Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Claire felt more or less clean, although the clothes she had changed into after her shower made her skin crawl. She was glad she had grabbed up a pair of battered army boots as a fitting complement to her ensemble: at least they were easy to walk in. Once her limbs loosened up, Claire fell into a comfortable rhythm. After Rick’s place, it was a pleasure to be outside in cold, clean air.

  “You know where we’re going?” Claire asked, as she and Jonathan marched in single file, avoiding trash barrels and other obstacles on the buckled and icy sidewalks.

  “Sure. You can almost see it from here.”

  “So, we get the three fifteen bus, which puts us into Port Authority about five thirty, right? You know New York?”

  “I’ve been there, on and off. You?”

  “My grandmother lived there when I was growing up. I know parts of it, mostly department stores and museums. And my grandmother would never have contemplated taking a subway anywhere, so there were gaps in my education. But I’ve visited Leah a few times, stayed at her place for a couple of weeks. I can find my way around.”

  “Tell me about her.” Jonathan’s breath made clouds as he panted along.

  “Leah? She’s my best friend. I’ve known her . . .” Claire did some quick mental arithmetic. “Almost exactly half my life. We met our freshman year in college. She’s one of the smartest people I know, and she sort of collects people. If she doesn’t know someone, you can bet that she knows someone who knows someone, if you know what I mean.”

  “She live alone?”

  “I don’t know if she’s seeing anyone, but she likes her privacy, so, yeah, she has her own place. It’s small, but she’s been there for years.”

  They walked without speaking for a couple of blocks.

  “When you called, what did she ask?”

  “You mean, after ‘are you all right?’? Not much. I don’t care what Rick says—I don’t feel safe talking about this stuff over the phone. This whole business is making me paranoid. But don’t worry—she’s not going to turn us in, or throw us out on the street. Just consider her my Rick.”

  “Got it. Look, I wouldn’t worry about anyone identifying us on a subway in New York. For one thing, nobody’s looking for us there. For another, it would take the manpower of several states to cover the city. As long as we don’t call attention to ourselves, we should be effectively invisible.”

  Claire was not reassured. “What about Port Authority?”

  “It’s possible someone could be watching there. I’d clear out of there as quickly as we can, but we should be hitting it about rush hour, so there’ll be lots of people around.”

  They arrived at the Providence bus station with time to spare. Claire glanced nervously around, but nobody was paying any attention to them. Good thing she hadn’t decided to play hermit in some town in the Midwest, where she would be more noticeable. Of course, she corrected herself, if she had gone to South Podunk to find solitude, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all. What was she doing here, her hair a rat’s nest, her clothes straight from a trash bin, flinching every time someone looked in her direction? Her full but orderly life in Northampton seemed a distant memory.

  She intensely disliked not knowing what was going to happen next. Why had she ever agreed to help Jonathan Daulton? She studied him covertly as they waited for their bus to board. He looked cheerful, damn him! Of course, he fancied himself a daredevil journalist, so he was probably having the time of his life, living out all his fantasies. He could probably taste the big exposé he would write at the end of this escapade. He even had the requisite moll on his arm: her. At that irreverent thought, Claire stifled a laugh. Jonathan looked at her with a question in his eyes, but their bus began boarding and she was spared trying to explain what she found so funny.

  Without speaking, they chose separate seats several rows apart. A seriously overweight woman carrying mismatched plastic bags heaved herself into the seat next to Claire, forcing her into the corner of her seat. Claire sent up a silent prayer that the woman wouldn’t want to chat for the next two hours, and Claire realized she didn’t even have a cover story. Something to think about. Who was she? Surely someone at home with spinning words and ideas should be able to come up with a coherent tale, in case anybody asked. Which she devoutly hoped wouldn’t happen.

  Constructing an alternate persona kept Claire busy for an enjoyable hour or so. Finally, bored with her own thoughts, she pulled the romance novel out of her pocket and burrowed into it. Her seat companion had remained blessedly silent up to that point, but when she saw Claire’s book, she gave her a nudge with her substantial elbow.

