Masquerade (26 page)

July 7, 1976. Another day that changed her life forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Misther?”

Joe looked down. A slip of a girl wearing a purple sweater tugged on his jacket. The sleeve on her other arm hung limp from about her elbow down to where her fingers should have been.

“Push me on swing?” A coy smile playing across her face, Blondie batted her eyelashes, and swayed from side-to-side like a bell.

If she intended to waggle her way into his heart, she was doing a good job of it.

“Where’s your teacher?” Joe scanned the playground. A few of the kids stood in a circle and tossed a ball to one another, running after it more than catching it. One boy tottered after another, face red and mouth curved in a scowl. A couple Down syndrome girls leaned up against the brick building and watched the other students play. On occasion, they pointed at something or someone on the playground and broke into a series of giggles. By the swing set, Barbara and Amelia talked with a woman he didn’t recognize.

“Mrs. Tater’s home. She’s sick.”

“Aha.”  So  that  explained  her  absence.   “Nothing

serious, I hope.”

“Mrs. Kelly say a bug flew by. I guess it bit her.”

He chuckled and stooped beside Blondie. “I see. What’s your name?”

“Lily. Like the flower.”

“Hmm.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, glad that he’d passed as Randall Laverty under Director Sue’s radar and could volunteer at The Brighton Center. Though he longed to work in Celeste’s classroom, Sue thought it best to place him with the preschool kids. His presence might unduly upset Celeste. “No offense,” she’d said. “I’m sure you understand, given the circumstances.”

And his appearance
.
No doubt his face would serve as a billboard reminder to Celeste of the tragic fire that claimed her husband’s life. Or so she thought.

“So, wanna swing?”

“Huh? You too big.” She giggled, drew her shoulders up to her ears, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Too big, hey? We’ll see about that.” He took her hand in his scarred hand.

She peered into his eyes. Deeply. Like someone searching, traveling back in time, pushing through layer after layer of fog. “Shiny. Like my favrit, choclit mauble.”

He frowned and looked away. Marble. That’s how his heart felt, like a stone-cold marble.

She slipped her small hand from his, touched his face, ran a tiny finger along a scar. “You look like Jesus, Misther.” She hobbled over to a bucket swing, turned, and motioned to him.

What a strange thing to say. Jesus was like some kind of religious icon or master teacher. Since he hadn’t been raised in church, he didn’t know much, but he did know the guy was special. Not some scarred up freak.

Still, Lily made his heart quiver with possibility. He joined her at the swing set, wishing he had a little girl like her. But that hope went up in smoke the day of the factory fire. 

###

“No, please, Celeste, don’t hang up.” Her mother’s shrill tone softened. “You’ve been hanging up on me for the last four months. Please . . .” A defeated sigh traveled over the line.

This was a new and improved Mother, or so it seemed. Maybe time and distance had given her a chance to rethink her responses. Celeste clutched the phone. Nose stuffy. Head foggy. “What day is it?”

“Friday . . . Celeste, are you all right?”

She squeezed the crumpled tissue in her hand, sniffed. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been out of school all week with the flu. Stomach’s much better though. Whatever virus got me seems to be in my head now.” She tugged the terry cloth robe around her throat. No way she’d mention her suspicion about Lily. She’d investigate first. Maybe the whole thing was a coincidence. 

“Father and I are coming to help out. No arguments.”

Celeste closed her eyes. “No, Mother. Don’t. I’m resting.  A lot.  Drinking  plenty of  fluids.  Eating my fruits

and vegetables.”

“Did you receive my letters?”

Her gaze shifted to a kitchen drawer which held a bulging pile of correspondence from her mother. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, did you actually open them?”

“Yes.” Not a total lie. She’d opened all of them, except one. All said the same thing: Come home. What would make her think the last letter stated anything different?

“You don’t sound very convincing.” Her mother huffed on the other end.

“Your letters are all the same, Mother. I’m not coming home, and that’s final.”

“You haven’t read the last letter. Read it . . . please.” Mother’s voice changed from sandpaper to velvet.

“Can’t you just tell me what’s in it? Why the big secrecy?”

Silence. Maybe Mother hung up. Good. Celeste would putter around for a bit, then crawl back into bed.

“You need to read the letter first, and then we’ll talk. I think it would be best that way. Will you do that, Celeste?”

“All right, Mother.” If she had a white flag, she’d wave it. “I’ll read the letter. Tell Father ‘hello’ for me. I need to go now.”

“Get some rest. And Celeste . . . I do love you.”

Right. “Bye.” She hung up the phone, curious about the  mysterious  letter,  but  not enough to rip into it  right

that minute. Instead, she’d torture herself with a trip to the mailbox to collect the bills and junk mail that had most likely piled up over the week. That was enough agony for one day.

When she set the kettle on for tea and shrugged into her loafers sitting by the back door, the phone trilled again. She trudged back into the kitchen hoping the caller wasn’t Mother.

“Hello?” A tickle seized the left side of her throat. 

“Celeste?” Barbara’s cheery voice broke through her gloom.

