When she left the room the brothers sat down on one of the sofas with their hands piously folded on their laps. ‘Just think,’ crooned Emjagger, ‘when it gets really tame you can take it up to bed with and fall asleep with it perched on your head and you can wake up in the morning with sweet little poop in your hair. I know! How about naming it ‘“Shit”?’
‘No worse than yours.’
Both boys started to get up and then sank back down. Their meek expressions would have turned Oliver’s blood cold at any other moment. They’d make him pay for that crack when they got him outside, but what did that matter? They’d arrived with no intention of going easy on him. Hell waited out in the bright sunshine. He went into the hall, barely registering when they didn’t follow. All he could think about with any clarity was that however hard he tried, he was never going to warm to the parakeet. And he’d end up feeling more and more wretched about that because everything deserved to be truly loved. It wasn’t fair to it to be stuck with him. Maybe if he prayed real hard . . . He was halfway down the hall without realizing he’d taken a step. The door to Gerard’s office was half open and Elizabeth’s voice carried to him even though it was low pitched. It was the vibrating anger that jolted it to audibility.
‘Just stay put. You positively reek. It has to have been one after the other since we got back. Spare me the tired old excuses. I’ve had them up to here. I don’t care if you think the devil himself is after you for the part you played in what seems like a lifetime ago. You’re my nightmare. You got us into this mess and you won’t be helping to dig us out, but at least try not to make it any harder. The kid’s not stupid. He may not have been brought up around booze, but he’s got a sense of smell. Let him get one whiff and word will go straight to her and then on to the grandfather. The only saving grace is that this binging is relatively new, so if checked up on no one we know will say you’re an out-of-control drunk. And then there’s the beauty that all kids exaggerate, especially when they think it will work for them. Count yourself lucky this time. I’ll get him out of the house with those boys from next door and you can go take a long cold shower while I make a gallon of strong coffee.
Oliver, who had already been backing up, speed-turned and slid the rest of the way back to the drawing room. He was standing several feet from the opening, wondering what Gerard had done that haunted him, when Elizabeth came in. Behind them Emjagger and Stone stood up in perfect little gentleman fashion.
‘Gerard’s right in the middle of something crucial; he’ll see you when you get back, Oliver. So off the three of you go and have fun.’
She opened the front door, waited barely till they were down the steps and closed it. The clear blue sky and glowing sunshine struck him as sinisterly unreal, like some smirking trick of nature. That Emjagger and Stone weren’t smirking didn’t help. They eyed him with a solemn innocence that was even more frightening, before each taking one of his arms and marching across the road to the common. Their grips didn’t hurt, but he knew if he struggled to get away the pressure would instantly increase, leaving bruises that would last a week. And even if he did manage to break away they’d run him down in seconds. Perhaps it would have been different if he’d brought the bike back from Aunt Nellie’s and had left it alongside the house. Why hadn’t he refused to come with them? The answer came with wretched hopelessness. If they didn’t have their fun with him now, they’d think up something even juicier for next time. Better to get whatever it was over with now than live in dread for what was inevitably in store. Besides, after what he’d overheard of Elizabeth going on at Gerard she would have pushed Oliver out the door if he’d so much as opened his mouth in protest.
Emjagger and Stone drew him to a standstill in the middle of the common where the statue of Nathaniel Cully rose toweringly from its pedestal. A few feet in front was the wooden bench with its oval brass marker providing the name of the donor. A few people passed up and down the curved, surrounding paths, but there was nobody coming or going on the grass. Oliver could have been alone on a desert island with a couple of cannibals. He couldn’t think what was coming but found himself hoping under thudding heartbeats that the granite figure would suddenly come to life and swoop him to safety. Brian had been so sure that the boy Nathaniel was real and had showed up to show that he wanted to help Oliver. The sculpted face did look kind, but not a shadow brushed across it; no suggestion of movement.
‘You must feel so proud of being descended from him,’ said Emjagger.
