by Cat Winters
“There’s a blizzard, Al,” said his wife. “Don’t even think of it until the ground thaws.”
“Snow acts as an insulator to the ground.” Mr. Harkey tilted his left ear toward his plate, as though the china had just whispered that information to him. “As soon as the storm passes, I’d love to shovel the snow aside and test out the softness of the earth. If you’re still here, will you help me, Lind?”
From across the table, I eyed Michael for his reaction, to gauge his current state of mind. He focused all of his attention on his food at the moment, but he poked at the meat with his fork more than he consumed it, as though Janie again weighed on his thoughts.
“Mr. Lind?” asked Mr. Harkey.
Michael’s head shot up. “How’s that?”
“I said, if the blizzard dies down by tomorrow morning, shall we see if your wife’s prediction about the vegetable garden leads us to those long-concealed bodies?”
“Al, please,” hissed Mrs. Harkey, and she lowered her fork and knife. “Don’t use the word bodies—not while we’re eating. It’s Christmas Eve.”
Michael cleared his throat. “Sure. I’ll help you dig.”
His words elicited a pleased smile from our host, whose face now flushed with the ruddiness of excitement. “Can you imagine, Mabel”—he leaned toward his wife across the table—“actually announcing to the public that we’d found the victims? The newspapers, the local radio shows, they’d all be scrambling out here for an interview. The publicity would be astounding. And of course”—he looked at me—“we’d have to bring you out here throughout the year, Mrs. Lind. I’d give you free lodging in exchange for your time. You could sit in the parlor and spin stories of your memories as Mrs. Gunderson.”
“But I don’t have all that many memories . . .”
“If those”—he glanced briefly at his wife—“items in the vegetable garden prove that you were, indeed, our Yesternight Killer, then it wouldn’t matter if the memories you shared were real or false.”
“That sounds a little shady,” said Michael under his breath.
“It’s advertising,” said Mr. Harkey. “It’s what the public wants.”
I opened my mouth to object.
“Mrs. Lind,” he continued before I could make a peep, “people travel for miles and miles in search of even the smallest glimpse of the mysterious, infamous Cornelia Gunderson, and I’ve given a great deal of thought about why this is.”
“And what have you concluded?” I asked, choosing to hide my psychology credentials until he explained.
He shifted his weight in his chair. “I’ve realized that people in this country are both terrified and obsessed with death, and yet we’re still too repressed a society to admit how we truly feel about it, even in this era of libertines and bright young things. We dress death up in church hymns and ghost stories to make it palatable, but we rarely actually talk about it.”
“You certainly do, Al,” murmured his wife from behind her napkin.
“People like Mrs. Gunderson,” he continued, “they sicken us and fascinate us because they’re death incarnate. We could discuss them for hours and hours because they’re symbols of the unspeakable emotions buried inside our minds. Death is like sex, in fact: it’s part of life; everyone partakes in it at one time or another. But we’re all afraid to admit we possess strong feelings about it, so we sit back and make jokes about it while also gawking at it in awe—or else we make ourselves feel guilty for thinking too much about it. We isolate ourselves so terribly because of our guilt and fears, you see, and we do our damnedest to scrounge around for connections to other people through popular culture and legends . . . through these symbols of our forbidden obsessions.”
“Hmm.” I resumed cutting my food, impressed by his insights into human nature. “That’s an interesting way of looking at the American people.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No.” I slipped a slice of mutton into my mouth.
Mr. Harkey bent forward in his chair with a creak of the wood beneath him. “Will you help us, then? Will you do all you can to use your beliefs about this past life of yours to assist in making this hotel extraordinary?”
I finished chewing my food and sighed. “Cornelia Gunderson is simply a part of my past that I’ve been struggling to understand for years, just like any difficult memory. And to be most honest, I’m a practicing psychologist who works with children—one of whom recently demonstrated to me resounding proof of spirit transmigration. I’m interested in reincarnation as a science, not a spectacle, and so is Mr. O—” I stopped myself before saying O’Daire. “So is . . . my husband.”
