My Gal Sunday

by Mary Higgins Clark

  The look of awe on Jacques’s face had been indescribable.

  Come on, Jacques, Richard prayed, I’m going to put this train set together again, and you’ve got to get back here to run it with me.

  The phone rang. He jumped up, managing to take it from Giselle’s grasp before she had a chance to speak. “Richard Dalton,” he said crisply.

  A voice, low and husky, obviously attempting to be disguised, asked, “How much cash you got in the house?”

  Richard thought rapidly. “About two thousand dollars,” he said.

  Pete Schuler had changed his mind. Maybe he could get a few bucks out of this after all.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, I swear we didn’t.”

  “Okay. Leave the cash in the mailbox now. Then close all the blinds. I don’t want you looking out, understand?”

  “Yes, yes. We’ll do anything you say. Is Jacques all right? I want to talk to him.”

  “You’ll talk to him soon enough. Put the cash out where I told you and the kid is trimming the tree with you tomorrow night.”

  “Take care of him. You’ve got to take care of him.”

  “We will. But remember, any sign of police and he’s in South America being adopted. Got it?”

  They haven’t threatened to kill him, Richard thought. At least they haven’t threatened to kill him. Then he heard a click. He put the phone down and put his arms around Giselle. “He’ll be returned to us tomorrow,” he said.

  The window of the second-floor center bedroom looked out directly over the curbside mailbox. It was at this window that Richard established his observation post, peering through a slit in the draperies. The phone, on a long extension cord, was positioned right next to him. He knew that Giselle might not understand any instructions the growly voiced caller would give. Clearly, she was on the verge of collapse, but he did manage to get her to lie on the bed near the window, an afghan wrapped around her. His final preparation had been to adjust his camera to allow for the minimal lighting conditions.

  As he settled in for his watch, Richard realized despairingly how little he would be able to learn about anyone who attempted to take the money. The street was unlighted, the sky filled with heavy, threatening clouds. He would be lucky to even determine the make of car the person was driving. I should call the police, he thought. That’s probably the one chance we would have to follow whoever comes here for the money.

  He sighed. But if he did notify the police, and then something went wrong, he would never be able to forgive himself, and he knew that Giselle would never forgive him.

  His mind flashed back to when he was nine years old, and to the piano lessons his mother had made him take. One of the few songs he had managed to get through without a mistake was “All Through the Night.” He remembered that his mother would sometimes sit beside him on the piano bench and sing the words while he played:

  Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee

  All through the night.

  Guardian angels God will send thee

  All through the night.

  Let guardian angels take care of our little boy, Richard prayed silently as he listened to Giselle’s soft sobbing.

  A final fragment of the song ran through his head: “And I my loving vigil keeping, all through the night.”

  Dinner was simple: salad, French bread, pasta with basil and tomato sauce. The child sat with Henry and Sunday at the table in the small dining room. He took the napkin from beside the plate and placed it on his lap, but did not look at Sims when offered the bread and did not touch the food.

  “He has to be hungry,” Henry said. “It’s nearly seven-thirty.” He took a bite of the pasta and smiled at Jacques. “Ummm . . . delicious.”

  Jacques looked at him gravely, then averted his eyes.

  “Perhaps a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich?” Sims suggested. “How you enjoyed them when you were a lad, sir.”

  “Let’s just ignore him for a few minutes and see what happens,” Sunday said. “I think he’s terribly frightened, but I agree, he must be hungry. If he doesn’t start eating in a couple of minutes, we’ll switch menus. Sims, if we do try the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, substitute milk for the Coke.”

  She twirled pasta onto her fork. “Henry, don’t you think it’s very odd that the police haven’t heard from anyone about a missing child? I mean, if he were from a house around here, any normal parent would have been calling them immediately to report him missing. My point is, how did he get here? Do you think he might have been deliberately left on our doorstep?”

  “I can’t believe that,” Henry said. “Anyone deliberately planning to leave the child here would have to be psychic to know that we sent the Secret Service guys home for these few days. Otherwise they’d have been seen and questioned at the gates. I think it’s more likely that for some incredible reason he simply hasn’t been missed yet.”

  Sunday glanced at Jacques then quickly back at Henry. “Don’t look now,” she said quietly, “but a certain little guy is starting to dig in.”

  For the rest of the meal, she and Henry chatted, ostensibly ignoring Jacques, who finished the entire plate of pasta, the salad, and the Coke.

  Sunday noticed him eyeing the bread, which was out of his reach. Casually she nudged the basket nearer to him. “Another observation,” she said. “He wanted the bread but couldn’t ask for it, and wouldn’t reach for it. Henry, this child, whether you realize it or not, has very good table manners.”

  After dinner, they went back to the library to finish trimming the tree. Sunday pointed out the last full box of ornaments to Jacques, and he began handing them to her. She noticed how careful he was as he plucked them, one by one, from the cardboard separators. That’s something else he’s done before, she decided. Later she noticed that his eyes were beginning to droop.

  When the last ornament was taken from the box and hung on the tree, she said, “I think somebody needs to go to bed. The question is, where do we put him?”

  “Darling, there are at least sixteen bedrooms in this house.”

