B004XTKFZ4 EBOK (6 page)

“Is this a story?” I asked.

“It’s the
Mystery Theater
,”
she said, hugging a pillow to her belly. “I listen to it every night.”

“It’s like a TV show?”

She shook her head. “Better than TV,” she said.

And it was. We sat there in the darkness for the next hour, listening to a story unfold about a young couple driving on some back roads who got lost in a sudden storm. They came to a creepy little town they’d never heard of and soon discovered that they couldn’t leave it, no matter how they tried. The pictures played vividly in my head exactly because I had to manufacture them myself: by the end I was literally trembling with fright, pressing my shoulder against Lucy’s for comfort. I didn’t feel released until the host wished us
Pleasant dreams
and slowly shut his creaking door again.

“That was good!” Lucy grinned, her eyes sparkling in the darkness.

I nodded enthusiastically. But something happened then: the day, so long, so packed with emotion and event, began to catch up with me. My eyelids grew heavy. It seemed weeks since I’d stood at the bus stop that morning, seeing Lucy for the first time as she came crashing forth from this house. Soon enough I’d dropped off to sleep.

When I woke Lucy was softly snoring beside me and for a moment I was completely disoriented. The clock on Lucy’s radio indicated that it was nearly midnight.

“Lucy?” I whispered, shaking her. “Lucy!”

“What?” She came awake quickly, scowled at me. “What d’you want?”

“It’s midnight!”

“So?”

“I’m supposed to be home, Lucy!”

She turned over on the bed, away from me. “So go home, then.”

“Lucy…! I—I’ll be in trouble.”

“That’s your problem,” she mumbled sleepily into the pillow.

“Lucy,
please.
”

She looked at me again. “What’s the trouble? Just go home, Fran.”

“I—” I couldn’t say it.

“What?”

“Lucy, I’m…I’m afraid of the dark.”

“What do you mean, you’re afraid of the dark? It’s dark now. Are you afraid?”

“No. Because you’re with me.”

“You just live across the
street,
Fran.”

My breath came fast as I thought about it. “I can’t—I can’t go out there.”

“Why not?”

“I—Please, Lucy.”

“Please what?”

I swallowed. “Would you walk with me? To my house?”

“Aw, crap, Fran. You’re stupid.”

“I know I am.”

“I mean it. You’re really a spaz.”

“I know.”

She sighed, stretched, pushed her mop of hair out of her eyes. “All right, fine,” she said at last, and pushed herself off the bed.

We made it out the door and across her rutted and pitted front yard. Everything looked different at this hour: giant shapes and shades, everything looming black and gray everywhere. I could see that lights were still on in my aunt and uncle’s house, but that only seemed to make the house look evil somehow, as if it had glowing, malevolent eyes.

“I’m sorry I’m a spaz,” I whispered, as we crossed the silent street.

By then she’d awakened completely and recovered some of herself. “Aw, it’s okay,” she said, punching me gently on the arm. “Anyway, we can’t have you being a panty-pooper again.”

I giggled. “I’m not a panty-pooper!”

“I’ll bet you’re pooping in ’em right now. I think can smell it.”

“You’re
gross
!” I laughed, shoving her playfully.

She saw me to my front door and we said goodnight. I watched her move back across the street, hands in her pockets.

When I opened the door it was simultaneously a relief and a new source of dread. Aunt Louise was sitting in the living room, a drink in her hand, an old movie playing softly on the television. A single lamp was on; otherwise the room was dark.

“Do you know what time it is, Frances?”

Aunt Louise wasn’t an attractive woman. Her hair was a washed-out ash-white, her skin sagged around her jaws, and there were black bags under her eyes. She was heavyset and tended to wear loose dresses to try to cover the fact; they only succeeded, however, in making her look as if she wore gunny sacks. Her voice was cigarette-raspy and as far as I could see she did nothing all day other than watch TV. I hated her.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Louise,” I said. “We fell asleep.”

“Oh, crap.”

“It’s the truth,” I said quietly, my hands clasped demurely before me. I could feel my usual self taking over again: no more hilarious laughter, no more throwing toys, no more excited whisperings in the dark. Just Frances again, shy, dull, obedient Frances, of no possible interest to anybody. “We really did,” I insisted. “We were listening to the radio and we fell asleep.”

“Don’t ever stay out that late again, Frances. We’re responsible for you, you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Really.”

“I think,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette and studying me with her sharp bird-like eyes, “you could do better for a friend than that girl, too.”

“I like her, Aunt Frances.”

“Mm. Good-for-nothing butch tomboy is what she is. Those people are slobs, Frances. Look at their front yard.”

“I like her.”

“Well, we’ll talk about it later. Go to bed.”

Without meeting her eyes I turned and moved toward my room. Once there I used the bathroom, took off my clothes, placed them with the dirty laundry, and slipped into my perfectly-ironed nightgown. Then I got into bed and lay there, my eyes wide in the darkness. My Donald Duck nightlight helped dispel some of my fear, but I felt suddenly like a prisoner. I could make my own room the way I wanted it, but couldn’t control anything else. I didn’t want to be here, I wanted to be home…But then I realized suddenly that I didn’t want that, either…I wanted my mom to be well, I wanted my dad to…I wanted…

I wanted to be at the Sparrows’. That was what I wanted. I wanted to be with Lucy.

I lay there, a lonely ache deep in my stomach. I felt like crying, but I didn’t. Instead I thought about this house, Uncle Frank, my Aunt Louise, my stupid, broken-up life.

“She didn’t even ask me how my day was at school,” I whispered, to no one.