‘The great Cully name.’ Stone poured awe into his voice. ‘We’re so impressed we’d like to take a photo of the two of you together and hang it on our bedroom wall. You wouldn’t mind that, would you, us all being new best friends and all.’
That sounded harmless, so there had to be more. ‘OK, I’ll stand here and you can take it.’
Stone had pulled a disposable camera out of his pocket. ‘Real big of him, isn’t it, Jag? But we can’t let him stand down here looking like a chipmunk. No, Oliver, we’re going to get you up on that pedestal. It’s wide enough to stand on; that way it can be a real family picture.’
What could he do? Scream and yell for help? There wasn’t anybody close enough whose attention he could attract in a normal voice and then what could he say that wouldn’t make him sound a fool? Oliver’s vision blurred. Emjagger and Stone had gotten him onto the bench and were now hefting him onto the pedestal. It was about six feet high but might as well have been sixty. His hands reached back to clutch at the statue. He was going to faint or be sick. He couldn’t open his mouth to plead to be let down.
‘Couldn’t ask for a better picture,’ caroled Stone. ‘The town’s big hero and the even bigger coward.’
‘Smile and say cheese for the camera!’ That was Emjagger. He was spluttering with uncontrollable laughter. The sound seemed to go on and on, before being abruptly cut short by an angrily raised voice.
‘Hey, you two! What game are you playing with this boy?’ Prying his eyes open Oliver saw a man coming fast across the grass from one direction and a woman doing the same from the other. It was the man who had yelled out. Emjagger and Stone stood as if locked in place as Oliver was. He jabbed a finger their direction. ‘Don’t you budge one inch, or I’ll file a report with descriptions of you both that won’t allow for wriggle room.’ Emjagger and Stone shrank together, merging into one trembling, open-mouthed entity. The woman was now standing on the bench, reaching up to take a steadying hold on Oliver’s ankles. Now that help was here tears slid down his cheeks.
‘It’s going to be all right.’ She smiled up at him. ‘We’ll get you down.’
‘Even if I could get up the courage to jump,’ a sob broke through, ‘the bench is right there and if I’d landed on the back rail I could have gotten all twisted up and broken a bone.’
‘Maybe more than one. Not worth chancing.’
‘They knew I’m afraid of heights.’
‘Naturally.’ It was the man speaking now. He signaled to the woman and took her place on the bench when she got down. ‘Bullies can sniff out fear a mile off. It’s what makes them tick.’
Oliver found himself being lifted down by the strongest arms he’d ever had around him. Safely back on ground level, he saw the woman open her purse and the next thing he felt was a tissue in his hand. He really didn’t need it because he’d wiped some of the tears away with his arm after prying his fingers away from Nathaniel’s statue, and the rest had dried on his face, but for something flimsy it felt hugely comforting. He saw her properly for the first time and decided that she was very pretty with her short dark hair, hazel eyes and clear, pale skin. Best of all, her smile was lovely and filled with concern.
‘Better?’ She asked it as if it were really important to her to know he was OK. He had the feeling she wanted to put her arms round him. Strangers couldn’t do that, but somehow she didn’t seem the least bit a stranger.
‘Much. Thank you.’ His smile trembled, then steadied.
‘Good! Yo
u conducted yourself like a champ,’ said the man. ‘I share your thing about heights and at your age I’d have been screaming bloody murder. We’ll hope these loathsome bullies are no longer feeling quite so pleased with themselves.’ He was tall and lean; for some reason fitting Oliver’s idea of how a schoolteacher should look, even though he’d never had one who resembled him. Maybe it was the relaxed way he stood while seeming to size up the situation with measured calm, as if it was one of dozens he dealt with in a day. He took an elongated moment before angling toward Emjagger and Stone who had not budged an inch, let alone attempted to bolt.
‘I was deadly serious about considering filing a report. Being a member of the Boston police force I won’t have any difficulty getting the local boys to hear me out. Whether I go ahead will depend on you. I’ll be giving my new friend here . . .’ He paused, tilting his brown head expectantly.
‘Oliver – Oliver Cully.’
