by Cat Winters
“I see her as a highly intriguing child who’s reaching out for some sort of assistance,” I said.
“I’m so torn between doing what’s right for Janie and keeping my sister calm.”
“I understand. I’m still here for the rest of the week and will do my best to keep an eye on the situation without pressing Janie for further information.” I pulled my coat over my arms. “If you don’t mind, I need to take a short walk into town and send another telegram.”
“Is it a telegram related to Janie?”
I squished my lips together and debated whether I should lie and tell her it wasn’t. “It’s related to me,” I said. “There’s a little something that’s worrying me, and I need to take care of it before I return to the other children this afternoon.”
“You’re not ill, are you? You didn’t catch pneumonia when you slept on this atrocious old floor, did you?”
“No, I’m fine.” I procured my gloves from the right coat pocket. “I just need to contact a family member about a little personal matter.”
“Ah.” She sat back. “I won’t pry then.” She reopened McClure’s.
I walked away, tugging my gloves over my hands, my heart pounding.
I PAID FOR another ten-words-or-less telegram.
URGENT QUESTION HOW DID I GET THE NICKNAME NELL
That time around I listed the Gordon Bay Hotel as my return address instead of the schoolhouse. Again, I paid for Bea to send me a telegraphed reply.
Upon leaving the post office, however, doubts attacked. My feet came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, and I almost swung back around to yell to the postmaster, Stop! Never mind! The phrase URGENT QUESTION now struck me as overly dire and worrisome—so terribly melodramatic. Bea might fret about my well-being. She knew the job often frustrated and exhausted me. I couldn’t imagine what she might think if she learned the reasoning behind my question . . . if “reasoning” could be used to describe it.
I massaged my forehead with my wool-covered fingers and thought again of Mr. O’Daire surmising that someone had tried to kill Violet Sunday by hitting her over the head. I remembered Janie circling my own made-up town name, “Yesternight.” And, of course, I remembered “Nel.”
I let the telegram travel on its way, unencumbered by me.
After I packed up my tests for the afternoon, I returned to the Gordon Bay Hotel and spotted Mr. O’Daire raking the inn’s front path clear of yellow leaves. He wore a coffee-colored vest over white shirtsleeves and pinstriped trousers one shade lighter than the vest. The temperance of the day’s weather must have prompted him to forgo his heavy black coat, and so he appeared to have shed a burdensome outer skin. He looked younger—more like a college fellow ready to hit the stands for a football game.
He lifted his head, as though catching my arrival out of the tops of his eyes. His raking stopped, and he stood up straight.
“You look like the Fuller Brush Man,” he said with a smile, “walking up from the street with your bag and your determined expression.”
“I’d make a terrible Fuller Brush Man.” I readjusted my hold on my briefcase. “Too much chatting and flattering.”
“You’re not one to flatter people?”
“I make people feel better by first drawing out their flaws and fears”—I smirked—“not their strengths.”
“No, I don’t think you’ll sell housewives many brushes that way. Maybe nerve pills.”
I shifted my weight between my feet and cleared my throat. “Do you have a moment to chat about Janie?”
“Of course. I was just finishing up with this yardwork before I head over to my mother’s. She’s insisted upon cooking you a nice supper and asked me to fetch it for you.”
“Oh, that’s far too generous of her. You shouldn’t have let her go to all that trouble.”
“We’re both just so grateful for all you’re doing to help.” He leaned both hands against the rounded tip of the cast-iron rake. “What did you need to tell me about Janie?”
“I spoke with her again this morning.”
“Oh?” His fingers tightened around the rake. “And what did she say?”
“She told me that the mysterious Man in the Other House was named Nel, spelled N-E-L. Has she ever known a Nel?”
He cocked his head and rocked his jaw back and forth. “No, I can’t think of anyone with that name.”
“Has she ever met anyone Danish?”
“Danish? No. Why?”
“She claims this Nel to be Danish, or possibly English; she wasn’t entirely sure which. She said he had brown hair and amber eyes.”
“You see what I mean?” He tipped the rake’s handle to his right. “This is precisely the type of thing that’s been happening ever since Janie could talk. Little, specific details appear at random, as though a memory suddenly gets illuminated inside her mind.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“It’s what’s happening.”
I pulled my notebook and a pencil out of the briefcase. “Can you say that again?”
He smiled. “I don’t entirely remember—”
“‘Little, specific details,’” I said, jotting down the words, “‘appear’ . . . ‘appear at . . .’”
“‘. . . appear at random,’” he added, “‘as though a memory suddenly gets illuminated inside her head.’”
I nodded and finished writing. “And does she bring those same new details up at a later date?”
“Usually, yes.”
“And they’re consistent with what she said earlier?”
“Always,” he said without a trace of doubt.
“Your mother said as much, too. It’s fascinating how tightly Janie adheres to her stories.” I tucked the notebook back into my briefcase and stepped up to the brick stoop in front of the door. “If you do eventually remember someone by the name of Nel, or any name remotely close to it, please let me know. It would be extremely helpful.”
