Blood Red

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Well—­good luck with the meeting, and have fun at your dinner.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later. Love you,” he adds, because they always do.

  “Love you, too,” she returns, and today she means it more than ever.

  As the crow flies, Kurt’s stepfather’s Weehawken condo is less than a mile and a half from Kurt’s Manhattan apartment. But it takes him nearly an hour to cover that distance in rush hour traffic, even though he’s heading in the opposite direction of most commuters crossing the Hudson River.

  He’d been surprised when his stepfather chose to stay in New Jersey after divorcing his mother.

  “Why not the city?” he’d asked Rick the day he’d helped him move into a high-­rise located on the wrong side of the river, as far as Kurt was concerned.

  “Too expensive.”

  “Not everywhere.” He’d managed to find an affordable place a few years earlier, and so had his brother. Then again, they’re both probably making more money than Rick is these days—­or has in years.

  He’d always seemed content to stay at home with the kids and Mom had been fine with that scenario. After Kurt’s sister, Erin, started preschool, Rick went back to work. But his income was a drop in the bucket compared to Mom’s.

  She didn’t mind. As far as she was concerned, Rick Walker had been her knight in shining armor at a time in her life when she was on her own with two little boys. She loved him.

  And so did we.

  Kurt will never forget the sunny afternoon when he and his brother came home from school to find Mom waiting for them on the stoop. The last time that had happened, she broke the news that their father had disappeared. This time, Kurt—­then in first grade—­braced himself for another bombshell.

  “Rick wants to marry me,” she said. “I won’t say yes unless you guys want me to.”

  They were momentarily dumbstruck.

  Kurt managed to speak first. “Will he live with us?”

  Mom smiled. “He sure will.”

  “Can we call him Dad?”

  “That’s up to him. Should I say yes?”

  Their answer to her was yes; Mom’s answer to Rick was yes; Rick’s answer to the dad question was yes.

  He was the one who taught Kurt how to pitch a baseball and helped him with multiplication tables and made his lunch every day. He was the one who gave Kurt the Big Talk after the seventh-­grade biology teacher sent home a note to all the parents that the reproduction unit was looming. He was the one who sat in the passenger’s seat on the New Jersey Turnpike after Kurt got his driving permit; the one who tied his bow tie for his senior prom; the one who taught him how to shave, using an old-­fashioned straight razor just like his own father had taught him.

  “Those plastic safety razors are fine when you’re in a hurry,” Rick said, as they looked at each other in the bathroom mirror, faces lathered in preparation for the lesson, “but real men use real razors.”

  Kurt wanted to be a real man just like Rick, who wasn’t his real father—­not biologically, anyway—­but was the only one who’d ever mattered.

  His biological father did resurface a ­couple of times over the years, wanting to bond with him and his brother. But neither of them wanted anything to do with him, and neither did their mother.

  She despised her first husband, but according to the suicide note she was clutching when she killed herself last November, she never stopped loving her second.

  This morning’s weather is as oppressive as yesterday’s was luminous, with the threat of rain or snow hanging low in the sky beyond the turrets of the Mundy’s Landing Historical Society.

  Rowan stands beside the open doors of the yellow school bus parked at the curb in front of 62 Prospect Street, counting heads as her class files out onto the sidewalk.

  The most important rule of a fourth-­grade field trip—­always count heads, always, constantly—­seems particularly important this morning. She’s seen more police cars than usual around the village and Bari Hicks mentioned that they’re looking for a high school girl who never came home last night. She didn’t remember the name, but had heard that the girl had a boyfriend at a college somewhere in New England.

  “I just hope she wasn’t kidnapped.”

  “Around here? I doubt that,” the other chaperone said.

  “I’m betting she’ll turn up safe and sound in a dorm room,” Rowan told them. The conversation unfolded well beyond earshot of her students, but Rowan wasn’t about to confide that she herself had gone missing overnight back in her own high school days.

