Barnavelt, however, had gotten a taste of late-night running and wanted more. Seeing that the two girls weren’t going to provide any more entertainment, he wriggled this way and that, curled in a ball, tugged and kicked at his leash, and in a few moments slipped out of it and bolted into the darkness.
The two Delias screamed his name and tried to follow him, but he had disappeared. Condor explained later that he had deliberately made the leash loose enough for Barnavelt to slip out of if he tried, to avoid the danger of strangulation. And it was this that finally convinced the Delias of Barnavelt’s complicity in his own captivity. After all, it was only when they foxnapped him that he took advantage of the possibility of escape.
The fox ended up in one of the Stephenson fields, where Lorelei was taking a walk. Barnavelt lolloped right up to her, grinning his foxy little grin, and waited for her to take him back to Condor’s cottage. She did so, thereby finding a path into the night’s final catastrophe—and it was a good thing she did because when we returned to Shorecliff at the end of the night, the aunts didn’t bother to tell her to leave, and we regained her as a companion in the last harried days before the end of the summer. Given that we were all emotionally as fragile as butterfly wings during those days, her soft, practical presence was an inestimable gift.
The reason Uncle Eberhardt had failed to catch the two Delias, in spite of being more familiar with the woods than they were, was that he had been distracted by another pair of delinquents. He had just begun his crazed pursuit of the foxnappers when Tom and Philip, bursting into the clearing around Condor’s cottage from the opposite direction, ran straight into him. All three fell to the ground in a tangle. Many years later Philip told me that one of the things he remembered best from that night was the horrible sensation of Uncle Eberhardt’s bare leg pressing against his cheek. When they finally disengaged themselves and rose to their feet, Eberhardt was so angry he was nearly foaming at the mouth.
“What are you doing out here, you useless brats?” he sputtered. “How dare you run into me in the middle of the night! I’ll paddle you! I’ll beat you black and blue! Get away from my cottage. How dare you enter my woods!”
He looked so fearsome, a dim figure leaping up and down and shaking two gnarled fists in their faces, that Philip and Tom exchanged a look and raced back into the woods, away from Condor’s cottage and also away from the Delias, though the only reason they had stopped by the cottage in the first place was to check on the two girls. They were no better at avoiding trees than the rest of us and ran into several in their flight from Eberhardt. Tom twisted his ankle, and Philip nearly impaled his right eye on a branch. For the remainder of our stay at Shorecliff, he sported a cut on his cheek that made him look like a Caribbean pirate.
I, meanwhile, was awash in relief that our most experienced tracker had found me and taken me under his wing. Fisher was the only one who avoided getting lost that night. It was strange and soothing to see how confidently he navigated the forest while the rest of us bashed through it like blind bears. I was telling him as best I could why everyone else had come into the woods when he shushed me and lifted his face.
“Can you hear that?” he whispered, rapt.
I thought I could make out a small rustling. “What is it?” I asked.
“An owl catching a mouse!”
“How do you know?”
Fisher didn’t answer. We both stood listening. Probably the sound he heard came from the Delias escaping from Uncle Eberhardt. Whatever it was, it distracted us into staying in one position, and that was why Philip and Tom happened upon us when they did. Tom came barreling from behind a bush and ran into me, casting me headlong. Yet again I tasted dirt. A short-lived shouting match ensued.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Stop pushing me!”
“Ow! Who is that?”
“Get the hell off me!”
“I’m trying to!”
“Fisher? What are you doing here?”
Philip’s surprised question ended the spat. Tom and I got up off the ground, and the four of us looked at the white blotches that were all we could see of each other’s faces.
Tom chuckled and said, “Isn’t this quite the family gathering,” but Philip punched him on the arm and asked, “Is Eberhardt still after us?”
We obligingly listened to the wood noises. Fisher heard more rustling and returned to his naturalist mode, but there were no more owls for him that night.
“I think we shook him off,” said Tom.
“What was he doing up anyway?”
“The Delias must have woken him. They were kidnapping that stupid fox, weren’t they? Crazy kids.”
