“So who’s had it for all these years?”
Isabelle shrugged. ‘just this guy who works at the bus terminal.”
For some reason Isabelle felt uncomfortable in sharing the communications from Kathy that had recently found their way into her hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Jilly to keep a confidence, but that their arrival was still too fresh, their message too private for her to share. She wanted to deal with them on her own first. Letter and painting and the mysterious book that was still wrapped in brown paper on the window seat.
“Just this guy,” Jilly repeated.
Isabelle nodded.
“This is so mysterious. So how did you meet him?”
“It’s kind of a long, weird story ....”
Jilly sensed her discomfort. “Which you’re not ready to share quite yet.”
“I just don’t know where to start. I ...”
“You don’t have to explain,” filly said as Isabelle’s voice trailed off. “Nosy, I might be, but I’m patient, too. Just promise you’ll tell me all about it when you’re ready to talk about it.”
“That I can promise.”
Jilly admired the painting for another couple of moments before laying it back down on the window seat.
“But I do have to know something,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Did you borrow some paint and brushes before you left this morning?” Isabelle waved a hand at her unpacked boxes. “The one thing I don’t need is more art supplies.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Why? Have you lost something?”
“The only thing I care about is my favorite brush, but there’s also a couple of tubes of paint gone missing. A piece of hardboard, some turpentine. I can’t figure it out at all.”
Isabelle thought of her surviving numena. It would be so like Cosette to have “borrowed” the art supplies that Jilly was missing.
“That kind of thing happens to me all the time back on the island,” she said. “I think I must have brought one or two of the local Good Neighbors along with me.”
Jilly gave her an interested look. “Really? You’ve seen faeries on the island?”
July, Isabelle realized, was probably the only person she knew who would take something like that at face value. And it wasn’t really a lie—many of her numena were very much like the little mischievous sprites and hobgoblins that inhabited folk and fairy tales.
“I don’t see them,” she explained, “but things are often rearranged or borrowed for extended periods of time. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Well, they’re welcome to share,” Jilly said. “I just wish they hadn’t taken that brush.”
“Why don’t you leave out a note, asking for it back?”
Jilly gave her a quick smile. “Maybe I will. But that doesn’t help me at the moment. It’s back to the art shop for me. Will you be coming by this afternoon?”
Isabelle nodded. “I shouldn’t be here too much longer. Rubens isn’t giving you any trouble, is he?”
“Rubens,” Jilly announced, “is an absolute angel, just like he always is.”
Isabelle waited until Jilly had left before returning to the windowseat. When she was sitting down again, she picked up the other parcel, the one that felt like a book, but first she looked out the window, not at the view of the river, but down below at the street, searching for a dark-haired man in white shirt and jeans. But if John Sweetgrass was skulking about Joli Coeur, trying to catch a glimpse of her the way she was of him, he was being surreptitious about it.
After a while she sighed and began to open the parcel. The book inside had no title, or byline. But three-quarters of the pages were filled with a familiar handwritten script that she immediately recognized as Kathy’s, and although the entries were undated, it was obviously a journal.
Yet another mystery, Isabelle thought, for Kathy had never held with the business of keeping a journal—or at least not in all the time that they’d lived together.
“If people want to find out about me,” she’d said once, “they can read my stories. Everything I want anybody to know about me is in them.” Apparently, she’d changed her mind.
II
Marisa felt guilty taking Alan’s bed from him while he slept on the sofa, but as usual, once he’d made up his mind there was no arguing with him. His gentlemanly quota was as high as ever—a feature of his personality that she found both endearing and frustrating. Just for once she wished he wouldn’t feel the need to always do the right thing. If he could just have put aside his sense of decency for one night and come to bed with her—it didn’t have to be a lifetime commitment; just for tonight. Much as she cared for him, she wasn’t so sure she was ready for any long-term commitment ever again anyway. All she wanted was to be held through the night, held by someone who cared about her. Who understood her.
But that wasn’t Alan, and she hadn’t been able to quite muster enough courage to ask him, so she found herself lying in his big bed on her own, listening to the sound of his washing up in the bathroom, followed by the creaking of the sofa’s springs as he shifted from one position to another, trying to get comfortable.
She didn’t think she’d ever fall asleep. Her head was too full of a bewildering jumble of worries and emotions. Questions prowled through her mind without respite. What was George going to do when it finally sank in that she’d really walked out on him? What was going to happen to her? How was her relationship with Alan going to be affected? What did she even want out of their relationship? When was she going to take control of her own life for a change?
Leaving George was a step in the right direction, she knew, but it had left her in a state of limbo. If only Isabelle hadn’t come back into the picture. If only she’d had the courage to leave George earlier—even a week ago would have been time enough. Or was that it at all? Perhaps she’d been waiting for this situation to arise, for Alan to be taken, before she could make the move on her own. That seemed to be perverse enough to fit into the constant mess she made of her life.