  She’d climbed out a window and taken a joyride to a concert in Hartford with a ­couple of older friends. Prince—­Purple Rain. That was the concert. She remembers the set list began with “Let’s Go Crazy” and the first encore was “I Would Die 4 U,” remembers that she sprayed her long permed hair purple, ratted it, and used a pair of violet tights as a headband, remembers everything except . . .

  What the hell was I thinking?

  She wasn’t thinking. After the concert, no one was in any condition to drive home. They wound up at a party at some cabin, fell asleep at dawn, and arrived home the next evening to find search teams with dogs combing the woods surrounding Mundy’s Landing.

  She was grounded an entire summer for that stunt. That was the plan, anyway. Her mother died before she could see Rowan through the punishment, and although her father was too caught up in his grief to keep tabs on her, she didn’t have the heart to resume her previous antics.

  As certain as she is that today’s missing girl will be found, and most likely grounded for life, she’s not taking any chances with her students.

  “. . . twenty-­three, twenty-­four.” Satisfied, she nods and holds up her arm, the signal for silence.

  The excited chatter subsides, though not entirely. The kids are just too keyed up that it’s finally their turn to embark on this local rite of passage, many of them having heard about it from older siblings and looked forward to it since kindergarten. Rowan gets that; she was once in their shoes.

  Bari Hicks is on her cell phone, telling someone that she spent the “whole trip on the verge of vomiting . . . yes . . . yes, I’m serious! I know! But the teacher is giving me a dirty look so I have to run. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Rowan sighs inwardly before she addresses the group. It’s going to be a long morning.

  “Okay, listen up, ­people. Before we go inside, I just want to remind you what we talked about. Use your manners, pay attention, hands to yourselves, and if I see any of you with a cell phone or an iPod or anything that has a screen, what happens?”

  “You confiscate it,” Amanda Hicks says.

  “Confiscate!” Bari beams. “What a nice big word!”

  Rather than pause to congratulate Amanda’s literary skills, Rowan goes on talking, reminding the class of Miss Abrams’s strict no-­electronics policy in order to preserve an authentic atmosphere. She demonstrates that she’s turning off her own phone, instructs everyone to follow suit, and knows that half of them, including a certain chaperone, will ignore the rule.

  “Okay, let’s go, guys. Just be on your best behavior. Got it?”

  “Got it,” most of them say in unison. The few who don’t haven’t got it and never will.

  She marches the line up the wide steps of the stone building, with the three chaperones walking alongside them. Bari is, not surprisingly, only interested in interacting with her own daughter. The two of them are dressed identically in khakis and black North Face jackets, with ridiculously tiny matching purses slung from shoulder to opposite hip and clutched protectively close, in case someone tries to mug them between the bus and the steps.

  Ora Abrams is framed in the doorway. She seemed elderly even back when Rowan was a girl, but always spry and lovely, with her snow white updo piled high above a pastel satin he
adband, making her look like a geriatric Cinderella.

  She likes to say that history is her family business. Her father was a history professor at Hadley College and her great-­aunt Etta was the longtime curator of the historical society before Ora took over back in the 1950s.

  “Well, who have we here? Is that Rowan Carmichael?” she asks.

  Not exactly. That hasn’t been her name in twenty years. But despite seeing her often, Ora is one of those hometown folks who will always think of her as one of the Carmichael kids. Rowan can see the kids’ ears perk up: Rowan Carmichael? Who might that be?

  Realizing her mistake, Ora says, “I’m sorry! I meant Rowan Mundy! I mean Mrs. Mundy!”

  Instant contradiction from—­who else?—­Amanda Hicks: “You mean, Ms. Mundy!”

  “Yes, come in, come in, Ms. Mundy and . . . everyone.” Ora holds the door wide open so that they can crowd into the majestic foyer, with its ornately carved woodwork, hexagon-­shaped stained glass windows, and mosaic floor.