As if on cue, a fifth figure stumbled up to us. “I heard that, Tom,” said Delia Robierre, sounding breathless. “Have any of you seen Delia? I’ve lost her.”
“Were you two really trying to kidnap Barnavelt?” Philip asked.
“We thought it was a good idea! I don’t know why you have to make fun of it. We thought it was important. But then Uncle Eberhardt chased us, and Barnavelt got away, and we heard voices, so we tried to follow them, but we were separated somehow. And Isabella’s out here too, but she ran away from me.” Her voice wavered.
“Isabella came out too?” Philip interrupted.
Delia paused and then said, “Yes.”
At this point I broke in. Pamela’s presence had been bothering me ever since I’d heard about it, and I asked, “Why haven’t we seen Pamela too, if she’s out here?”
Tom sighed. “She’s probably lost. We’ll have to find her.”
A ghostly figure appeared behind him and said, “No, I’m here.”
It was Pamela in her white nightgown, the top half covered by a sweater. The rest of us had had a second to register that someone was standing behind Tom, but he leaped in terror. We burst out laughing, and Pamela, a smirk of satisfaction on her face, joined our circle. It was the first time I understood how much she enjoyed being secretly in the know. She was too proud to join me in most of my eavesdropping expeditions—they were crude and lacked the thrill of the chase—but when she could combine dignity with cunning, there was no one more skilled at stalking people like a secret agent.
“The gang’s practically all here,” Tom said when we had finished laughing at him. He was still disgruntled and glared at Pamela.
“All except Isabella,” said Philip. “And my Delia.”
“How about the others? Has anyone seen Charlie or Francesca or Yvette?”
“Yvette was still asleep when I left,” said Pamela.
“So was Charlie when I left,” Fisher said. “But I’ve been out here for hours.”
Philip glanced at him affectionately. “Do you often spend all night in the woods, pal?” he asked.
“It’s the best time for owls.”
“We’d better find Isabella then,” said Tom.
“I wouldn’t look for her if I were you,” Delia Robierre broke in.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I…I just think she’d rather be left alone.”
“What are you talking about?” said Philip. “If she’s lost, we have to find her. Did she tell you where she was trying to go?”
“Yes,” Delia replied after another long pause. “But she was upset, and I promised I wouldn’t mention having seen her. Except then she ran away, and if she’s actually lost…”
“Why was she upset?” Tom asked. The thought of Isabella in danger roused his protective blood.
“No reason,” said Delia.
“Don’t be stupid, Delia. Obviously she was upset about something, and you know what it is. Tell me now!”
As usual, his older-brother insistence won the day. “First of all,” she began angrily, “you two wouldn’t let her come out with you.”
Philip snorted. “Is that all? We were going to find Lorelei. Of course we couldn’t have her with us.”
“That’s the problem!” said Delia. “I promised I wouldn’t say anything,
but you’d have to be blind not to see it. Isabella adores both of you, and you always brush her off. Philip, she practically worships the ground you walk on! But you never have the time of day for her.”
“That’s not true. I—”
“You know what she told me? She told me she’s afraid of how much she thinks about you. She idolizes you—and all you can do is ignore her and make fun of her. No wonder she’s upset!”
“Idolizes me?” Philip repeated. “That can’t be true.”
It took all my concentration to keep listening after this, for at the words “she’s afraid of how much she thinks about you,” my heart tightened, and I was overcome by a rush of anguish. Suddenly I couldn’t stand the idea of Isabella thinking about anyone other than me, and her thinking about Philip was especially bad because he cared so much less for her than I did. Of course it was ridiculous for a thirteen-year-old boy to imagine that a girl four years older could return any sort of romantic affection—especially a girl who was his cousin. Even then I knew how absurd it was. Yet I adored her, and when Delia revealed Isabella’s pitiful secret, I felt an unbearable need to have my own worship recognized. Surely, I found myself thinking, I should get some reward for how devotedly I’d followed her all summer. She had to understand that I deserved her attention more than Philip did.
