“You are doing something significant, Randall. You’re developing a great talent.”
“I know, but I’d like to do this too.”
“It’s not just an amusing way for you to pass some time?” I asked.
“No. It’s for you. I want to do something for you. Really, that’s the truth,” he said.
I took another deep breath and sat on the bed. He stared, waiting.
“Aren’t you ever going to get dressed, Randall?”
“What? Oh, sure. I actually forgot I was undressed,” he said with a laugh. “So, will you let me help you find your father?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t help being afraid, Randall. What if it causes more trouble?”
“How can it cause more trouble to find him?” He thought a moment and then he leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “You and I were just talking about taking control of our own destinies, Rain. Your mother decided to send you in one direction and even now other people are still deciding on where you go and how you go. This is your one big chance to take a little control of your life,” he said.
I shook my head and smiled at him.
“Maybe you ought to go into law, too. You’re getting good at making arguments. You can sing for your clients in court.”
“I object,” he sang in operatic tones.
I laughed.
“Well?”
“All right,” I decided. “We’ll try to locate him and if we do, then and only then, I’ll decide whether or not I want to, or should, actually confront him.”
“That’s good,” Randall said. He started to dress. “It’ll be fun and you won’t be sorry. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right, but I’m not as confident about it as you are.”
“And now, back to business. Start reciting while I get ready to go,” he directed.
“Reciting?”
“The cut from Hamlet, Ophelia’s big scene, remember? That’s why you came, right?” he declared, amazed.
“Oh. I wonder what made me forget,” I teased and he put on his little smirk.
Just the thought of attempting what Randall had suggested we do about my real father kept the butterflies swirling in mad circles in my stomach. I was so distracted, I kept forgetting lines and had to start over twice. Then, in the middle of my third presentation, there was a knock on Randall’s door. He was still in bare feet and shirtless when he opened the door. It was Leslie, dressed in only her thin, cream silk robe, and from the way it lay open at her breasts, it was obvious she was naked beneath.
“Oh,” she said, smiling at the sight of me and Randall still not completely dressed. “Pardon moi. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“It’s all right,” Randall said quickly. “Rain was just practicing.”
“I see, but I did not know it takes practice,” she said with a laugh.
“I meant practicing her part for the presentation next weekend.”
“Ah yes.”
“What did you want?” he asked sharply.
“Just to see if you had left yet and if you were going to do anything interesting today? Catherine is just dressing. We slept late. You should have come with us last night. What a time we had. So, what do you do today? Anything of interest? Or do you stay all day in your room with this practicing?” she asked, looking at me with a suggestive smile smeared across her face.
“We’re going to Piccadilly Circus,” I said. “To walk and have some lunch. You’re both welcome to join us.”
“Ah, this is so?” she asked Randall.
“You heard it,” he said.
She laughed.
“How soon?”
“Fifteen minutes or so,” he replied.
“Then, we shall go along,” she declared. As soon as she left, he closed the door and turned to me.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to have them come along.”
“Actually,” I said, “I like them. They’re happy, never depressed and great fun to be with.”
“Oh?”
“Not that you’re not,” I added with a smile.
“I’m glad of that,” he said and finished dressing while I made another attempt to recite my speeches without mistakes. This time I did a lot better. Randall nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I can see you’re going to do well. Who knows?” he added with a wide, bright smile. “Maybe before then, we’ll find your real father and if he is a Shakespearean scholar, he’ll give you some pointers, too!”
I nearly threw my copy of Hamlet at him and he laughed. I wanted so to laugh about it all too, but those butterflies kept me tingling inside with just the thought of seeing him, much less meeting and speaking to him.
We took the tube to Piccadilly station. Although the day had begun overcast, the clouds were thinning out and breaking up, permitting sunlight to brighten the streets. Nevertheless, many of the places, especially the theaters, had lights on and there was a glitter and excitement in the air. Crowds of tourists had converged on the area that some called the Times Square of London. Everywhere I looked there was something or someone to capture my attention, especially the punk rockers in their leather and chains, the girls with multicolored hair, boys with heads shaved or carved into strange styles. Catherine and Leslie exchanged remarks and comments with some of them.
We browsed a flea market, window shopped and went in and out of unique stores, some reminding me of thrift shops back home, selling things from old shoes to used jeans and very old records and books. For lunch we had pizza and afterward, we walked and walked until we reached the river and then sauntered along, stopping to look at street artists and listen to street musicians. It was another fun day.
Neither Randall nor I mentioned our intention to play detective and locate my real father. It wasn’t something I wanted Catherine and Leslie to know. We parted company late in the afternoon when they met two friends from school who were going to a rock show.
Randall thought we should return to the residence hall to do our research and then go for supper nearby. He located the phonebooks in the lobby and we sat copying out the numbers and addresses for all the Larry Wards. It turned out there were more than twenty, some called Lawrence, but most simply Larry. Then we went to Randall’s room and used his phone. My fingers actually trembled with the first number I dialed.
