by Dyan Sheldon
“We wouldn’t see or talk to anyone else for days when we went there,” Mrs Kilgour is saying now. “No radio, no telephone, just the sounds of the woods and the river. At night we’d sit on the porch and listen to the wolves howl and watch for shooting stars.” Her sigh sounds the way a broken dream feels. “Like they would bring us luck.”
“Oregon?” Georgiana tries not to sound too incredulous. She can’t quite picture the skinny, balding, dull-looking man in the wedding picture on the dresser watching for shooting stars in the wilderness. “You and Mr Kilgour had a cabin in Oregon?”
“What?” She starts as if she’d forgotten Georgiana is there. “Oh, not Mr Kilgour. He loved cities. It was Anderson’s cabin. His retreat.”
At last, in the millions of words that have flowed from Mrs Kilgour like water from a broken fire hydrant, she has said four that grab Georgiana’s interest. “Anderson?” She steps out from behind the chair to stand beside it. Curious. “Was that your first husband?”
“Husband? Oh no, no, no. Anderson wasn’t the marrying kind.” Georgiana isn’t sure, since she’s never heard it before, but she thinks the sound the old lady makes is a chuckle. “Neither was I. Not then. You couldn’t have gotten either of us to the altar if you’d called in the Marines.”
“Oh.” Georgiana kicks at the leaves at her feet. “Oh, right. So Anderson was like your boyfriend.”
“Very like. If things had been different, I suppose he might’ve been my first husband. If he’d been different.” Mrs Kilgour stares at the sunlight, shimmering over the water like a ghost. “I was head over heels in love with him for a while there. Completely bewitched.”
Georgiana looks at the old hag in the wheelchair – her thin, dyed hair; her dull, rheumy eyes; her sagging, shrivelled skin – trying to fit the words “head over heels in love” and “bewitched” to her. Trying to imagine what she was like fifty, sixty years ago retreating into Oregon with the man who was obviously the love of her life.
The two of them are silent, listening to the burble of the water and the rustle of the trees. A leaf drops into the river, lost as Mrs Kilgour’s long-ago love.
“So what happened?” Georgiana asks at last. Expecting to hear that he left her. That he found someone nicer, or prettier, or more exciting. That he got tired of her and went away.
“He was killed.”
“Killed? You mean like in a car crash?”
“No, it was nothing like a car crash.” Mrs Kilgour’s hands rub against the arms of her chair. “It was in Vietnam. He always was reckless. And fearless, I guess. Which amounts to the same thing.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them the river is still there. “The damn fool got himself blown up.”
Georgiana knows two things about Vietnam. She knows that there was a war there (because it was mentioned in American history); and she knows that it is near Thailand (because, when they were on vacation there, her parents talked of going to Vietnam for a few days while they were so close, but in the end they chose to stay where they were. “Better the beach you know, than the one you don’t,” as Mrs Shiller put it).
Georgiana stares at the debris on the opposite bank. “He was a soldier?”
“No, not Anderson. He only shot things with a camera. He was a photographer. One of the best damn combat photographers there was. Won more awards than Westmoreland had medals.”
A person would have to have a heart as hard as a diamond not to be moved by such a bittersweet story of love and loss, and when it comes to romance Georgiana’s heart is about as hard as a pat of butter left out on the table on a summer day. Georgiana doesn’t see the garbage along the riverbank, or the gnarled old trees any more. She sees Anderson dying on a foreign field, alone and forgotten in the cries of war. She imagines a beautiful, young woman, thousands of miles away, nervously waiting through the long, dark, lonely nights for the return of her one true love. Imagines her making plans and weaving dreams. Imagines Margarita anticipating her lover’s knock on the door. Home at last, and safe in her arms. Heartbreak tears fill her eyes. “So I guess you got one of those telegrams,” she whispers.
“Telegrams?” Mrs Kilgour looks over her shoulder at her. “What telegrams?”
“You know, saying how they regretted to inform you that Anderson was dead.”
