Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  I begin ‘stalking’ through the rooms on the first floor, pretending to be a giant ogre who is genuinely mystified as to where she could be.

  “Where is Caitlyn?” I say, in a deep, gravelly voice as I roam the living room and poke my head into the Writing Room. “Where is she?”

  I turn and begin stomping up the stairs. “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum …”

  I stand at the top and stare down the hallway.

  “Caitlyn …? Oh, Caitlyn?”

  A candle is on the nightstand in her room, giving it an other-worldly glow. The pile of stuffed animals on the window seat watches me as I prowl around the room. “Where is that stinker?” I say, loud enough for it to carry down the hall to the bathroom where I know she’s hiding. I stomp over to her closet. “Is she in HERE?!” I dramatically throw open the door. Of course, she’s not. “Hmmm …”

  I leave the closet open and stomp out into the hall. “I think I smell her …” I start walking towards the bathroom. “I smell her in the room where all stinky girls go and hide …”

  I reach the bathroom door and grasp the handle.

  There’s a sound behind me.

  Startled, I turn just in time to the see the hem of Caitlyn’s nightgown as she disappears into her room. Then, there’s the sound of her closet doors closing.

  “You, little lady, are quite the scamp,” I laugh.

  She had been hiding in the guestroom and tried to sneak into her room after I searched it.

  I triumphantly walk back down the hall, into her room, and over to the now-closed closet doors. “That was really clever to try to hide in your room after I searched it.” I grasp the knob. “But now … I’VE GOT YOU!”

  I throw open the closet doors.

  The clothes hang from the rack and the basket is on the floor … but Caitlyn’s not here.

  “Caitlyn?”

  I can’t wrap my head around this. I kneel down and push the clothes basket aside. I turn on the closet light. It’s empty. “Caitlyn?”

  “Dad?”

  I jump and pull myself out of the closet. Caitlyn is standing in the doorway, looking disappointed and hurt.

  “How did—? Where were you?” I ask.

  “I was hiding in the bathroom. In the shower.”

  I look from her to the empty closet and back. “But … you ran across the hall … I saw you.”

  I realize her hurt and disappointment aren’t directed at me.

  Caitlyn looks around the room.

  “Katherine, I told you not to play,” she says.

  I glance around, trying to figure out who she’s talking to.

  “Sweetheart … who’s Katherine?”

  Her eyes find me. The candlelight flickers across her face. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid of my daughter. It’s like she knows something I don’t and she’s trying to protect me from it.

  “I don’t want to play anymore,” she mumbles and goes downstairs, leaving me alone in her room.

  June 15th, 1900

  Today, my wish was granted! Well, not all of it, but I finally go to see him!

  I won’t bore you with more of my miserable situation, the pharmacy’s woes, or Father and Carol’s constant arguing.

  This entry is going to be about nothing but him!

  The decorations in the square for the Fourth of July Celebration have started. They’ve begun constructing the games and concession stalls that will fill the green.

  I’ll admit that I don’t think much of Kingsbrook, but the speed of the construction and the scale of the decorations are impressive. The view out of the pharmacy window is filled with men building the stalls and women hanging the bunting from every lamppost and the gazebo. At least it is something new to watch from behind the counter at the pharmacy, which is where I spend most of my time.

  Father was in the storeroom, executing his plan to save the pharmacy with cheap liquor. He purchased it from a man in Portland. I asked him ‘who?’ and he would only answer, ‘an associate’. It arrived in a wooden box. The bottles were big, bulky, and unlabeled. Father also received a shipment of smaller, sample-sized bottles. He had already made a sign advertising it as one of the finest cognacs from Paris. So, as I was saying, he was in the storeroom, transferring the cheap alcohol into the smaller bottles, when I spotted a group of official-looking men walking across the square, led by the Mayor.

  There was Thomas. He stood out from the rest of the group with his blue eyes and tall frame.

  “Father, I’m stepping out,” I said.

  “Where are you going?” he asked from behind the curtain.

  “Out. Only for a moment.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. There was no one in the store, so he didn’t have to worry about any theft taking place.

  I ran around the counter, out the door, and into the warm afternoon.

  The air was filled with the sounds of hammers and saws.

  I had no plan. I only wanted to see him and for him to see me.

  I could barely make out what the Mayor’s voice was saying above the din of construction. He was explaining the parade route through the square and the order of the festivities. The group of men surrounding him were nodding, chatting, and laughing among themselves.

  I wanted to get Thomas’s attention without anyone else noticing but it was impossible. I couldn’t wave like a child, making a scene, and embarrass him in front of everybody.

  Finally, the Mayor made a sweeping gesture around the square, saying something about a marching band. Everyone in the group followed his gesture with their eyes. To my satisfaction, everyone continued following the Mayor’s gesture except for Thomas, who stopped when he saw me.

  Our eyes met. His lips curled into a smile and he nodded in my direction. It was our own little moment amid the crowd.

  I know it wasn’t much, but it was everything that I had been hoping for. That one look, that one nod, erased days of misery and boredom.

  So, of course, it had to be slightly spoiled.

  Among the group being led around by the Mayor was his daughter, Patricia Fleming.