The mood in the room deflated. My bluntness had shrunk Mrs. Harkey’s neck into her shoulders, and I’d disappointed her husband, I could tell from his vexed eyebrows. He wanted a show. He wanted tall tales and bursts of feral wildness, perhaps even a dash of blood—something he could photograph and slap onto a promotional poster.
I would not give him that.
AFTER DINNER, MRS. HARKEY and I bundled ourselves in jackets, scarves, and mittens and braved the blizzard to make the twenty-yard journey to the outhouse. She carried a copper lantern, inside which a weak flame gasped for life, and we clung to each other to keep the wind from smacking us down to the snow.
My hostess graciously allowed me to use the facility first. She hung the lantern on a hook inside the wooden structure and helped me to close the door against the storm. I then embarked upon one of the most terrifying outhouse moments in the whole history of mankind. The weather-chewed boards groaned and swayed and threatened to crack against my skull, and an ice-cold wind blew through the slats, inflicting pain on every square inch of exposed skin. My backside hovered over the opening in the seat. My knees wobbled as I bunched up my skirts with freezing fingers. I pictured a humiliating death that would involve the gentlemen of our group finding me curled inside the outhouse wreckage with my underwear hanging around my ankles.
Mrs. Harkey went next, which left me huddled against the outer walls in the dark. She was quick about it, however, and we were soon plodding back through the knee-deep snow and yanking the kitchen door open.
The men journeyed out after us, while I washed up at the kitchen sink.
“You seem quite ordinary for a person who lived such a terrifying past life,” said Mrs. Harkey, and she handed me a dishtowel printed in bright-red cherries. “You seem so . . . normal.”
“Do I?” I took the towel and dried my hands and face. “I believe that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that of me.”
She tittered. “I’m relieved you don’t seem wicked.”
“Oh, please, don’t be frightened of me. In the short time I’ve spent exploring reincarnation, I’ve learned that the personalities of the past often fade over time. The person standing before you today was shaped far more by her present life than by any experiences as Cornelia Gunderson.” I blotted my cheeks. “I’m just not sure my family will be too keen to hear about my discovery. I’m certainly not going to dash off any letters over the holidays, informing them of what I’ve found.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Mrs. Harkey went over to a kitchen table that housed cookbooks and envelopes. “Someone sent you a telegram before we even knew you were coming.”
“Oh . . . yes . . .” I lowered the towel to my chin. “Your husband told me as much when I telephoned. Are you sure it’s for me? No one knew that Michael and I would be coming here.”
“Oh, it definitely says ‘Alice Lind.’” She rifled through the envelopes. “It was so strange. I almost returned it to the telegraph office, thinking it was a mistake, but then Al told me you’d telephoned and made a reservation. Here it is.” She brought an envelope my way, studying the words upon it as she went. “It says ‘Miss Alice Lind,’ but perhaps the ‘Miss’ is a mistake.”
“Yes.” I took it from her. “As I said, we’re newlyweds. Didn’t I say that? The sender probably forgot . . . it’s an easy mistake to make when one is newly m
arried.” I sweated, despite just having climbed out of a blizzard.
Mrs. Harkey offered a small nod, her round cheeks pinking up. “Well . . . I’ll let you read it in private. I need to clear the dishes.”
“Thank you for remembering that you had this. I forgot Mr. Harkey’s mention of it.”
She smiled and left the kitchen.
The moment her footsteps reached the dining room, I ripped the envelope open, now worried that some unspeakable tragedy had befallen Mother or Father, or one of Margery’s children, and that Bea had thought to find me here. I’d spent so much time fretting over the O’Daires . . . fussing over myself . . .
I tugged the telegram out of the envelope, and yes indeed, the name BEATRICE LIND jumped out at me as the sender. My gaze dropped to her message.
