“God knows,” Kendra said, “what kind of future I can give it.” And so she stayed in the house where she grew up, in the room that had been her room, painted pink for little girls.
She went for daily walks that ferried her miles away from home. The jet stream looped successive cold fronts south and east, staving off precipitation. Rain would have been a godsend and blue skies regaled, but for unaccountable days, nothing but blustery windstorms and slate-gray clouds attacked the North Shore of her youth. Kendra had to brace herself against the saw-toothed edge and hang on. She relied on nature’s fierceness to strengthen her for what was to come.
In the afternoons, she escaped to the patio and lounged on a padded chair, sometimes propping a novel between her hands but most times letting her eyes sail toward the horizon. Azure waves lapped along the scalloped beachhead. Occasionally, white crests churned against deep blue-black waters, and in the discharge of nature’s fury, she found a solitude never before experienced, and a quieting of the mind.
Emily made a habit of joining her daughter outside, positioning a chair parallel to hers and sitting in Carmelite contemplation. Mother and daughter didn’t speak, yet they found a connection deeper than words could express. Something happened during those hours that stretched into sunset. Something approaching love. Not from Kendra to Emily. But from Emily to Kendra, silent but immutable.
Several days later, when Kendra was alone in the house, she answered the doorbell. “Have you come to take me back to the hoosegow? Or is it the psych ward? I’ve lost track of my legal status.”
Detective Wakeman was lingering at the foot of the veranda, scuffing his shoe on the sidewalk. Unable to look her in the eye, he plunged his hands into his pants pockets and gazed idly at the denuded magnolia tree. He made a decision and cast his eyes up at her. For a man so big and so tall, he was light on his feet when he bounded up the stairs and greeted her with a mock salute at his hairline. He took in her appearance. “You’ll want to change.”
“Something striped?”
“Something black.”
“Oh dear. Am I in that much trouble?”
“This isn’t an official visit.”
“Then you had better come in. Unofficially.”
He hesitated, but the smile, the one that made him look like a seventh grader, pushed him forward. Before stepping into the house, he paused long enough to digest the changes in her. Since the hospital stripped Kendra of her inborn defenses, she probably came across the way actresses do, not merely fragile, but with the rawest of her emotions exposed like fireflies on a moonless night.
“Are we on our way to a hanging?” she asked.
“Something like that.” He was dressed spiffier than usual. Bronze shirt, charcoal slacks, silver tie. “That is ...”
“You don’t have to explain, Detective. I’m not interrogating you. Can I get you something to drink? Ice water?”
He followed her into the kitchen.
“I still have your watch.”
“But do you use it to keep time?”
“In a way. It reminds me of how far I’ve come. We have the place to ourselves, in case you were wondering. My father’s mistress has taken my mother shopping.”
“You like shocking people, don’t you?”
“It’s what I do best.” Kendra fished around for a glass, for ice cubes from the tray, for water from the tap. He took the glass from her. Their fingertips briefly met. “You still haven’t said where we’re going?”
“A funeral.”
“Mine?”
“Bonnie Cutler’s.”
“Looks like I just tripped over my own sarcasm.” She busied herself with putting away dishes.
He said, “The case has been formally closed.”
“And the verdict?”
“Fluke accident. The child climbed into the flue and got stuck.”
“It’s the only reasonable explanation. I didn’t realize the police could be so sensible.”
“They can be. Once in a great while. Shall we go? We don’t want to be late.”
Ten minutes later, she pounded downstairs wearing subdued navy blue. “Will this do? I seem to have misplaced my veil.”
“You’re thinking of a different century.”
“The one where wives are committed to insane asylums for convenience sake? Perhaps I am.”
Wakeman moved ahead of her and held open the door. Kendra was forced to look up into his eyes. She hadn’t noticed the broad shoulders before. He always seemed wiry, lithe, and graceful, but in actuality, he was a bruiser of a man. His hands reached forward, long fingers extending from massive palms, and braced her upper arms.
“I break easily,” she said.