The others had no idea that I was being rocked by such emotion. They were puzzling over the enigma of a secretive Isabella.
“We don’t ignore her,” said Tom. “What is she talking about? Are you sure she said that, Delia? How much of this are you making up?”
“None of it! You’re always saying she can’t do things, that she wouldn’t be brave enough.”
“Oh, come on,” said Philip. “You mean jumping off the cliff?” I thought it was significant that he remembered the incident, but no one else remarked on it. “Of course she wouldn’t be brave enough to do that—it’s dangerous!”
“If Isabella really said all that, she’s cracking up,” said Tom. “She’s going nuts. The summer has been too much for her.”
“Well, can you blame her?”
“No, but it’s idiotic, what you’re saying about her and Philip. What kind of a girl falls in love with her cousin?”
“Yvette?” Philip suggested, grinning.
Tom waved him aside. “That isn’t the same thing,” he said. “Not that it wasn’t damn weird. Anyway, Isabella is obviously upset. She didn’t know what she was saying. We’ll find her and put her back in bed, and tomorrow she’ll wish she hadn’t told you anything, Delia.”
“We’re just cousins,” Philip said, shrugging.
I scorned him—a novel sensation. It was clear enough to me how one cousin could fall in love with another; I had done it myself. And in spite of my jealousy of Philip, I felt that my obsession with Isabella gave me a badge of maturity. I too now could have a deadly secret, one mixed up with romance and sex and envy.
Delia was about to reply when a flurry of bumps and rustles erupted behind her. A seventh white blotch appeared in our circle, and after a moment of confusion we recognized Isabella’s tear-covered face. I shrank back, terrified that she would somehow deduce what I was feeling, yet at the same time eager for her to know.
She spoke only to Delia. “I can’t believe you told them!” she cried. “I can’t believe it. You’re my own sister, and you still betrayed me! You promised you wouldn’t say anything. I’ll never forgive you!”
She stopped for a moment, panting, and Tom grabbed her shoulder. “Calm down, Bella,” he said. “No one’s mad at you or anything. Stop crying and listen for a minute. She didn’t tell us anything—”
“I’ve been standing there listening, you patronizing creep!” She slapped his hand away. “She told you everything, and of course all you did was laugh and say I was crazy. Fine! I’m crazy! I’m crazy because I actually thought you”—she turned to Philip—“were worth caring about. You don’t think I can do anything! Well, I can. I don’t need you and your stupid philosophy to do it either. I hate all of you!” She gave a few inarticulate sobs and crashed into the woods again, disappearing before any of us could stop her.
For nearly a minute none of us said anything. When Isabella, who was always extravagant, let loose the full force of her emotion, it was like being hit by a cyclone. We could all see that she was ashamed, though no one except me blamed her for being half in love with Philip. I was sure her feelings were different from Yvette’s jealous lusting after Tom—Isabella, for one thing, would never have betrayed any of Philip’s secrets. But that made it worse. What Isabella felt for Philip was closer, I thought, to a genuine attachment—closer to what I felt for her—and that meant she preferred even his grudging scraps of attention to my willingness for total self-sacrifice. The thought made me ache with frustration.
At last Tom said, “Well, you’ve certainly done a number on her, Philip.”
“Don’t lay the blame on me,” Philip protested. “I couldn’t help it. How was I supposed to know?”
“I still think it was better that I told you,” Delia said in a muffled voice.
“Oh, God, don’t you start,” Tom sighed.
“Shut up! You’re not the person who’s just betrayed someone.”
Fisher was the next to speak, and what he said made me admire him more than ever. “Don’t you think we should go look for her?” he asked. “After all, it doesn’t matter who said what. We all love her, and I don’t think we should let her run through the woods when she’s so upset. She might hurt herself.”
