Jane Was Here (18 page)

Stepping out obligingly, Fancher turns on the stoop. “My cell number’s on my card. When Caroline gets home, please call me. I’d just like a chance to speak with her, nothing more.”

Brett slams the door on him.

Walking to his car on the corner, the detective knows he needn’t look further for Caroline. She will be coming back to this house.

As he opens the door, the car’s broiling air greets him. He climbs in, wishing he had brought a cooler with some cold soda on ice. It could be a long wait.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

J
ane drinks deeply from one of the plastic water jugs stored in the hunting shack, then studies the old surveyor’s map again. It shows a body of water called Pease Pond not too far from the clearing. She can refill the bottle there, so the shack’s occupant can remain innocent of her embezzlement.

Setting her straw hat’s brim against the sun, she continues along the farmer’s wall, empty jug in hand, following the farmer’s wall.

Today the climb up Rowell Hill is easier; her lungs have adapted to the effort; a long-sleeved shirt and trousers tucked into her socks protect her skin from sharp twigs and thorns. Navigating the woods more confidently, she chants aloud from the poem Brett read to her (
“Ulalume, Ulalume”
), matching its rhythms to her stride.

She spies a gleam of silvery blue through the trees ahead and, jumping to the other side of the wall, she veers toward it.

Pushing through branches, she emerges into an open space.

A large pond, about thirty acres of limpidly clear water, spreads before her, the metallic sheen of reflected sun concealing its depth. Drought has driven the water from the pond’s edges, leaving cracked mud, wilted weeds, and bleached, half-sunk cadavers of trees with naked branches rising from the surface like rigid white fingers. No breeze stirs the noonday; nothing moves beneath the water, save for the tremors of ghostly grasses as minnows weave in and out.

For some reason the place unsettles her.

Filling the jug, she wedges it between some rocks to retrieve on the way back.

She follows the tumbled stonewall on. Sloping gently downward, it travels through a stately area of pine woods. The trees close ranks like soldiers bristling with weaponry; Jane raises her hands to protect her face as she shoulders through thickly meshed limbs.

Suddenly her hat flies away, snagged by an unseen branch. She wheels, looking up to find it dangling from a spiny tuft, nearly out of reach. Its blue ribbons trail downward.

Blue?
Her hat has a plum ribbon.

Standing on her toes, Jane tugs on the ribbons, and the hat falls into her hands.

The hat she holds has a straw brim curved like a horseshoe and a tiny nosegay of silk flowers sewn onto one side of its blue satin band. As Jane fits it on her head, the brim conforms to her face, almost meeting under her chin as she ties the ribbons into a bow.

It is her bonnet.

The stray tendrils of hair she brushes from her eyes are dark, an auburn color. Glancing down, she sees a long white skirt, feels the petticoats underneath jostling about her legs. Narrow laced boots of soft brown leather cover her feet.

Her blouse is white muslin with puffed sleeves, and a pale blue capelet covers her shoulders. She lifts her hand to her throat, where she feels something pinned. Her fingers encounter the familiar delicate convolutions of a gold brooch that, a moment ago, rested in her pants pocket.

I am myself !
Her laugh of amazement dances in the air.

On the path, she seems to glide through the trees, following a now freshly built fieldstone wall bounding a pasture where sheep graze in the distance.

A disconnected voice chatters inside her head:

Almost there—hurry—is he waiting?—God please let him be there—ah, my angel—my one love —

How the sun beats! Mercy, I’m drenched—forgot my handkerchief—shade ahead, soon, soon—

My face hot and red—a sight—make myself pretty—fix my hair—bite my lips—

Hush! Vanity—stupid selfish me—must be pure—root out desire—attend the word of God—

Jane glances down to find a book in her hand, a Bible. A curious emblem is stamped on its black leather cover, something like a crucifix, yet not.

She nearly falls, tripping over a stout tree root. Straightening, she catches her breath and considers the path ahead. Farmer Quirk’s wall twists and jogs; where it turns sharply left, demarcating the farm’s northeast corner, Jane sees a stand of lofty white pines.

Suddenly she is rushing headlong toward the pines, breathless with anticipation, lifting her long skirts to allow her boots to skip over the ground.

Arriving in the center of the grove, she gazes about in a familiar rapture. She is standing in a circle of ancient, towering pines, a soft bed of pine needles beneath her feet. The trees’ arrangement forms a natural glade, their long branches brushing the edges with fragrant shade.

Here is the place.

The stonewall continues past the glade, but Jane has reached her journey’s end.

Overcome by the heat, she sits in shadows on a fallen log, setting her Bible on the grass.

The voice in her mind returns, very distinct now, a rush of chatter:

He hasn’t come yet. I hoped he would be the first, so I might see his countenance light up when I arrive!—though he tries hard to conceal such improper joy. How I love that clumsy little wobble as he rises too quickly to his feet, hastily marking his place in the Holy Book before shutting it. But since I am first, I shall hide in the shadows—observe his impatience when he finds me absent—and when he sits to wait, I shall steal from behind and clap my hands over his eyes in play— though truly it is a pretext to touch my fingers to his dear, dear face.

But what if he does not come? Be still now! Show forbearance— the sun has put you all in a fever!

Removing her bonnet to cool her brow, Jane places it in on her knees, then gives a start: a plum-colored ribbon encircles the crown, and beneath the flat wide brim on her lap she is wearing trousers. Dead pine needles stick to her socks and dirty sneakers.

