Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  “I had a very disturbing call from the guidance counselor today,” she said.

  Dad called from the living room: “Is that her?”

  fifteen

  DAD HAD EXPLAINED the whole calculus track thing to Mom. If Ingrid dropped down to Pre-Algebra now, the calculus track was out and all hope of Princeton or any other top college or university was dashed forever, at the age of thirteen. Mom went into the school the next morning, met with Ms. Groome and the guidance counselor, and made a deal. Ingrid’s math homework would be monitored for the rest of the year, meaning Mom or Dad had to sign a slip saying they had seen the completed assignment and that Ingrid had done the work herself. As a bonus, Mom threw in the fact, unknown to Ingrid until that moment, that she’d been grounded for a month. The reward was getting to stay in Algebra Two with Ms. Groome.

  “Grounded?” Ingrid said in the hall outside the guidance office, the deal done, just her and Mom.

  “They weren’t going to go for it otherwise,” Mom said. “I could sense it.”

  “What am I?” Ingrid said. “A real-estate deal?”

  “Ingrid. Don’t be silly.”

  Ingrid stormed away.

  She sat in history class, smoldering. They were learning about Tom Paine. Ingrid was barely listening, just enough to form the impression that he’d done some smoldering too. A real-estate deal. Toss in the freezer, the pool table, the curtains in the den, the patio furniture, the hunting prints, the portable safe. Ingrid had heard it all. She knew real estate backward, could ace the licensing exam right now. Sometimes she wondered how Mom could stand it, all that infighting over commissions, co-brokes, advertising, show fees, up time. No more. Mom had just thrown her to the wolves, was clearly suited to that harsh world, maybe even destined to—bzzz.

  One of those little sparks of inspiration went off in Ingrid’s head: The keys to every listing hung on a Masonite board across from Mom’s desk at Riverbend Properties. “Every listing” had to include 337 Packer Street, the house where Albert Morales and Lon Stingley had their basement apartment. Was a pair of paint-spattered Adidas sneakers lying around somewhere in there? She had to know. This was all about shoes, especially now that Chief Strade thought the owner of those red ones might have been in on the murder. Oh, by the way, Chief, they’re mine. How was that going to work?

  Powerup77: Grounded?

  Gridster22: yup

  NYgrrrl979: me too

  Powerup77: you too?

  Gridster22: what for?

  NYgrrrl979: told my mom to fo

  Gridster22: why?

  NYgrrrl979: Im tired of being in the middle—now she’s suing him again

  Powerup77: life sucks

  NYgrrrl979: aint that the trut

  Gridster22: :)

  Powerup77: whaddaya mean :)

  Gridster22: just felt like it eat drink and be merry, you know? :) :) :)

  Powerup77: you’re whacked

  Gridster22: the whole town is whacked—philip prescott broke cracked-up k’s heart and ran off to alaska :) :) :)

  Powerup77: huh?

  Gridster22: never to be heard from again :) :) :)

  NYgrrrl979: you getting this from joey’s dad?

  Powerup77: joey joey joey

  Gridster22: she saved his letter all these years :) :) :)

  Powerup77: STOP INGRID

  Gridster22: : (

  Powerup77: prescott was a jerk

  Gridster22: maybe still is

  NYgrrrl979: google him

  A great idea. Mia was smart. They Googled Philip Prescott.

  One relevant hit—linked to prescottrevival.org, the site Mom had designed for the Heritage Committee. Philip Prescott was barely mentioned, but there was lots of stuff about the renovation; Ingrid had scanned in some of the visuals herself.

  “Ty? I’m going into the office for a while. Better let Nigel out.”

  Gridster22: cul8r

  Stacy typed in whats w/her? but Ingrid, already rushing downstairs, didn’t see it come up on the screen. Mom was putting on her coat.

  “Going somewhere?” Ingrid said.

  “The office,” said Mom. “Just for half an hour.”

  “Maybe I’ll tag along.”

  Mom raised an eyebrow.

  “Going a little stir crazy in here, Mom.”

  “But it’s only day one,” said Mom.