The man inclined his head, as if acknowledging a useful piece of information presented by a valued colleague during a murder investigation. ‘Right then, you scurrilous pair, I’ll be giving Ollie, as I’ll presume to call him – since I’ve the feeling we’re going to be such good chums – my card with my cell phone number and work extension. I want him to call day or night if you so much as flicker your eyelashes at him. Are we entirely clear on what the repercussions will be if I have to leave my bed or even my desk?’ At no point had he raised his voice. He might have been stating when he was expecting homework turned in. And somehow that did not lessen, but magnified the steel behind the words.
The brothers opened their mouths but no sound came out. All they could manage were jittery head jerks that looked liable to snap their necks.
‘Then get out of our sight before I regret not marching you to jail right now.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ quivered Emjagger.
‘Sorry, sir,’ bleated Stone.
They slithered sideways a yard or so, before zigzagging, as if unable to get their legs in sync, back across the common. Oliver should have savored the sound of one, or both of them, wailing like four-year-olds, but they no longer mattered. He’d never felt so completely protected since the last time he’d sat on Grandpa’s knee.
‘Are you really from the police?’
A surprisingly boyish grin twitched at the man’s mouth, mobilizing the thin scholarly face. ‘No, but I am from Boston. How’d I do?’
‘Superb!’
‘You had me racking my brains trying to remember if I’d run a red light in the last month,’ confessed the dark-haired lady with a widening of that lovely smile.
‘I didn’t go at it exactly cold; I used to write modern police procedurals before switching to ones featuring a mid-nineteenth-century sleuth.’
‘You’re an author!’ Oliver’s instant hero worship increased a hundred fold. ‘Wow! No wonder you used that word scurrilous! I like it almost as much as ventriloquism! I’ll have to add it to my word collection! My grandpa and I think of them like stamps, only we stick them in our heads instead of an album.’
‘Great! Something in common beyond our mutual fear of heights.’
‘That was really true.’
‘I only lie – gray ones at that – to people I despise. I’m in possession of your name – that it should be Oliver is interesting. I’ll explain why in a moment, but I haven’t given you mine. It’s Evan Bryant.’ His amused gaze shifted to the third member of their little group.
‘Sarah Draycott,’ she said. ‘And although I hadn’t yet met Oliver, I’ve heard great things about him from a new friend, Twyla Washburn, who loves him very much.’
‘She’s told me about you, too.’ Oliver was about pour out his knowing of her – how kind she’d been to Mrs Garwood, coming to see her and the son and taking their dog for walks. But he cut himself off on realizing Mr Bryant was staring at her as if she were the Statue of Liberty come to life in front of him.
‘You’re Sarah Draycott?’
‘Yes . . . Why?’
‘I’m EB.’
‘Oh!’ Her expression was equally startled.
‘I’ve been away from home on a book tour and only got back yesterday to find your letter waiting for me. You must have thought me incredibly rude and unappreciative.’ He tilted his head to include Oliver in this exchange. ‘A month or so back I wrote to a friend of mine named Nan Fielding who used to live in the house Ms Draycott has moved into. I’d no idea she’d died around that same time and that my letter was left languishing in the mailbox until Ms Draycott found it and most kindly wrote to explain. I had a book signing in Portland and decided I couldn’t miss the opportunity of coming here to personally say thank you, rather than trying to get in touch by phone.’
‘It was such a small thing.’
‘Not to me.’
Oliver looked from one face to the other, and liked both.
‘Was Nan Fielding a very dear friend?’
‘She was my senior year high school English teacher. When my first book came out she sent a letter through my publisher and we’ve corresponded reasonably frequently ever since. I’d no idea she was ill.’
‘I think it was very sudden. I’m so sorry – the news must have come as a shock.’ Her hazel eyes remained locked with his gray ones. There was no one else on the common, but Oliver was sure they wouldn’t have noticed if there’d been hundreds. They both looked startled by the coincidence of their meeting.