Dress, bonnet, and book, have all vanished, and Jane is marooned in a pine grove, without the faintest clue why she is here. She feels an awful wilderness within. Searching in her pocket, her fingers close around the brooch with the broken catch, for consolation, as if it can somehow conjure memory:
Come back! Show me more! I want to know everything!

She must be patient. A sign will come if she waits here. The vision showed her this was a meeting place; a man will arrive—but who?

Only the rasping complaint of crows disturbs God’s silence. At length she gives in to the serenity of the place, closing her eyes as she inhales the white pines’ resinous scent.

Hearing a rustle, like that of a bird shrugging its feathers close by her ear, she opens her eyes.

The ground is moving. Frightened, she holds her breath: beneath her the earth rumples like an animal’s hide shuddering off flies, and a patch of earth caves in at her feet; pine needles, loose stones, and dust slide down toward the center as if drawn into a funnel.

As suddenly as the slide began, it stops. Mere seconds have passed; the glade is still. A shallow depression a few inches deep rests before her.

Dig here.
Something below invites, waiting for Jane to find it.

LATE AFTERNOON
finds Jane trudging toward the house at 53 Sycamore Street, covered with dust, dirt wedged under her fingernails from where she’d tried digging in the glade. Only managing to displace a few inches of soil and stones, she abandoned her task, retracing her steps to the pond and washing her hands as the sun descended. Carrying the water jug back to the hunting blind, she spied the rusty shovel leaning against the side of the shack. She had forgotten it was there. No time today to return to the pine grove with the shovel; she would have to come back tomorrow.

Exhausted from her long trek, she doesn’t immediately notice the car parked at the corner, the man waiting inside, his elbow resting on the open window. Her gaze slides absently to the license plate: Virginia.

She stops abruptly, sucking in her breath. The man’s eye appears in the side view mirror, glancing at the street behind.

Jane ducks into a narrow alley between houses, hoping he didn’t see her. Skirting backyards, she hurries to the wrought-iron gate behind her home.

Her mind races: perhaps the car from Virginia was nothing but a coincidence.

Or can it be they have found her?

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

H
earing the back door open, Brett bounds barefoot down two flights, arriving at the kitchen doorway to see Jane bending over the letter on the table. Her grimy shirt clings to her skin in damp patches; sweat gleams on her face.

She looks up. “How did you get this?”

“From a private investigator your parents hired. He traced you here—wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. And they are
not
my parents!”

Brett shoves his hands into his pockets to hide his nerves. “You were adopted?”

“There is no time for explaining.” She moves past him, heading quickly down the hall.

“Caroline!” he calls after her. Her shoulders tighten at the sound of the name, but she doesn’t break stride, running up the stairs to her room. Brett finds her on her knees, tugging her pink duffel from under the bed. “You’re Caroline,” he says, aggressive now.

“I have been called that. But it’s not who I am.” Standing, she loops her bag over her shoulder. “I will go out the back.”

“No.” Brett blocks her exit.

“I must go!”

“You don’t have to run away. The detective said your parents might leave you alone, so long as they know you’re okay.”

“I have no reason to believe it. Tell him I have had a change of heart and gone back to Virginia. I’ll stay somewhere nearby here, and then come back when it’s safe.”

“You expect me to take that on faith? When you’ve totally lied to me?” Brett towers over her, glaring angrily.

“I haven’t lied. You must forget everything he said,” she pleads. “It will only confuse you.”

“Put down the bag. You’re not leaving and you’re going to tell me the truth.”

She drops the duffel, but is far from daunted. “I will say nothing if you force me to stay. Believe me, I know how to be silent.”

In an instant, her eyes become dim and distant, her face slackening as a low hum issues from the back of her throat. She brings her palm up to her empty gaze, jerking her elbow back and forth so that her hand flops like a dead appendage. As she increases the rhythm, her hum rises, punctuated by giggles.

“Stop,” Brett whispers, horrified.

Her arm lowers and the hum dies. With an impersonal smile on her lips, she turns her head to the doorframe, thumping her skull against the wood.

“Stop it!” Brett pulls her from the door. The flesh under his fingers feels curiously leaden, as if she is an inanimate thing in his grasp, with an oblique, painted stare. “Jane—Jane!”

As swiftly as she left, she is back, her eyes returning to his frightened face with their full spark. “That was Caroline. Have you had enough of her company?”

“Please,” he releases her, “just tell me what’s going on.”

“I shall try to help you understand. But after, you must promise to let me leave.”

“YOU HAVE ASKED
for the truth. You have asked for facts. They are not the same. Caroline’s life consists only of facts, but of truth there is none.”

Jane sits very erect across from him at the kitchen table, hands in her lap. Intermittently her eyes dart to the back door.

“Here is your first fact. I was the baby born from the union of Bill and Karen Moss. I spent my first months in the natural daze of an infant, but soon I felt a certainty that I was
in the wrong place
. I remember how loudly I screamed when I saw my room was not my own, and the two people who hovered over my crib were not my mother and father. Even the name they gave me, ‘Caroline,’ was false.

“The facts of their world were not the truth of mine.

“This world in which I found myself a castaway was all wrong; yet it insisted it was right, with Bill and Karen always trying to touch me, to teach me, to bend me. Being helpless I could only pull back inside myself, as far away from them as I could manage. I refused to look at them, or to speak. I flapped my hands and spun in circles to keep them from touching me. I learned what behavior they hated, like loud humming and slamming myself against walls, and I stuck to it resolutely until finally they stopped trying to take control of my being.