  “STIR CRAZY,” Ingrid said.

  “Okay,” said Mom. “I don’t see why not.”

  Ten minutes later, the key to 337 Packer Street was in Ingrid’s pocket.

  Being grounded didn’t mean missing organized activities. Mom dropped Ingrid off at Prescott Hall for the first Alice rehearsal. She went into the huge octagonal entrance hall. A tall man with short-cropped gray hair was standing in profile to her, examining the reconstruction plans. It took her a moment to place him: Vincent Dunn. She hadn’t realized quite how tall he was. He put on half-glasses and bent closer to one of those artists’ renderings.

  “Hi, Mr. Dunn,” she said.

  But he didn’t hear. Ingrid could almost feel how hard he was concentrating on the picture. She went closer to see what was so interesting. Her shoe squeaked on the marble floor.

  Vincent Dunn jumped, almost right off the floor, as though she’d given him an electric shock. He whirled toward her, eyes wide. She jumped too.

  “Sorry, Mr. Dunn,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” he said, his voice a bit snappish. It softened as he went on. “Surprised would be more like it.” He gazed down at her without recognition.

  “I’m Ingrid, Mr. Dunn. We auditioned together.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You got the role?” Now he did look surprised. But just for a moment. Then he said, “Congratulations,” and held out his hand. Ingrid shook it, a very long, delicate hand like the hands of saints in paintings by that Spanish painter El Greco.

  “Thanks, Mr. Dunn,” Ingrid said.

  “You did a wonderful job, of course, very acute,” he said. “And call me Vincent.”

  “Vincent,” she said.

  “Ingrid,” he said, making a little bow; she’d never been on the receiving end of a bow before. “How appropriate for an actress.” He looked doubtful for a moment. “You’ve heard of Ingrid Bergman?”

  “I’m kind of named after her,” Ingrid said.

  “Your parents are movie buffs?” said Vincent.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Ingrid said. “But my mom’s favorite movie is Casablanca.”

  Vincent seemed to think that over. His eyes, dark and liquid, got a faraway look. “Have you seen Gaslight?” he said.

  “Is that a movie?” said Ingrid.

  “Schlock, like Casablanca,” said Vincent. “But she was much better in it.”

  Ingrid too thought that Casablanca was schlock. They were going to get along just fine. She turned to the artist’s rendering on the wall. “What were you looking at?” she said.

  He glanced at it without much interest. “Nothing, really.”

  “This is a real big project. My mom’s on the committee, and I helped with the website.”

  “There’s a website?”

  “Prescottrevival dot org.”

  Something about that struck Vincent as funny. He laughed, a short, sharp laugh, much louder than his speaking voice.

  “What’s so funny?” Ingrid asked.

  “Oh, you know. Internet, web, dot, backslash, all that.”

  Ingrid didn’t quite follow. She looked a little closer at the artist’s rendering, one she’d scanned onto the site herself. Vincent was right: It wasn’t very interesting, just showed everything all dug up during the construction phase.

  “They’re redoing the whole foundation,” Ingrid said.

  Vincent opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the inner door opened. A tall man came out, although not as tall as Vincent, more Dad’s height; a tall man she hadn’t seen in a year or two. He wore a trench coa
t of soft black leather and had a perfect haircut.

  “Hi, Mr. Ferrand,” Ingrid said, wondering What’s he doing here? I got the part.

  He glanced down at her, at first like Vincent without recognition; then it came to him. “Ingrid,” he said; the sight of her didn’t seem to please him. “I suppose congratulations are due.”

  “Thanks a million, Mr. Ferrand,” which was maybe pushing it, since his cheeks went a little pink.

  “I just dropped Chloe off,” he said. “She’s accepted the March Hare role. Chloe’s always been a team player.”

  “That’s good news,” said Vincent, coming forward. “Vincent Dunn,” he said. “Mad Hatter. I thought her audition was splendid.”

  “Tim Ferrand,” said Mr. Ferrand, shaking hands. “Maybe you’ll rise to director one day.”

