Shorecliff (32 page)

Charlie led Francesca away before she could say anything else to Uncle Kurt, and they made the long walk back to the rattletrap. They drove up to Shorecliff without incident. The whole trip had gone by so fast that it wasn’t even light when they got back. Once again, the ride had taken a disturbingly short time. Of course, Charlie was driving fast in his haste to return Francesca to safety, but even so it was not yet five o’clock when they pulled up to the lonely fence outside Shorecliff.

And why, we all asked, hadn’t Uncle Kurt come back with them? Aunt Rose didn’t spare him. “You sent two children who had already been up all night, who had driven on roads they had never seen before into a city they had never been to, who had just been wandering through the most disgusting part of that city—you let those two children drive back all alone to Shorecliff in the middle of the night!”

That was when my mother put a hand on Rose’s arm and stopped her from saying any more because Uncle Kurt had put his face in his hands and started to cry. He knew too well what it would have meant, had he acted as the responsible adult he was asking Charlie to be in his stead.

But the fact that Uncle Kurt didn’t escort Charlie and Francesca home arose from the same force that led him to gamble and drink and deceive his family in the first place. That night he was faced with the choice of protecting Charlie and Francesca or avoiding for one more brief night the condemnation of his sisters—something he had been trying to escape all summer. Of course, there was also his plan to salvage the money he had lost and his desire to pursue the girl who had “distracted him” into losing it. She was a shadowy, alarming figure who appeared only in my imagination, but I was sure she had played a role in his decision to stay in Portland. Ultimately, however, I think he was simply too scared to return to Shorecliff.

In his explanation to the aunts, Kurt said in faltering tones that he realized Charlie’s character was stronger and steadier than his own. It had been easier to stay and cope with the problems he already had than to go back with the two children and face more, so that was what he did. “I’m ashamed,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m so ashamed.”

I was there, watching this display. Never before or since has an idol of mine crumbled so devastatingly. He had arrived back at Shorecliff with the other uncles a day later, full of repentance, and found utter disaster. I don’t think he ever forgave himself, any more than I did.

Charlie and Francesca returned to Shorecliff and pulled to a halt in the rattletrap’s usual place. The house was still dark. Though they didn’t know it, nearly all of their cousins were at this moment wandering in the woods by the Stephensons’ farm. For a few minutes they sat in silence, partly waiting for signs of angry aunts and partly resting from the night’s excitement. Francesca hadn’t said much on the drive home, and whenever Charlie glanced at her she either turned away from him, staring out the window, or peered out at the road ahead, her eyes burning with intensity. “To be honest,” he said to us, “I was a little scared of her. She was over the top the whole time.”

As a result, when they arrived at Shorecliff and were sitting in the car, Charlie didn’t dare say anything. He waited for her to make the first move.

Eventually she turned to look at him. “So,” she said heavily, “we’re back at Shorecliff again.”

“Yes.”

“No matter how hard you try to get away from this place, it drags you back. Look at Uncle Kurt—he always comes back too. We don’t have a chance. We’re far too young.” She spat the last word. Then she looked into Charlie’s face, contemplating a new idea.

Here Charlie stopped telling the story. He looked into the distance, his mouth half open.

“Well?” said Tom. We were all eager to hear what had happened next, not so much because the story was unfinished but because by that time we were desperate for every snippet of Francesca’s thoughts and words and actions.

“What happened then?” asked Isabella.

“Well,” said Charlie, looking down and blushing—all the Wight children blushed easily, they had such pale skin—“well, if you really want to know, what happened then is that she kissed me.”

“She what?” said Philip blankly.

“Kissed you?” Tom echoed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that: she kissed me. On the mouth. It was a real kiss.”

We were speechless. Finally, Tom sputtered, “Was it—was it—was it—” He couldn’t finish.

Isabella said, “Did it go on for a long time?”

“A pretty long time,” said Charlie.

“What did you say when it was over?” Tom demanded. He seemed almost offended that something so shocking had happened without his knowledge.

“Uh—well—I’d suddenly thought of it, see. I said we should fill up the gas tank so that no one would notice how much gas we’d used.”

