Small Plates (26 page)

Confused momentarily by the reference to her nephew and quickly realizing he meant Christopher, Mary had told Tom, “It's happened before. We'll be fine. Besides, I don't think you have room for the two of us and six goats.”

Tom conceded the fact and said he'd have Faith call as soon as she got in, which better be soon or he was calling the state police.

Fortunately Faith had arrived home safe and sound a few minutes later. She called Mary immediately. “I know you can't leave the goats, but do you want me to come get the baby? There's so much to tell you. I found out his mother's name is—”

“Miriam Carpenter and I guess I'll keep Christopher here.”

“How on earth did you find this out? Is she there?”

That was the only logical explanation and Faith was momentarily miffed. She had been so clever at putting two and two together, or in this case, many more numbers. And why was it “two and two,” anyway? In her experience, things came in double or even triple digits.

Mary told her about Dan Carpenter's visit.

“He wants Christopher—that's obvious—but from the terrible things he said about her, it seems he doesn't want his daughter. I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted me to give him the baby. I didn't lie but took a page from your book and left a lot out. But, Faith, he scared me. I'll never let Christopher go to him. When Miriam was saying a ‘good man,' I know she wasn't thinking of her father. But I haven't told you what was on the news just now. There's been a murder in Orono and I could see that convenience store—Sammy's—when the camera was filming the neighborhood around the house where the police found the body.”

“Who was killed?” Faith asked anxiously. Could it have been Miriam? She calmed down. If it had been, Mary would have mentioned it right away.

“They're not releasing the name yet, but he was white and in his twenties—and there were drugs in the apartment.”

“Can you describe the building?”

Mary did. Faith could have described it herself. It was Miriam's building and Faith was pretty sure it was Miriam's apartment. The top floor.

Miriam hadn't been killed, but was she the killer?

Power went out all over the island at 9:45
P
.
M
. Since a good many people were already in bed, this posed no hardship for most. Keeping the fire going and trips to the bathroom would be nippy, but this was what winter Down East was all about.

With the storm raging outside, Mary felt a deep sense of peace. She wondered if Christopher was an unusually good baby. He got hungry about every four hours and let her know by slightly increasing the frequency of the little noises he made—noises somewhere between a cry and a bleat to her ears. Sometimes he hiccupped and it was real comical. He was sleeping now and she thought she would nap in the big armchair her father had moved into the kitchen one day, taking the door off to do so. Some summer person was getting rid of it. Mary had slip covered it with a bright floral chintz that she'd found at the Take It Or Leave It at the dump. There wasn't quite enough, so she'd used some plain blue cotton from the Variety Store for the back. She checked the fire, kissed the baby, and curled up in the chair.

At first she thought the knocking at the door was a dream. She struggled to pull herself awake. Conscious, she realized the storm must have torn a branch loose and it was knocking against a window. She hoped the glass wouldn't break.

But it wasn't a dream or a branch. It was real knocking at her kitchen door. She jumped up to look out the window, then quickly pulled the door open. A woman was standing in the snow that was piling up on the top step and all but fell into Mary's arms.

“It's all right, Miriam. I've been expecting you,” Mary said.

T
he driving hadn't been too bad until she turned off the main road at Orland, and even then Miriam got lucky. The town plow was lumbering along ahead of her. She could barely see through the windshield but kept following the truck's taillights. Her heater was working all right, but the radio had conked out. She was thankful she'd taken the time to fill the gas tank. Once she'd figured out where her father was heading, there was no rush, so she took the time to fill it up.

She wasn't in a hurry after all. Just the opposite. She needed to think. He wouldn't have been heading north unless he had been going to her apartment, and that meant he didn't have Christopher. She wished Ralph and Duane had stuck around as a welcoming committee. Torn between her disinclination to return to the apartment ever again and her desire to have it out with her father once and for all, Miriam had found herself driving north too. She had to make him understand that there was no way he could take her child. He'd taken her childhood. That was enough.

The wiper blades kept freezing. How many hours had passed since she'd seen his car parked on her street, quickly parked herself outside Sammy's and run upstairs to the apartment? It seemed like days, even weeks, but it was hours. Only a few hours.

She was tired. More tired than after the baby had been born. More tired than she'd ever been in her whole life. By the time the plow truck turned toward Castine and left her without a guide, Miriam wasn't sure she could make it to Sanpere. But she had no choice. No choice at all.

Don't think about it, she told herself. Don't go there. It never happened. You were never in that apartment. You didn't do a thing.

She made it as far as Sedgwick, getting out every few miles to clear the ice from the blades. Then, seeing headlights behind her, she pulled off the road and flagged the 4x4 with its plow up that was barreling along behind her.

“Pretty rugged night to be out,” the teenager commented when she slid into the cab.

“Yeah, well, my mom's sick and I have to get down to Sanpere.”

“I don't want to get stuck on the bridge. I'll take you as close as I can.”

Miriam closed her eyes. The warmth of the truck enveloped her like a quilt. The radio was working and tuned to an oldies station:

If I were a carpenter and you were a lady

Would you marry me anyway

Would you have my baby

But she was the Carpenter, she was the lady, and she had had the baby. Miriam had heard the song before; she knew the refrain, ending with: “Give me your tomorrow.”

Still she cried, and the hot tears ran down her cheeks. Cried silently, looking out the side window into the darkness, her eyes wide open. Exhausted as she was, if she shut them, it would all come back. The room. The blood. No tomorrow.

“Stay with me. I can't let you out here. It's freezing. You'll never make it!” The boy grabbed her arm. He'd slowed near the bridge and now he'd changed his mind. She pulled her arm away.

“I'm not going to mess with you,” he said. “Nothing like that. I'll drop you off at my cousin's. She'll be glad to give you a place to stay. You can't get to Sanpere tonight in this storm.”