  Vincent smiled. He had perfectly shaped teeth, but yellow. “I have no ambitions on that score,” he said.

  Mr. Ferrand nodded. He glanced at the drawings and blueprints on the walls with distaste. Ingrid knew what he was thinking: I’m paying for a big chunk of this and what does my daughter get? The March Hare.

  They sat in a semicircle on stage, Jill in the middle, her black curly hair shining, her whole body radiating enthusiasm. “Let’s all introduce ourselves, real names first, characters second,” she said. “And feel free to throw in a word or two about what you’d like to accomplish with this play. Let’s start with you, Mr. Santos.”

  “Harvey Santos,” said Mr. Santos. “Accomplish? I dunno. Maybe get some good reviews, open up new avenues, you know what I’m saying? Take that heavyset guy in Analyze This and Analyze That—why couldn’t I put on a few pounds, play him?”

  A brief silence fell after that, the only sound Ingrid could hear a mean little voice in her own head: No additional pounds necessary.

  “And your role here in Alice?” said Jill.

  “Caterpillar,” said Mr. Santos.

  “Meredith O’Malley.” Meredith O’Malley wore a miniskirt and a little top, resembled Marilyn Monroe, the way Marilyn Monroe might have looked if she’d lived to middle age and let herself go. “I play the Dormouse. What I’m so hoping for with this play”—beginning to slide into a British accent, always a danger with Meredith—“is that we all dig down deep to expose the rough edges of our characters, the raw emotions, good along with the bad.”

  She put a finger to her collagen lips in thought. That gave Ingrid a chance to remember where she’d heard most of that speech, and recently—on Inside the Actors Studio, where that intense bearded guy let Hollywood stars shoot off their mouths for hours; always so disappointing, compared to what they could do in the movies.

  “I want,” said Meredith, “to expose the character beneath the character.” Finger quotes—plump and red-nailed—around that second character.

  Character beneath the character? You’re a rodent, for God’s sake.

  “Chloe Ferrand.” Chloe had her hair up, that spectacular golden-blond hair of course, and looked a lot older than thirteen. “The March Hare.” Everyone waited for her to say more—she had one of those faces that could make you wait, no denying that—but she did not.

  “Vincent Dunn,” said Vincent. “The Mad Hatter.” He licked his lips, lips almost colorless but a tongue surprisingly red. “As for my hopes, I think we all know we’re in good hands with our director, and I look forward to going where she leads us.”

  “That’s very nice,” said Jill. “Vincent is new in town. He’s going to be a real asset to the company.”

  “What line of work you in, Vince?” said Mr. Santos.

  “Vincent,” said Vincent in his soft voice. “I’d like to open a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “You mean you’re in the market to buy a place?” asked Mr. Santos.

  “I suppose you could say that,” said Vincent.

  “Isn’t Ingrid’s mom a real-estate agent?” asked Meredith O’Malley.

  Ingrid came last, after the White Rabbit, the Mock Turtle, the Duchess, and all the others. “Ingrid Levin-Hill,” she said. “Alice.” Just saying the word filled her with excitement, and a little pride too. As for goals or accomplishments, she hadn’t been able to think of any even though she’d had the most time. “Let’s have fun,” she said.

  That brought smiles and head bobbing from almost everyone, but not Chloe, who was looking at her funny. At her mouth, to be specific, eyeing her…yes, braces, for sure. Ingrid, smiling too, snapped her mouth shut.

  Jill handed out the scripts, urged them all to get off book as soon as possible. Everyone left except Ingrid, because no one was there to get her, and Jill, who had to stay behind to lock up. Jill turned off all the lights and set the security system. She handed Ingrid her cell phone.

  “Mind calling them?” she said. “I’d drive you myself, but I’ve got to be in New York tonight.”

  Ingrid called Mom’s cell. Mom turned out to be on her way back from a meeting in Hartford, couldn’t get there for an hour. “Call Dad,” she said.

