Crying Child

by Barbara Michaels

  “The wind won’t hold,” he said. “By late afternoon this stuff will have closed in, and you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face.”

  “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I was wondering whether the weather would keep Anne from leaving as scheduled. The thought of her staying on filled me with a depression which, I preferred to believe, had nothing to do with my personal feelings toward anybody at all.

  Will had thoughts of his own about the practical difficulties of fog.

  “I think I’ll stay at the house again tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I’ve no reason to anticipate anything. I was just thinking that I’d hate to have Mary get out tonight if the fog does close in.”

  Which was another cheerful thought.

  Fortunately the activities of the next half hour were practical enough to cancel the effects of fog and pessimism. Will’s house grew on me. Even when it was dark and unheated it was a warm place; the walls closed in and shielded the inhabitants. I realized for the first time that day what comedians cats are; in some ways they’re funnier than dogs because they’re not trying to be entertaining or ingratiating. The performance the Siamese put on for Will would have done credit to Duse; they all but fainted at his feet, trying to suggest emaciation, starvation, and heartless neglect. The coon cats were more direct. They shrieked in various keys, from soprano to tenor, but the burden of the refrain was the same—abandonment and agonizing hunger. If I hadn’t known that he had made a special trip home the night before to feed the wailing felines, I’d have thought they hadn’t eaten for a week. The dogs just sat and drooled, with their big sad eyes focused on Will. From the next room came various other animal signals of distress. The only ones who weren’t yelling were the snakes, and they would have if they could.

  I made coffee while Will was opening cans for the crowd, but we had to drink it standing, so to speak; Will was anxious to get to town. His patients had been considerately healthy for the last twenty-four hours, but there were a couple of them he wanted to check up on.

  “On Sunday?” I said incredulously. “House calls? Nobody makes house calls.”

  “I do,” said Will. “Have another cup of coffee while I change the tire.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Hah,” said Will.

  The phone rang just then, and I gathered from Will’s end of the conversation that he was going to have a new patient when he got to town, so I went out and started on the tire. I had the car jacked up and the wheel ready to come off by the time he came charging out; and although he shouldered me out of the way with hardly more than a grunt of thanks, I did get one of those rare looks of approval from him. I wondered what a girl had to do to be rewarded by, say, a hearty “Well done,” or a slap on the back. Build a log cabin, maybe, or take out a tonsil. Not that I wanted a slap on the back…

  As we bounced off along the track, he asked, “Where did you learn to change a tire? Not from Ran; he hasn’t done anything to dirty his hands since he was a kid.”

  “I’ve learned to do a lot of things this past year. I couldn’t afford to pay a mechanic or a plumber or a maid every time some little thing went wrong. So I learned to change my own tires and sew on my own buttons. What’s so strange about that? Millions of people do.”

  “Millions of people don’t have a millionaire for a brother-in-law.”“

  “I’m just trying to impress you,” I said flippantly, “with my pioneer virtues and strong muscles. What’s the matter with the newest patient, the one who called just before we left?”

  He took the hint.

  “Probably just a belated virus. Tommy Meservey was what they call a ten months’ child, and he’s been a month late for everything ever since. But his mother is the nervous type. She reads medical journals in her spare time. Which is more than I do.”

  We stopped at the garage to leave the tire and then Will dropped me in the center of town while he proceeded on his rounds. We had arranged to meet in an hour at the drugstore. I was supposed to join Ran at the museum, where he was presumably buried in the family records. But as I turned away, after watching the old blue station wagon turn the corner, I found myself in front of Sue’s Antiques. The face peering at me through the window, Sunday morning or not, was indubitably that of Sue.

  The door of the shop opened and she called to me.

  “Jo? If you aren’t going anyplace in particular, come on in and have some coffee.” I walked toward her and she added, with her wide grin, “You looked sort of bereft standing there. Maybe it’s the fog; it makes everything look lost and dreary.”

  “I don’t feel especially dreary,” I said.

  “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, I know.” I returned her grin; there was no point in finding offense where none was meant. Malice, I felt sure, was not one of Sue’s vices. “I’m suppose to meet Ran. But I don’t have to be there for an hour.”

  She closed the door behind me but did not lock it; and I asked, “Are you open on Sunday? I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

  “I’m open any hour of the day or night that anybody wants to buy something. Trade isn’t so brisk that I can afford to pass up a customer. I’ve been accused of dragging them in off the street.”

  She grinned again, and brushed back a lock of shining hair with smudgy fingers that added another streak of dust to features already liberally covered. I accepted the coffee she poured, though I was dubious about it. My hunch was right, the liquid was as black and bitter as medicine. Sue swallowed hers down, and wiped her hands on her shirt-tail.