  Rowan breathes a sigh of relief, ensconced, if only temporarily, in this familiar cocoon. Here, the old house scent that lingers in her attic at home blends with potpourri wafting from a cut-­glass bowl near the guest book and the scented votives flickering on the marble mantelpiece. The imposing grandfather clock loudly ticks in time with its swaying pendulum, and Christmas music is playing courtesy of scratchy vinyl on a vintage Victrola.

  In Rowan’s house, the staircase is carved of the same dark wood, but it’s angular with a landing. Here, the stairs curve in a graceful, unbroken arc to a second-­floor balcony. Ora ducks beneath a velvet rope hung across its foot and ascends a few steps so that she can address the group from above.

  At this time of year, visitors are restricted to the first floor, where it’s all about mistletoe and holly. The notorious Mundy’s Landing Collections—­archives relevant to the village’s bloody past—­are housed in two large rooms above.

  In one, among other seventeenth-­century artifacts, is a cast-­iron kettle that Jake’s ancestors James and Elizabeth Mundy supposedly used to make stew from the disembodied limbs of their unfortunate fellow settlers. There are records from the trial and execution as well, written in pen and ink on crumbling parchment displayed beneath glass.

  The other room contains a more extensive exhibit, given the relatively recent timing of the crimes. Included are bloodied clothing and hair ribbons that were found on the Sleeping Beauties’ corpses, and notes that were purportedly left by their killer. There are yellowed newspapers—­the story made national headlines—­and police reports, along with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of original photographs.

  Rowan remembers poring over the collection as a child, when the historical society was crammed into the library basement. She was particularly captivated by the macabre images that showed the corpses tucked into beds that weren’t their own, arms folded neatly on the coverlets, faces serene, looking for all the world like sleeping children.

  When she was growing up here, that exhibit was far more disturbing than the other one. Not so for Jake, though, or for their kids.

  The overachieving descendants of James and Elizabeth Mundy stretched well above and beyond the realms of good citizenship in their efforts to redeem the tainted family name, and it’s paid off.

  For the most part, anyway.

  Years ago, forensic testing was conducted at Hadley College on skeletal remains that showed indications of having been crudely butchered—­including the fractured skull of a young female. The lab results revealed that the fracture had occurred before—­and most likely had been the cause of—­the girl’s death.

  It’s one thing to be descended from Early American settlers who valiantly resorted to the unthinkable in order to stave off death by starvation, and were cruelly executed in front of their children. It’s another to be descended from cannibals who murdered their prey in cold blood.

  “The truth has been lost in the mists of time,” Ora Abrams always concludes dramatically when she relates that chilling tale during the special exhibit tours during the summer convention.

  Today, however, she tells the students only about the first-­floor exhibits.

  “The front parlor is decorated to portray a typical Christmas Eve in 1860; the back parlor depicts what Santa would have left for the children of an upper-­middle-­class family in 1880; the scullery is in the midst of preparing breakfast on a Christmas morning in 1900, and the dining room is set for a formal New Year’s Eve dinner in 1910. Any questions?”

  There are plenty, as always.

  “Where can we put our coats?”

  “I suggest you leave them on,” Ora says. “You’ll find that it’s quite chilly in here.”

  “Why don’t you turn up the heat?”

  “Because it’s very expensive to warm this huge old mansion.”

  “When do we get to eat cookies and drink cocoa?”

  Ora chuckles delightedly. “So you’ve heard about the cookies and cocoa. Very soon, I promise.”

  One last question—­an earnest one that comes from Billy: “How old are you?”

  “Younger than I look and older than I feel,” is the good-­natured reply. “Shall we get started?”

  She descends the staircase and begins leading the group toward the front parlor nestled in the base of one of the turrets.

  “You have a nice bunch of students this year,” she tells Rowan. “Very well behaved.”

  “They are. There are always a few live wires.”

  “The live wires are my favorites . . . and as I recall, you were one yourself, my dear.” Eyes twinkling, she reaches out to touch the snowflake brooch pinned to Rowan’s coat. “Oh my goodness. Where did you get this?”