In the midst of our sadness, Tom laughed. It was such a ridiculous thing to say after being kissed by a beautiful girl—especially when the beautiful girl was a cousin, fulfilling at last the promise of scandal that had been floating between her and Charlie since the beginning of the summer. Then Tom remembered what Charlie’s comment had led to, and he stopped laughing, and we all sat in silence.

When I looked through the telescope after emerging from the woods, right before the sun broke over the horizon, I saw three people standing by the rattletrap: Charlie, Francesca, and Philip. They were huddled around something I couldn’t see properly by the feeble light of the match Charlie held in his hand. Matches were the only source of light they had, thanks to Francesca’s silly notion of taking the lantern—empty of kerosene, as it turned out—instead of a flashlight. In any case, their position by the rattletrap was so unexpected that I was completely befuddled. Through the storm of love and envy whirling within me, curiosity reached out and took hold. I would still do something magnificent, something to make Isabella see how worthy I was of her attention, but first I would find out what was going on.

So, dropping to the grass—an unnecessary move, since the group by the rattletrap was absorbed by the problem at hand—I slithered toward them, soaking myself in dew. The wind was blowing toward me over the dune grass, and I could hear their voices from relatively far away.

“Then we came back here,” Charlie was saying.

“But don’t tell anyone!” Francesca added. “It was a shambles, but at least we got out and back with none of the aunts noticing.”

“What about the other kids?” asked Philip.

“No, it’s better if they don’t hear about it either. You know they can never keep their mouths shut.” As she was talking Francesca was struggling with the thing in her hands, but now she stopped and looked at Philip while the match in Charlie’s hand guttered and blew out. “What are you doing here anyway?” she asked. She had been so distracted that she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary in Philip’s sprinting up to them from the direction of the woods.

“It’s been a crazy night,” he replied. “Isabella went nuts, along with everybody else. Now she’s run off somewhere, and we’re trying to find her.”

“Well, don’t tell her, whatever you do,” said Francesca.

That was enough for me. In my new role of Isabella’s knight in striped pajamas, I was indignant at anyone dismissing her, and when the dismissals came from Francesca and Philip they seemed a thousand times more cutting. I had been surprised by their discussion, but I was no longer curious about where Charlie and Francesca had gone. At the mention of her name, my thoughts returned to Isabella. I realized I had an opportunity to prove in one fell swoop both that I cared about her and that the others—Philip included—did not. I would find her and bring her back with me to the rattletrap; she would be impressed by my knowledge and initiative, and together we would confront these older cousins who spoke about her as if she were nothing but a nuisance.

As I slithered back, my pajama top hiking up to my armpits, I formed a new plan for hunting her down: I would run along the edge of the woods, and sooner or later Isabella would see the lightening sky and head for open ground. I would catch her as she emerged, grab her hand—that part of the plan was very clear in my mind—and race with her to the rattletrap to display the other cousins in all their treachery.

It didn’t happen like that in reality. My plan worked perfectly in that, after five minutes of trotting beside the trees, wincing at the sodden clamminess of my pajama top against my chest, I heard hiccupping and saw Isabella’s scratched, dirty face approaching me. At the same instant, however, a shout rang out, and Tom and Delia Ybarra crashed into view twenty yards away. I didn’t have time to explain to Isabella what was happening, and I didn’t want anyone else to come with us. This was to be my demonstration of love, witnessed by Isabella alone, so I grabbed her hand as she staggered through the last of the undergrowth and forced her to start running.

“What’s going on?” she panted, trying to brush her hair out of her eyes. “Richard, stop! What are you doing?”

“I have to show you,” I said, undaunted by her attempts to slow down, gripping her hand so tightly that her fingers were crushed together. “You’ll see. Philip is over there. They’re going to keep it a secret from you—”

I’m sure I made no sense to her. I was barely making sense to myself. But somehow I imagined that if she only saw the tableau of conniving cousins by the rattletrap, she would understand everything I felt.

