The Vanished Child

by Sarah Smith

  “Richard, I'm sorry,” Gilbert said.

  “You’re sorry?” Reisden said quietly. “I was going to hit him with a rock.”

  “He hit you first.”

  “Don’t be ingenuous. And, just by the way, if you do what you threatened I’ll turn around and give everything to Harry, signed and notarized. And he will throw you out and you will spend the rest of your life homeless on the streets, which will serve you right for a fool.”

  “Yes, Richard.”

  “Go out there and be polite to Violet and Efnie before he tells them everything.” Most people cannot be completely appalling while eating or with more than six people in the room. Reisden sent out onto the verandah two of the caterer’s helpers with trays of food, and followed them with some of the more reliable people from the Shakespeare Club. “Harry wants to rave, I’m afraid. Would you be charming and listen to him for a while?” Reisden surrounded Harry with sympathetic listeners, so many that Harry could hardly say as much as he would have said to Violet and Efnie alone, but merely muttered that he was a wronged man and drank more champagne. Eventually he staggered off around the verandah with Efnie Pelham.

  “He’s saying some wild things,” one of the Shakespeareans said to Reisden. “He says you’re not Richard Knight.”

  “Ah, well, we all know that, don’t we?” said Reisden, smiling and sipping champagne.

  “Oh,” said the Shakespearean.

  Charlie didn’t look well. Violet Pelham said critically that she had had to get him up from a nap for Perdita’s party, but he looked as if he had not slept at all, grey and fragile and old. Gilbert Knight, coming in from the terrace, took a look at him and sucked in his breath. “Richard, we shouldn’t have made him look at Jay.”

  “No.”

  Perdita was drifting about inside, in the small parlor, like a ghost at her own party. There was no one else in the room at all. Reisden wondered if he should speak to her—he was likely to be the last person she wanted. But he had forgot her ability to recognize steps like voices.

  “Would you come in?” she asked.

  He went in, and stood over by the small central table, near the chintz-covered sofa. She stood by the French doors.

  “Harry cannot possibly be such an idiot for long,” Reisden said. “He has gone off to tell his troubles to your cousin, who will doubtless blame you for them. This is what relatives are for. By natural reaction he will come to his senses, and by this evening he will realize that he is very much to blame."

  "I want to love him,” she said in a miserable whisper. "I get so angry with him, but I do so want to love him.”

  He got her out of the room, at least, and onto the terrace, where everyone was waiting to wish her a happy birthday. She cut the first piece of cake. Gilbert joined Reisden, quietly telling him that Charlie was really not well. He had been overcome by the heat in the barn.

  “Roy Daugherty will get someone in to deal with Jay,” Reisden said.

  “Do you suppose,” Gilbert said nervously, “we shall have to give Jay a public funeral?”

  Reisden and Gilbert were served pieces of cake. “I had a dream about cake,” Gilbert said.

  Perdita began opening her presents. She had got a package from her father and mother in the Southwest, and Violet Pelham insisted that she open it publicly. There were two presents. The first was the rattle of a rattlesnake; Perdita shook it and was delighted, and everyone passed it from hand to hand as a real curiosity. Reisden, who was rather good at presents, would never have thought of it, and he felt rather intrigued by this pair of missionaries. The other was a set of Indian jewelry, rough silver stuff with stones the color of Mediterranean water. Perdita held the earrings up to her ears. Reisden’s breath caught again.

  “Perdita is very pretty,” Gilbert said.

  “Perdita is different from pretty,” Reisden said almost savagely, so that Gilbert turned and looked at him.

  Gilbert had given her a case to hold her music; he had made it himself, decorating it with a spill of wonderfully, barbarically bright wildflowers in inlaid and blind-stamped leather: tiger-lilies, goldenrod, sedge grass, spiky blue-purple flowers that Reisden didn’t recognize. Gilbert went pale with anxiety as she opened it and ran her hands over the blind-stamping, bringing the case out into the light to see it. “Oh, the colors!” because the lilies flashed gold over their dark orange and the purple flowers glittered like garnets in the sunlight. “Oh, Uncle Gilbert! It’s the best you've ever done.”