“No, nothing like that.” Mrs Kilgour, imagining things of her own, shakes her head. “Anderson died in my arms.”
Later that night, Georgiana finds her phone in her book bag. Where she put it.
Chapter Seventeen
More Than One Kind of Mystery
Because Marigold knows only slightly more about mystery novels than she does about Iroquois culture and history (which is absolutely nothing), she asked around for recommendations. And was surprised at how many people she knows who are fans of the genre of cloaks and daggers. And, unlike Marigold’s mother, they didn’t mind parting with books they’d read years ago and were never going to read again. Which was totally unexpected. She asked for suggestions, not donations. Merry Christmas!
Byron sets his lunch on the table, pulls back the chair next to Asher and flops down. “Geebus, María and José.” He eyes the stack of books beside Marigold. “What’s all this? Somebody starting up her own library?”
“Not even close,” says Will. “Marigold’s looking for inspiration to commit the perfect crime.” He grins, waggling his eyebrows. “She may act like she’s all sweetness and light and God’s answer to the discouraging word, but it’s just a fiendish disguise. Behind that mild manner and angelic smile lurks the heart of a master criminal.”
Asher’s head has been busily bent over his notebook, but now he looks up. “Only they’re not really perfect crimes, are they? They all get solved. By definition, no one would ever be able to crack the perfect crime. It might even never be detected. That would be a perfect crime. One no one ever knows has happened.”
“That’s why she needs to read up on ones that bombed, doesn’t she?” counters Will. “So she knows what mistakes not to make.” He taps his head. “It’s all very diabolically clever.”
Byron, who has spent the last hour in a computer lab – a world of logic that always makes sense – is still confused. “So what is all this?” he asks Marigold. “Is this what happens when you hang out in a place like Half Hollow? You decide to commit a crime?”
Claudelia groans. “Yeah, of course. Marigold’s going to kill Barbie. She doesn’t think she’s cheerful enough.”
Marigold laughs. “Don’t pay any attention to them, By. These are kids’ mystery novels people gave me for my Teach Sadie Hawkle to Read campaign.” Without which she would probably have nothing new to bring for their session today. “Remember I told you she says she loves cop shows? So I figured mysteries might really interest her.”
“I’m gutted.” Byron puts on a hurt face. “You didn’t ask me to give you anything.”
“That would be because you don’t actually read books.”
“Yes, I do,” he protests. “I read all the time.”
“Tech books don’t count,” says Georgiana. “The operative words here are ‘mystery novels’.”
Byron points his roll at her. “I’ll have you know that mathematics is the key to a trillion mysteries.”
“I think we can wait till she gets beyond the one multiplication table before we spring that one on her,” says Marigold.
Claudelia looks over the pile. “There’s bound to be something in these she’ll like. You have something for everybody.” One features a boy detective, one a girl detective, one a terrible detective, one a genius detective – and one a detective who’s been dead for five hundred years and one who’s a dog. “If nothing else, they should keep her busy for a while.”
“Are you kidding?” Marigold rolls her eyes. “The rate Sadie goes, she’d be lucky to finish half of them before she’s fifty. But I’m not giving them all to her at once. I’m going to dole them out to her.”
“Well, I guess that’s better than g
iving her golf clubs,” says Georgiana.
Even Marigold laughs.