It was part of the satanic bad luck of that night that Francesca, even after ten minutes of grappling, still had not managed to get the cap off the rusty gasoline can they had found in the trunk of the rattletrap. She and Charlie had decided that since the can was kept there only for emergencies, the rattletrap’s tank usually being filled at Pensbottom, their trip to Portland would be ancient history by the time anyone noticed the can was nearly empty. They soon found, however, that the cap had rusted to the can’s body. Francesca insisted on trying to pry it off, and Charlie, obedient as ever, stood like an overgrown servant boy, striking match after match and holding each one close so she could see what she was doing. All through their conversation with Philip she wrestled with the cap unsuccessfully, but as I approached with Isabella, she felt the cap give way. “It’s starting to move!” she exclaimed.

Isabella’s legs were flailing ridiculously as I dragged her across the lawn. They flew out at such extreme angles that she looked like a windmill without sails. I kept her going, gasping out incoherent phrases about Philip and secrets and not caring enough. I was heedless now of anyone noticing our approach, but Francesca and Charlie were so intent on the gasoline can that they didn’t hear or see us coming. When we were about forty feet away and could begin to distinguish their shadowy shapes from the rattletrap’s silhouette, I let Isabella stumble to a halt.

She was angry by this time but so tired from the run and her earlier hysterics that she didn’t have enough breath to yell at me. She only whispered, “Richard, I’m going to beat you to a pulp! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I peered at the huddled shapes by the rattletrap. Knowing how long it always took any group of cousins to come to a decision, I assumed they would still be discussing the pros and cons of telling the others about their secret expedition. In a torrent of whispering I said, “Philip is there with Charlie and Francesca, and they drove off somewhere tonight, and they’re agreeing not to tell any of us about it, but especially not you, because Philip told them you went crazy tonight—that’s what he said. Go up and listen to them, and then you’ll know what he really thinks of you!”

It astonished me later that I could have said such poisonous things to someone I loved. But I was entranced by my idea of what would happen, how I would rise in her estimation as Philip fell. And I had been so seduced by the power of knowledge that summer—no matter by what subterfuges it was gained—that I couldn’t imagine anyone not treasuring it as I did.

Isabella gave me a look that should have stopped me and said, “I’m not going to eavesdrop on them, Richard.”

“But I want you to hear!” With every word I had been pulling her forward, and we were now only twenty feet or so from the others.

With a struggle she stopped, examining me, no doubt trying to understand why I was behaving so oddly. Then she said, “Don’t worry about me, Richard. I’ll be all right. I don’t need to hear them.” She was still trying to be kind, even when she was angry.

“He
is
there!” I shouted, forgetting to whisper. “He’s there, and he doesn’t care about you! See for yourself!” With that I took her by the waist and shoved her toward the rattletrap as hard as I could, willing her to understand my gesture. I had forgotten how maladroit she was, how frequently she tripped over her own feet and went flying forward, her limbs tossing in all directions.

After that everything happened at once, as if each person were moving in double time. Charlie lit a match. Francesca ripped the cap off the gasoline can with a triumphant cry. And Isabella hurtled into Charlie. He stumbled forward, knocking against the can in Francesca’s arms. The gasoline splashed up, hitting Francesca in the face, and Charlie’s match plunged into the lethal spray.

Francesca dropped the can and stepped back with a shriek that still echoes in my dreams. She was ablaze in an instant. The gasoline flared up, burning her face, and her hair caught the flames almost immediately. We all saw her stand for a moment in an aureole of flame, her gorgeous black curls crackling with fire. Then she put her hands to her face and ran screaming, trying to rip the fire out of her skin.

The rest of us, illuminated by the ghastly light of Francesca burning up, were crying out in terror. I don’t know how long it was before the first aunts appeared—probably not more than a few seconds, since Francesca’s first shriek had been loud enough to wake the house. She was running in little circles, and her sleeves had caught fire, and her hands. Philip and Charlie hovered near her, frantically trying to grab on to her and being repelled each time by the flames. The sight was so horrible that I couldn’t keep my eyes on it. Instead I looked at Isabella. There was shock on her face and fear and—I know I saw it—horror, not only at the blaze but at me. She had realized that the nightmare was happening for no reason besides my vindictive jealousy.