ankh as well, it was awfully nice. And that narrow eau-de-nil scarf to wind around her neck, the way her father used to wear them.
Now she needed a coat, what about this ankle-length suede one in the same light brown as the boots? And sunglasses—the Jackie O’s, she decided. The pocketbooks were arranged by color. She chose a knapsack style in black leather, carefully zipping the Visa card in its pocket.
Finally, she looked at hats. A wide gray one with a floppy brim looked just the ticket, but you never knew with hats till you tried them on. She did, looking critically at the effect, but it was just right. She was a rock star incognito.
Rolling up her old clothes, she found a suitcase to hide them in. She was sorry to leave the shawl, it was quite a nice shawl, so first she touched her lips to it, then said good-bye to it politely.
Downstairs she found a book-lined room with a desk that held a copy of the Yellow Pages. Looking through a stack of bills she made a note of the address. The next part would t
ake some effort, so she massaged her jaw with her fingers, practicing opening and closing her mouth. Marshalling her nerve, she dialed a number.
“Yes, this is Sadie Hollander,” she said. “Could you send a car at once, to take me to Manhattan? Tenth Street. Yes, that’s fine. Can I pay for it now with my card? And could you add twenty percent for the driver, please?”
When she had hung up, she went to the bookshelves, to calm herself with the feel of their spines. Oh, look, a copy of Jane Eyre, and in ever such a nice blue morocco binding. She slipped it into her pocketbook.
When the limo pulled up in front of the house, Gretchen got in, giving the driver the address.
As the several tons of Cadillac rolled onto the highway, the driver offered a pleasant observation on the weather, but Gretchen did not respond. Every barrel has its bottom and Gretchen had hit hers, had used up all the speech she could muster for the time being. She felt sad, knowing that he thought her terribly rude: he’d probably go home later and complain to his wife what a stuck-up girl he’d had to drive today. She might have nodded to him, but it didn’t occur to her.
She thought about how she still had one more thing she must say. When she arrived and the family all came running, she had to say to Sadie: “I’m better now, Mother.”
Sadie would probably not cry, she hardly ever did, instead she’d kiss her and promise never to send her back to that place. Then Gretchen would point first at her mouth, then at her heart, to show that she had a promise too, to never let the screams inside her get so strong again. Later she’d make some new drawings, to show her that she didn’t have to do that dog drawing anymore.
The caddie came to a stop in front of the house on West Tenth Street. The driver, correct in every gesture but truly hurt by Gretchen’s refusal to respond to his few, cheerful words, opened the door for her and then drove away.
Sadie had not thought of also taping a key to the house in the back of the picture frame. She should have, it’s true, but life is made up of such small oversights. So when Gretchen rang the bell, then began to kick the door and beat on it, a small oversight became, as they frequently do, a large problem. Gretchen sank down on the top step, put her head in her hands, and sobbed, pitifully but soundlessly.
A boy came walking down the street, his gait a skipping, awkward one. He stopped when he came abreast of the steps and stared at her.
Gretchen raised her head. He was looking at her with frank curiosity. She thought he looked about her brother’s age and had the nicest face, square and dark, with the most wonderful eyes and long lashes.
Liall, for it was Liall, had never seen such a beautiful girl. He’d stared so many times at her photographs in the house, but even those hadn’t done her justice. She’d been crying but her face wasn’t all blotched and puckered, it was more like her eyes just swam in spring-water. Her clothes and her hair were all sort of flung out around her, like a doll that had been dropped on the floor.
“You’re Gretchen, aren’t you?” he said. “Did you run away too? Don’t cry, please, I mean, go ahead if you want to, but I’ll help you.”
Gretchen gazed at him, her eyes still awash.
“You locked out? It’s okay, your brother and sister are staying right next door. I’ll show you.”
Gretchen nodded, then pointed at her mouth, looking questioningly at him.
“Oh yeah, they said you didn’t like to talk. I’m Liall, Hamish’s friend.”
Gretchen fought a battle inside herself at that moment, wanting very much to win it. She did. “Are you the boy with one white leg?” she asked him.
Liall smiled and pulled up one pant leg, revealing part of a beige plastic limb above his sock. “Come on, I’ll see you safe to the colonel’s. That’s where your brother and sister are for a spell. Your mamma’s in London just now, but you’ll like the colonel. He kind of acts like everything’s just wonderful, so you get to thinking like that too around him. You can take my hand if you’re scared.”
Gretchen stood and went down the steps. She looked at her young protector with a smile and put her hand in his.
