Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  Vincent had covered for her. Either that or he hadn’t been paying attention on the drive to 337 Packer Street, maybe had thought he was dropping her at a friend’s or something. But whatever the reason, a warm tide of relief flowed inside Ingrid. The rickety thing was still standing. She was going to be all right.

  Ingrid set the table.

  “Will Dad be here for dinner?”

  “Supposed to be,” said Mom. She checked the time. “Did he call?”

  “No.”

  Mom gazed off into the distance. The sauce got too hot and spattered all over the stove top. “Damn,” Mom said, turning it down. Ingrid set the table for four.

  “Call Ty,” Mom said, draining the spaghetti.

  “Ty,” Ingrid yelled from where she stood.

  “I could have done that myself,” Mom said.

  Ty came up, bare chested, sweating. A vein was throbbing over one of his biceps. Mom, standing behind him, said, “I’m going to get you an appointment with Dr. Pedlosky.”

  “Who’s he?” said Ty.

  “She,” said Mom. “The dermatologist. You’re getting acne on your back.”

  “I’m fine,” Ty said, pulling on his Red Raiders varsity T-shirt, probably the coolest T-shirt in town.

  They sat down to dinner. Nigel entered, sniffing the air.

  twenty

  BEFORE THE NEXT rehearsal, Ingrid walked around Prescott Hall to see if she could find the spot where Kate Kovac and Philip Prescott had posed for their engagement picture. A long walk—she’d never realized how huge Prescott Hall was before this, with those two massive wings, each bigger than any other whole house in town, even the Ferrands’. All those towers and terraces and leaded-glass windows, pointy-tongued gargoyles sticking out here and there, and lots of architectural features she didn’t know the names of: Being rich, really rich, meant you could go completely crazy, and the only result would be everyone getting so jealous they couldn’t stand it. And circling around like this, Ingrid also understood how much of the place was closed off, way more than half.

  At the back of Prescott Hall lay the remains of a vast garden, now one big tangle. To the right, toward the river, rose a bluff. A brick path, now in disrepair, many of the bricks broken or missing, led to the top, a flat lookout with a stone wall on three sides, little stone angels on the corners. Ingrid turned her back on the river and faced the Hall. Yes, the photograph had been taken right here, Philip and Kate standing where she now stood, the photographer by the wall.

  Ingrid went to the wall, looked over. The bluff fell steeply toward the river, gliding swiftly by far below. Over to her left, just out of sight beyond the next bend, were the falls. She could just make out that boom Mr. Samuels had mentioned, the boom that hadn’t been strung across when Philip’s parents got swept over in a canoe. The white buoys seemed tiny, like beads on a flimsy necklace. The falls were making that sound, like a mob of people going shhhh! From certain spots you were supposed to be able to hear a second shhhh!, trailing the main one like an echo, the echo that gave the falls their name. Ingrid had never heard it before. Here, on this stone terrace on top of the bluff behind Prescott Hall, she heard it for the very first time.

  Ingrid walked back down the brick path and across the tangled garden. The sun was sinking, turning all those leaded windows into gold. She climbed one side of the curving horseshoe staircase at the back of the Hall, then followed the wide second-floor terrace around to the front.

  She heard voices. Looking down, she saw Jill Monteiro and Vincent Dunn crossing the parking lot. They came to the door of the octagonal entrance.

  “Glad to hear it,” Jill was saying. She took out her key, unlocked the door. “I’m excited too.”

  Vincent held it open for her, paused. “Oh, and that reminds me, Jill,” he said. “Would it be possible to get a key?”

  “A key?” said Jill.

  “A duplicate,” said Vincent, pointing to the one in her hand. “To the Hall.”

  “A key to the Hall?” Jill said. “But why?”

  Vincent placed one of those long saintly hands of his on Jill’s shoulder, the skin so white against the black of her sleeve. “This is a little embarrassing,” he said, lowering his voice, but not so low Ingrid, with her sharp ears, couldn’t hear. “I’ve got a kind of…secret.”

  “Oh,” said Jill, stepping back. “What’s that?”

  “Just about the worst thing you can imagine,” Vincent said. “Stage fright.”

