His sarcasm fell flat.
Henry remained quiet until the speculation had ceased. “I didn't know where he might be heading. I took a guess and started driving. Then I saw Ranulf's car crossing Beacon Street a block away at the next intersection and turned to catch up with him. But he was gone. I headed in the general direction, and then turned down Commonwealth Avenue. I called the cops from a phone there outside B.U. That was a waste of time, because I saw Ranulf's car again heading across the B.U. Bridge and I dropped the phone and went down Commonwealth and made the illegal turn. That's what got some cop's attention.” He drank what remained in his glass and handed it to Tim.
"Right when I heard the belch of that siren behind me, I look out over the Charles River from the bridge and I could see Peter below me. Right there, for Christ's sake. He's running along the tracks of the railroad bridge that crosses at an angle underneath. And then I could see Ranulf, on foot, coming at him from the Cambridge side. I stopped the van where I was on the bridge, and I got out. The cop got out and was yelling bloody Jesus at me. I was yelling back at him about Peter being right below us on the tracks. The cop had no idea what I was talking about. But Peter heard me. Peter looks right up at me, and then starts running back, away from Ranulf, who is running down between those tracks, puffing like a train. So I got back in the van to turn around and get to the Boston side. That's when the car hit me. Right in the middle of the U-turn. Blocked all the traffic in both directions. The frame of the van broke apart all the way when the tow truck tried to lift it. Total loss."
Albert reared his head back in frustration. “So what the hell happened?"
Tim pushed a full glass back at him. Henry tried to see the moment.
"Well, the cop, he had finally taken the trouble to look down at what I was making such a fuss over. When the car hit me, I got out again. The cop's face is red now. He wants to shoot me on the spot. I tell him we have to get to Peter before Ranulf kills him. The driver of the car that hit me is coming at me with a fist in the air. The cop says he's going to shoot us both if we move. Then someone yells—there's a little crowd then—and a couple of people have gotten out of their cars. One of them is looking over the rail and sees Peter jump."
Henry took a swallow of his ale to wet his mouth. Tim groaned with disgust.
"I never get to see anything. I just hear about it. That's the crummy part of being a bartender. You hear about stuff you'll never get to see."
Albert spoke while he looked at Tim and pointed at his own empty glass. “So what happened then?"
Henry looked at Albert in the mirror. “I outran the cop to the end of the bridge and down the steps there to the embankment. There wasn't much ice. I've never gone swimming in ice water before. I guess I hesitated for a second. But I couldn't see any sign of Peter. I thought I could see bubbles. Ranulf was standing up there on the side of the railroad bridge looking down into the water for some sign of him. There was a line of faces up on the B.U. Bridge. Nobody could see where he went. I took off my coat to go in, and that's when the cop put his handcuffs on my wrist.... Peter's body didn't come up again until later."
The stolen child was lost in the man.
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Chapter Twenty-Seven
The echoing clop of someone's wooden-soled shoes against the brick of the sidewalk below awakened him. Drawn from his sleep, he thought at first it was the sound of a horse. The Boston police still used horse patrols on occasion, and they sometimes trailed up Charles Street from the Public Garden. The dark of his room felt thickened with the dissolving of his dream.
Leaning from his bed he pushed the gray folds of curtain aside and looked out at the night. A barrier of fragile black lace—thin leafless limbs made electric by the polish of rain—separated him from the closest building across the street. There the owners had set out the traditional single light for Christmas, with the look of candles, in each window.
He was unsure of the dream he had awakened from. But one part of it he was now familiar with. This lingered with him as he sat in the chair by his desk in the dark, his eyes captured by the small window lights as they multiplied in their reflections on the thin wet limbs of the trees. Helen Mawson.
Burnt umber hair, escaping a blue twist of yarn, flowing unfettered over one shoulder—her left shoulder. The collar of her blouse was high, but open at the front, and he imagined a gap of pink white flesh below her neck. The blue of her eyes looked back at him in challenge at his own visual exploration.
Henry wondered if she had ever loved. Certainly she must have. Which one? She had declared no one a favorite in the letters they had found. Surely, someone in letters lost now. Perhaps Marcus Evers.
All they had, including the scraps from the cookbook, amounted to less than one hundred pages, written in a small and precise hand. She would have written thousands, even in twenty-three short years. She wrote every day. She was not ashamed to speak her mind—even now, to him. How old would she be? One hundred and seven? How sad only a broken fragment of the life she lived still remained.
For a moment he wished he had kept one of her letters for himself. Perhaps the account of her visit to Venice. He had always wanted to go to Venice. Morgan loved Venice and had spoken of it often. But he had given all of the letters back to Albert. Alice wanted them. At least she would take care of them. They were not lost. Alice had even asked for the Roycrofter books which Helen had annotated in the margins. Alice never did anything by halves.