  “I’m going to go on working, if you don’t mind. I picked up a bunch of miscellaneous junk on the mainland the other day—had to take it to get a terrific old spool bed. I want to get it sorted before tomorrow. Are you interested in old prints? I have a few, on that shelf back there by the books. Look ”em over if you want to.“

  I didn’t expect to find anything rare; Sue was too competent to be unaware of the value of the stock she handled. But some of the drawings were pretty and amusing. I found one that really appealed to me. I was holding it up, admiring it, when Sue came wandering back, carrying another cup of coffee.

  The print was of a sailing ship, caught in motion by the artist. The waves peeled crisply away from its prow, and every yard of sail was up.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I said.

  “Should be. That’s the Flying Cloud, the most beautiful clipper ever built. And the clippers were the most beautiful things that ever sailed the seas.”

  “I wonder if Ran’s ancestor, the Captain, sailed ships like this.”

  Sue snorted.

  “You’re way off. First clipper wasn’t launched till 1845. First real clipper, I mean; the Ann McKim wasn’t a true clipper, she was square-rigged on all three masts and her plan makes her a ship, not a clipper; I don’t care what you say—”

  “I don’t say anything,” I said respectfully. “You know a lot about ships, don’t you?”

  “Should. My family’s from Bath. Most of the fortunes in this part of the world were made from shipbuilding and/or the East India trade. The way Bostonians talk, you’d think none but Massachusetts ships ever crossed the Pacific. That’s Massachusetts bull. The Maine captains knew Canton as well as they knew Portland a century and a half ago. Hey—that reminds me.”

  She ducked down out of sight under the counter. There was an interval of muttering and scrabbling, and then she reappeared, with dust in her bright hair and a grin on her face.

  “Look at this.”

  It was a box, about eight inches square and six inches high. Made of some light-reddish wood, it was completely covered with carvings in bas-relief. Dragons and flowers and twining vines, butterflies, snakes, beetles—every form except the human had furnished an inspiration. It sat on four small feet carved with claws, and it had handles and a clasp of tarnished silvery metal.

  “Chinese?�
� I asked. “It’s charming. Is this one of the things your Maine captains brought back from Canton?”

  “Not just any old Maine captain. This is one of Hezekiah Fraser’s treasures. Remember I told you and Mary about the things the old ladies sold me?”

  “That’s right, I’d forgotten. But how do you know this belonged to Hezekiah?”

  “He was the only sea captain in the family,” Sue said. “Didn’t Ran tell you about him? His son didn’t follow in his footsteps; he took over the family business, and the Frasers have been businessmen ever since. So I assume this is one of Hezekiah’s imports. His carryings-on in the Orient have made local legend, you know.”

  “I did hear about that. He must have had a regular harem out there.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but I know this box has been worrying me. There are a few chairs and an inlaid table in the back, and if Ran wants to drop by and look at them, I’d be pleased. But this—it seemed to me Ran might want it if it really was one of the old Captain’s souvenirs. It’s a nice piece of work, too. Can you take it along now, or is it too heavy?”

  “No.” I lifted the box experimentally. “It isn’t heavy, and the car should be right down the street. No problem. Ran will drop in one of these days and reimburse you.”

  “He can have it for what I paid for it.” Sue smiled. “Plus 4 percent. I’m a businesswoman.”

  “And a very nice gal.” I picked up the box. “I’d better get going.”

  Sue peered out the shop window.

  “Is that Ran, looking for you? It’s so hard to see in this fog… No, it’s not Ran. It’s Will Graham.”

  “I imagine he’s on his way to meet Ran. Nobody knows I’m here, so I’d better run.”

  She put her hand on my arm.

  “Hey, Jo. One more thing.”

  I glanced at her. She was smiling broadly.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve heard about me and Will? No, don’t be polite, I know you have.”

  “I understand that you were engaged once.”

  “And that I broke his heart?”

  “Well…”

  “Honestly, the people in this town.” She sighed. “And Will is the worst of the bunch. He jilted me, Jo, that’s the honest-to-God truth. You know Will—or maybe you don’t. He was very fond of me; I think he still is. But he knew marriage wouldn’t work for us, and he’s not the type to go nobly into some dumb fool thing when he knows it’s a mistake. In order to save my face here in town, he told people I had broken the engagement; it’s better to look like a hardhearted flirt than an unwanted woman, you see.”

  “But… the way he acts…”

  “Act is the word. It’s partly conscience, too; the darned fool still feels guilty.”

  “He doesn’t need to.” I was suddenly quite sure of that.

  “No.” Her eyes—clear and blue and smiling—met mine. “Oh, I wasn’t very happy for a while. But I realized he was right. I’m too bullheaded and independent to get along with a man as domineering as Will is. Now I’m not sure I ever want to marry. I’m enjoying my freedom. But it would be nice if Will and I could be friends again; I’d enjoy talking to him now and then.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “But sometimes I think men come from a different species altogether. They have the weirdest ideas… Except Jed, of course.”