“You’ve been through a lot.”
She felt the drag on her lips and a tiny smile aching to escape. “With more to come. I’ve been seeing a succession of doctors and lawyers. To prove myself sane. It’s a stupid charade. Fortunately, Birdie Jellinek knows a judge.”
“Hoffman?”
“You remember him. From the first time. We’ve become fast friends, but I continue to call him Judge Hoffman. Familiarity has its limits.”
“The hospital didn’t help.” It was statement rather than a verdict.
“No.” She wanted to explain but only repeated, “No.” And then “God no,” and laughed crazily. She became keenly aware of the palms of his hands rubbing the length of her arms as if to warm them. He wasn’t being manipulative. Sympathetic was a closer word. Understanding was a better one. After everything she’d been through, Ethan Wakeman, with his liquid brown eyes and his mouth-watering sweetness, was too good to be true. “You should try psychiatric commitment sometime. If you’re not already insane, you soon will be.”
“Several marbles short?”
“Very good, Detective, you’re getting the hang of it.”
The cemetery was haunted with thousands of restless ghosts consigned to eternity. The sky was overcast and the air moist with the threat of rain. Autumnal trees opened wide their arms and spirited visitors along gravel pathways to gravestones marked with crosses and epitaphs. Stones of remembrance had been deposited on many of the tombstones. Older plots had gone to weed, the reason evident: those who would have cared for them had died long since. The more ancient memorials—moss-covered, cracked, and tumbled—had succumbed to neglect and time. The atmosphere hummed with the low moans of the dead. But those who chose not to listen heard nothing but the soft rustle of grass, the stir of leaves, and the twitter of finches.
People were good at heart. Though unacquainted with the child sealed in the tiny coffin—her life shortened by fate and the unknowing hand of her sick brother—many came to pay their final respects. The Renners, the Knudsens, the Konstantines, the Langfords, the Wards, and the Singers were all there. The Moys and the Heaths, too. The Beckers, the Banners, the Millers, and the Childses also came. Connected to each other by links in a long chain, they would have never met except for the haunting spirit of a child weeping in the night. The introductions were handed off from owner to buyer and seller to owner like a football passed down the line. Joy overshadowed tears, and the Cutlers were no less susceptible.
John and Peg may have been dressed in somber clothing, but they came with gladdened hearts. They had finally brought their daughter home. Since this was a day for celebration, even if belated, they greeted every well-wisher with generous words and heartfelt affection. But none was more sincere than that bestowed upon the most recent occupant of the bungalow on Marshfield Avenue. The grieving parents clung to Kendra like winch to anchor.
They introduced her to their pastor. “You are indeed a courageous woman,” he said. “Yes, courageous. Without you, a child would have remained lost to her parents, leaving them forever desolate.”
Uncomfortable with the pastor’s praise, Kendra backed away until she placed herself outside the ring of mourners. Detective Wakeman hovered nearby, saying nothing. What can you say to a woman cruel enough to shine a light on
death?
After prayers and words of forbearance were recited, the assemblage backed away from the open hole in the ground. Beside it lay the grave of a brother who loved his sister so much that he smothered her with his embrace. Two lives had come full circle, from one dark tomb into another.
Hugs and tears made the rounds. Kendra would never again see any of these people. They would go back to their homes and lives, and forget about the child found in the chimney of a forsaken house. Kendra would never forget. Neither would the Cutlers.
“You did them a favor,” Ethan said to her in the car.
“But I’ll always be a reminder of their failure.”
“Of not preventing their son from killing his sister?”
“No, they couldn’t have stopped that.”
“Then what?” he asked.
“Of turning their backs on Bonnie and leaving her alone in the dark for me to find.”
When Ethan dropped Kendra off in front of the Queen Anne, she said, “There’s something I want you to see.”
Stepping stones and a vined trellis led to the coach house. A weatherworn stairway climbed to the second-floor entrance. A key hidden beneath the welcome mat let them into a private three-room apartment.