I FEAR YOU’VE GONE TO YESTERNIGHT TO FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE, BUT I WAS THE ONE WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT YESTERNIGHT WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN, ALICE. I BROUGHT HOME A BOOK ABOUT CORNELIA GUNDERSON. I READ IT TO YOU WHEN WE WERE BOTH TOO YOUNG FOR SUCH THINGS. WE PLAYED THAT WE WERE MURDEROUS MRS. GUNDERSON FOR FUN BUT ONE DAY YOU TOOK IT TOO FAR. I FELT GUILTY AND NEVER TOLD MOTHER. I’M SORRY. PLEASE STOP LOOKING TO FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE. YOU’RE ALICE LIND, A BRIGHT YOUNG WOMAN WHO SIMPLY HAD A HARD TIME OF THINGS TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO. IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT YOU LOST THE BABY. NOTHING IS WRONG WITH YOU ASIDE FROM SOME ROTTEN LUCK WITH MEN AND A SISTER WHO SHOULD HAVE TAKEN CARE NOT TO DARKEN YOUR YOUNG MIND.
ALL MY LOVE
BEA
My mouth stretched open. It gelled into a horrified, rounded, silent scream of an expression that made my lower jaw pop and ache. I thought of Mr. Harkey offering free boarding and a regular stay in exchange for my knowledge of the hotel; the kindness of his wife; Michael’s reassuring hand on my back; his support of my claims; my fingers rifling through Mrs. Gunderson’s belongings. I had convinced myself so thoroughly. No . . . I had to have been “Nell” Gunderson. Alice Lind did not beat former lovers over the head until they collapsed to their knees on the ground. Alice Lind was not paranoid for no good reason. Alice Lind had always prevented the personal struggles in her adult life from unraveling her completely.
YOU’RE ALICE LIND A BRIGHT YOUNG WOMAN WHO HAD A HARD TIME OF THINGS TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.
I crumpled the paper into a ball, not caring at all for the implication that an overactive imagination and the loss of my baby had led to all of this. It was just a late and painful menstrual period; that was all. A bit of blood. Some cramping. A minor inconvenience. I felt nothing afterward. Nothing.
Voices neared the back door—the return of the men.
I darted out of the kitchen and bolted upstairs.
CHAPTER 31
Up in the bedroom, the flames of candles and kerosene lamps fluttered upon blackened wicks. I remembered Mr. Harkey mentioning something about lighting the lamps as his wife and I ran out to the outhouse, but, still, it shocked me to see signs of life in the empty room.
Inside that smoky haze of light, I dropped to my knees and buried Bea’s telegram deep inside one of the suitcases, beneath dresses and nightclothes and toiletries.
I was the one who told you about Yesternight when we were children, she had said, and a vague memory of a book came to mind. A slim red volume that may have, perhaps, included Cornelia Gunderson’s photograph.
Pretend we’re eating fingers from the garden, I remembered an eight-year-old Bea once whispering beside me with a giggle when she chomped on a fresh green bean at the supper table. You’re eating fingers, Nell. How do they taste?
Child’s play.
Simple child’s play, used as a means to work out feelings about the mysteries of death. “Funeral play,” as one professor called it.
But one day you took it too far.
“I think I just escaped a horrifying death by outhouse,” said a voice by the door.
I shot up to a standing position and hid my hands behind my back, even though they carried nothing.
Michael closed the door and worked the knot out of his blue necktie. “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”
“It’s just the house.” I tried to shrug, but my shoulders merely twitched. “I’m so terribly jumpy.”
“I think this house might be more afraid of you than you are of it, Alice.”
I lowered my face. “We’re still not positive that I’m her.”
“You sounded so certain. And that bullet mark . . .”
“It’s not like with Janie. There’s no sister to verify my statements.”
“Maybe there is.” He strolled toward the bed and slid the tie off his neck. “Maybe Mr. Harkey’s grandmother talked of Mrs. Gunderson having a sister—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Michael. Mr. Harkey probably lied about his grandmother knowing Mrs. Gunderson. He’s a huckster who admits to selling bunk to saps.”
“Why are you snapping at me?”
“Please”—I sat on the bed and tore my right shoe off my foot—“forget what I said about Cornelia. It all sounds so stupid now that I’m upstairs.”