“Good old Fisher,” said Tom. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
The delay had allowed Isabella to stagger beyond our reach, and the cousins fanned out to search for her. I was too distracted to make sure someone else was going my way. I heard again Fisher’s statement that we all loved Isabella, and I thought to myself, more and more fiercely, that I loved her more, though none of them realized it. They were always taking me for granted, always pushing me aside, just as Philip pushed aside Isabella, but I would show them, for the first time in my life, exactly what I felt and how strongly I felt it. Truly I believe I was possessed by a demon that night, for I had never before been so irrationally determined to make myself noticed.
By sheer chance, after fifteen minutes, I stumbled to the edge of the wood that faced the lawn in front of Shorecliff. It was still dark, but an elusive hint of lightness in the air signaled the approach of dawn. For a moment, disoriented by the sudden freedom from clawing branches and looming trees, I blinked at the vacancy of the lawn and stood motionless. Then a faint noise drifted toward me, and I heard again the sound of cousins in conspiracy. A light flickered in the distance. Someone was standing by the rattletrap.
That in itself puzzled me: the rattletrap had nothing to do with the night’s various imbroglios. Stepping forward, I bumped my leg with the telescope I was still holding, long forgotten. Now, if ever, was a time to use it. I held it to my eye, hoping that whoever was by the rattletrap would turn on a flashlight so I could have something to focus on. Soon the wavering light reappeared, blinking in and out of view beyond the fence. Significantly, it was not a flashlight but a match. What I saw in its light was a group of three people: Philip Ybarra and two more cousins who had played no part in the night up to that point.
* * *
I have arrived now at a moment I’ve been dreading. It has approached with the inevitability of a freight train. I have tried to ignore it, tried to present all the shocking and delightful events that happened beforehand without letting them be shaded by hindsight. And I think I have partially succeeded: those months at Shorecliff have regained their original colors more vividly than I thought was possible.
It would not be right, having made such an effort to re-create the events as they happened, if I described the accident that followed without first narrating what we learned only later. In justice to the summer’s last adventure, therefore, I will tell it as it happened, with all the details that subsequently emer
ged. After that there will be no more blank pages between me and the confession of my guilt.
15
Rattletrap
Charlie woke that night to Francesca’s face hovering inches from his, her eyes blazing and her black curls tumbling over her shoulders. He had fallen asleep less than an hour before, but Charlie was renowned among us for being able to lose consciousness in seconds. He could sleep anywhere, at any time. So Francesca was dragging him out of a deep slumber, and he was confused. He glanced at Fisher’s bed and saw it was empty, though the room was dark.
“What time is it?” he mumbled.
“Come off it, you’ve only been asleep for twenty minutes.”
“Where’s Fisher?”
“Who knows? Listen, Charlie, I want to get out of here. I’m going to take the rattletrap and drive to Portland and have some fun for the first time in my life. Do you want to come with me?”
That woke Charlie up. He raised himself on one elbow and stared at her, wondering if she could be serious. Portland, after all, was two hours farther away than Pensbottom.
“Do you mean it?” he asked.
“Of course I mean it. I always mean it, but no one else does—that’s the whole problem with this hellhole. So I’m leaving. I’m going to find Uncle Kurt and force him to show me around—if he gets all the fun, the least he can do is share it. Are you coming or what?”
“But, Francesca, they’ll hear us going. You know how much noise the rattletrap makes.”
“They didn’t hear us last time. Besides, it’s after eleven, and the aunts have been going to bed ridiculously early. They’re asleep. I could hear them snoring.” Francesca loaded this statement with all the scorn a young, beautiful girl feels for middle-aged women past the age of caring.
Charlie was hesitating. The truth was, he told us afterward, that it seemed like the wrong time for an escapade. The summer had already been so packed with betrayals and surprises that it felt foolhardy, almost insensitive, to dive into another forbidden act. But Francesca had no time for delicacies. Frustration had been eating her for the past month, and after a few more minutes of conversation, Charlie knew there was no stopping her. He went with her, he told us, to protect her in Portland, to make sure she didn’t do anything too reckless. This was true, but it was also true that he went because Francesca was irresistible and Charlie had been her slave since the first morning at Shorecliff.
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