Ettie knew pretty much everything there was to know about the Hollanders. She knew these things not because she was a busybody, far from it, but because she loved them. Their aches and bruises were her aches and bruises, their good things and presents tied with bows were hers too. So when she opened the door and saw Liall holding the hand of a girl like one of the daughters of the secret places in the mountains, but who she instantly knew to be Gretchen, she let out a cry of welcome and held out her arms.
33
Mrs. D made her report to the Thursday Night Imbibers the next evening.
“First, and most important,” she began, “I’ve talked with the girl. She was quite clear and said simply two things—that she never wants to go back to that place she was in, and that she would like to become normal again. No thank you, Colonel, I’ll wait to have a drink until I’ve given my full report. Oh Goddamn it, all right, just a snort.
“I explained to her that naturally she’ll stay here until her mother returns, and that she wasn’t to go out unless one of us adults is with her, that I had to take that precaution if we are to keep her safe in her mother’s absence. She agreed, was very sensible about it.
“Now, I did some research on the subject and it appears that not only do we have no right whatsoever to keep her here, we are, in fact, acting firmly on the wrong side of the law.”
“Hear, hear,” the colonel said, pouring himself some more whiskey.
“I’ve told the children never to answer the phone next door unless they’re quite sure who’s calling. There have been a number of messages left on the machine there from that place. They sound slightly panicked, though I’m sure they’re more worried about any possible accountability for their neglect, than concern for Gretchen. Legally, it’s quite clear that we should let them know that Gretchen’s safe, but I say to hell with them. I say we protect the girl and hide her from those jackals until her mother gets back and can sort it all out.
“As to Sadie, I spoke to her this afternoon. She was a bit, shall we say, euphoric, but I think she understood most of what I told her. I’ll call her again tomorrow, earlier in the day, to make sure she’s clear about what we’re proposing. But she seemed perfectly happy for us to keep Gretchen here, and was overjoyed that the girl seems so much better. By the way, she said that Brian’s making excellent progress and is sitting up and doing some exercises.
“As to the matter of the girl’s state of mind, I’ve spent a good many years dealing with all sorts, and in my view, that girl’s sane. I understand from Hamish, whose frankness can be a real help in putting things together, that she was in a very bad way when she was put into that place. I’d say she’s pulled herself up by her bootstraps and made a recovery. She’s making a real effort to talk again and is doing everything to behave like a good girl. Hamish also tells me she’s making the kind of beautiful, detailed drawings she used to before she cracked up. I gather while she was ill she’d only do one drawing over and over, of a dog. These things and the fact that somehow, God knows how, she managed to get out of that place dressed only in pajamas and a robe, then make her way to Manhattan, shows remarkable cunning. In fact, it seems she arrived in a limo. And dressed in those wonderful clothes! She won’t talk about it but clearly she must’ve lied, stolen, and cheated to manage all that, which I think proves her mind’s working perfectly well.”
Mrs. D poured herself a well-deserved drink.
“A most excellent report,” the colonel said. “As usual, a remarkably thorough piece of work. But tell me, is she as beautiful as our young Scottish friend says she is?”
“Colonel, I’m an Irish girl by birth, and that girl’s not just beautiful, she’s like something my granddad was always yammering on about—he used to cry over the old country, the way the sun shone over the hills covered in spring grass and how it smelled. I used to think it was all just hogwash but now that I’ve seen tha
t girl, I’m not so sure. She has something of the old country and the smell of new grass to her.”
“My, my,” the colonel said, sighing. “I must say, I do hope she’ll come and see me. You did tell her that she’s most welcome to join me whenever she likes?”
“Yes, I made that perfectly clear. I gave her a full description of the entire household, including the fact that there is a bum living in the garden.”
“Excellent, excellent.” The colonel reached for a sandwich, then remembered that Ettie hadn’t brought in the trolley yet. Odd, he thought, it wasn’t at all like Ettie to be late. Well, she was probably doing something for Gretchen, she’d taken a rare, almost worshipful fancy to the girl.
Robert had been as quiet as a judge, or at least as quiet as a proper judge should be, listening and considering the matter carefully. He’d been aware that there was another Hollander child, but mostly from Ettie, who’d described her as some kind of mythic apparition, which wasn’t much of a help at getting at the truth. Now he felt he was on firmer ground, and could offer an opinion.
“Here’s what I think,” he said. “I think we need a plan to protect this here girl, keep her from those grasping fingers of the people at the funny farm. I mean, it’s all very well us agreeing that we’ll keep her safe, but how’re we going to do it? I think we need a real plan, to set up a system of communications and patrols and rehearse what we’d do if the law shows up. For sure get a hidden video camera on the front steps for starters. I can install it, that’s a piece of cake. But we also got to train those kids in emergency maneuvers, what to do if those people from the funny farm come a knocking, or send the police.”
The Ballad of West Tenth Street Page 24