  My focus had been on Thomas and I hadn’t seen her. She had been lost in the crowd, but as they moved on, she stopped and was staring at me. She had only been a few feet away from Thomas and it was clear from her expression that she had seen the whole thing. She nodded at me in that condescending politeness that she has perfected.

  So be it. Let her be jealous all she wants that I’m the center of Thomas’s attention.

  I didn’t return her acknowledgment. Instead, I turned and walked back into the pharmacy, feeling lighter than air.

  The rest of the day was spent watching an endless loop of the memory of his smile and that nod.

  At one point, Father came out of the storeroom and asked me why I was humming. I wasn’t even aware that I was doing it.

  I guess that is what it’s like when the sun smiles at you.

  15

  It’s cereal and toast for breakfast this morning. I don’t have the energy for anything else.

  Last night, I tried to get Caitlyn to talk to me more about ‘Katherine’, but she refused. She said that she was ‘mad at her’. I eventually gave up. Caitlyn went to bed and I went around the house, collecting the spent tea candles. As I walked through every room, I caught myself taking furtive glances around corners and behind doors, almost expecting to find Caitlyn’s imaginary friend hiding there.

  I made no pretense of almost sleeping in my room. It was going to be another couch night. I watched a Chicago Cubs game I had DVR’d and tried to make sense of it all. In the end, I nodded off somewhere around two in the morning, after having convinced myself that my fatigue and grief were causing me to see and hear things and Caitlyn had used it to reinforce her imaginary friend, who now had a name. That has to stop but I can’t do it, right now. I don’t want to upset her and then send her to Mildred’s. I’ll wait until after the sleepover. Two more days won’t hurt.

  I avoid the conversation when she
comes down for breakfast and she doesn’t seem to want to talk about last night, either. Instead, we talk about the sleepover.

  “After you get on the bus, I’m going to take your stuff over to Mildred’s,” I tell her, pointing to the pillow and Disney Princess duffel bag she’s brought down from her room. “When you get dropped off later today, you can just go to her house. She’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” she replies through a mouth full of Corn Pops.

  “If you need anything, you tell Mildred, and she’ll call me.”

  “Dad, I know. You already told me.”

  “And you be good for Mildred. It’s a really nice thing she’s—”

  “Daaaaaad.”

  “Caitlyn, this is a big deal. It’s the first night we’ve spent apart since—” I catch myself but it’s too late. “It’s a big deal, sweetheart.”

  She nods, lost in thought.

  “I love you, kidd-o.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  *

  I step onto Mildred’s porch and knock on the door.

  She answers with a cup of coffee in her hand and warm smile on her face. “Come on in.”

  “Just dropping off Caitlyn’s things.”

  The aroma of fresh coffee and the faint trace of her clove cigarettes hang pleasantly in her kitchen as I walk through the door.

  “You can set that stuff anywhere. The guestroom is all made up.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Mildred. She’s really excited.”

  Mildred laughs. “So am I.”

  “If anything happens, if you need anything, just call me. I should be home all night.”

  “Oh God, I hope not. Go out. Have an adventure. Bring home a companion.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “What about you? How was your night? Did you have a ‘gentleman caller’?”

  She slyly smiles over the rim of her coffee mug.

  “A lady never tells.”

  *

  For three hours, I’ve been cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. It’s not my best, but it’s better than what I’ve been writing, and now, I can no longer ignore the fact that I’m starving. I close my notebook, go to the kitchen, and make myself a sandwich.

  I carry it to the alcove, sit at the table, and stare out at the lake as I contently chew and mentally begin outlining the next chapter. Maybe I could get it in before calling it a day. That would be some serious progre—

  … drip … drip …

  I stop.

  … drip … drip …

  “Damnit,” I whisper and stand.

  … drip … drip …

  I have to find that damn leak. It’s here, in the kitchen. At least, one of them is, because I’ve heard them all over the house. I scan everywhere and inspect every inch of the ceiling, walls, and take everything out of the cabinets, but there’s not a sign of water anywhere, even under the sink.

  “Enough,” I say out loud.

  It’s time to call the plumber.

  I sit at my computer in the Writing Room and pull up Yelp on the computer. I begin scanning the entries for local plumbers and comparing the reviews. I dial the number of the one with the highest rating.

  “So, you’re hearing the dripping but you haven’t seen any signs of water damage?” a man with a heavy New England accent asks after I complete my rambling description of the problem.

  “Yeah. I’ve searched everywhere.”

  “Hmm … That could be a problem. To find it, we may have to rip up some of the walls.”

  “Fantastic.” I suddenly feel a migraine coming on.

  “Do you know when they’ve done any remodels?”

  “I can find out.” I have Stelowski’s phone number here on my desk, somewhere. “You think they may have done a shoddy job?”

  “It’s possible. More likely that they haven’t changed all the plumbing in the place. Who knows how many patch jobs they’ve done? Might be something as old as the house.”

  This is getting more expensive by the moment.

  “Shouldn’t be too hard find out about the remodels. You said the house was old?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “If it’s historic, you can sometimes find some of that stuff online.”

  “Give me a second,” I say and began typing.