The old thought returned that he would have liked to have known Helen Mawson. What would she have thought of him? She was more courageous. Fearless. Would she have cared for someone who had never escaped the world that was handed to him—never built a better one? Why would she? What quest had he followed? Good books? What grail had he found? There had been that copy of Connecticut Yankee ... Henry smiled to himself at the pettiness. What dragons had he slain? Never slain, nor a dragon fought, only a sad Englishman. How was he worthy of her? A bookman's worth? What honor was there? A book hound's honor? What honor to defend?
His doorbell rang.
The burnt umber flow of Helen Mawson's hair was erased as he flipped the switch on his desk lamp. It was only six o'clock. Not even dinnertime. On his bed, where he had fallen asleep, was the closed first-edition copy of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, which he had found only a few hours before in Cambridge. He had begun reading it as he rechecked the condition and had fallen into the story until the light had grown too dim and he had drifted to sleep.
The bell rang again. He reached for the button and pressed it as he opened his own door.
He spoke into the well of space between the stairs. “Hello?"
A woman's voice echoed back. “Hello?"
A thin slice of her face looked up at him between the banisters. Her hair was very short and very blond.
She asked, “Is the landlord here?"
Her voice was clear, precise.
He shook his head. “No. Can I help you?” He tucked in his shirt as he spoke, walking down the stairs in his socks.
She spoke back as he descended. “The building seems pretty empty. Do you know if there are any apartments available?"
It was still raining. Large dark blotches marked her coat. She backed away from the stairs as he reached the bottom, looking at him almost directly eye to eye. Brown eyes—hazel brown, he thought. The shoes on her feet could not be responsible for more than an inch of the height.
He shook his head again, but less emphatically. “No. The building has been sold. I'm the last one. They'll be gutting it the week after New Year's."
She was obviously disappointed. “You'd think with the economy supposedly so bad, there would be more places for rent."
He made an expression he hoped was sympathetic. “It'll be too expensive in any case. I have to leave here myself."
She answered quickly. “Everything is too expensive."
She was looking at his shirt. Flannel could look pretty
rumpled when you slept in it. What could he say?
"It's worse here in town. Even the North End, especially now with the Big Dig almost done."
She tilted her head to the side. “But I always wanted to live on Beacon Hill. Just once in my life."
He had wanted that once as well. “It's good. It's what little is left of old Boston. I was lucky to be here awhile. The previous owner kept the rent down."
She took an unhappy breath.
She said, “I've been looking for two months. I keep raising my limit. It doesn't do any good."
How was he going to prolong this conversation?
He said, “Team up. Find some roommates. I hear the larger apartments are cheaper per square foot."
That was a bit too officious. She returned a weary smile. “Right. But there are no larger apartments on Beacon Hill. It's all so old. Besides, it gets a little tiring after a few years to be listening to other people's music and cleaning up other people's dishes all the time."
How old was she? he wondered. There was a leanness in her cheeks. Perhaps thirty. She was very pretty. There were no rings on her hands.
He said, “I can't put up with that myself...."
She nodded. As he looked for more words, she studied his face. “What are you going to do?"
The thought occurred that perhaps he had made a mistake taking an apartment by himself. He said, “I just found a small place in Cambridge through a friend. That's always the best way. Check with your friends."
She flinched. “I guess I don't have the right friends."
She was turning to go.
"Well...” What more did he have to say? What excuse could he come up with to keep her a moment longer? “My name is Henry. Let me know if I can help...."
He reached into his shirt pocket. He knew a bent business card was still there, and he handed it to her.
She smiled at him uncertainly and read the card. The hope flitted across his brain that she might just say, “Oh. A bookseller. I just love books.” But she didn't.
She said, “I'm Della,” and shook his hand before turning again to leave. The grip was firm.
He looked down at his socks and wished he had put on his shoes. When he looked up again, she had the door open. He struggled for something else to say. Then she was gone.
"Merry Christmas,” he said to the closed door. The echo of his own voice in the stairwell above him made the words sound hollow. He followed the echoed beat of his own footsteps upward again.
Della. He could remember only one person by that name. Della Street. She had been the helpful secretary in the Perry Mason books.
The bell rang again, startling him, just as he reached his open apartment door. This time he grabbed his shoes as he pressed the button and skipped steps as he went down again.
But it was Leona who faced him there with a wide smile. She was holding a small gift-wrapped box. “Merry Christmas."
He kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas yourself. But I thought you were through with me."
Their last argument had not ended well.
Leona nodded. “Take it as a peace offering, then.... Why are you holding your shoes?"
"I was just about to put them on."
"Going out? Can I come?"
He shrugged. “I haven't eaten."
"Me, either. I was hoping you'd ask."
There was no escape. He would rather not be alone with his thoughts just then in any case.
"Just a minute. I'll get my coat."
She said, “Open your present first!"
Leona bounced where she stood. Her enthusiasms were hard to deny. He took the thin box, pulled at the ribbon, and the top came off by itself. Inside was the gray-riddled brown of a round Irish tweed cap. He watched her expectant face as he put it on. It fit perfectly. She kissed him on the lips before he had time to move to thank her.
She said, “Tell me you like it."
He said, “I like it fine."
"I knew it would fit."
He said, “It fits fine."