“Certainly. Is that all there was from today’s interview with her?”
“Well . . .” I fastened the clasp on my bag. “This might mean nothing at all, but Janie also showed an interest in Kansas City. Has that town ever arisen in conversation?”
“I don’t believe so. Just Friendly.”
“And does the word ‘Yesternight’ mean anything?”
“Yesternight?”
“Yes.” My cheeks warmed, for I felt foolish discussing an item that had, I’d believed, originated in my own imagination.
“No.” He raked aside three golden leaves that lay plastered against the bricks. “I can’t think of her ever mentioning it. It’s a word like moonburn.”
“Moonburn?”
“I don’t know if there’s a name for it—a compound word that’s a twist on a regular compound. Yesterday/yesternight. Sunburn/moonburn. I once wrote a short story called ‘Moonburn’ about a man who found it impossible to be awake in the daytime.”
“Ah, that’s right.” I clasped the doorknob. “You’re a writer.”
“Rebecca claimed that particular story represented my pain over the change in Sam after the war.” He swept aside another leaf with a screech of metal teeth. “I guess she was fancying herself a psychologist at the time.”
“If you’d like, when I return inland, I can see if anyone I know is able to recommend a psychologist on the coast who might be able to help Sam. I would love to speak to him myself, but my specialty is children.”
Mr. O’Daire peeked up at me with only his eyes. “As you’ve already seen, most people shun psychological help out here. They all assume emotional troubles equate to ‘nuthouse.’”
“Sam is a prime example of what happens when a person doesn’t receive much-needed assistance. People like your ex-wife should realize this and not fear me.”
“I know that as well as you do, Miss Lind. Remember”—he raked away nothing at all—“I’m the one who rushed out into a storm to make sure you arrived here, safe and sound.”
“Yes, I most definitely remember. And I’m still grateful for that feat of heroism.” I twisted the doorknob.
“Where would you like your supper served?” he asked before I could disappear into the hotel. “There’s a fire roaring in the lobby’s hearth right now. I could arrange it for you there.”
“In the lobby would be lovely. Thank you.”
“I’m serving drinks again downstairs tonight. You’re welcome to partake in that particular style of Gordon Bay Hotel hospitality, too.”
I sighed and shook my head.
“I know, I know.” He raked again. “You’re a respectable employee of the Department of Education.”
“One day, Mr. O’Daire, when I am long done working in Gordon Bay, after I’ve solved the mysteries of Janie, I’ll journey down into that basement of yours and enjoy a glass of booze with the rest of your regulars.”
“A glass will always be waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled again and disappeared into the lobby with my briefcase bulging with notes about his daughter.
UP IN MY hotel room, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Bea’s telegram from the week before.
YES MY DEAR NELL FRIENDLY IS A NE KANSAS TOWN
My mind dwelled upon the curious coincidence of a woman called Nell with a violent past investigating a girl potentially harmed by a Nel in another life. I couldn’t shake the sensation that Janie had looked at me that morning as though she might have recognized her Nel in me.
A knock came at the door.
I crammed the telegram into my bag. “Who is it?”
“You have a telephone call,” said Mr. O’Daire through the wood.
I froze, puzzled as to who would be calling me at the hotel. “I do?”
“It’s a Miss Beatrice Lind.”
All worries dissolved at the spoken name of my oldest sister. I jumped up from the bed and swung open the door. “My sister is calling?”
“I don’t have an extension up here.” Mr. O’Daire gestured with his thumb toward the staircase to his right. “You’ll have to take the call down at the front desk.”
“That’s perfectly fine.” I straightened my cockeyed sweater. “I wonder if she might have traveled to the coast as a surprise.”
“I don’t think she’s calling locally.”
“Well, in any case, it’ll be splendid to hear her voice.”
“Come along.” He led me through the white hall, and I traipsed down the staircase behind him.
At his front desk, he handed me a black candlestick telephone and its bell-shaped earpiece.
“I’ll go fetch your supper and give you some privacy,” he said in a whisper. “I don’t expect anyone to come seeking a room while I’m gone.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back. Both of our mouths lingered just a few mere inches away from the mouthpiece; Bea must have heard us, despite the hushed words.
He grabbed his coat from the rack.
I put the phone to my ear and asked, “Bea? Is that truly you?”
“Hello, sweetie,” she said from the other end. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. I’m so happy to hear from you.”
“You’re in a hotel this time?”
“Yes, I am.”
Mr. O’Daire peeked over his shoulder on his way out the door.
I waved and waited for him to shut the door behind himself before saying anything more.
“Alice?” asked Bea.
“Sorry. The hotel owner was just leaving for his mother’s house.” I sidled a foot to my right to better see him out the window. He bent down in front of his car and cranked the engine until it rumbled awake.
“Is it a very big hotel?” asked my sister. “Did he say he was fetching you supper?”
“Yes, his mother is cooking it for me at her house. There’s been an entire to-do about my lodging situation here in Gordon Bay. The boardinghouse is tawdry, apparently, so I’m staying at a hotel owned by one of the students’ fathers.”