Miriam was tugging at the door. “I'll be fine. I have really good boots and this parka is supposed to be what those guys who live down in Antarctica wear. I got it at the L.L.Bean outlet. Don't worry—and thanks a lot.”

He wasn't ready to give up. He was only a few years younger than she was. The hood of the gray sweatshirt he was wearing under his jacket was pulled up. He smelled like cigarettes and WD-40, like a million other guys his age in Maine.

“You won't help your mother much if you turn up dead yourself.”

She had the door open. He was forced to slow down almost to a stop.

“It's okay. Really. And thanks for the lift.”

She was out and away from his headlights before he could say another word. It would have been impossible to explain to him that she didn't care whether she made it through the night or not. She only cared about getting to Mary's.

Getting across the bridge was surprisingly easy. The high winds had kept the snow from piling up and there was no danger that Miriam would be blown into the frigid waters below. Unlike other suspension bridges that allowed for a scenic view, the island bridge had solid five-foot-high walls and was all-business. At the apex, it was hard to keep from sliding down the other side; the roadbed under the snowfall was treacherously slick. The wind blew the falling snow into her face. It felt like grains of sand, sharp and painful. Tiny knifepoints. She ducked her head down against her chest and pulled her hood more tightly closed. Knives. She couldn't think about knives.

Back on land, Miriam was sorely tempted to stop at the first house. It was dark, no lights at the window. She'd expected the island, like the mainland, would have lost power. Yet she knew a house was near. She could smell wood burning. A woodstove or a fireplace, maybe both. The pungent aroma meant there would be warmth—a warm room, warm clothes, something warm to drink. But how to explain herself? What was she doing out on a night that wasn't fit for man or beast? And tomorrow, when power was restored and the news came on, what then? She trudged past the smell and all the others that beckoned until she came to Mary's road, perpendicular to the Reach, parallel to the bridge. It wasn't snowing as hard now and thankfully she'd recognized the turnoff. Once Miriam started down it, there wouldn't be any more houses. She'd make it—or not.

F
irst we have to get those wet things off. It's all right. Your baby is safe. Hush, don't try to talk.”

Mary ran upstairs and pulled a flannel nightgown, sweaters, and socks from her bureau. She'd eased Miriam into the big chair, dragging it closer to the stove. The girl was barely conscious. As she stripped her wet clothes off, Mary was relieved to see Miriam's skin was pale, but not dead white. No frostbite. She rubbed the girl's feet and put on several pairs of socks, then wrapped her in a blanket before undoing the frozen braid that hung like a poker down her back and dried her hair with a towel. The girl had not tried to say another word, but Mary could feel Miriam's eyes following Mary's every move. She heated some whey and honey on the stove, then fed it to the young mother with a soupspoon. After she'd consumed half the cup, Miriam took it herself and drank.

“More,” she whispered.

After she finished the second helping, she slept.

Mary had moved Christopher's basket next to Miriam where she could see him. Now she stationed herself in the old rocker and kept watch on them both through the long, dark night.

T
he Fairchilds were enjoying the power outage. Two full propane tanks at the back of the house had meant hot chocolate and hot water for baths. Now the kids were snuggled in sleeping bags in front of the woodstove; Tom and Faith claimed the couches. The house was almost too well insulated and Faith had tossed off her down comforter. Tom was reading Norma Farber's poem “The Queens Came Late” out loud as they always did on December twenty-seventh. It was a tradition they'd started when Ben was two.

“The Queens came late, but the Queens were there

With gifts in their hands and crowns on their hair.

They'd come, these three like the Kings, from far,

following, yes, that guiding star.

They'd left their ladles, linens, looms,

their children playing in nursery rooms

And told their sitters: ‘Take charge! For this

Is a marvelous sight we must not miss!'

The Queens came late, but not too late

To see the animals small and great,

Feathered and furred, domestic and wild . . .”

This mention caused Faith's thoughts to drift to Mary's goats. Mary's small, furred, domestic animals—and from there to Christopher, the baby who had appeared on Christmas eve. In the poem the Queens bring useful gifts—chicken soup, “a homespun gown of blue,” and a cradle-song to sing. Faith's car was loaded with useful gifts, and she'd already brought the baby a few necessities yesterday. She had gently explained to Mary that unlike baby kids, kid babies needed more nutrients than goat's milk—superb in every other way—could provide and Christopher would have to have formula. The Harborside Market had enough in stock to feed him for a while and Faith had planned to lay in a larger supply on her trip off island. And diapers. “Just as a backup, Mary. You can't keep washing what you have on hand.” With the power out, Faith knew Mary must be relieved to have the bag of Huggies. They fit little Christopher better too. The cloth diaper had enveloped him almost to his chin.

“The Queens came late and stayed not long,

for their thoughts already were straining far—

past manger and mother and guiding star

and child a-glow as a morning sun—

toward home and children and chores undone.”

“Read it again, Daddy,” Amy begged.

“Absolutely,” Tom said. He usually read it at least three times, occasionally four, and they'd be reciting it altogether by then.

The storm was winding down. Faith was sure that Mary was doing fine. She pictured her in the kitchen with Christopher in her arms, next to the woodstove. It wasn't their well-being due to the weather she was worried about. What worried her was the news report Mary had relayed. Faith had heard it for herself on the transistor radio they'd turned on earlier to listen for the latest on the snowstorm. There had been little more about what had happened in Orono other than what Mary had described, except for one detail—the name of the murder victim: Bruce Judd. Miriam and Bruce Singer in the B and B register. That Bruce? And was he Christopher's father?

Faith willed the snow to stop. Their car had four-wheel drive, but it would still be hard to get out in the morning if there was much accumulation. And she had to get to Mary's.