Just a few short months ago this would have been only slightly less improbable than a burning river, but the fact is that Marigold has been looking forward to seeing Sadie this afternoon. It’s their last session before the Christmas vacation because the after-school programme is being closed early to save fuel, and Marigold has picked three of the mysteries she’s been given – the three that seemed the easiest and the most fun – for Sadie to take home with her. All day, Marigold’s been imagining Sadie’s face when she shows her the books. Not an enormous grin and shrieks of joy, maybe, but at least her mouth should twitch and those blank eyes open wide. Marigold’s hopes are always high as the clouds, of course, but her hopes for Sadie learning to love books are bumping into the stars right now. She wants Sadie to find her way to other worlds. As Marigold did. Books allowed her to escape the anger and unhappiness at home, but they also allowed her to travel through time and space. There was nowhere she couldn’t go. To San Francisco or to India. To Victorian London or to ancient Rome. To a cave in the mountains of Peru or to a junk on the Yangtze. She could cross the continent in a Conestoga wagon or fly to the moon. Past, present, future; reality and make-believe. It was all there, held in her hands, showing her that there is more to the world than the place where you live and the moment you’re in. That’s what Marigold wants for Sadie. She pictures her curled up on the couch, the lights of the Christmas tree shining on her, reading one of the mysteries Marigold gave her. Finally finding somewhere she feels safe; finally understanding that she isn’t so alone.
This picture is so strong that when Marigold gets to the tutor room and doesn’t see Sadie, she actually thinks for a second that she must be in the wrong place.
But there is Bonnie Kupferberg, marching towards her, shaking her head. “She wasn’t in school today,” says Bonnie.
The bag of books bangs against Marigold’s leg. “Is she sick?”
“Who knows?” Bonnie shrugs. “Sadie doesn’t exactly have a perfect attendance record. She always comes on your day, but the rest of the week… Believe me, if this was an airline and not a school she’d never get any frequent-flyer miles.”
Marigold goes back to the street and just stands there by the lamp post where she waited for Mrs Hawkle with Sadie the night she found out about Sadie’s interest in detectives. Marigold feels like a balloon that’s been pricked with a pin. She’s not sure why it means so much to her, but she really wanted Sadie to have the books for Christmas. What should she do now? Take them home and give them to her after Christmas? Go back upstairs and see if Bonnie Kupferberg might be able to give them to Sadie in school – if she shows up? The bag presses against her – as if the books are impatient to get where they’re going, too.
Marigold takes out her cell phone and calls Byron.
“Apartment 1a, 116 Clarendon Road,” says Byron when he calls her back.
“You’re sure? Hawkle?”
“Positive. J. M. Hawkle, Apartment 1a, 116 Clarendon Road. It’s the only Hawkle in town.”
Which does make it likely that it’s the right one.
“You have a pen handy?” asks Byron. “I have the map up. I’ll tell you how to get there.”
Clarendon Road turns out to be fairly near the school, in a neighbourhood of large old houses that were once the homes of the town’s professionals. Though not any more. Now most of them have been broken up into apartments or rented rooms, and the ones that aren’t falling down could definitely use some cheering up.
Number 116 was long ago painted blue with orange trim. There are posts missing from the railing of the porch and a row of bells on either side of the front door, names taped below them on pieces of paper. Marigold is nervous about ringing the bell. She doesn’t want to disturb Mrs Hawkle. A busy single mother with a sick child, the last thing she needs is some stranger showing up. Marigold gazes at the bell that says, Hawkle – 1a. She’ll leave the bag by the door with a note, that’s what she’ll do. This isn’t the kind of neighbourhood where anyone’s likely to steal a few used children’s books.
1a is the apartment on her left, the one with the flashing reindeer in the window and the cardboard in the missing pane. Marigold knows this because as she’s getting a pen and paper from her bag the curtain moves and she looks up to see Sadie’s fish-on-ice eyes appear in the opening. Marigold waves and the face disappears, but she hears a door inside open and feet hurrying down the hall.
The front door swings back, and there is Sadie – not in the robe and pyjamas of an ill child but fully dressed. Even more surprisingly, Sadie is smiling. “How come you’re here?”
Marigold smiles back. “I wanted to make sure you’re OK. Mrs Kupferberg said you weren’t in school today. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“No, I—” begins Sadie, but a sound that is partly human and partly angry beast cuts her off.
“Sadie! Sadie! Sadie! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get back in here this minute!”