Three out of the five people we called either didn’t answer or had been disconnected. The other two were definitely not my father, one a man who sounded as if he was well into his eighties or even nineties. I had to repeat everything and shout half the time. I hung up, disgusted.
“Let’s take a break and go grab some supper,” Randall suggested, seeing the frustration and annoyance on my face.
“It’s stupid,” I muttered. “It’s a stupid way to go searching for your real father. I feel uncomfortable doing it.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, “let’s not push it. Come on. I’m hungry.”
I grabbed my jacket and followed him out. We went to his favorite restaurant, what he called a Mom and Pop place run by a couple from Ireland. Their specialty of course was Irish stew and I had to admit it was the best stew I had ever eaten. Good food and a cozy atmosphere with friendly people put me back at ease. I listened more to Randall describing his life back in Canada, some of the happier moments, the fun things he was able to do. Whether it was part of his musical ability or whatever, he seemed to have boundless verbal energy, his face brightening with excitement, eyes twinkling like Christmas bulbs, his laughter melodic. He reached for my hand and held it while he talked about the first time he kissed a girl.
“It was very disappointing,” he told me.
“Nicolette Sabon, your eleven-year-old?” I asked. He looked surprised that I had remembered.
“No. We never really kissed. It was someone else, someone I didn’t tell you about.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“She was my cousin,” he said. “We were both about fourteen and it was more like an experiment. Her exp
eriment,” he emphasized.
“I don’t understand.”
“She told me she was doing a science project about kissing and kissing me would be part of the research,” he said.
“You believed that?” I asked. He blanched at my accusing him of being naive.
“Well, I couldn’t think of any other reason why she wanted to kiss me,” he replied.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I couldn’t!”
“Okay. So, then what happened?”
“We kissed and it felt like I had rubbed my lips against a stone. Nothing. She jotted down some notes in a small notepad and then said we had to do it again and touch the tips of our tongues at the same time.”
I started to laugh.
“And?”
“The very idea made me nauseous and I ran out of the room,” he confessed and we both laughed.
How much I enjoyed being with him, I thought. He was so uncomplicated, so fresh and new like a real discovery, making it easier to relax, to shut away my fears and tensions and lower my steel wall of defense. Once, I lived in a world where danger lurked in every shadow, where no one could be trusted to be who he claimed to be and more than likely, if someone was nice to you, he had some evil reason smoldering just beneath his candy-coated smile.
“You didn’t run out of the room from me when my tongue touched yours,” I said, teasing him again.
He turned a little crimson and looked back to see who was nearby. Satisfied he could speak even more freely, he leaned toward me and said, “I bought something while you were browsing with Catherine and Leslie today.”
“What?”
He unfolded his hand.
“Some of these,” he said showing me a condom.
Now it was my turn to look embarrassed and utter a small gasp.
“Randall. Put that away,” I said, watching the waitress move toward us.
He laughed and did so quickly. The waitress cleared our dishes and asked if we wanted anything else. Neither of us did so she left the bill and walked away. He stared at me, still with that little tight smile on his lips.
“First of all,” I began, “that’s taking a lot for granted. Who said I would be doing it again with you?”
He looked devastated for a moment and then shrugged.
“It’s better to be prepared, just in case,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I don’t want to look like an idiot again.” He looked up quickly as a new thought crossed his mind. “You’re not insulted, are you?”
“I should be,” I said, putting on an indignant face.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I. . .”
“But I’m not,” I added.
He smiled.
“Which,” I continued, “doesn’t mean I agree to anything ahead of time.”
“Oh, sure. Like I said. . .”
“I think I had better start for home,” I said, catching a glimpse of the clock. “Breakfast is a ritual and a production at Endfield Place.”
“Right.” He paid the bill and we left the restaurant.
I told him I could get back myself, but he insisted that he escort me home.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said as we walked up to the house a little while later.
“What?”
“I’ll make some of the calls to the Larry or Lawrence Wards myself. It’ll make it easier for you, and if I discover anything important, I’ll let you know, okay?” he asked.
I thought about it. Making those calls had splintered my nerves.
“I won’t say a thing, of course. I’ll just try to locate him for you.”
“All right,” I agreed quickly.
We kissed.
“Well?” I asked.
“What?”
“Did it feel like stone?”
He laughed.
“Hardly. It felt and tasted like candy cotton. I’ll call you tomorrow, early in the afternoon,” he said as he walked away. I waved and then turned and started toward the front door.
Suddenly, I thought I saw a shadow move on my right. I stopped and studied the darkness. My heart began to race when something did cross the lane of light that fell across the grass. The light came from an upstairs window.
“Is someone there?” I called.
All I heard was the soft breeze slipping in and out, under and above the leaves of the trees and around the roof of the house. Thicker clouds had moved in again and blocked what little moonlight there had been. The darkness felt heavier, deeper, rushing forward and coming up behind me like a tide of black water.