When she finally fell asleep, it was to dream of a face looking in at her through the bedroom window.
She couldn’t tell if it was male or female, friendly or hostile; if it was some anima risen up from her subconscious, panicking at what she had done, or a night muse looking in on her with approval, eyes dark with the promise of what was to come. All she knew for sure was that when she woke in the morning, she was alone in the bed and there was no one at the window.
She rose, still wearing Alan’s shirt, and went into the living room, where she watched him sleeping for a few moments before going on into the kitchen to brew some coffee. When she returned to the living room, two mugs in hand, Alan was sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes. She didn’t know the details of the dreams he’d been having just before he woke up, but judging from how his penis lifted the sheet up between his legs, they hadn’t been chaste.
Were they about Isabelle or me? Marisa found herself wondering.
He bunched up the bedclothes onto his lap and blushed, but he didn’t look away.
Me, she realized. He’s been dreaming about me.
The realization both excited and scared her. She sat down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and placed the two mugs beside her. Alan reached for her hands and she wasn’t sure if he was simply comforting her as he had last night, or if he was about to draw her to him on the sofa.
What about Isabelle? she wanted to ask him, not sure she even wanted to know.
But before she could speak, before he could reveal his intentions, before she could find out if this impulse toward intimacy came from his heart or from what had sprung up between his legs when he woke, the doorbell rang. They both jumped, starting with a guilt she knew neither of them should be feeling. Alan let go of her hands.
“I, uh, I’m not wearing anything,” he said.
Marisa couldn’t resist making a small joke. “Not even a bow tie?” she asked
. The small grin he returned helped diffuse the awkwardness of the moment. “Do you want me to answer that?” she added.
“If you don’t mind.”
As she went to get the door, Alan fled into his bedroom, trailing a sheet. Marisa hoped whoever this was wouldn’t take long. Last night’s indecision had fled and she was determined to grasp the moment as it arose. But when she opened the door it was to find two strangers in waiting in the hall. They both wore dark suits that seemed to have been bought off the same rack. The smaller man had dark hair combed back from his forehead and a thin mustache that followed the contour of his upper lip, giving him the outdated air of a forties ladies’ man. His companion had short brown hair and broad, placid features that seemed at odds with the sharp intensity of his gaze. The smaller man, standing to her right, held up a billfold to show his identification.
“Detective Michael Thompson, ma’am,” he said, “of the Newford Police Department.” He nodded to his companion. “This is Detective Roger Davis. We’re looking for a Mr. Alan Grant of this address.
Would he be available?”
“What’s going on?” Marisa asked. “What do you want with Alan?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the detective assured her. “We have a few questions for Mr. Grant, that’s all.”
“Questions about what?” Alan asked, coming up behind Marisa. He’d changed into jeans and a shirt, but was still barefoot.
“Just a few routine questions concerning an ongoing investigation,” Thompson said. “If you’d like to finish getting dressed, sir, we’ll drive you down to the precinct.”
“Can’t you tell me what this is all about?”
“We’d prefer to deal with this at the precinct, sir.”
“I’m coming with you,” Marisa said.
When Alan gave her a grateful look, she realized that he didn’t want to be alone on this, whatever it was about. It gave her a good feeling that she could be here for him.
“Would that be a problem, officers?” Alan asked.
Both men shook their head.
“Not at all, sir,” Thompson said. “Do you mind if we wait inside while you get ready?”
“Please, come in.”
The smaller detective made his way to the sofa and sat down while his companion drifted across the room to stand by the window. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, but Marisa got the definite impression that he wasn’t missing a thing. Pillow on the sofa. The sheet Alan hadn’t wrapped himself in bunched up on the floor. The open bedroom door through which he could see the bed with its rumpled bedclothes. She wished she’d taken the time to put some clothes on herself, rather than be standing here in Alan’s shirt.
“We won’t be long,” Alan said.
“No problem,” Thompson assured him.
Marisa followed Alan into the bedroom, where she collected her clothes. She paused at the doorway to look at Alan where he sat on the edge of the bed putting on a pair of socks. She held the bundle tight against her chest, wishing it were Alan she was holding, that Alan was hugging her back.
“What do you think it’s about?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But it can’t be good. They don’t take you in for questioning when it’s only an unpaid parking ticket or something else as innocuous as that. Still we should take comfort in the fact that they obviously don’t think we’re dangerous or they’d never have let us out of their sight, even to get dressed.”
“But you haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
Alan shook his head. “Not that I know.”
“Then why—”
“We’re keeping them waiting. You should go get dressed.”
“I know,” Marisa said. “But this whole business is giving me the creeps. Why can’t they just tell us what it’s all about?” She hesitated, then asked, “You don’t think it’s got anything to do with my leaving George, do you?”