“That sounds more pleasant than the usual crowded lodgings the state squeezes you into, although I know hotels can make you anxious.”
“I’m doing fine here.”
“Are you certain about that?”
My mouth filled with a sour taste. “Why do you ask?”
“That last telegram of yours got me worried. It got me thinking a little harder about your original telegram.”
I leaned my left hip against the front desk and deepened my voice, striving to infuse it with confidence. “A student with whom I’m working spoke of someone named Nel, and it merely made me curious about my own name.”
“You said ‘urgent question’ in your telegram, Alice. Why did you say that?”
“I needed a swift reply, that’s all. I would like to report the answer back to the student before I move on to the next town. Why . . .” My chin quivered; my voice acquired an unnatural chirp. “Why have you always called me Nell, Bea?”
She sighed. “You told us to call you that, Alice. You were quite insistent upon it when you were younger. I don’t know why. Perhaps it came from the Christmas carol with the stocking for ‘Little Nell.’”
My eyes watered. I tried to sputter up a laugh, but the sound burst from my lips as a sob.
“Nell?” she asked, slipping straight back into that old nickname out of habit. “Are you crying?”
I wiped my eyes with my fingers. “Did . . . did I ask to be called Nell when I was . . .” I grimaced. “When I was beating those poor children in the head?”
“Oh . . . no . . . don’t bring up that bit of history, sweetie.” She sounded so quiet now—so far away. “Don’t dwell on an early-childhood incident that everyone else has forgotten.”
“What was wrong with me, Bea? Please, tell me. You’re four years older—you were eight at the time. Why did I hit them? What happened to make me lust for the sight of blood?”
It took a while for my sister to respond, and when she did, her voice sounded odd and uneven, as though she were being jostled about in a truck on a dirt road.
“I don’t know. Perhaps . . . perhaps we read too many frightening stories at too young of an age. You always had a bit of a temper when you were little. Such stories might have put some naughty ideas into your head when you got mad.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out a nervous bark.
I sniffed. “I have to ask you a question, one that involves a subject I don’t think I’ve ever discussed with you before. I know our parents certainly never discussed this sort of thing.”
“What subject?”
“Did I ever speak as though I lived a past life? A past life as someone else?”
Bea laughed in earnest that time, and even though I couldn’t see her, I knew she had rolled her eyes.
“Don’t laugh, Bea. I’m serious. When I insisted upon being called Nell, did I sound as though I had once lived as a person with that name?”
“I was so young, too, Alice. I honestly don’t remember.”
“Margery wouldn’t remember, would she?”
“Don’t ask Margery about any of this. She doesn’t care to discuss difficult moments.”
“Because she was one of the children I hurt, wasn’t she?” I asked, and I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. Down the center of our other sister’s braided brown hair, a little white part line had lay exposed, and across that line I had brought down my weapon—my battering stick. Margery was two years older than I. She had been sitting in the shade of the old maple in our front yard, playing marbles with two other girls from the neighborhood, Ethel Pennington and Daisy West. The white line on her head had pooled with blood that turned to black in her hair, and she had screamed and clutched her head. All of the children screamed.
Alice Lind,
Alice Lind,
Took a stick and beat her friend.
Should she die?
Should she live?
How many beatings did she give?
“Don’t fret so much about all of tha
t,” said Bea. “You never hit anyone that way ever again. It was only one troubling episode.”
“I hit that boy Stuart—Stu—the one from graduate school. I bashed him in the head with a shoe after I told him . . .” I brought my lips closer to the mouthpiece. “After I told him about the baby. I hit him so terribly hard.”
“Oh, Alice. Don’t fret over that either. You said he responded to the news like an ass.”
“The child—the girl I’m helping—she claims to have lived a past life as a young woman who drowned mysteriously, sometime in the past century. She claims a man named Nel was involved in her death. Nel, Bea!”
“Alice, no. You’re exerting yourself with your work—I can tell. Come home. Take a rest.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re better than this job. You’re too smart for it. It’ll drive you crazy.”
“I wonder if it already has.” I wiped my left cheek using the back of my sleeve.
A pause ensued, during which I panted into the mouthpiece, my fingers strangling the telephone’s black base. My fingernails pierced the fleshy heel of my left hand.
“You’re not a murderer from the past century, for heaven’s sake,” said Bea. “Think about what you’re saying—you, the woman who snickered all the way through the Winchester house!”
“I know.” I nodded. “I know.”
“I’m aware how much the situation with the baby hurt you.”
I didn’t respond. My eyes again watered. The air grew impossibly thick.
“Alice?”
“That was two and a half years ago, Bea.”
“But it was traumatic for you. I know you want to pretend it didn’t affect you in any way, but I was there in the hospital with you. I remember your pain and your grief, and I’m sure it’s affected your desire to become intimate with men, as well as other aspects of your life.”
I fussed with the wood on one of the corners of Mr. O’Daire’s desk. “I’m a spinster, Bea. I’m not supposed to desire men in that capacity, remember?”