Everything sensible and cautious told me to go into the house and forget what I thought I had seen, but I didn’t like being spied upon. It was enough to feel constantly under glass when I was in the house performing my duties, but not to ever have any privacy even out here was more than just annoying. It raised the temperature of my hot blood to near boiling. If that Mr. Boggs was lingering there to watch what I did and then report my kisses, I would give him a blast that would have even surprised and shocked Beni, I thought.
I took a step toward the corner of the house and then another, listening hard for footsteps and concentrating on the shadows, peering through the corridors of darkness in search of some silhouette. There seemed to be none. I was glad of that, happy to attribute it all to my overworked imagination, but before I turned back, I saw that there was a light on in the cottage.
For a long moment, I just stood there staring at the cottage. All the time I had been here, I hadn’t been closer to it than this, I thought. What was the big deal about it anyway? I gazed up at the lighted window on the second floor of the estate. A heavy curtain had been drawn closed. No one appeared and it was very still, very quiet about the grounds. The light in the cottage flickered. It was a candle, I realized. Why would there be a candle lit inside?
Curiosity put magnets in my eyes and in my feet. I had to get closer. I had to know. Softly, almost as sleekly as a cat, I stepped through the shadows and the candlelight toward the small building. Every once in a while, I paused to listen, but I heard no one, saw no one. The candlelight flickered again. Shadows seemed to leap and fly across the grounds like dark spirits. A small glow burned through the darkness against the side of Endfield Place and then disappeared as would light from a match that had been blown out. The breeze picked up, whistled through some brush and small trees, spun a crown of cool air about my head and then lifted toward the ever darkening night sky, a sky without stars, blanketed in a shroud of silence.
I continued until I was about ten feet or so from the front window of the cottage. The candlelight came from this room, off to the right a bit. Still, I saw or heard no one. Inching forward, I leaned toward the window to gaze through the gauze-like white curtains. They were parted just enough to give me a view of the room. I lingered, confused for a moment at what I saw, and then I took two more steps toward the window and gaped.
It looked like a dollhouse inside. All the furniture was scaled down and sitting on the chairs and on the sofa were dolls. On top of the round center table was a set of teacups and a pot. One of the larger dolls was facing the window. Its bejeweled eyes caught the flicker of the candlelight and brightened at me. It took my breath away for a moment because the doll was large enough to be mistaken for a small girl. I looked more to my right and saw the candle in a holder placed on a side table. For a split second or two it looked like someone was sitting on the floor, but when I focused closer, I realized it was just some clothing, a skirt and a blouse and a pair of shoes.
Even more curious about it all now, I moved closer until I was right up against the window, but just as I was about to lean in and put my forehead to the glass, I felt a hand on my shoulder squeeze so hard it shot a jolt of pain down my spine. Another hand grasped me at the waist and I was bodily lifted and turned from the cottage as if I weighed no more than one of the dolls inside.
With the shadows and the candlelight distorting his features, making them even more grotesque and startl
ing, Boggs stood there glaring at me.
“What’cha doin’ back ’ere?” he demanded in a gruff voice.
“Nothing,” I said. “I saw a light so I just wanted to see what it was.”
“You was told not to come near ’ere, wasn’t you? You was told,” he said.
“Why? What’s the big deal about this place anyway?”
“You was told to stay away. It ain’t your business now, is it? You got to listen to what you’re told, ’ear?”
He still had his fingers on my shoulder. I felt them tighten like a vise.
“All right,” I said. “This is stupid anyway. Let me go,” I snapped at him. It was a show of courage that didn’t have much depth because my heart felt as if it had fallen into my stomach and my legs trembled so much, I didn’t think I could get them to move forward when I wanted them to. Boggs kept his fingers lingering on my shoulder and brought his hard, cold eyes closer to me.
“Just remember what you was told,” he said. “Now get to where you belong,” he ordered and gave me a small push forward.
I kept walking, a part of me fuming, but a bigger part of me happy to get away. As I rounded the turn at the front of the house, I gazed back. He was gone and the candle had been put out.
The cottage was vaguely outlined in the shadows that eagerly closed around it as if night itself wanted to guard and protect all the secrets that lived within its walls.
It was another night of troubled sleep. After I had gone to bed, I couldn’t help but listen for the heavy footsteps of Mr. Boggs as he made his way down the corridor to his room. He seemed to hesitate at my door and my heart stopped and started when I heard him continue. I still had no lock on my door, although my great-uncle had promised. I thought I would remind him in the morning.
Whether it was part of a dream or just my imagination, sometime during the night, I felt what seemed like a warm hand touch my cheek and brush my hair. I moaned and turned over and then realized what had happened. My eyes snapped open and slowly, my heart racing, I turned back, expecting someone to be standing there. It was very dark, of course, but I waited, my chest thumping.
Lightning Strikes Page 15
