A Thief in the House of Memory (17 page)

Dec's eyes opened wide. “That's Birdie's birthday.”

“Right. Birdie's birthday. It was Birdie who talked your mother into having a shared birthday celebration.”

November sixteenth, thought Dec. Two days after the full moon. “Is that really what happened?”

“Go ask Birdie.”

Dec was going to, but not right now. It wasn't just the moon that was out of whack.

“You know how Lindy could be, Declan. She had a very mobile mind.” His father managed a watery smile. “Here it is, two weeks later, and suddenly she wants a family party as well, a cake, the whole nine yards. Just like I said.”

Dec leaned back stiffly in the armchair. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or cheated. Meanwhile, his father seemed lost in thought. “I've been thinking about that boat you made. Your mom always used to prompt you about special events: birthdays, Mother's Day, St. Patrick's Day — anything and everything. Do you remember?” Dec guessed maybe he did.

“She would count down the days on the calendar, tease you about making her something. She'd hint at what she wanted. ‘Boy, oh, boy, I sure could do with a new ashtray,' she'd say. Things like that. You were always game.” His smile
broadened, then it faded. “But after the baby, Lindy kind of lost interest. The doctor said she was suffering from severe postpartum depression. I thought there was probably more to it than that, but I tried to tread lightly. Her birthday came and went without fanfare.

“Then, out of the blue, two weeks later, kaboom! There would have been no time for you to make her anything. And you were so proud of the things you made her. You were so industrious. Still are.” He paused and smiled, but Dec wasn't in the market for compliments. “I guess you must have made that boat later,” his father said. “The day after, perhaps? Maybe you were hoping to surprise her when she got back. You didn't know she wasn't coming back.”

How could some memories be so elusive? How come there were memories you could unwrap and see every facet, every moment, while others remained hidden?

“Why didn't you tell me this the other day?”

His father raised his hands in defeat. “About the moon? It didn't occur to me. I didn't realize it was a test.”

Dec folded his arms and squeezed tight. He wasn't sure what to say.

“Dec, give me a break here. It was awful when she left. I'm sure I wasn't very attentive to your needs. There was a lot of stomping around, a lot of teary bedtimes.” His father leaned towards him, his hands on his knees. “Somehow we all got through it.”

Dec swallowed the lump in his throat. “There's something else.”

“The postcards?”

“The postcards.”

His father stared at him with a look that seemed equal parts astonishment and admiration. “I sent those cards. But I get the feeling you already know that.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Dec felt a twinge of frustration. “If it was obvious, I wouldn't be asking.”

His father sighed. “At first, when she left, I told you she was taking a break. A little holiday. I had to. I didn't know what else to do. I think I half believed it myself. Wanted to, anyway. I was hoping if she had a bit of time to herself she'd come back. Then when the weeks passed without so much as a word, and you were so despondent, I felt I had to do something.”

His father looked wistful. “It was stupid, I guess. But it seemed to help. I felt guilty about it, but I didn't want you to think that she could have just gone like that without a word.”

An uneasy silence settled between them. Dec wagged his head back and forth, back and forth. It was all so easy. His father had an answer for everything. And when those answers turned out to be false, there was a whole new set, all freshly painted to look just like the truth.

His father glanced at his watch, and Dec felt a surge of anger, as if all of what he had been saying was some kind of teenage blather to be waited out. And Dec was just about to call him on it, when he realized he had never seen this watch before.

“That's not the watch you broke,” he said.

His father followed his gaze and then held the watch up for Dec's inspection. “No, it's my father's old Waltham,” he said. “It disappeared years ago and then it suddenly turned up. I had a new strap put on it, but otherwise it works like a charm.”

Dec stared at the watch. It was gold and square-shaped with a decorative leaf pattern carved into the shoulders. The face was plain — everything about it was plain — but for the scratches in the glass.