  Reisden narrowed his eyes to see it as her shadowed sight would and it was very satisfying, a kaleidoscope of warm colors. Gilbert had made them bright so she would see them. “Good,” Reisden murmured, “very good,” as he would have said about fine work in the lab.

  Harry had given her a vanity set, but wasn’t there to see her open it; he was still out on the terrace with Efnie. Perdita opened a blouse, some handkerchiefs from Charlie, a bottle of perfume. Reisden’s present for her was toward the bottom of the pile, a flat heavy box the size of an unfolded newspaper but thicker. He had meant it to be the sort of birthday present that could be given by anyone; the equivalent of, say, stationery; since Harry was what Harry was, something not inflammatory and not possibly romantic, something that she might not even need or like, and if she did, would have bought for herself sooner or later. He had found it a while ago in Boston, at the Howe Press, after he had seen her struggling with regular-sized music.

  But in the meantime Harry had associated him even with music, and it hadn’t helped that he had written the card for it yesterday, Saturday, when he’d been full of indignation at the promise Harry had got from her. Twenty-four hours ago, before he had seen her at the dance.

  She opened the card. He had printed it an inch and a quarter high.

  PLAY

  BEETHOVEN

  ANYWAY

  -R.

  The Howe Press piano music for the partially sighted was twice regular size, half a page per broad page. She began turning over the pages one by one. Her face was so still that Reisden thought she didn’t know what it was. Even this could be too small for her, or she might be used to some other way of studying music; he didn’t know. And then she reached out and touched the notes.

  “I can see it,” she said.

  She brushed a chord of notes with her fingers as if she were touching them on the piano. “Where did it come from?”

  “Boston.”

  “Where?” she said urgently.

  “The Howe Press.”

  “At the Perkins School?”

  He thought of her with a magnifying glass, learning music one blurry circle at a time. I could have gone so much faster, her tone said. “I should have known. There are other blind piano players too, aren’t there?” she said. “I still wonder how to find the piano when I play onstage; somebody must know how to do that. There are other people out there like me.” She said this almost to herself, and Reisden was reminded of the long-haired girl whom he had taught to eat in a restaurant, long ago. The giri had said, I could go out by myself. But that was not what he had succeeded in giving her; “I don’t have to do anything alone,” she said to him.

  “No, child, never alone.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and he smiled.

  She had kissed Gilbert and Charlie, but she didn’t kiss him; they only touched hands, as formally as if they were two strangers wishing each other well. Play Beethoven, Reisden told her silently, and love Harry, who is simply foolish and will get more than he dreamed. And make him understand what it is to love you.

  Gilbert and Charlie watched them. Charlie leaned over the arm of his chair and spoke to Gilbert. His voice was anxious and sharp.

  But Gilbert didn’t hear him, because he was thinking about another party, long ago, and Tom and Sophie.

  Where’s Richard?

  Roy Daugherty arrived back at the Lakeside Hotel around five-thirty Sunday. At the desk he found two messages to call Reisden, and in the lobby he found Harry Boulding in p
erson, sullenly drunk on champagne.

  “I wannim out, Daugherty. Wannim out now. Reisden. He’s taking my girl away from me.”

  Roy Daugherty had spent a relaxing Saturday and Sunday visiting with his two boys and fishing from a bridge. He sighed and took Harry up to his room. Harry sank into a chair, muttering that he wanted to throw the bastard out. Daugherty took off his glasses and polished them.

  “Ought to have a little coffee first,” he remarked.

  “Don’ want coffee. And another thing,” Harry said, rousing up in his chair. “Reisden found the wrong body.”

  “Body?” said Daugherty, remembering that he’d got two messages to call Reisden.

  He reached Reisden at the Clinic, where Perdita’s birthday party was just breaking up. “Evenin’, Reisden. Harry’s over here. Says you found something.”

  “Yes. Come over to the Knight house, will you? Leave Harry there if you can. We’ve had him already.”