The smile vanishes faster than a drop of water on a desert. Her entire body suddenly looks worried and wary. “My mom was sick and she needed me,” Sadie whispers. And then, looking over her shoulder to where the door of 1a stands ajar, shouts back, “I’m sorry! I’m coming! I’ll be right there!”
“I just stopped by to give you this.” Marigold holds out the bag of books. “It’s a present.”
Sadie makes no move to take the bag. “What is it?” Her voice is so soft that Marigold, standing inches away, can hardly hear her. “Is it a Christmas present?”
“Kind of. It’s just something I thought you’d like.”
Sadie looks at the bag and then over her shoulder again as a stunning, youngish woman in a red silk kimono charges into the hall. Her feet are bare and she holds a mascara wand in one hand. Everything about her looks furious.
“Sadie! Are you deaf or just stupid? What the—” But as soon as she sees Marigold her expression changes. Unlike her daughter, she obviously smiles all the time. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… You know kids…” She puts the hand holding the mascara wand on Sadie’s shoulder so there isn’t any doubt about which kids she’s talking. “You have to watch them every second. Especially when they don’t have much sense. You know? Anything could happen to them.” She has no trouble talking, either. “Is there something I can do for you?” She notices the bag. “Are you selling something?”
If anyone had asked Marigold what she thought Sadie’s mother was like she would have said like Sadie. Only older, of course. And taller. An average – probably below average – looking woman. Schlumpy. Dowdy. Drab. Rushing towards middle age, not so much letting herself go as pretty much already gone. But Sadie’s mother is so unlike that – and so unlike Sadie – that for a few seconds Marigold thinks it’s someone else, someone in no way related to Sadie Hawkle or her gene pool.
“No, I… I mean, yes, I…” As if she’s caught Sadie’s difficulty with speech, Marigold stumbles over her own words. “I just … I was at the school and…”
“You’re from the school?” J. M. Hawkle stands up a little straighter; her smile deepens. “Look, I’m really sorry about today. I know she’s missed some school this year, but she’s very delicate and she had a fever when she woke up and—”
“No, no, I’m not from the school. I mean, I’m kind of from the school, but not like that. I’m Marigold. Marigold Liotta? I’m Sadie’s reading tutor in the afternoon programme.” She doesn’t add that she was the person standing in the cold with Sadie the other evening.
“Oh, the famous Marigold!” Mrs Hawkle claps her hands together and her bracelets jangle. “I should have known! She never shuts up about you. Marigold said this… Marigold said that…”
Marigold could be knocked over by a snowflake. Sadie not only talks, but Sadie talks about her.
Still gripped by her mother, Sadie looks as if a tank couldn’t move her.
“I’m Justine Hawkle.” She e
xtends her free hand. “I was hoping I’d get to meet you.”
Though not enough to wave from your car.
She points to the bag still dangling from Marigold’s hand. “And I guess that’s Sadie’s, right? Little Miss Use-it-and-lose-it. I swear, the only reason this child has a head is because it’s attached.”
“Oh, no, she didn’t forget anything. It’s a present. From me. It’s just some books I had at home that I figured she’d be interested in. Because she’s a fan of mysteries—”
“Is she?” Justine Hawkle rolls her eyes and laughs. “The only mystery around here is Sadie.”
Sadie stands there like a locked door.
“So anyway,” Marigold pushes on, uncomfortable enough to consider making a run for it, “I thought I’d drop them by for her. You know, since she wasn’t in today. So she could start one over Christmas. If she wants to.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you?” She gives Sadie a shake. “What do you say, honey? Thank Marigold for being so nice.”
“Thank you,” mumbles Sadie, but she still makes no move to take the bag.
Her mother gives her another shake. “Well, take the books, dopey. Marigold didn’t come all the way over here just to show them to you.” She laughs. “I just hope she knows what to do with them.”
“Oh, she knows,” says Marigold. “She’s doing really well with her reading.”
“Is she?” Sadie’s mother looks more surprised than pleased. “Well, I guess it’s like they always say: wonders never cease.”