Alan gave her a thin smile. “There’s no law against leaving your husband—not unless you killed him first.”
“Ha ha.”
“Just get dressed, Marisa. We’ll find out what’s going on when we get down to the precinct.”
“I don’t see how you can be so calm.”
Alan shrugged. “I’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”
But maybe that won’t make any difference, Marisa thought. As she stood there looking at him, every miscarriage of justice that she’d ever heard about reared up in her mind, tormenting her with the possibilities of what might be waiting for them at the precinct. Just last week she’d read about a man accused of molesting his niece. He’d been proven innocent—the girl had admitted that she’d made the story up to get some attention from her own parents—but according to the article, the stigma of the accusation still clung to the man and the whole sorry affair had opened a breach in the family that showed no signs of being diminished. But now wasn’t the time to bring anything like that up, she realized.
“I guess I’ll go get dressed” was all she said.
“Things will work out,” Alan told her.
She nodded.
“But if anything does happen when we’re at the precinct—I mean, if they decide to hold me or whatever—I don’t want you to think that it changes anything. You’re still welcome to stay here. You’ll have to get someone else to help you pick up your things, that’s all.”
“I don’t even want to think along those lines.”
“But just in case.”
Marisa sighed. “Fine. Just in case. But that’s not going to happen.”
“I sure as hell hope not.”
He might look calm, Marisa realized, but inside he was feeling just as worried as she was. She straightened her back, determined to put on as good a face herself. If he could do it, when he was the one the police wanted to question, then she could do it too.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” she said.
She went into the bathroom to get dressed herself and was out again in record time, having paused only long enough to put on a touch of lipstick.
III
Come midmorning, Rolanda was still sitting beside her bed, watching Cosette sleep. She’d left once to go downstairs to cancel her morning’s appointments and get herself a coffee. That had been over an hour ago. The coffee was long finished and Cosette still slept—if what she was doing was sleeping.
Rolanda couldn’t shake the memory of that awful moment earlier this morning when the girl had run an Xacto blade across her hand, the sharp metal cutting deeply into the palm, but the wound hadn’t bled.
Hadn’t bled at all. What it had done was close up again as easily as you might seal a zip-lock plastic bag.
Hey presto, just like that.
It wasn’t possible, of course. What she’d seen couldn’t have happened. Except there was no denying that she had seen it and now the whole world had become unsafe. Nothing could be trusted to be as it once had been. The hard-wood floor of her apartment seemed spongy underfoot, the walls pulsed, the air was thick with light that appeared to have a physical consistency. Dust motes didn’t so much float in it as were encased. Everything was changed.
You think you’re safe, Rolanda thought, looking down at her sleeping charge. You think you know who you are and you’re content with the comfortable familiarity of your life, and then something like this comes along and the next thing you know, everything becomes foreign. It wasn’t just Cosette, lying there on her bed; it was that everything now had the potential to be other than what she always believed it to be.
This must be what people meant when they spoke of an epiphany, she thought, except she didn’t actually understand what she was seeing. She simply knew that there were no more safe corners to turn.
That underlying what everyone accepted as true was another truth. A different truth, one that allowed for god knew how many interpretations.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
She looked down to see that Cosette’s eyes were open, their l
uminous gaze regarding her sympathetically, and Rolanda realized that she no longer considered the girl as a potential client, in need of the Foundation’s services. Their roles hadn’t so much reversed as evened out so that they were meeting now as equals, each able to learn from the other.
“I don’t know what I am,” Rolanda admitted. “Everything seems changed. Anything seems possible.”
Cosette sat up and scooted over to where she could lean back against the headboard. “Except for happiness.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to be real.”
Rolanda smiled. “You sound like Pinocchio.”
“Who’s Pinocchio?”
“A little wooden puppet in a story who wanted to become a real boy.”
“And did he?”
“Eventually.”
Cosette leaned forward eagerly. “How did he do it?”
“It was just a story,” Rolanda said.
“But that’s what we all are—just stories. We only exist by how people remember us, by the stories we make of our lives. Without the stories, we’d just fade away.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“When you’re real,” Cosette added, “your stories have more weight, I think. There’s less chance of being forgotten.”
“I don’t know about that. There are any number of characters from books and movies who are a lot more real to some people than anyone in their own life.”
“How did the puppet become real?”
Rolanda sighed. “I don’t remember exactly. I think it had something to do with his having to be a good boy. Doing good deeds. There was a fairy involved as well—except now I think I’m mixing up the book and the Disney film. I remember the fairy from the movie but I can’t remember if she was in the book. In the movie, she was the one who finally changed him into a real boy.”
Cosette was hanging on to her every word. “I wonder if Isabelle would paint a fairy like that for me.”
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