  “Stage fright?” said Jill, sounding a bit surprised. Ingrid was surprised too. She could think of lots worse secrets than stage fright.

  “A horrible case,” he was saying. “Really incapacitating. For years it drove me out of acting completely. I was always so calm during rehearsal—even full dress rehearsal—but the moment opening night came along, I fell apart. I tried everything, Jill—therapy, Valium, even downing two or three shots of vodka before going on.” Ingrid could see the sympathetic reaction rising in Jill’s big dark eyes. “All useless,” Vincent went on. “Finally, by accident, I stumbled on the solution.”

  “Which was?” Jill said.

  Vincent took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “A twist on an old story, you might say. I found I couldn’t stay away from the theater. In a little town out west, I volunteered at a local company—stagehand, set building, lighting, sweeping up, you name it. I practically lived in the theater, got to know every nook and cranny, felt at home.” He paused and repeated, “At home.” Then another deep, sighing breath. “The play was Death of a Salesman. Naturally, by opening night, I knew every part.” Vincent paused, seemed to be remembering. The corners of his mouth turned up in a little smile. “Five minutes before curtain, our Biff was arrested for failure to pay child support—rather ironic considering the character.”

  Jill laughed. Ingrid, unfamiliar with the play, didn’t get it.

  “Can you guess the rest?” Vincent said.

  “You stepped in?” said Jill.

  He nodded.

  “And your stage fright disappeared?”

  “Totally,” said Vincent. “It was like a rebirth.”

  Ingrid saw Jill nod, a nod that said I would have felt the same.

  “But,” said Vincent, “the price to pay is that I have to sink into that at-home feeling for every production. That means spending hours and hours just being in the theater, puttering around, doing odd jobs, absorbing the place. My last director let me sleep in the wings during the entire production. Which is why, Jill, I’d appreciate a duplicate key.”

  “You want to sleep in Prescott Hall?” Jill said.

  “That would be ideal.”

  “I have the only key,” Jill said. “Except for the trustees, of course.”

  “We could stop by the hardware store,” Vincent said.

  Jill laughed. “I don’t have the authority to give anyone a key,” she said. “I’d have to run it by the trustees.”

  “I’d be very grateful,” Vincent said.

  Jill thought for a moment. “The only one I know is Tim Ferrand,” she said. “I’ll try him.”

  “Thank you,” said Vincent, touching her shoulder again just for a second before they went inside.

  Ingrid liked Prescott Hall. There was even something magical about it. But sleeping alone inside the place? What could be creepier? Stage fright must suck really bad, driving Vincent to a remedy like that. She crossed her fingers to keep it from ever siccing her.

  “The Mad Hatter’s table,” said Jill, “will angle out toward center stage like so. The previous scene, thanks to the wizardry of Mr. Rubino—”

  “Shazam,” said Stacy’s dad over a speaker from the booth.

  “—ends with a single spot on the Cheshire Cat’s smile,” Jill went on, “fading, fading, fading—a grin without a cat, just as Alice says. And we come up on the tea party.”

  Hey! So cool, that fading grin. Jill was brilliant.

  Jill peered into the darkness, up in the direction of the booth. “What d
o you think of a rosy, late-summer-afternoon kind of effect for the tea party, Mr. Rubino?”

  “Can do,” said Mr. Rubino.

  Jill rubbed her hands together. “Places, then,” she said. “Hatter, you’ll be here.” Vincent pulled a stool over to the spot, sat down. “Dormouse right beside him.” Meredith O’Malley put her stool next to Vincent’s. “March Hare over here.” Chloe moved into position. “And Alice enters and walks to this mark”—taping a black cross on the floor—“where the head of the table will be.” Jill placed Alice’s chair. “You’ll have to cheat toward the audience a little, Ingrid, because of the angle. All set, everybody?”

  They had a run-through. Ingrid imagined herself in a prim little Alice dress and tiny patent-leather party shoes, and made her entrance, uneasy in a strange place but putting on a brave face.

  “No room, no room,” they all cried, Meredith slipping into a British accent already.

  “More shock than anger,” said Jill.

  “No room, no room.”

  “Better.”