Kendra threw open the windows and sniffed fresh air. The lake floated on the back of a giant turtle, swelling and dipping in agreeable repose as clouds sailed across the far horizon. The scene reminded her of childhood, when she would sneak inside on Sunday mornings and settle herself on her father’s lap, a blanket and his arm thrown around her shoulders.
Ethan touched her on the neck, just below the earlobe. She shivered and turned into his embrace. The kiss was waiting for her, the kind of kiss a young girl receives from a brother or an uncle. Though he yearned to express more, he was being considerate, of her and the occasion.
“Come,” she said. “I’ll give you the short tour.” She slipped her hand into his and guided him into the backroom. “Daddy came here for solitude. My brother and I were forbidden to play here. He was always stern about that. I thought it was because he didn’t want to be disturbed in his work.”
She opened the door to the office and switched on track lighting. A wall of portraits exploded from the seams. This was the museum of Alan McSweeney’s heart. The eight-by-tens had been photographed some thirty-five years ago, created by the hand of an amateur photographer who mixed art with passion. He concentrated on a single subject—a woman in her mid-twenties to early thirties—carefree, vivacious, and exquisite.
Emily. Lying on a couch in a vampy pose, a cigarette dangling from her lips, a dress exposing fleshy thighs, the golden strands of her wavy hair fanning back from her brow.
Emily. Perched on top of a beach blanket, verging on giggles, her legs tucked beneath her, the swimsuit immodest for the times.
Emily. Swinging on a rope swing, pulling her feet toward the photographer and laughing up at the sky.
Emily. Gazing into the distance, a summerhouse at her back, a dreamy look to her expression.
Emily. Relaxing on porch steps, her chin resting in a cupped hand, her eyes closed, tulips blooming all around, and her nose drinking in mowed grass.
Emily. On the beach, stretched out on her stomach, her fist curled at her chin, and dozing in the warmth of summer.
Emily. Roosted on the hood of a Pontiac, her legs crossed at the ankle, her arms braced behind her on the hot metal, laughing at something the photographer must have said.
Emily. Stretched across a bed and leaning against stacked pillows, the shot from the waist up, her breasts bare, her face profiled, her eyes cast modestly down.
“My father’s love song,” Kendra said. “To my mother.”
“You take after her.”
She wasn’t ashamed to say, “Yes. I know.”
He came up to her, his tallness and broadness overshadowing her. She whiffed an outdoorsy smell mingled with leather, even though he wasn’t wearing leather on this occasion. His eyes were no longer dark and impenetrable but warm and admiring. The softer side of Ethan Wakeman came through in full force. He wasn’t the self-assured detective bursting with authority and watchfulness. Instead, he was an adolescent afraid of making the wrong move and being rejected outright, but hoping for something more. He wanted to give passion and receive kindness in return.
“You never said why you were at the mall that day.”
“I was following someone. Not you.” He swept a fallen eyelash from her cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. He showed it to her on the calloused pad of his forefinger.
“Only two other people it could have been.” Kendra had put out of mind that she could ever love a man again. Or trust him. Or lie with him. Or let him see her imperfections. She felt weak and out of control, but not from the thought of being taken by this tender man who had seen the worst side of her. Because she wanted him possibly more than he wanted her.
“Or a mall full of suspects.” Ethan leaned forward. “Call it kismet.”
Their mouths met. His were soft and pliable. Hers wanted more than just a polite kiss. She tasted him and he, her. He wrapped her up like a present, his arms tying a bow at her waist. He emitted a tiny sigh of relief and smiled. It was a sweet smile of gratefulness. She decided that, after all, he wanted her more than she wanted him. She stood on tiptoe to reach him. He bent over her to make the kiss last for a very long time, their breaths mingling and passions rising. He took her by the hand, his eyes caressing her the distance as he led her to the couch. The same couch her mother must have posed on all those years ago so that her father could enshrine memories of their love. He laid her down with a hand beneath her shoulder blades and spread himself lengthwise beside her.