  Ingrid called home, no answer, called Dad’s cell, got his voice mail. “Hi. This is Mark Hill. I can’t take your call right now, but—”

  Ingrid, still listening to Dad’s message, thinking, Pick up, this is embarrassing, followed Jill into the octagonal entrance hall. Vincent was still there, looking at the blueprints and artists’ renderings again. He turned with a smile. “These are really something,” he said.

  Ingrid handed Jill the phone. “My mom can’t be here for an hour and I can’t reach my dad.”

  “Some problem?” said Vincent.

  Jill explained the problem.

  “I’m happy to drive Ingrid home,” Vincent said.

  “I really couldn’t,” said Ingrid.

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Vincent, “as long as you can tell me where you live—I’m still learning my way around.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Vincent,” Jill said. That settled that.

  Ingrid called Mom, told her she had a ride.

  “Thank God,” Mom said. She sounded exhausted.

  Vincent drove a small car—Ingrid couldn’t see what kind in the darkness of the parking lot. They got in. Vincent turned the key.

  “Where to?” he said.

  Bzzz. At that moment, Ingrid was hit by the most amazing inspiration yet. Vincent was new in town, had no clue where she lived, would drop her anywhere. When would the chance come again?

  “Three thirty-seven Packer Street,” she said. “It’s in the Flats.” She had the key in her pocket.

  sixteen

  “TAKE THE NEXT LEFT,” Ingrid said. “That’ll be River.” Wow. The town was coming together, the neighborhoods and streets taking shape in her mind, clearer and clearer every day. You just had to keep your eyes open.

  Vincent glanced at her. “You know your way around,” he said. She noticed he’d put on driving gloves, kind of like golf gloves with open fingers and little holes; she’d never seen anyone wear driving gloves before.

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” she said. “Learning the town. I got the idea from Sherlock Holmes—the way he knows London.”

  It was dark now. The headlights of an approaching car shone on Vincent’s face, sparkled on his liquid brown eyes. Ingrid was sure she could feel him thinking; she got the feeling he was pretty smart.

  “You like Sherlock Holmes?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t find him a little cold?”

  “I don’t think he is cold, not underneath,” Ingrid said.

  He turned to her with a smile. “That’s quite a gift.”

  “What is?”

  “Being able to see what people are like underneath.”

  “Oh,” said Ingrid, “that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Only about Sherlock Holmes,” Ingrid said. “It’s not just solving puzzles for him. He cares but doesn’t let on. And Watson’s not smart enough to get it.” Hey! She’d figured out most of that on the
fly. She turned to Vincent. He was easy to talk to. She spoke the next thought that came to her mind. “What about you, Vincent? Do you have the gift?”

  At that moment they came to Bridge Street. Left or right? Left, Ingrid thought, but before she could say the word, he’d done it on his own.

  “Only—” he began, and then paused.

  “Only what?” said Ingrid.

  They stopped at a flashing red light. Vincent glanced at her, the light reddening his face, then blanking it out. “Only when I’m performing,” he said, then looked both ways and drove carefully across the intersection.

  Ingrid understood perfectly, or thought she did. To make sure, she said, “Meaning you find out what’s inside when you’re actually doing the character?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Left here?”

  Ingrid had lost track. She peered at the street sign: Packer. “Yes,” she said, suddenly wondering whether he was saying he saw inside the character, which is what she’d meant, or saw inside himself. “I bet you’ve done a lot of acting,” she said. Down a side street, she glimpsed the green neon glow of the Benito’s Pizzeria sign.

  “Some,” said Vincent. “At one time.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Various places,” Vincent said. “Nothing to speak of.”

  Ingrid knew modesty when she heard it. “What are some of the plays you’ve been in?”

  “Oh,” said Vincent, “the usual.”

  “Like?” said Ingrid.

  A moment of silence, tiny reflections of green neon in his eyeballs. “You’re the curious type,” he said.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Ingrid, kind of expecting a smile if not an outright laugh. But there was neither.

  “Death of a Salesman,” he said. “The Three Sisters. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Di—” He stopped himself, then went on. “And others of that ilk.”

  Ingrid wasn’t sure what ilk he meant, but they all sounded pretty heavy. “No comedies?” she said.