  “Good one, that is,” she said, nodding at the book.

  Claire debated briefly about freezing her out, but she decided that it couldn’t hurt to exchange a few words. Besides, maybe she could learn something. “Yeah. You read a lot of her?”

  The woman smiled complacently and settled herself more comfortably among her parcels. “Oh, yeah, sure. Whenever I can. Which ain’t often, what with my job, and the kids and all. But a girl’s gotta have some fun. Right?” She nudged Claire again.

  “Sure.” Claire tried to frame her next question. “Who else you like?”

  “Jeez, I dunno. With Nora, you always know what you’re gonna get.”

  Exactly, Claire thought. Predictable drivel. She realized the other woman was still talking.

  “I just love all them guys—they’re gorgeous, and smart, and they’re really nice. And you know they’re gonna be together by the end.”

  She was right so far, Claire reflected. “But, you gotta admit they’re not for real.” Claire, as befit her new identity, carefully omitted a few syllables.

  The woman let out a bark of laughter. “Hey, who wants to read about real? I live that, 24/7. It’s nice to read about somethin’ else, where everybody’s clean and polite, and they end up happy. Dontcha think?”

  “I hear you.” The classic line from Marilyn French’s book The Women’s Room popped into her head: “shit and string beans.” That was the real world, as skewered by an iconic writer of women’s fiction. And that was most likely the real world for this unlovely woman sitting next to her. Why should she want to read about it? She was right: she lived it. When she read a book—and apparently she did read, more power to her—she wanted something to take her away from the mundane reality of her life. Was that unreasonable? How could she, Claire, fault her for shunning books filled with ideas and insights and frustration, when all she wanted was to forget reality for a bit? This was something to think about. Claire turned toward her—at least, as far as she could, hemmed in by the other woman’s bulk.

  “So, who else you read?”

  Claire was surprised at how quickly the rest of the trip passed. When the bus pulled in at Port Authority, the woman gathered up her bags and stood to let Claire get past her. “You take care, dear. And check out Jessica Andersen’s stuff, huh? It’s really hot.”

  “Thanks, Bea. Safe trip.” Claire made her way toward the front of the bus, smiling to herself. She wondered if she could somehow work this encounter into her own book—and what she wanted to say about it. She was still musing as she entered the bustling building, and Jonathan caught up with her.

  “Hey, babe, looks like you made a new friend.”

  “She’s okay. And drop the ‘babe,’ will you?”

  He moved closer to her. “Look, it beats calling you by name, right?”

  “Oh. Right.” For an hour Claire had managed to forget their hypothetical pursuers. She glanced around her, but nobody seemed even remotely interested in them. She settled the backpack over her shoulder. “Well, then, let’s find the subway.”

  20

  Claire sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she managed to find the right subway in her distracted state of mind, as she and Jonathan forced their way onto the rush-hour train. Between the noise and the crowd, there was no opportunity to talk, and they stared blankly into space, in different directions, carefully
avoiding eye contact with anyone, including each other. When they arrived at their stop, Claire snagged Jonathan’s attention and nodded toward the exit. He nodded in acknowledgment and followed her off the train. They maintained silence until they reached street level. Claire oriented herself on the dark street, crowded with hurrying people hunched against the cold, then said, “This way,” and started off at a brisk clip. Jonathan followed without comment.

  When Leah had moved to New York, she had found the Chelsea apartment quickly, and she had never seen any reason to move in the ten years since. As she had told Claire, it was woefully lacking on some of the amenities New Yorkers often took for granted—like security measures—but it was funky, comfortable, and cheap. As they approached the building, Claire anxiously looked up at the crumbling brownstone façade. There were lights in Leah’s apartment—she was home. The intense relief that swept through her shocked Claire. She must have been more anxious than she had thought.

  She made a surreptitious survey of the street: no curious eyes. When they drew parallel with the building, Claire grabbed Jonathan’s elbow and pulled him toward the front door. Quickly she stabbed a finger at the button under Leah’s name, and an answering buzz came fast—Leah must have been waiting for her. Inside the lobby, Claire was annoyed when Jonathan slowed to study the architectural details that spoke of more gracious days: marble mosaic on the floor, dusty gilt cornices, an old-fashioned brass letter chute ending in an ornate lobby box. Claire interrupted his contemplation. “Yeah, it’s pretty, but there’s no elevator. Come on.”