  But Harry, staggering, wanted to come. Daugherty pushed him into the town’s one cab. He leaned against the back cushions, mouth open, eyes glazed, breathing with a sound like a handsaw. The cab left them by the summer kitchen where Daugherty had his office. Harry slithered out of the cab and fell onto Daugherty, and the cabman turned his horse and clattered away.

  Reisden took a look at the two of them and came out to help. “Don’t you touch me, you slimy crook,” Harry said, drawing away from Reisden; he overbalanced and collapsed onto the gravel. Reisden stood over him.

  “Foiled!” he murmured, “but I’ll have you yet, my man.”

  “Had a nice weekend, I guess?” Daugherty asked.

  “Nice implies some discrimination. Let’s get him inside.”

  They hauled Harry, protesting, inside and sat him down in a chair.

  “Perdita— He—”

  Daugherty wished he could go out for a beer.

  “Look, you drunk little boy,” Reisden said. “Perdita loves you and you mistreat her badly. She wants exactly what she says she wants, which is to play the piano. That’s the problem between you two, not me.”

  “Piano music,” Harry said disgustedly.

  “Daugherty, you can see the kind of discussion we’ve been having, I’m afraid.” Reisden leaned down and looked Harry in the eyes. “Harry, what exactly do you think Perdita has done?”

  Harry stammered and looked away.

  “Hold that in mind,” Reisden said dryly.

  “Screw you.” Harry pointed a looping finger at Reisden. “He’s found Richard’s body.”

  “We’ve found a body,” said Reisden to Daugherty. “Possibly Jay’s.”

  Daugherty looked at Reisden warily. He remembered the last idea Reisden had come up with, that Gilbert Knight had been involved in the murder. “Tell me what it looks like.”

  “Size of a small adult, partially mummified, extensive black stains around the body—it may have bled to death. It’s been there for a long time. ”

  “Sure about the size?”

  “Sure about the impression.” Reisden shook his head. “No. I’m not qualified to say. Charlie Adair took a look at it, but someone professional should do an examination.”

  Daugherty lumbered to his feet. “I can get someone. Mind if I try first?” He had seen a few bodies. Two of them had been supposed to be Richard Knight’s. The first had been found in a drainage ditch the end of autumn after Richard had disappeared. Under the dirt and the wet dead leaves, there had still been plenty of maggots. After that, Daugherty didn’t guess he was squeamish at all. “I pretty much can tell whether it’s a kid or an adult.”

  Harry had slumped in his chair, his head back at an alarming angle. He raised it. “I wanna come,” he said, and his head tipped forward and to the side. Reisden caught him and eased him down to the floor, and they rolled him onto his side. “I wanna see Richard Knight,” Harry protested, and scrabbled with his feet.

  “Shall I stay with him?”

  “He ain’t goin’ nowhere. You come show me.”

  The two men walked down the gravel path toward the barn. The rose garden was at their right, no more than a tangle of dusty bushes now. They turned down the path toward the barn. “What’s he been drinking?”

  “Champagne, and he didn’t know when to stop.”

  “Yeah. Reisden,” Daugherty muttered, “what you been doing with Perdita?”

  Reisden gave him a look, sideways, sharply. “Is there never smoke without fire?”

  “Just that you seem to think so high of her, you think he don’t treat her right.”

  Reisden didn’t say anything.

  “Just so you know.”

  Reisden sighed. “Stop here a moment.” They were under the elm trees; Reisden took out a cigaret and lit it. He offered them to Daugherty. Daugherty took one out of curiosity. The tobacco was strange-flavored, raw and resinous. Foreign. “She and I kissed last night at the dance. For some time. Yes, I know, that’s unfortunate. She doesn’t want me. She wants a husband and babies, and she wants them here; she wants to marry Harry. And Harry’s so close to the right thing; if he only stops trying to make her over! She doesn’t know how to tell him and he’s not picking it up for himself.”

  Daugherty grunted. “Think you’ll be lucky if he don’t hit you. Kissin’ is kissin’.”

  “He’s already hit me. It was stupid.”

  “Let’s see that body.”

  They started into the barn. “Wait a moment,” Reisden said. “There’s another thing. Gilbert has decided that he can solve everything.” He explained that Gilbert wanted to declare Richard dead and give the money to him, Reisden. “I told him he couldn’t do that.”

