Memory and Dream n-5

by Charles de Lint

  “Why you always got to try so hard?” one of Rolanda’s classmates asked her when they got their tests back one day and Rolanda’s was the only one sporting that red “A” at the top of the paper. “You that afraid of the back of your mama’s hand?”

  Rolanda had shaken her head in response. No, she’d thought. I’m afraid Mama won’t be proud of me anymore. But the words remained unspoken. Rolanda had long since learned how to make do in a world where her peers reviled her either for being black or for acting white, depending on the color of their own skin. She simply kept to herself and did the best she could. She didn’t fight with the other kids anymore. She didn’t run with the gangs. Her mother had taught her respect for the rules, both legal and societal, and Rolanda made a point of staying within their parameters, even when all she wanted to do was strike back at the unfairness that surrounded her every day of her life, even after the injustice of her mother’s death, in a drive-by shooting. She fought for change, but she fought from within what she wanted to change, rather than chipping away at it from the outside.

  Rolanda had been bent over her computer for over an hour when she suddenly realized that she was no longer alone in the Newford Children’s Foundation office. Lifting her head, she looked across the waiting room to find a red-haired girl standing in front of Isabelle Copley’s painting The Wild Girl, and for a long moment all she could do was regard the stranger with mild confusion. It wasn’t that the girl was barefoot and wore only jeans and a thin flannel shirt—clothing not at all suitable for late-September weather; it was that she seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Rolanda hadn’t heard the front door open, hadn’t heard the girl enter. One moment she’d been alone at her desk and the waiting room was empty, in the next the girl was here, standing barefoot on the carpet and looking up at the painting. She bore, Rolanda realized, an uncanny resemblance to the subject of the painting.

  “She could be your twin,” Rolanda said.

  The girl turned with a smile. “Do you think so?”

  “Definitely.”

  Rolanda had thought the girl was in her early teens, but now she was no longer so sure, though she couldn’t pinpoint what had made her change her mind. Perhaps it was the momentary trace of a very adult mockery that she’d seen in the girl’s smile. Or perhaps it was the worldly look in her eyes. The latter, in itself, wasn’t so unusual. The children who came to the NCF’s offices invariably had either one of two looks about them: a worldliness that was out of keeping with their tender years, or fear. Rolanda hated to see either. Both spoke of lost childhoods.

  “It’s awfully cold to be walking around in bare feet,” she said.

  The girl looked down and wriggled her toes on the carpet. “I suppose it is.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cosette.”

  Of course, Rolanda thought. They never had last names. Not at first.

  “I think we might have some socks and shoes that would fit you,” she said. “A jacket, too, if you’d like one. Or a sweater.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Rolanda stood up from behind her desk. “Let’s go see what we can find.”

  The girl dutifully fell in step behind her as Rolanda led the way down the central hall toward Shauna Daly’s office. Because it was the largest room in the building, Shauna had to share her space with much of the clothing and toys that were donated to the Foundation. Still more was kept in boxes in the basement, replenished whenever the supply in Shauna’s office ran low.

  “Take whatever you like,” Rolanda said.

  Cosette seemed delighted by the jumble of clothing that took up one side of the office. Laid out on a long worktable, or spilling out of various boxes, were any number of jeans and skirts, jackets, sweaters, socks and underwear. Shoes were lined up under the table, ranging from tiny footwear suitable for infants to boots and shoes to fit teenagers.

  “Do you have a place to stay, Cosette?” Rolanda asked as the girl felt the texture of various jackets and sweaters.

  “Oh sure. I sort of have a boyfriend and I’m going to be staying with him.”

  Oh-oh, Rolanda thought. She’d didn’t like the sound of that. A “boyfriend.” Who let her wander around on the streets barefoot and without a jacket.

  “What’s his name?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

  When the girl lifted her gaze from the clothing and turned it toward her, Rolanda felt an odd sensation. It was as though the carpet underfoot had suddenly dropped a few inches, settling like an elevator at a new floor. It wasn’t worldliness that lay in the girl’s eyes, she realized, but she couldn’t put a name to it. Otherworldliness, perhaps.

  “His name?” the girl said. “It’s, um ... Alan. Alan Grant.”

  Rolanda recovered her equilibrium and gave her a sharp look. “Alan Grant the publisher?”

  “That’s right,” Cosette said with a bright smile. “He does make books, doesn’t he?”

  Rolanda was shocked. She knew Alan. Everybody at the NCF did. He was one of the Foundation’s biggest supporters. He was also old enough to be this girl’s father.

  “And he’s your ‘boyfriend’?” she asked.

  “Well, sort of,” Cosette said. “I only met him last night and I know he likes Isabelle better than he likes me, but she’s not interested in having a boyfriend and I am.”

  Relief flooded Rolanda when she realized that it was the girl who was fixated on Alan, not the other way around.

  “I think he thinks I’m too young,” Cosette added.

  “Perhaps you are ... for Alan, I mean.”

  “I’m much older than I look,” Cosette assured her.

  She sat down on the floor and tried on various shoes.

  “Are you hungry?” Rolanda asked.