—Five—

MUMFORD IS THIRTY-FIVE miles north of Quiet along the Pacific Coast Highway, a famous drive with steep rock cliffs jutting down to the ocean on one side and endless pine forests on the other. Lovely small towns with quaint old inns and gift shops pass by the traveler’s window; fishing boats crawl slowly through the waters. The road can be treacherous, with surprising serpentine curves and drops. It’s easy to picture one’s car careening off a sheer rock face, bouncing over the safety rail, and sailing hundreds of feet down into the ocean.

Mumford itself is tiny, nondescript. It’s dwarfed, certainly, by its larger neighbors up the road—Big Sur, Monterey. There are only a few streets in the whole town and it was easy for me, following the driving directions I’d located online, to find what I was looking for. Within minutes of passing the
Welcome to Mumford
sign I was pulling up in front of the house I sought: a Victorian-era seaside cottage, lavender and navy blue, beautifully restored, with a small but flawlessly smooth lawn in front of it.

Ocean View Bed & Breakfast.

As I got out the smell of the cool salt air hit me bracingly. I blinked, looked up and down the road. There was no one. I heard only the sea.

I stepped up the walkway to the front door and pushed the doorbell, trying to slow my breathing as I waited. I’d been perfectly calm during the drive but now that I was here, actually here, my breath came fast and I felt my heart fluttering in my chest. It couldn’t be, I thought; I had the wrong house, I was in the wrong place, I should just turn and leave.

When the door opened I took a step back. Through the screen door a handsome woman in her sixties wearing tan slacks and blouse and a good deal of jewelry looked at me through big eyeglasses.

“Yes?” she said pleasantly.

For a moment I couldn’t speak.

She cocked her head. Her upswept hair was pure white, defiantly undyed. “Do you have a reservation?” she asked.

“Hi, Ms. Sparrow,” I managed to say, finally.

“Hello,” she said, still smiling, but her face quizzical. “Do you…?” She didn’t finish the thought.

“You used to tell me…” I swallowed. “You used to tell me to call you Mush. But I never could.”

“
Mush
.”
She scowled then, in a thoughtful way, not unfriendly. “Oh my Lord, that goes back…how many years?”

“Thirty,” I answered, without hesitation.

She looked at me again. Through the screen she appeared ghostlike, unreal.

“I’m Frances,” I said at last.

I could see it didn’t register with her.

“Frances. Frances Pastan…Lucy’s friend.”

There are moments which seem to miraculously stretch in time. To expand. It felt as if my entire life were on display, as if I were being judged, as if nothing had mattered for decades but this, that this woman should acknowledge me, recognize me, know me. I watched her studying me for what seemed a very long while, but which couldn’t have been more than a second or two. “Frances,” she said uncertainly.

I cleared my throat. “Franny-Fran.”

Her mouth opened.

“
Frances
,”
she said finally, exhaling hugely. “Oh my Lord,
Frances
!”
She pushed the door open and wrapped me in an enormous bear hug. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, Frances, I can’t believe it!”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was clogged with something thick and sour. I just shut my eyes, hugged her tightly, felt her warm arms around me. Finally we backed away and looked at each other, Ms. Sparrow’s eyes full of tears. She laughed as she wiped them away.

“What are you…? How did you find me?” she asked.

I shrugged. “The Internet. It wasn’t hard. I typed in your name and your B & B came up right away. I had no idea you were still—”

“Alive?”

I laughed. “I was going to say ‘in the area.’”

“Well, sometimes
I’m
surprised that I’m still alive, you know?”

We laughed together. My anxiety seemed to melt away as I stood there. She was a striking woman, almost magisterial with her swooping hair, her beads and bangles. And yet behind the glasses I saw, a bit faded now yet still piercing, still attractive, her familiar silver-gray eyes.

“Frances, come in, for God’s sake come
in
,”
she said, opening the door for me.

“Am I interrupting anything? Do you have guests?”

She shook her head. “Last ones checked out this morning. Not expecting any more until tonight. Come in, come in!”

I stepped over the threshold. The interior of the house was as beautiful as the outside. Polished wood everywhere, a fireplace in the main room, comfortable old chairs: opulent but relaxing, friendly. I’d stayed in bed & breakfast inns like this from time to time. Donald and I had enjoyed them in the early years of our marriage, a thousand years ago.

“I’m just floored that you found me,” she said, leading me into the dining room. “Would you like coffee? Tea? Please sit down!”

“Coffee would be great, if you have some,” I said, seating myself in a handsome oak chair. “But you don’t have to bother—”

“I have some already made,” she said. “I’ll just be a second.” She scurried through a door which appeared to lead to the kitchen. A moment later she came back out not only with two cups of coffee on a tray, but with a huge piece of cake.

“Oh my gosh,” I said. “Ms. Sparrow, I’m not sure I can eat all that.”

“Try. It’s strawberry.” She smiled as she set it before me. Placing the tray on a side table, she sat beside me.

I did. “This is delicious,” I said, honestly. She smiled again. “But you know, I don’t remember you as a cook.”

“Back then?” She laughed. “No, I couldn’t cook a thing back then. That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was.” The coffee was excellent, too.

“Good Lord, Frances, how
are
you?” she asked, patting the back of my hand.

I smiled at her, my mouth full of cake. “I’m all right,” I said, swallowing. “I was in the area.”

“What do you do?”

I went through the basics of my life for her: graduate school in Arizona, children’s books, Donald, Jess. I admitted the divorce but didn’t mention that I never saw my daughter.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, referring to Donald, “but other than that, you’ve made quite a success of yourself, haven’t you?”