Off guard, his amazement must have been obvious.
She confided, her voice lowered, “I knew it would fit because I didn't buy it. My mother bought it. She never bought wrong sizes. She had the eye."
He did not understand. She raised her arms in defense.
"I couldn't throw it away. It was brand-new, still in the box. When we were cleaning the house out, I found it in her closet and I couldn't figure out why it was there. Dad never wore hats like that. Besides, his head was smaller. Then, after I found that letter from your father, I realized. Mom had bought it for him, but he probably wouldn't take it. Anyway, I kept it. I don't know why. Well, I probably knew why. But you made that pretty easy when you complained that your dad was not even willing to wear a hat. I knew it would fit you."
Henry knew he would have to wear it, whether he wanted to or not.
Over hamburgers at the Paramount, Leona told him about her recent struggles as a single parent, including a quest to find shoes for her oldest son, who had the feet of a basketball player and the coordination of an elephant. Henry recommended Chad Humphrey, their old schoolmate.
She said, “Sad Chad. Always at the back of the band. Always holding his trumpet in one hand and that little handkerchief with the other."
Henry added, “Nice guy. Knows his shoes."
She said, “The ‘trembling trumpeter.’ Someone called him that once."
Henry remembered. “Never liked to be in front of people. Still plays trumpet."
She said, “Never married?"
Henry smiled at the thought. “Not yet. Used to talk about old horror movies whenever the conversation turned to girls."
She said, “Some subjects are too scary."
Henry said, “Girls are always pretty scary."
She rolled her eyes at that. Women never understood just how scary they could be.
She asked, “So, what did you talk about when you first met a girl?"
Leona knew the answer to that. Why did he have to say it?
"Books. Remember?"
Her smile faded.
"Yes."
There was no sadness left in him for this. She wanted something that was long gone from both their lives. A moment of innocence. Simple love. But there was none of that left in either of them.
He kissed her at the entrance to the subway. With Chanukah already past, he wished her a Merry Christmas once more. It was half a smile she returned, with one lift of her hand for a wave. He tipped his new cap to her. She had come by to be with him, and he was in fact sorry he was not in the mood for conversation or much else.
Walking back through the Public Garden, he wished it would snow and clean all the darkness away, or at least dress the world again the way it had been when he was young enough to be led by the hand beneath the Christmas lights on the Commons. The colored lights strung there blazed starkly behind the darker silhouettes of the nearer trees of the Garden. He looked for the Swan Boats, as he always did, even when they were gone from the pond for the winter. A glaze of gray-mottled ice trimmed the black water, and this was decorated with a spill of color angled from the distance.
Out loud he said, “Della."
Wasn't it odd that she should still be occupying some space in his mind? He was wrong. Of course! He did want company. But not Della. And not Leona. The person he had wanted to speak to more than once over the last week was Ranulf.
There was some unfinished business there. There was something left to say. What?
That there was no revenge. That there was none to be had. Morgan had been a casualty of life itself. As if she had been taken by an undetected cancer as well. That Ranulf's loss—that Henry's loss as well—was something grown out of the same life that had benefited them all.
Still, it was odd that he was thinking about Della. The mind was a funny place.
Passing Deluca's Market, he stopped impulsively and went in without an aim, bought a carton of eggnog, a bottle of Jamaican rum
, and a package of cigarettes and went on home.
After closing out the street noise behind him with the door, a sound wafted from high in the stairwell. Certain it was from within the building, Henry left his package on the floor and stepped lightly upward. Something was pulled across rough boards. Someone was in the attic.
The last steps were steeper, angling over the stairwell below. He had always hated heights, and looking down gave him a shiver at his spine, even with the hot air at the top. The skylight close by caught the sound of cars from the street and dampened the noises from the open door. He knocked on the frame with his fist.
"Jesus!” came a voice. Someone stumbled. Something fell. Something else fell.
Henry said, “Hello?"
The voice was high-pitched with surprise.
"Who's there?"
"Henry Sullivan."
"Sullivan?"
A face poked around the door frame. The close-cut red hair was receding on a broad pink forehead covered with sweat.
Henry said, “I live on the third floor—until next week."
The man said, “I thought you were gone."
Henry answered, “Nearly. And you're Richard Prowder. Mary's brother."
Richard Prowder took a breath of relief. “Right. Can I help you?"
The irritation in his voice was clear.
Henry had intended to come up sometime during the week to retrieve some of his own things he had stored away. He had to wonder why Richard Prowder would be there now.
"As a matter of fact, I have some books up here. Your mother let me store them."
Prowder shook his head with a jerk of disgust. “Christ. She was worse than my sister."
Henry lowered his voice. “What do you mean?” He stepped into the low space which diminished into the dark.
Richard Prowder kicked at a box. “Keeping stuff. She kept everything."
The landscape of the attic was a range of various boxes, some marked by red crayon, others not marked at all. When Henry had last been up here, the boxes were still on the shelves that now were in the shadows behind them. Each shelf had been carefully labeled. Henry had thought it the most well-organized attic he had ever been in.
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