“What do you mean it just turned up?” His voice was snappish, as if the watch was yet another lie. But his father didn't seem to notice. In fact, he was gazing at the watch fondly.

“It turned up in Runyon's loot, although I have no idea where he found it. God, I had looked everywhere for this beauty.” He was shaking his head with wonder. “See the greenish tinge in the abrasions?” Dec leaned closer. He nodded. “That's residue from a smoke canister that exploded in my father's face. He wore this watch into battle on D-Day. There were these smoke canisters on the carrier they used for signalling advances to the troops. One of them burst open
and my dad was in the line of fire.” He looked up at Dec, his eyes eager. “My father landed on Juno Beach completely green from head to foot,” he said. “Can you imagine that?”

Dec peered at his father. It was as if their entire conversation was forgotten now that he was safely back in the past. None of what I'm saying makes any difference to him, thought Dec. This old watch matters more to him than I do. His father was unstrapping it now, handing it to him for closer inspection, and Dec felt the anger boil up in him. He felt an impulse to take the watch from his father and fling it across the room, smash it.

But suddenly time stopped.

He saw the watch in his father's fist, saw it glinting gold, and he remembered where he had seen it before. In a dead man's claw-like grasp.

“What is it?” his father asked.

Dec took the watch, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he said, handing it back immediately, not wanting to hold it.

His father strapped it back on his wrist. “It's not valuable — well, not to anyone but me, I guess.” He sighed. “I once accused Lindy of stealing it just to make me angry. She knew how much I loved this thing. She insisted I had just lost it.”

Dec went cold all over. He stared at his father, trying to sort the man out, and trying to sort out thoughts that were racing every which way.

“That woman,” said his father. “I swear, she could drive a
man to desperate lengths.” He looked across the shadowy room. They had turned on only the nearest lamp. His father seemed to be trying to make out things outside of their little circle of light. “It's funny,” he said. “You asked me if I ever think about her. I do, now and then. I wonder if she made it to wherever she was heading.” He paused, looked down. There was a spot of grey paint on his trousers. He rubbed at it. “The big house is the only place she's still alive for me any more. Sometimes I actually think I hear her, laughing in another room or playing her guitar.” Dec glanced up. “Really?”

His father had an amused look on his face. “She had this fool whistle.”

“I know!” said Dec, a little shocked. “I've heard it. Or, I mean, I thought I did. She'd just blow it in your face.” For a moment the boy and the man stared at each other in astonishment.

“You want to know something?” said his father. He was staring so hard at Dec, it was almost frightening. “After she left — I mean, after I knew she wasn't coming back — I tried to find her.”

Dec sat up straighter in his chair. It was as if, without ever knowing it, this was what he had wanted to hear.

“You went after her?”

His father shook his head. “I hired a private investigator.”

Dec stared at his father in disbelief. “A private eye?”

“Yep.”

It seemed so unreal and yet he knew, looking into his father's eyes, that this, at least, was true. And whatever else he thought, he loved his father for it. For at least trying.

“But he didn't have any luck,” said Dec hesitantly.

His father's eyes grew large. “Oh, he found her, all right,” he said. “It took him a few months. I guess it would have been early September. She was down in Hamilton.” He paused and his voice was hesitant when he continued. “Runyon was there.”

Dec held his breath. “With her?”

His father nodded. “They were living together.” He seemed to have trouble saying the words. “I'm not sure why I'm telling you this.”

“Because I want to know,” said Dec. He had not realized how thirsty he was to know something — to know anything.

“It's a closed book, really,” said his father, his face falling.

“Tell me!” Dec demanded. It came out as a shout. “What happened?”

His father scratched his brow. “I made a fool of myself.” He managed a mirthless little laugh. “Don't know what I was thinking. I just wanted her back. Told her I'd change.”

“You saw her?”