  Cosette shook her head. “I don’t really need to eat.”

  More warning bells went off in Rolanda’s head. While Cosette was thin, it wasn’t the same sort of thinness that Rolanda usually associated with eating disorders, but looks could always be deceiving.

  “Why’s that?” she asked, maintaining that studied nonchalance she always assumed with clients when she wanted information, but didn’t want to scare them off.

  Cosette shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just the way we are. We don’t need to sleep, either, and we never dream.”

  “We?”

  Cosette ignored her for a moment. Having found a pair of clunky leather shoes that she appeared to like, she was now trying on sweaters. She finished pulling one over her head before replying.

  “My ... family, I guess you’d call them.”

  “Do they live in the city?”

  “All over, really. I don’t really keep track of them.”

  “Why’s that?” Rolanda asked.

  Cosette gave her another of those odd looks that had so unsteadied Rolanda earlier. She took off the sweater she’d been trying on and hoisted herself onto the table, where she sat with her legs dangling and the sweater held against her chest.

  “Why do you want to know so much about me?” she asked.

  “I’m just interested in you.”

  Cosette nodded with slow understanding. “That’s not really it at all. You think I’m like the other kids who come here, don’t you? That I’m in trouble and I need help.”

  “Do you?” Rolanda asked. “Need help, I mean.”

  “Oh, no,” Cosette said with a merry laugh.

  Rolanda was struck with a sense of incongruity at the sound of Cosette’s mirth until she realized why the girl’s laughter sounded out of place: the laughter was genuine, unforced—an alien sound in this place.

  When children laughed here, it was not because they were happy or amused. Theirs was a laughter that grew out of stress, or relief, or some combination of the two.

  Cosette hopped down from the table. “Thanks for the shoes and the sweater,” she said. “I don’t really need them, but I like getting presents,” she added over her shoulder as she left the room.

 
“You’re welcome,” Rolanda began.

  She was caught off guard by the girl’s sudden departure, but by the time she had followed her out into the hallway, Cosette was already at the far end of the hall, opening the front door.

  “Wait!” Rolanda called.

  Cosette turned to give her a wave and stepped outside. Rolanda broke into a trot, reaching the front door just before it closed. When she stepped out onto the porch, the girl was gone. She wasn’t on the walkway, or on the sidewalk, or anywhere up or down the street.

  That eerie feeling returned, the vague sense of vertigo, as if the ground underfoot had abruptly become uneven or spongy, and Rolanda had to steady herself against one of the porch’s supports. It was as though Cosette had never existed in the first place, disappearing as mysteriously as she had appeared in the office a few minutes ago.

  “Who were you?” Rolanda asked the empty street.

  She wasn’t expecting a reply, but just for a moment, she thought she heard Cosette’s laughter again, sweet and chiming like tiny bells, echoing not in her ear, but in her mind. She stood there on the porch for a long time, leaning against the support pole, before she finally went back inside and closed the door behind her.

  VI

  I guess I really messed up this time, didn’t I?” Marisa said.

  Alan was sitting at the kitchen table, staring off through the window at the patchwork row of backyards that the view presented. He hadn’t heard Marisa come in and he jumped at the sound of her voice, scraping the legs of his chair against the floor as he half rose from his seat. He sat back down again when he saw Marisa standing in the doorway, still wearing his shirt. It had never looked half so good on him. Her hair was a little more disheveled than it had been earlier. Her eyes were still swollen, the rings under them darker. Alan’s heart went out to her.

  “Pull up a chair,” he said. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, maybe, or some tea?”

  “Tea, please. Coffee would just make me feel even more jangly than I already am.”

  Alan filled the kettle and put it on the stove. He rummaged around in the cupboard and came up with a box of Bengal Spice that still had a couple of bags left in it. Marisa sat at the table, hugging herself, her hands lost in the long sleeves of the borrowed shirt. Neither of them spoke until Alan finally brought two mugs to the table, steam wafting up from the rims of each. Alan wanted to say something to show his support for what Marisa was going through, but nothing had changed since he’d sat with her in the living room earlier. He couldn’t promise that things were going to get better. And while he was certainly willing to give her a place to stay, he couldn’t promise her anything else beyond his friendship. Even if Isabelle hadn’t been in the picture, thinking of Marisa as a friend for so long had eroded his desire for their relationship to become something more. At least he thought it had. Seeing her sitting there across from him in his shirt, barefoot and without any makeup, stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt for a while, but he didn’t feel right about bringing it up now. It wouldn’t be fair—not unless he was sure.

  Marisa was the one who broke the silence. “What did Isabelle say about the project?” she asked.

  “She’s going to do it.”

  “That’s great. Did you call Gary to give him the news?”

  Gary Posner was the editor at the paperback house who was interested in acquiring the rights to the omnibus. Thinking of him brought up a whole other set of worries for Alan.

  “I called him while you were sleeping, but he’s not exactly thrilled with the news.”

  “How can he not be?”

  “Oh, he loves the idea that Isabelle’s on board,” Alan explained. “It’s Margaret Mully that concerns him. He’s afraid that if she appeals, it’ll put the whole thing on hold again. He says he can’t afford to commit until we have something from her in writing that says she won’t interfere with the project—preferably something notarized.”