  She led the way up the wide marble staircase with its intricate cast-iron balustrade. At the second floor, the marble gave way to more prosaic wood. By the third floor they were both out of breath, but they had reached the end of the stairs. Claire rapped on the door of apartment 306, and heard the brisk click of heels. She saw a flicker at the peephole, heard the thunk of multiple locks, and then Leah threw open the door. Claire allowed herself a fleeting moment to enjoy the rapid succession of expressions that crossed Leah’s face before she threw herself into Leah’s arms. She found herself perilously close to tears.

  Leah held on hard for a long moment, then pushed Claire away to give her a thorough look. “I almost didn’t recognize you, girl! What the hell have you done to yourself? Although it might be an improvement over your usual college blah outfits.” Then she looked over Claire’s shoulder and took a fast step back. “What the . . . ? Why’d you bring him along? Or . . . didn’t you have a choice?” She fixed Jonathan with a glare that would have melted steel. “You got a gun on her? ’Cause if you do, you’re going to have to shoot both of us, and I don’t plan to make it easy.”

  Claire burst out laughing. “No, Leah, it’s all right. I’m here of my own free will. And I can explain everything—but it might be a good idea to get into the apartment and close the door first.”

  Leah studied Claire’s face. “You sure?” When she nodded, Leah stepped back and let them pass. Claire noted that when she closed the door behind them, she didn’t throw all the bolts—planning for a quick getaway? It didn’t matter. For the first time in days, Claire felt safe. She looked around Leah’s apartment, and was cheered to find that nothing had changed. It was crowded, colorful, eclectic, messy—and it was wonderful to be here.

  Leah had positioned herself in the middle of her living slash everything room and was still keeping a wary eye on Jonathan. “Okay, first things first. You hungry?”

  “Starving! What’ve you got?”

  “Girl, this is Leah, remember? I don’t cook. What do you want to order in?”

  “I don’t care—just make sure there’s lots of it.”

  “Deal. You want a drink? You still into wine?”

  “Sure. Anything stronger and I won’t be able to think straight.”

  “Like you ever do. What about you, pal?” Her voice was noticeably cooler as she turned to Jonathan.

  He was still standing, scanning the room, taking in the details. “Me? Whatever you’ve got. Beer, wine, hard stuff.”

  “I’ve got beer.” Leah turned back to Claire. “Let me call for food, and then you can sit down and tell me the whole story. Two secs. Don’t go anywhere.” She disappeared into the tiny alcove that constituted her kitchen, where Claire remembered a phone on the wall.

  “No way I’m moving!” Claire sank gratefully into a blowsy overstuffed chair covered with purple chenille. She bent down to unlace her army boots, and pulled them off and wiggled her toes. “Bliss. Jonathan, sit down. Leah is not going to bite you.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He perched on the edge of a love seat whose stuffing oozed from a few corners. “What does she know?”

  “Not much. I told you—I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it on the phone. And I guess I sort of forgot to mention that you were coming. I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea.” Whatever that might be. Claire flopped back into the comfortable chair and stretched. How many times had she sat in this same chair while she and Leah discussed everything and anything? Tonight’s story would top them all.

  Leah came back, clutching bottles and glasses. She lined them up on the coffee table in the middle of the floor and said, “Half an hour ’til food. Okay, fill up and spill.” She sent another hostile glance at Jonathan, who was taking up more than half of the love seat, then settled on the floor next to Claire’s chair, her legs crossed. “You can start with him.” She nodded toward Jonathan.

  Claire shut her eyes for a moment, to sort out her thoughts. “Okay, what have you heard on the news?”