“I went down there, down to Hamilton, to this squalid little apartment they were shacking up in. I waited until Runyon was out. I pleaded with her. Told her we'd travel, see the world. Anything she wanted.” He looked squarely at Dec. There was a tear in his eye. “After everything,” he said,
his voice ragged and small. “Almost a whole year later — after everything she had done, I was still nuts about her.”

Dec reached out to touch his father, but his hand never made it. There was a loud crash behind them. They both spun around. Birdie was standing in the doorway to the rec room, her teacup shattered on the linoleum.

T
HE NIGHT WAS
full of wind, and the trees around Steeple Hall seemed intent upon trapping it all. They leaned and lunged. Their thick arms creaked with the weight and wallop of the air.

Dec bent his head and wrapped his arms tightly around his sleeping bag. It was June but it felt like winter up here. He imagined the dark hulk of the House of Memory as a freighter tossed on a high sea. He imagined how far off course she was being blown tonight. His teeth chattering, he speeded up his pace, buffeted every step of the way. As cold as it was, it was better than the storm he had left behind at Camelot.

He had no idea how long Birdie had been standing at the door to the rec room.

“September?” she said, her voice thin and disbelieving. “September?” She walked towards them in her stocking feet through the shattered crockery.

Dec had jumped to his feet. “Birdie, be careful,” he said. But she paid no attention.

“September,” she said again, as if the name of the month itself was the concept she couldn't quite grasp.

By now Bernard was going to her, but she held up her hand and backed away. Backed away until her back was against the wall.

“Honey,” said Bernard. “It was the last —” But she cut him off.

“We started building this house in September.”

“I know,” said Bernard.

“
Our house
.”

“It was foolish —”

“Foolish?” Her voice was tremulous. “Foolish doesn't even start… it was
wrong
, Bernard. Just plain
wrong.”
She smacked the wall with the flat of her hand.

“Birdie, please,” said Bernard. “Let me try to explain.”

“No!” she shouted. “No, no, no!”

Which was when Sunny woke up, howling.

And Dec slipped away.

He stood in the cool silence of the House of Memory. It seemed too silent. He trained his flashlight on the grandfather clock. It had stopped. His father must have forgotten to wind it.

Dec closed the door of the vestibule behind him, blocking out the wind. He listened, not sure what he expected to hear. But there was nothing. She wasn't here any more. Her absence filled the house again, the way it had when she first left.

He made his way to his childhood room. He was so tired. Dead tired. He had made a grab at the truth and it had morphed in his hands, turning into something more slippery and strange than he could have imagined. He felt empty now. He just wanted to sleep.

The sound of a car's engine woke him. It was revving high, fighting the overgrowth on the steep driveway. As Dec struggled up from the depths of sleep, he thought it was the Wildcat — his mother returning at long last. He saw lights pass across the curtains. The car stopped in the roundabout and the lights went out. He listened. Minutes passed until he wondered if he had seen or heard anything at all.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and checked the illuminated hands of his watch. It was after midnight. Finally he heard the distinctive thud of a car door. Then footsteps on gravel, on stone, on wood. He heard the front door open and close, then nothing. Thick carpet sucked up the progress of whoever was here. Though he listened with every fibre of his body, all he could hear was the creaking of the old mansion riding out the storm.

Please, God, he begged. Don't let it be her.

The door of his room opened. A woman appeared silhouetted in the entranceway.

“It's only me,” she said.

“Birdie?”

“Did I wake you? Stupid question.”

Her voice was flat, lifeless. Dec shinnied up to a sitting position. “What do you want?”

“I'm not sure,” she said.

Dec saw her shoulders shake. Slowly he unzipped his sleeping bag and climbed out. He stood on the rag rug some ancestor had made. He wasn't sure what to do.

“Are you all right?”

“No,” she said, crossing her arms.

“What happened?”

“You want to know what happened? I'll tell you. I'm a cow, Declan. That's what happened. I'm a stupid, jealous, lying cow.”

Dec switched on the flying-saucer lamp on his desk. They both stood there blinking.