  “Jed Willard? I’d propose to him tomorrow if I weren’t scared of Bertha.”

  “Me, too. He’s a fantastic guy.”

  “Will is going to be just like him in another thirty years,” Sue said.

  I really believed, then, that she was telling the truth about her feelings for Will. Women are instinctive matchmakers—I wonder why?—but no woman tries to fix things up for an old boyfriend unless she is thoroughly through with him herself.

  “Will doesn’t have Jed’s Olympian calm,” I said, peering out the window. “Look at him, pacing like an expectant father. Ran told him we’d meet him at the drugstore, and he’s probably furious because we aren’t there. I really must go.”

  Ran was waiting when I reached the store; it was my absence that had sent Will into fits. I let him rave on for a few minutes and then I said, “Oh, cut it out. You haven’t been here five minutes. I saw you arrive.”

  “Where were you?” His eyes fell on the box, which I had placed on the counter. It certainly wasn’t inconspicuous. “You were shopping?”

  “You make it sound as if I’d been headhunting.” I turned to Ran. “Sue gave me this, for you. She bought it from your aunts.”

  I told him the whole story. He looked amused.

  “That sounds like Sue. She always did have an overactive conscience. I’ll have a look at the other stuff and pay her back for all of it. I imagine she only took this as a tactful way of giving the aunts a loan. Who would want such a monstrosity?”

  He was chatting on, carefully not looking at Will. I was thoroughly out of patience with the pair of them; such a fuss about a casual boy-girl romance that had died a natural death years before. But I couldn’t ignore the slur on the Chinese box, to which I had taken rather a fancy.

  “It’s not a monstrosity,” I said. “I don’t know anything about oriental art, so I can’t tell you whether it’s worth anything, but it’s certainly attractive. The metal is silver or I’ll eat my diploma, and the carving is exquisite. Look at the lock. I’ve never seen one like it. How does it work?”

  Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lock; at least there was no visible keyhole. On the center edge of the lid there was a grotesque animal head; from its open mouth a tongue of tarnished silver came down over the front of the box. Clearly there was a catch of some kind connected with this appendage, but my fingers moved back and forth over it without producing any results. Ran got interested.

  “Let me try. It must be this metal what-not. Press on it… No, that doesn’t work. It doesn’t seem to move at all.”

  “I should have asked Sue,” I said. “It would be a pity to force it.”

  “There may not be anything inside. Wait a minute.” His thumbnail found a minute crevice under the tip of the tongue. “So much for that famed oriental subtlety,” he said triumphantly. “Look, it just pulls up.”

  He suited the action to the words. The silver tongue lifted, and Ran raised the top of the box.

  For a full thirty seconds we stood there, stupefied and staring.

  The box was lined with crimson velvet, now worn and dusty. There was only one object inside. It was a miniature set in an oval gold frame—a portrait of the head and shoulders of a woman. The shoulders were draped with some light fabric, in the manner of an old-fashioned evening dress, and the white throat was bare except for a locket on a chain. But the face was the face I had seen take shape out of the shadows of the tower room.

  NINE

  Ran was the first to move. He slammed the lid of the box down as if the contents had been alive and liable to escape.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and headed for the door with the box under his arm.

  We crowded into his car, which was parked at the curb. Ran turned the interior lights on and the fog shrouded the windows like curtains; we were much more private here than we would have been in the store. I understood Ran’s need for privacy. This might be the first breakthrough we had had. It was also unnerving, in a very specific way. Will was the one who put this feeling into words.

  “Let me go on record,” he said, staring as if mesmerized at the painted face. “I’m resigning as group skeptic. Do you realize that this almost constitutes legal evidence? Sue will testify that this box and its contents have been in her possession since the old ladies sold it to her. Jo couldn’t possibly have seen it before today. Mary hasn’t seen it. So how did Jo produce a portrait of this woman?”

  “Somehow I find the differences between the two portraits even more convincing than the similarities,” Ran said. “The dress isn’t the same and neither is the hair style; the face is younger, happier. Yet it
is unquestionably the same woman.”

  He had caught the two essential differences in two words: younger and happier. This girl couldn’t have been more than twenty. The smiling face had the rounded softness of youth, and the dark hair was set in loose ringlets. The contrast between this unmarred face and the haggard visage I had drawn was extreme; and yet there was no mistaking the identity of the two. My drawing showed this girl as she would have looked after years of living— unhappy living. As Will had said, it was virtually conclusive evidence, at least to us who knew that the people involved were not in collusion.

  “She was beautiful,” I murmured. “Ran, look on the back. Maybe there’s a name…”