  “You do anything to start this?”

  “No,” Reisden said, not bothering to fuss about Daugherty’s having to ask the question. “Gilbert says the idea came to him in a dream. I ask you.”

  Daugherty took off his glasses and cleaned them: lenses inside, lenses outside, and the nosepieces, which were inclined to get greasy.

  “He could do it, couldn’t he,” Reisden said.

  “You asked me that question, I couldn’t say yes,” Daugherty said.

  “Of course not.”

  “If you was trying, you couldn’t a caused us more trouble. Bucky’ll have cats.” Daugherty reached into his jacket and looked for paper and a pencil. The only thing he had was his train ticket, blank on the back except for the logo of the Short Line, a train steaming out of a tunnel. “You don’t mind, Reisden, I want you to do something. Write down here for me that your name is Alexander Reisden, that you aren’t Richard Knight, and that you don’t have any claim on that money. Sign it and date it today and I’ll keep it.”

  Using Daugherty’s billfold for support, Reisden wrote on the back of the ticket, quick and sharp, and signed his name: A. J. v Reisden. “Honest and simple, Daugherty?”

  “Yeah.”

  Daugherty folded up the ticket and put it away in his billfold. Can’t blame me for needing to make sure, he thought. Here’s a man who just said he don’t have a claim on more money than most people can count. And all it is, his pride is hurt. Ain’t natural. Then he thought badly of that thought and followed Reisden upstairs.

  The air in the barn attic was hot, dusty, and still. Daugherty sniffed; his mind was still running on that body under the October leaves, which had smelled so. But there was no smell of rot here, only old hay and the dirty ammonia smell of mice. Daugherty grimaced and thought he heard squeaks running away from them. He saw the outline of the body on the floor, black, and he gritted his teeth.

  And then he realized that it was only a shadow.

  “Reisden, this ain’t no body.” Daugherty hunkered down on his heels and touched the stain. The floor felt different from the wood, not splintery, as if the stain were a very thin tar.

  He looked up and saw Reisden, pale as plaster, kneeling beside him.

  “Don’t be a fool, it’s gone.”

  They heard the door open downstairs. “Daugherty!”
Harry shouted. “Reisden!”

  They had left the door to the attic open. Harry’s steps stumbled up the stairs. “I wanna—”

  “Yes, we know, you want to see the body. Harry, it’s not here.”

  “Want to see Richard.” Harry swayed and waved his hand in front of his face like a man beset by flies. “I waited for this— Daugherty, have’n’ I waited?”

  “Someone has taken the body.” Reisden didn’t shout, but he clipped his words off so, he might just as well have been shouting. He still had that white look, like somebody had set off a photographer’s flash in his face.

  Harry stared at him fuzzily, staggered forward, and gaped down at the shadow on the floor, then turned around so fast he almost fell. “Where’s the body?” He launched himself at Reisden, put a hand on Reisden’s shoulder, and waved the other in his face. “Where’s Richard?”

  Reisden just stared at him. “Where’s Richard?” Harry howled. “What have you done with Richard?”

  “What’s going on, Reisden?”

  “You bastard—” Harry swayed on his feet.

  Reisden smiled; he looked like somebody had burned his eyes into his face. “What’s happened? We’ve made—somebody— take the body away. Do you think Charlie, Roy? Or who?”

  “Not Charlie,” Daugherty said. “Don’t think it, either.”

  “You’re right, something is happening,” Harry slurred. “You’re going. Daugherty, get rid of him.” Harry sat down abruptly. Daugherty moved aside with Reisden.

  “He ain’t going to want you here for long. Bucky neither.”

  “I want someone professional here. There’ll be fragments left in the cracks of the floor, you’ll at least be able to establish your body.”

  “That ain’t their point—”

  “I know. They want Richard. I want to know what happened to Richard. And I swear, Daugherty, that if you try to stop me now, I will make for you every bit of the trouble you think I can.”

  Daugherty faced him. “You better mean it, Reisden,” he said, “because I can’t be on your side.”