  “Yes, but where did you sleep when you were this guy’s size?”

  “In the nursery suite.”

  “With your nanny nearby?”

  “Of course.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sims was piling the empty boxes together. “Sims, I think we’ll put our little friend on the couch in our sitting room,” Sunday said. “That way we can leave the bedroom door open and he can see and hear us.”

  “Very good, madam. As to nightdress?”

  “One of Henry’s tee shirts will do fine.”

  Later that night, Sunday awakened to a faint stirring from the next room. In an instant she was out of bed, across the carpet, and at the door of the adjacent sitting room.

  Jacques was standing at the window, his face raised to the sky. A faint drone caught her attention. A plane was passing overhead. He must have heard it, she thought. I wonder what it means to him.

  As she watched, the little boy walked back to the couch, got under the covers and buffed his face in the pillow.

  Christmas Eve dawned crisp and bright. A dusting of predawn snow left a glittery, fresh surface on already white lawns and fields. Henry, Sunday, and Jacques went for an early morning walk.

  “Darling, you do know we can’t keep him indefinitely,” Henry said. A deer ran through the woods, and Jacques rushed ahead of them to witness its swift flight.

  “I know, Henry.”

  “You were fight to keep him near us last night. I think I’m starting to realize what it will be like when we have children of our own, sweetheart. Will they all sleep on the couch in the sitting room?”

  Sunday laughed. “No, but they won’t be in another wing of the house, either. Have you finished your Christmas greeting for the Internet?”

  “Yes, I have. So many people from all over the world wrote to us this year that I think it’s an appropriate time to convey our good wishes and gratitu
de to them.”

  “I do too.” Then Sunday’s voice changed. “Henry, look!”

  Jacques had abruptly stopped running and now stood looking up longingly at the sky.

  They could hear the drone of an airplane far above. “Henry,” Sunday said slowly, “another clue: I think that little boy has recently been on a plane.”

  Pete Schuler was not comforted by the realization that he had two thousand, three hundred and thirty-three bucks in his pocket, even though the windfall did mean that he could take the rest of the winter off and go ski somewhere. Several questions still nagged at him.

  Where was the kid? Why didn’t he show up? His dumb cousin, Betty, had lost him somewhere in New Jersey. How come some nice, concerned citizen hadn’t found him and turned him over to the cops? Suppose the kid had had an accident? He turned the questions over in his mind, his nerves jumping.

  Betty was at her friend’s pad in New York, that dump in the East Village. Pete dialed the number. Betty answered. Her voice was ragged. “ The kid back home yet?” she asked.

  “No. Where the hell did you lose him?”

  “Bernardsville. That was the name of the town. Do you think he got run over or something?”

  “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who lost him.” Pete hesitated, considering. “I’m pretty sure the parents haven’t called the police.” He wasn’t about to tell Betty that he had gotten any money. “But we need to know what’s going on. Just in case they have some kind of tracer on him, you take a bus over to New Jersey, call the Bernardsville police from a phone booth, and ask if a five-year-old kid was turned in to them. Got it?”

  “What good will that do? What do you think they’ll tell me?” Betty asked. Why did I get into this? she was thinking. If something has happened to this kid, I could go to jail for the rest of my life.

  “Do it. Now! But be careful. If they have the kid they’ll ask you a bunch of questions,” Pete snapped.

  At two o’clock, Betty called him back. “I’m not sure if they have him or not,” she said. “They asked me to describe the child. I hung up fast.”

  “That was stupid,” Pete told her curtly. He broke the connection. If the Daltons hadn’t yet gone to the police, it was a sure thing they would very soon, especially if they didn’t get further word from him. He drove to a gas station in Southport, and shut himself in the phone booth. He would have to make the next move himself.

  The phone was answered on the first ring. “Richard Dalton.”

  “There’s been a delay,” Schuler said in the same semi-disguised voice he had attempted before, speaking through a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, the way he had seen it done in the movies. “Just don’t panic. Got it? Don’t panic!”

  Richard Dalton heard the click as the caller hung up. Something has gone wrong, he thought. Whoever had taken the money came on foot, he realized. That was why he hadn’t seen anyone. All night long he had stayed awake, watching for a car to drive down the block. It hadn’t come. Still, in the morning the money was gone. Somehow he had completely missed the person who had taken it.

  The phone rang again. Dalton grabbed it, identified himself, listened, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s your father,” he said, “he wants to speak to Jacques.”

  “Tell him Jacques and I are out, doing our last-minute Christmas shopping,” Giselle whispered. Her face was a mask of fear and pain. Richard could hardly bear to look into her eyes.

  “Louis, they’re out shopping,” Richard said. “ We’ll surely speak with you tomorrow.”

  As he replaced the receiver, Giselle screamed, “Tell him that Jacques and I are Christmas shopping.”

  She fell to the floor in a faint, accidentally hitting the switch for the electric train. The lights blazed on, the crossing gates went down, the locomotive chugged, then roared.

  Dalton strode across the room, snapped off the switch, then cradled has wife in his arms.