  “It was a gift from my Secret Santa. Isn’t it unique?”

  “It is. We have a few pieces in the collection, but nothing like this. I’d love to know where your Santa got it when she reveals herself.”

  “I’ll let you know. You have pieces like this in the museum? So you think it’s an antique?”

  “I’m sure it must be. Mourning jewelry was wildly popular in the late Victorian era.”

  “I didn’t know that’s what it was called. I guess I’ll have to make sure that I don’t wear it at night.”

  “Oh no, not morning. Mourning. The Victorians wore jewelry made from the hair of their dead loved ones.”

  Taken aback, Rowan looks down at the intricate snowflake she’d assumed was crafted from red thread. “You think this is made from hair? Human hair?”

  Ora nods. “I inherited a similar brooch from Great-­Aunt Etta but it’s not nearly as striking. Yours is a rare piece. That’s why I’d love to know where your Secret Santa got it.”

  “So would I,” Rowan murmurs, as the Gravitron picks up speed.

  As Kurt covers the last few steps between the parking garage and his stepfather’s Weehawken apartment building, he belatedly wonders whether he should have asked someone to come with him.

  But who? This is a family matter, and he’s the only one in the family available to tend to it right now. His half sister is at college in California, his half brother in Texas, and his brother, though he lives nearby in Brooklyn, is working.

  “Daddy did leave me a message on Sunday,” Erin said when she returned Kurt’s call late last night—­late for him, anyway. “But he didn’t answer when I got back to him Monday night, and I left him a message but I haven’t heard back.”

  His brother said almost the same thing: Rick had left a message on Sunday saying he wanted to talk, but when he got around to returning the call Monday night, Rick hadn’t answered.

  As for Liam, who knows? He’s ensconced in an Austin fraternity house and didn’t pick up when Kurt tried to reach him last night. Nor did he answer his texts. Typical college kid.

  Not that Kurt has much experience in that area. He�
�d lasted two semesters at Rutgers. Mom was dismayed when he flunked out, but Rick had his back.

  “You mark my words. He’ll make something of himself even without a college degree, Vanessa.”

  She was dubious, but Rick was right.

  Kurt fishes Rick’s spare set of keys from his pocket as he walks into the lobby. The doorman, typing on his cell phone behind a desk, doesn’t give him a second glance. Maybe he’s new and assumes Kurt lives here. Maybe he just doesn’t give a crap.

  So much for security, he thinks, riding the elevator to the third floor.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Rick said the first time he showed Kurt around the place, almost two years ago now. “Believe me, I was hoping for something with a better view.”

  “I don’t know how you can beat this,” Kurt said dryly, gazing at the brick wall across the way and Dumpster below. “Wasn’t there anything on a higher floor? There must be awesome skyline views up there.”

  “Maybe, but the price is right for this place. I can afford it.”

  Maybe not. Last time he saw Rick, he had his doubts that his stepfather was even holding down his latest job. He’d been pretty broken up after Mom died.

  Yeah, well, who hasn’t been?

  Heart pounding, Kurt walks toward apartment 3C, jangling the keys.

  Maybe he should have waited until his brother got out of work to come here. Maybe he shouldn’t do this alone. Maybe . . .

  No. It was Rick who taught him how to be a man—­a real man. “You don’t run away from the tough stuff. You face your responsibilities head-­on and you do what needs to be done.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  He turns the lock, opens the door, takes a few steps over the threshold—­and screams himself hoarse.

  From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives

  Sports Page

  May 25, 2009

  Local Team Wins Soccer Tournament

  The Mundy’s Landing River Rats defeated the Catskill Wildcats 7–1 in yesterday’s championship match at the Youth Soccer Tournament in Albany. Led in scoring by Julia Williams and Carmichael “Mick” Mundy, the team, a co-­ed mix of ten-­to-­twelve-year-­olds, went into the final game with a pair of round robin wins.