  “But you’ll never get that from her.”

  Alan nodded glumly. “Tell me about it.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “We go ahead with our edition.”

  “But you were counting on the paperback money ....”

  “Only for the Foundation,” Alan said. “As the bank account stands now, we can afford to publish the East Street Press edition—especially since Isabelle’s donating the use of her art to the project.”

  “Still ... you must be disappointed.”

  Alan nodded. Talking business, Marisa seemed to have perked up some. Alan hated to remind her of her problems, but he didn’t see that he had any choice.

  “Marisa, we have to talk.”

  As soon as he spoke the words, Alan saw a change come over her. She sat up a little straighter and bit at her lower lip, but appeared determined to tough out what she seemed to think was coming.

  “I won’t impose on you any longer,” she said. “I just didn’t have any other place to go. But I’ll call around. I ... I’m even thinking of moving back east. At least I know some people out there ....”

  Her voice trailed off as Alan shook his head.

  “We’re not talking about you leaving,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. We can move the boxes of books out of the spare room and set it up for you.”

  There, he thought. Though he hadn’t meant to, he’d already begun to define how their relationship would go. Separate rooms, separate beds ... “I couldn’t let you do that. I know you need your own space.” Alan gave her an odd look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve always known you were a private person,” Marisa said. “Sort of reserved. Why do you think I tease you so much? It’s the best way to get a rise out of you.”

  Alan didn’t feel able to explain why she had gotten the idea he was reserved. Originally, it’d had more to do with her, and her marriage to George, than his own feelings toward her. By now it had become a habit.

  “I want you to stay,” he said. “That was never in question. What I wanted to talk to you about was what you wanted to take from your apartment and how you wanted to go about doing it.”

  “Oh, god. I don’t know. If I could afford it, I think I’d just go out and buy all new things.”

  Alan shook his head. “That’s your being upset that’s talking.”

  “I don’t want anything from George.”

  “Fine. But you should at least take your own things.”

  She gave him a helpless look. “I don’t even know how I can face him. My leaving do you know that it came as an absolute shock to him? He had no idea our marriage was even in trouble, little say over. It’s like he’s never heard a word I had to say about it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to think about it,” Alan said. “You know—if he didn’t acknowledge the problems, then they’d just go away.”

  “Well, I guess it worked,” Marisa said. “Because I’m not going back.”

  “I doubt this is the solution he was thinking of.”

  Marisa shrugged. “It’s too late for anything to be done about it now.” She looked so hurt and confused that Alan’s heart went out to her. “Tell me I’m not making a mistake,” she said.

  “The only mistake you made,” Alan told her, “was waiting this long to leave him.” 7

  The smile that touched Marisa’s lips held no humor.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I needed to hear that.”

  VII

  This is perfect,” Isabelle said. She stepped back from where she’d been looking out the window to survey her new studio once more. “There’s so much space.”

  Jilly was sitting on the floor across the large room, surrounded by all the various cases and boxes and bundles that they’d just finished lugging up the stairs. Rubens lay sprawled across her lap, half-asleep and completely relaxed.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve often thought I should go into real estate. It’s just a gift I have.”

 
; “I’ll have to get some furniture,” Isabelle said. “Nothing too fancy. A futon. A drawing table.”

  “A kitchen table and chairs.”

  “A bookcase.”

  “An easel.”

  “I’ve got one—it’s just in pieces in one of those boxes.”

  “It’s like being a student all over again, isn’t it?” Jilly said. “Do you think you’ll survive?”

  Isabelle looked around herself once more. The studio was utterly at odds with her work space on the island—not simply for what it was itself, but for what surrounded it: the view from the window of the river and the city spread out on either side of it; the sound of traffic rising up from the street; the sense of sharing a building with so many other people. There was a buzz in the air that Isabelle always associated with the city. Part electric hum, part the press and proximity of so many other souls.

  “Actually, I think I’ll thrive,” she said. “I might have had some trouble getting into the proper frame of mind back on the island. But here ... ever since I arrived, I’ve felt as though I’m falling into one of Kathy’s stories.”

  Especially when she thought of John Sweetgrass having been seen in this very No, she told herself. Don’t even start thinking about that.

  “Is something the matter?” Jilly asked.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, you just had the oddest expression on your face. I couldn’t tell if you were happy or upset.”

  “Happy,” Isabelle assured her. “But a little intimidated with everything I’ve got ahead of me.”

  “It’s going to be a lot of work, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “Not to mention call up a lot of old memories,” Jilly added.

  “Well, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to do it,” Isabelle said. She gave Jilly what she hoped was a bright smile. “Ready to try out one of those cafes downstairs?”

  “What about all of this?” Jilly asked, indicating the jumble of unpacked boxes and bags.

  Isabelle shook her head. “That I’m going to deal with tomorrow. Tonight I just want to relax.”

  “What about Rubens?”

  “He can explore his new domain. We’ll come collect him when we’re ready to go back to your place.”