  At five o’clock on Christmas Eve, the police chief of Bernardsville phoned and asked to speak to Henry. “Mr. President,” he said, “ there are flyers being distributed in all the neighboring areas about the boy. The FBI field office and all fifty states have his picture and description. We’ve checked with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. So far, we’re drawing a complete blank. I can tell you though, that we did get one odd phone call today, asking if a five-year-old boy had been turned in to us. This is beginning to look like an abandoned child situation. Has he said anything yet?”

  “Not a word,” Henry admitted.

  “Then we think it best if we take custody of the boy. We need to take him to the hospital and have him evaluated properly to see if he really can’t speak, or if perhaps he’s been traumatized.”

  “Hold on, Chief, please.”

  Sunday had sent Sims to the local Toys-R-Us, and he had returned laden with gifts. Most of the presents were still wrapped. They had opened a few, however, including a large box of heavy plastic interlocking building blocks, with which she and Jacques were constructing an elaborate tower. She listened with dismay as Henry repeated the message. “Henry, it’s Christmas Eve. This little boy can’t wake up in a hospital tomorrow.”

  “And we can’t keep him indefinitely, darling.”

  “Tell them to leave him with us until Thursday. At least let him have Christmas. He’s comfortable here, I know he is. And something else, Henry. Sims bought some new clothes. The stuff he was wearing appears new but doesn’t fit him. There’s something strange going on. I don’t think he was abandoned; I think his family doesn’t know where to look for him. Tell the police that.”

  Jacques did not know what the nice lady who looked a little like Maman was saying. He did know that he was glad to be with her, as well as with the nice tall man and the old man who looked like Grand-père. Maybe if he was a very good boy they would let him stay with them. But he also wanted to be home with Maman and Richard. Why had they sent him away? Suddenly he couldn’t hold the sadness in any longer. He put down the small block he was about to place on the very top of the tower and began to cry —– silent, hopeless, lonely tears that even the nice lady who rocked him in her arms could not prevent.

  That night he could not eat dinner. He really tried, but the food wouldn’t go down his throat. Later they went back into the room with the Christmas tree, and all he could think about was the train set he and Richard were going to put together in the new house in Darien.

  Sunday knew what Henry was thinking. They weren’t really helping the little boy. He was grieving, a silent, persistent grief that all the toys in the world wouldn’t help. Maybe he did belong in a hospital where he could get professional help.

  She experienced the same helpless feeling she had had when she waited with Henry and her father during her mother’s operation.

  “What are you thinking, love?” Henry asked quietly.

  “Just that we’d better let the professionals take over tomorrow. You were right. We’re not doing him any favors keeping him here.”

  “I agree.”

  “It doesn’t feel much like Christmas Eve,” Sunday said sadly. “A lost child . . . I can’t believe someone isn’t looking for him. Can you imagine how we’d feel if our little boy were missing?”

  Henry started to answer, then tilted his head. “Listen. The Christmas carolers are coming.”

  He crossed to the window and opened it. As the crisp air blew into the room, the carolers drew nearer to the house. They were singing “God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen.”

  Let nothing you dismay, Sunday thought. Softly she hummed with them as they switched to the familiar poignant words of “Silent Night.”

  She and Henry applauded, as the group launched into “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly.”

  Then the leader of the carolers approached the window and said, “ Mr. President, we learned a special song for you because we read once that it was a favorite of yours at school. If we may . . .”

  He blew on
the pitch pipe and the group softly began to sing,

  “Un flambeau, Jeannette Isabelle,

  Un flambeau, courrons au berceau.

  C’est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau

  Le Christ est né. . . .”

  From behind her, Sunday heard a sound. Jacques had remained hunched on the chair opposite the couch, where they had been sitting when the carolers had appeared. As she watched, he bolted uptight. His half-closed eyes opened wide. His lips moved in synch with the singers’.

  “Henry,” she said quietly, “look. Do you see what I see?”

  Henry turned. “What do you mean, darling?”

  “Look!”

  Without seeming to study Jacques, Henry stared at him intently. “ He knows that song.” He went over and scooped the little boy up in his arms.

  “Again, please,” he requested when the carolers stopped. But when they sang the song again, Jacques sealed his lips.

  When the carolers had left, Henry turned to the little boy and began speaking French. “Comment t’appelles-tu? Où habites-tu?”

  But Jacques only closed his eyes.

  Henry looked at Sunday and shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do. He won’t answer me, but I think he understands what I’m asking.”

  Sunday looked thoughtfully at Jacques. “Henry, you must have noticed how fascinated our little friend was when a plane flew overhead this afternoon.”

  “You pointed it out to me.”

  “And the same thing happened last night. Henry, suppose this child just got here from another country. No wonder he hasn’t been reported missing. Sims brought back one of the flyers with his picture and description, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Henry. You were going to put a Christmas greeting on the Internet, weren’t you?”

  “My annual message. Yes. At midnight.”

  “Henry, do me a favor.” Sunday pointed to Jacques. “This year put the flyer with his picture and description on as well, and especially ask people in France and other French-speaking countries to take particular note of his picture. And from now on, talk to me in French. I may not get much of it, but maybe we’ll make a breakthrough.”