  “Bits and pieces. I assume this is Jonathan Daulton? Doesn’t look much like his picture. Well, the story they’re giving out is that he’s wanted for questioning about a shooting, and then he took you hostage and you both disappeared. That was, what, two days ago? Since nobody’s seen you since, the updates have been kind of sparse. Plus all this happened in the north woods somewhere, and you know what New Yorkers think about anything outside of the five boroughs. Unless the Yankees are playing on the road. Come on, tell me. What happened?”

  “First, Leah—has anyone talked to you? I mean, asking about us? Called?”

  “Hell, no, girl. You asked me that before, and the answer’s still the same. And why would anybody call me?”

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. You are my best friend, officially. But I suppose they’d be looking for someone willing and able to pay a ransom, or bargain with the kidnappers, or something. Unless you’ve gotten a whopping raise lately, you’re out of the running, right?”

  Leah glared at her. “Hey, I’d hock my brother to bail you out. Well, the younger one, anyway. But the short answer is no, nobody’s been ’round to see me. And I’m guessing the kidnapping part isn’t exactly true?”

  “Not exactly. Damn—I bet they’ve talked to my folks.” Claire battled a wave of guilt when she thought about how her parents must be feeling at the moment.

  “You mean you haven’t? They must be flipping out!” Leah looked aghast.

  “I know, I know. But I’m sure the FBI has got to have a tap on their line, and I can’t risk letting them get a fix on us. For the moment I’d rather not let them know where we are. And we should get this sorted out really soon—I’ll explain it to them then.”

  Leah fidgeted in her seat on the floor. “Come on, you haven’t told me squat. Start at the beginning, will you? You’re the professor: synthesize and summarize. And make it fast.”

  “All right. Remember I e-mailed you that I was going to spend a few months in Maine? Well, I was up at the Murrays’ cabin, minding my own business, trying to get that book moving along, and this jerk”—Claire nodded toward Jonathan—“comes crashing in, in the middle of the night.”

  “And why didn’t you throw him out? Or call the cops?”

  “Well, he was soaking wet, and freezing, and bleeding, and the power was out, and it was icy . . .” Yeah, right, Claire, make excuses. “Besides, he looked kind of familiar.” Cl
aire mentally crossed her fingers: this was not the time to bring up that monumental lapse of judgment five years ago to Leah. “You know who he is, right?”

  Leah cast a look of disgust Jonathan’s way. “Yeah, he wrote that piece of sexist crap a few years ago. It’s all over the news reports. Hey, buddy—maybe this’ll boost your sales.”

  Jonathan looked pained but said nothing.

  Claire resumed, “Yes, well, anyway. So I cleaned him up and dried him off and put him to bed, and then the next morning he gives me his story. He claims he was staying at a friend’s house while he was supposed to be giving this winter seminar at Greenferne, and he answers the door one night. It’s the FBI, but before he can find out why they’re there, a student who’s been house-sitting comes out shooting, and an FBI agent ends up dead. And Jonathan panics and lights out of there after somebody wings him, and then he gets lost in the dark, and falls in the lake a couple of times, and that’s how he ended up at my place.”

  Leah filled a glass of wine for herself, and refilled Claire’s. “Sure.” Her tone oozed sarcasm. “That’s a start. So why didn’t you go to the feds or the cops the next day and straighten things out? Seems like it’s a long way from that to kidnapping you. Hey, pal, you got anything to say for yourself?” This time she spoke to Jonathan.

  Jonathan’s gaze flickered toward Claire before he turned to answer Leah. “You’re right, that would have been the sensible thing to do, ordinarily. But I asked Claire to get me some dry clothes, and to see what the public story was, and she found out that Susie—that was the student—was telling a very different story, and the cops believed her. So I convinced Claire not to turn me in. I was just going to get on a bus and disappear, but when she was dropping me off at the bus stop, the cops showed up. And that’s when this kidnapping happened. Or didn’t happen. Or non-kidnapping. Whatever it was.”

  Claire was enjoying her wine. “Hey, you had me going there for a few minutes. I was convinced you’d pulled a fast one on me.” She turned to Leah. “You’ll love this—he threatened me with a plastic gun, that belonged to one of the Murrays’ grandkids.”