“But—”
“This was a mistake. I knew I shouldn’t ever be with a man again. I knew it!” I tugged my left shoe off my heel and felt him staring at me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s something definitely wrong all right—just ask my sisters, because apparently they know everything about me. They can tell you all about how I’m an emotional wreck and an embarrassment to the family, not because of any past life, but because of a far more pressing issue that even Mr. Harkey seems to think we should all be discussing.”
I tossed the shoe to the floor and cupped my hands over my face.
“What pressing issue?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
I sighed into my fingers. “I love sex, Michael. I’m an unmarried woman, and I absolutely adore climbing into bed with men. It’s been killing me for years.”
“What do you mean, it’s killing you?”
“It’s so terribly dangerous—so terribly wrong for me to love it.”
“Dangerous?” He breathed a short laugh. “I don’t understand—”
“A girl could get pregnant. She could lose her career. She could have people calling her ‘loose’ or ‘slut’ and render everything else in her life—all of her work and hard-earned respect—meaningless. I feel absolutely worthless when people think of me that way, especially my own sister Margery. And I feel so awful for raising your hopes for a better life, when here you are, stuck Christmas Eve with a broken woman who’s desperate to blame her problems on someone else.”
“Alice?” Michael laid his tie over a corner of the bed. His voice softened. “Why are you saying these things? Have people been cruel to you? Has another guy . . . ?”
Tears strangled my throat. I clasped my hands around the back of my neck.
“Alice . . . come on now . . .” He wandered over to my side of the bed and sat down. “I don’t think poorly of you. I love sex, too, as a matter of fact. Desperately.”
“You’re a man. You’re allowed to.”
“I swore to you before, I won’t get you pregnant.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’ll pull out in time.”
I huffed. “That doesn’t always work.”
“I’ve had practice. It does.”
I shut my eyes and ground my teeth together. “I’m such a wreck, Michael.”
“So am I.” He placed a warm hand on my lower back and stroked my spine. “You don’t know how badly I’m falling apart inside. But your wanting to be with me is helping me survive. It’s the only thing getting me through.”
I sniffed and unlocked my fingers from the back of my neck. “Is it?”
“Yes.” He scooted closer. “Please, let’s forget about past lives. Past pain. Past lovers. We both want each other right now, in this life, tonight, so why should anything else matter?”
“If I become pregnant—”
“You won’t.” He swallo
wed up my hands in his, his flesh as bitter cold as the wind howling at the window. “I promise.”
ALL IT TOOK was that one promise.
One more kiss.
One hand placed just so.
Before long, we had buried ourselves beneath the blankets on the bed, our clothing forgotten on the floor.
“I want to kiss every single part of you,” he whispered against my neck, “but it’s just so damn cold.”
“Stay here, then, with your lips against mine.”
All around us, the blizzard blustered. It breathed through the cracks in the walls and froze our skin, and yet our kisses led to caresses, to tasting, to tingling, goose-pimpled flesh and pounding hearts.
“Don’t forget your promise,” I whispered.
“I won’t,” he said as he climbed on top of me, just before that marvelous sensation of pressure pushed between my legs.
I wrapped my arms around his back, and the mattress purred beneath me, while the wind rattled through the boards and shuddered across the windowpane. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the recklessness of it all, no longer thinking, only feeling—hungering and reacting and rising above my anxieties for as long as we could dare let the moment linger. Sighs and whimpers escaped my lips. My toes curled against the bed sheet.
Michael quickened his pace, and our arms and stomachs clenched against each other. His breathing loudened next to my ear, and he whispered with dreamy reverence, “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“Is it almost time?” I asked. “Should we—”
A rush of warmth.
A groan of pleasure.
He shook against me, and my eyes flew wide open. I grabbed him by his hair and cried out, “No! Stop!” And yet he shook and shook and shook.
“Michael!” I pushed at his shoulders to get him off me. “You promised! You swore to me you wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Get off of me.” I wriggled my legs.
“Alice—”
“Get off me!”