The made love to the sounds of waves washing onto shore and seagulls flying overhead. She fell into a dreamy sleep, her head pillowed on his chest and her ear listening to his heartbeat, timed to the motion of the waves.
They stayed in the coach house until sunset, when he had to go to work.
Kendra cried when he left and didn’t know why.
Chapter 38
KENDRA RETURNED TO where it all began. The el train made a racket as the wheels stroked the joints of the tracks with a steady beat of metal on metal. Once she got off at the Addison Street Station, the sun had dispelled the early morning dark with bright haze.
It was a weekday. Traffic noise blended like white noise. After she turned the corner and strolled down Marshfield Avenue, the houses formed a buffer zone of dampened silence. Autumn fragrances hinted at colder weather to come. Oaks and maples had given up their summer dress. In the twisty tree branches, leaves rattled like trinkets on a charm bracelet. She strolled along the familiar sidewalks as an interloper. A leafy blanket of goldenrod yellow and bleeding carmine made sagebrush sounds beneath her feet. The singeing fragrance of smoke reminded her of times that were more joyful.
She approached the bungalow by way of the alley and peeked into the garage window. The Porsche wasn’t there; Joel had left for work. Her way was clear to do whatever she came to do and make a hasty retreat.
Though the yardarm remained, the FOR SALE sign out front had been taken down. Mrs. Jellinek and her lawyers managed to stay the sale pending a dispute against Mac’s will on behalf of his widow. The porch steps absorbed her hollow footsteps. She felt around for the extra house key, the one hidden in a magnetic key holder behind the mailbox. Joel must have changed the locks because the key refused to turn. Like a child standing in front of a candy store bereft of pennies, she shielded her eyes with the flats of her hands and peered through the door. Stained-glass water lilies distorted the interior view, but she was able to make out familiar details. Though nothing had changed, the bungalow wasn’t hers anymore, if ever.
She marched through the gangway and stampeded up the back steps. The lock had been changed on the back door, as well. Rage replaced frustration. This was Joel’s mean-spirited way of barring Kendra from her own house. If he thought she’d crawl back to him, promise
him whatever he wanted, kowtow to his every caprice, and swallow the humiliations he would to feed her on a spoon laced with poison, he had deluded himself.
Her next-door neighbor switched off the kitchen lights and disappeared into the front rooms. Her other neighbor was watching the morning news on a tabletop TV and gobbling up the breakfast of champions. Two doors down, a dog yipped to be let in.
She retreated down the stairs, the wooden boards creaking with every footfall. Her eyes flew to the cement stairs leading into the basement. Ordinarily Joel micro-managed every detail. This time, in his vindictiveness, he forgot the third deadbolt. The spare key slid neatly into the tumblers, the door scraped past the jamb, and mustiness crawled out to welcome her. She stepped over the threshold. The door swung shut with a pneumatic whoosh.
Basements were always spooky places to Kendra, spookier than attics. Cobwebs hung from overhead pipes and conduits. The darkness was nearly complete. Only scant light entered through a faraway window well. Swinging her arms like seaweed, she hoped to upset a pull chain that should be there, up ahead. Or there, to the side. She stubbed her foot on a packing box, stumbled around it, and groped aimlessly. A broom crashed over. A pail tumbled. Water trickled. The washer came up on her left and the dryer stretched alongside it, which meant the stairs were ahead and to the right. The tinkle of a pull chain rescued her from panic. She fished for it and yanked.
She was home now. Not Joel’s house. Hers alone.
At the foot of the stairs, her shoe brushed past a cardboard box. The top was flap-locked. A curious smell emanated from inside ... the odor of rotting flesh. When she pulled up the flaps, she squelched a scream of disgust. The box was filled with rats caught in mousetraps. She kicked it aside.
Looking to the top of the stairs, she sucked in a steadying breath and grasped the handrail. One courageous step at a time delivered her to the kitchen. From there, she rushed through the house like an ill wind, flipping on every light switch and stamping everything she touched with her presence so Joel would know she’d been there.
Trick of the Mind Page 27