  “There’s plenty of room,” Ingrid said, and flounced down on her stool, which hurt a little, stools not being good for flouncing.

  Jill saw; she saw everything. “There’ll be an armchair,” she said.

  In a sugary voice, Chloe said: “Care for some wine?”

  The stage direction said “(looks around)” but Ingrid found herself gazing right at Chloe. “I don’t see any wine,” she said.

  Chloe gave her a cold look. “There isn’t any,” she said, quite nasty.

  “One sec,” said Jill. “Dormouse? I know you’re supposed to be asleep, but if you could tone down the snoring just a touch.”

  “Oops,” said Meredith, opening her eyes. “Sorry, people.” She closed them again, resumed snoring at a lesser volume. Ingrid saw Meredith had pulled a lock of hair over her mouth so that it rose and fell with her breath. A wonderful effect.

  “From ‘there isn’t any,’” said Jill.

  Chloe was waiting for Ingrid’s next line, one beautiful curving eyebrow raised, sending a clear message: Is this the best you can do? It pissed Ingrid off. “Then it wasn’t very civil to offer it,” she said, and heard the pissed-offedness in her tone. Maybe too much? Jill was looking thoughtful.

  “Is it civil to crash our party?” said Chloe, her voice rising; way too over-the-top, but Jill didn’t say anything.

  “Why is the question?” Vincent said. After a long pause, he went on: “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” His diction was precise, like typewriter keys snapping down on paper; somehow that super-educated enunciation made the line sound completely whacked.

  “Oh, good,” said Ingrid, going for plucky. “I love riddles.”

  “You think that’s a riddle?” Vincent said. And then ad-libbed: “That’s the riddle.”

  Everyone laughed. This was going to be great.

  Ingrid waited in the octagonal room for Mom or Dad. The door opened and Chloe came back in from the parking lot.

  “You’re supposed to come with us,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  Chloe shrugged and went out. Ingrid followed her across the parking lot to Mr. Ferrand’s car, a Mercedes of the biggest, blackest kind. The driver’s-side window slid down.

  “Your father asked me to drive you home,” said Mr. Ferrand.

  “Uh,” said Ingrid. “I can—”

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” said Mr. Ferrand. The window slid up.

  Ingrid got in the back. Chloe sat up front with her father. Ingrid had never been in a car like this, so quiet, solid, powerful. It was like riding in a bank vault.

  “Thanks, Mr. Ferrand,” Ingrid said.

  No one spoke again until they were turning onto Maple Lane and Mr. Ferrand’s cell phone rang.

  “Yes?” said Mr. Ferrand. He listened for a moment. “What key?” he said, and listened some more. Chloe turned to him; her profile was amazing, Ingrid had to admit. Why couldn’t her father’s weak chin have been passed along? A little justice would be nice from time to time.

  “He wants a key to the Hall?” said Mr. Ferrand. “I don’t understand.”

  Ingrid heard Jill’s tiny voice trying to explain.

  “You’re not being clear,” said Mr. Ferrand after maybe two seconds.

  The tiny voice spoke faster.

  Mr. Ferrand shook his head, a vigorous shake that reminded Ingrid of Mikey Lester, a two-year old she sometimes baby-sat over on Avondale.

  “I don’t think so, Jill,” Mr. Ferrand said. “Bad policy.”

  The tiny voice didn’t give up. Ingrid heard the words stage fright.

  Mr. Ferrand interrupted. “No, I’m afraid,” he said. “No is the answer.” He clicked off.

  “What was that?” said Chloe.

  “Some nonsense,” said Mr. Ferrand.

  But it wasn’t nonsense. The whole play depended on it. Ingrid was tempted to say something, might have in a different situation, but this situation was Mr. Ferrand, Chloe, rolling bank vault. She smoldered away in the backseat.

  Mr. Ferrand slowed down. “This one?” he said. His tone implied that all the houses on Maple Lane looked the same to him, prefab hovels.

  “With the stained glass in the door,” Ingrid said; a small stained-glass window Mom had picked up in a junk shop for five bucks and that Ingrid didn’t even like. But: So there, all you Ferrands.

  The Mercedes glided to a silent stop. “Thanks for going out of your way,” she added politely as she got out of the car.