  “Oh, you don’t have to look, now—”

  “Hold on. Let me see.”

  I’m on a mission. If there’s more damage happening in the walls every moment that I can’t see, I want to take care of it, now.

  I enter ‘Nightingale House’ into the search bar.

  There are hundreds of hits, mostly real estate listings, and some photos.

  “This could take some time,” I sigh in defeat. “I’m not even sure what I’d be looking for.”

  “No worries. It’ll be in the public records, which I think Kingsbrook has online. What we can do is run a scope through the walls, along the pipes, and see where it’s coming from …”

  He continues laying out his plan while I continue scrolling. This is going to be an ordeal. He’s asking something about how attached I am to the hardwood floors. I try to find older articles, hoping to get lucky. There’s a society piece from the Kingsbrook Herald that’s dated 1900, announcing the arrival of the Carringtons at the Nightingale House for the summer holidays. I recognize the names from our tour of the Kingsbrook Historical Society.

  I distractedly click on the link.

  The page loads.

  Suddenly, I’m not breathing.

  “Mr. Price?” the plumber asks. “You still there?”

  “Yeah … yes … sorry. I’m going to have to call you back.” I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer.

  A photo accompanies the article on the screen—a photo of the Carrington family. The caption below reads:

  Thomas and Abigail Carrington and their daughter, Katherine.

  June 17th, 1900

  Every morning, I’ve been waking and getting to the pharmacy early, hoping that it will be the day that Thomas places another order, and today, just like my wish to see him, I was finally rewarded!

  When I went out to the kitchen for breakfast, I found Father sleeping on the sofa in the parlor. I tried to be quiet but he awoke. He made some excuse about staying up too late and accidentally falling asleep on the sofa, as if I don’t know what’s going on with him and Carol. They hardly ever talk anymore, and I think Father has started drinking.

  Working at the pharmacy has become somewhat of an escape for me. I can’t stand to be around either Father or Carol. It isn’t much of an escape, but at least I’m away from the house. I’m incredibly lonely but there’s always the hope of a letter from Thomas.

  This morning, I opened the pharmacy a full hour before our posted time. There wasn’t much to do, so I took one of the local newspapers and read for a while. Father arrived at the normal hour. He tried to sound upbeat, as he always does, but the bags under his eyes proved too heavy. Father went to the back to do the bookkeeping. I dusted the shelves and bottles, just as I had done yesterday while keeping an eye on the front door. I couldn’t help myself, and multiple times, I went out to the street to see if the courier was approaching.

  Finally, at eleven o’clock, the courier arrived. Father appeared from the storeroom at the sound of the bell and the courier handed him the letter. Father cut open the envelope with the penknife he keeps in his desk in the storeroom and glanced over the note.

  I asked if it was from Mr. Carrington, although I knew full well that it was.

  Father nodded.

  “It’s smaller than last week’s order,” he said with a frown and began assembling the items on the list. To my surprise, they were more feminine in nature—perfume, hair conditioner, cosmetics, etc. I was confused at first and then had a wonderful thought. He was clearly buying them as a present for me! (I could not have been more mistaken, as what follows will tell.)

  I placed the items in the bicycle basket an
d pedaled to the Nightingale House.

  This time, I took care that I was presentable after the ride, making sure no hair was out of place and smoothed out my clothes. I pulled the chain next to the door and heard footsteps. I was prepared to meet him with my own wicked little smile.

  The door opened and it was his wife.

  She regarded me as if I was a stray cat.

  “May I help you?”

  I stammered like a fool but finally said, “I have a delivery from the pharmacy.”

  Thankfully, Thomas hurried in from the living room to save me.

  “Ah, here it is.”

  I can’t be sure, but I thought I saw Mrs. Carrington recoil from him as he approached.

  “I meant to tell you. I ordered some supplies from the pharmacy in case you had forgotten anything in Boston.” He took the items from my arms and gave me a glance that told me to play along. “This is the girl from the pharmacy.”

  Mrs. Carrington said it was nice to meet me. Thomas pointed out that we had met before at my birthday party, which caused her to be embarrassed and worried.

  “You bought me that lovely journal,” I offered, trying to be helpful.

  “Of course, of course,” she said, shaking her head. “Forgive me. These past few days have been a whirlwind.”

  I told her I was sorry to hear about her mother. “I hope she’s feeling better.”

  “Thank you, she is feeling a little better … but … how did you know about my mother’s health?”

  Thomas came to my rescue, again. “I dropped by the pharmacy to pick up a few things while you were away and we had a brief conversation. She thanked me for the journal. I told her the gift was your idea, which led to her asking about you.”

  I thought the excuse was perfectly clever.

  There was the sound of the back door in the kitchen banging open and small frantic footsteps approaching. Through the dining room burst a young girl with long, straight blonde hair and wearing a very pretty dress. She was laughing but stopped when she almost crashed into Thomas. His look of annoyance caused her to shrink backwards. She shrank even further when she saw that there was a stranger in the room. She drifted towards Mrs. Carrington and clung to her leg. Then, a man entered from the kitchen, out of breath. I recognized him from the party as the driver of the Carringtons’ carriage.