‘There were two Evans in that class, myself and Evan Richards, so rather than her addressing us by our full names, he became ER and I was EB. That’s how she wrote to me in her first letter. I liked that; it made for a special link.’
‘I didn’t know if you were a man or woman.’
‘I’d decided to stop for lunch before showing up unannounced on your doorstep, when I saw what was going on with Oliver in front of that statue.’
Sarah Draycott wrenched her eyes from his to look at it. ‘That’s Nathaniel Cully. One of your ancestors, right, Oliver?’
‘Some sort of distant cousin.’
Evan Bryant followed her gaze as if not wanting to miss a single glimpse of her profile. ‘Emanates strength and kindness; I’d be honored to claim relationship with him and interested to know what made him a town hero.’ He paused as if drawing himself together. When he continued a full share of his attention returned to Oliver. ‘How about we go celebrate the three of us meeting up? Is there a coffee shop or ice-cream place close by?’
‘That’s where Emjagger and Stone were taking me – for ice cream.’
‘Does that thoroughly put you off the idea?’
‘Just the reverse,’ replied Oliver staunchly. ‘They’ve lost out big time.’
‘I hope they never again get so much as a lick of a cone,’ said Sarah, eyes radiating mischievous malice. ‘Were you going to Cones?’
‘Yes. My friend Brian says they have the best ever hot fudge sundaes.’ He turned, embarrassed, afraid that sounded greedy. ‘But I’d be happy with a small cone.’
‘We’re doing this in style.’ Mr Bryant, without shifting position, looked as though he had reached out to touch Sarah. ‘I’ve my cell; should you call your parents to ask if it’s all right for you to go with us?’
‘They’re dead.’ It was always painful to say this. ‘And I can’t live with my grandpa anymore because he had to go into a nursing home. Twyla took care of him until he got too bad. We both loved her from the start.’
Sarah explained for him. ‘Oliver recently moved in with his father’s brother and wife – Gerard and Elizabeth Cully. The house is that big red Victorian.’ She pointed across the road.
Mr Bryant assessed it at a glance.
‘I’d just as soon not call them.’ Oliver hoped they wouldn’t feel obliged to insist. ‘Gerard’s not having one of his best days and when he’s . . . like that . . . Elizabeth sometimes gets one of her headaches and goes to bed.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ Sarah placed a hand on his sho
ulder though obviously speaking to Mr Bryant. ‘It’s not as though we’re leaving the immediate area. Cones is straight ahead between the grocery store and the flower shop.’
It took no more than a minute or two to reach its door; almost equally quickly the three of them were seated at a small, round white-topped table. In front of each was a tall glass dish full of vanilla ice cream, deluged in fudge sauce, hugely piped with cream and topped with chopped nuts. No maraschino cherries. That they had all decided against them gave Oliver a wonderfully comfortable feeling. It suggested an already established bond. He told himself this was silly; the result of gratitude for their having rescued him from a bad situation, but the feeling wouldn’t be banished. Sarah and Evan weren’t just being kind. They liked having him with them. He was as convinced of that as he was that Brian had been right – Cones did have the very best hot fudge sundaes.
Amazing how the conversation flowed as if the three of them had sat around a table together for years. Afterward he couldn’t remember what got the ball rolling. Somewhere in the middle they’d asked him to call them by their first names.
He heard himself talking about Emjagger and Stone with the indifference of referring to characters in a book that wasn’t worth finishing, explaining that the latter’s full name was Rolling Stone. Evan had promised to let him have his latest in his series and Oliver couldn’t wait to read it, especially as he’d described the period as Dickensian. Sarah had flushed when admitting she only knew of Agatha Christie when it came to mysteries.
‘Twyla says maybe their names may have turned them into bullies.’
‘Don’t think of making fun of us; we’re real tough dudes?’ Evan laid down his spoon alongside the empty sundae. ‘It’s an explanation but not an excuse. My guess is this has nothing to do with what they think of you as a person. They want to bring you down a peg or two because of that statue out there making a visible point that the name Cully means something around here.’
Sea Glass Summer Page 21