  A tiny nod from Mr. Ferrand.

  “See you, Chloe.”

  A tinier one from her.

  And if you think you’re ever getting your hands on Grampy’s land, forget it.

  twenty-one

  EVERY FALL BEFORE THE weather got too cold, the whole school ran the Turkey Trot, a two-mile course across the back fields, up the hill to the filtration plant, around Schoolhouse Pond where the town’s water supply came from, and back. The Turkey Trot was supposed to be a race, but years ago—no one knew when, but long before Ingrid or Ty got to Ferrand Middle—it had become uncool to win or even to try very hard. The gym teachers were always psyched about the Turkey Trot, sprinting back and forth among the kids, hopping up and down, yelling, “Pick it up, pick it up,” and “C’mon—you’re way faster than that.” But the kids, even the fast ones like Ingrid, just loped along. To actually win and get handed the brass turkey trophy up on the auditorium stage was uncoolest of all. No surprise that Brucie Berman—one leg doing a funny sideways thing with every stride—was in the lead.

  Near the back, Ingrid and Stacy trotted side by side. A cold, windy day, but way better than being inside the building, even kind of nice. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, and the sun, more silver than gold, shone between the bare tree branches.

  “Hear you’re doing a scene with Chloe Ferrand,” Stacy said.

  “Uh-huh,” Ingrid said. “Got any more gum?”

  Stacy handed her a stick. “What’s that like?” she said. “Doing a scene with Chloe.”

  “Heaven,” Ingrid said.

  Stacy snapped her gum. “My dad’s doing some work over at their house,” she said. “Did you know they’ve got an indoor pool?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Been in it?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Ferrand swims a mile every morning. Nude.”

  “Your dad saw that?”

  Stacy shook her head. “That’s what my mom asked, first thing.” Ingrid could imagine that scene. Stacy’s mom had a temper and was built like a truck. “He’s supposed to be installing this chandelier over the pool,” Stacy said. “It comes from France or something, costs like the earth. Mrs. Ferrand told him not to come before nine because that’s when she does the nudie thing.”

  They ran in silence for a minute or so.

  “Money doesn’t buy happiness,” Stacy said.

  “Please God let me test that out for myself,” Ingrid said.

  “You’re rich a
lready,” Stacy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Living on Maple Lane,” said Stacy. “And that car your dad drives.”

  Ingrid glanced at her oldest friend. Did Stacy really think she was rich? Maple Lane was nothing; Mr. Ferrand had made that clear. And the TT, a cool car, yes, but Ingrid remembered the fights between Mom and Dad about whether they could make the payments.

  “Rich isn’t having stuff,” Ingrid said. “It’s having the kind of stuff that brings in money, twenty-four seven.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Stacy said. “The Ferrands own a bunch of houses in the Flats. My dad’s hoping that if they like the chandelier job, they’ll give him more work on those.”

  “Houses in the Flats?” Ingrid said.

  “My dad says one of them was Cracked-Up Katie’s,” Stacy said.

  Ingrid didn’t get it. “They owned it together?”

  “Huh?” said Stacy. “Cracked-Up Katie was renting, of course. Some people rent, princess.”

  Ingrid gave her an elbow. Stacy gave her a harder one back. Ingrid gave her another, hardest of all. “Take that back,” said.

  “I take it back,” Stacy said. “Your majesty.”

  “Listen up,” said Coach Ringer at soccer practice that afternoon. “Better think again if you think Turkey Trot means I go easy today. No way, José. I know all about the trot. From way back. American kids are the fattest since the ancient Visigoths. Absolute fact. It’s a disgrace. We fought wars. Big game coming up—Rocky Hill. Win, we make the play-offs. Lose, I run your tails from here to smithereens.” He blew his whistle. “Three laps.”

  Sometimes Coach Ringer was like poetry.

  The A team ran three laps around the soccer field above the hospital. Three fast laps: Assistant Coach Trimble always ran in front. Coach Ringer watched from the sidelines. Maybe you couldn’t call him grossly obese, but he looked pretty lumpy in his Towne Hardware jacket. Sometimes while they ran laps, like now, he snuck a cigarette.