“Hi, Barbara. Hold on a minute. I need a sip of water.” Gripping the phone between her ear and shoulder, she stretched the cord to the sink, filled a glass, and took a swallow. “Okay, I’m better now.”

“Are you?”

“Just a tickle. Really, I’m feeling much better. I’ll be in good shape by Monday.” It’d been almost a week since she’d peeked into Lily’s records. She’d left work that day numb, but determined to search out the truth, whatever it took. Then she got sick. Perhaps her immune system caved in to the mental and emotional overload.

“That’s good to hear. We all miss you so much. By the way, I wanted to alert you that there’s a new volunteer working in the preschool class.”

Celeste shrugged. “How does that affect our class?”

“Oh, it doesn’t, except that . . .” A pause on the other end.

“Except what?”

“The  volunteer  is  Randall Laverty.  I thought you

should know so you wouldn’t be surprised when you see him. This could be upsetting for you.”

Celeste frowned, lowered onto a chair. Shock upon shock. When would it end?

“Lily really took to him on the playground today.”

She would. The child embraced everyone. Could it possibly be true this little girl was her own flesh and blood? But how? It didn’t make sense. She blinked. “I’ll manage, Barbara. I’m sure we won’t see him that often.”

“Well, I’ll let you get some more rest. Can I bring you anything? Chicken soup?”

“No need. But thanks. See you Monday.”

Her head swam with this new piece of information as she cradled the receiver on the hook. She rubbed her tired eyes and scuffed to the back door. At the mailbox, she retrieved a stack of mail. An envelope slipped from her hand and fluttered to the driveway. Stooping to pick it up, she noticed the return address: Don Collins, 16 A Montgomery Street. Close to the hospital and clinic. Close to her house. 

Scurrying back to the kitchen, she laid the mail on the table. The kettle shrilled with all the vigor of Mark whistling along with a record. She steeped a teabag in a cup of hot water, sat at the table, and gaped at Don’s letter.

Silly. Open the thing. She slid her nail under the flap and tore across the top. Her hand trembled as she pulled the stationery from the envelope. No doctor’s prescription paper with hurriedly scribbled words. No, this  parchment  boasted  an  Old  English  “C”  at  the  top

between two elegantly scrolled lines. And fairly decent handwriting to boot. A hint of musk invited her to draw the stationery to her nose. She breathed in the subtle scent. Pure heaven.

“I forgive you,” she spoke into the stillness. Fickle is woman—hating Don one minute, welcoming him back into her world the next. She eased her grip on the paper, read the words. Stuff about how he’d taken the kittens to his friend, and as far as he knew they
were all doing well. That he knew she’d been upset when he left, and he’d like to make it up to her. Take her out—nice dinner, movie. The way he looked at it, he owed her one.

She rested her head on her arms. Yeah, if her suspicions proved correct, he owed her all right. More than he realized. Tears gathered behind her eyes. “Oh, Joe, what a mess things are. I wish you were here. But maybe it’s good you’re not. Perhaps it’s time to let you go and move on.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying that, but no amount of wishing or crying or grieving is going to bring you back, baby.” She raised her head, released a gush of air. “I think you’d want me to move on. That’s the kind of guy you were.”

Pushing from the table, she padded to the bedroom, pulled open her vanity drawer, and retrieved the velvet box. She lifted the lid, picked up Joe’s cut wedding band, and worked it round and round between her fingers. She pressed it to her chest and wept.

She grabbed for a tissue. Two things on her Saturday to-do list: Visit the cemetery. Call Don. But first she needed some tea and more sleep.       

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kneeling in the dirt, Celeste smoothed her hand over Joe’s grave marker. She studied the inscription on the stone.

Joseph Leonard Tatem

Loving husband

1957 – 1984

She lifted the velvet box from a patch of grass, so green after the white of winter. “The nitrogen in the melting snow produced rich humus,” Joe always said. “Good for the flowers.”

Sinking to the ground, box in her lap, she lowered her head. “I don’t have any flowers for you, Joe.” She tugged at some wild onion weeds. She’d paid enough for this plot. The caretaker should do a better job.

She eased her death-grip on the box, opened the lid. Morning sunbeams bounced off the rings. She studied her wedding band. Nothing fancy. White gold with a tiny diamond in a tiffany setting. Cost all of ninety-nine dollars.  Joe said he’d buy her a better one  on their tenth

anniversary, when he had enough saved up for something really nice. But she didn’t want another ring; she wanted the original. The wedding band Joe inched over her knuckle at their outdoor ceremony, face red, laughing under his breath because the ring didn’t want to budge. Once in place, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and beamed his Joe-smile as if he would burst. Swept up in the day, she felt it, too. This overwhelming happiness. Like nothing could ever be wrong again.

How naïve she’d been—thinking marriage could obliterate all trace of guilt and regret.

“I’ll always love you, Joe. I’m so sorry this happened to you, to us.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the mounting pressure in her temples. Wings flapped overhead. Her eyelids fluttered open. A flock of sparrows settled onto a nearby utility line. Silent witnesses to her grief. 

She set the box on the ground and wiggled her rings until they popped off. How strange she felt without them. Exposed. Uncertain. And that all too familiar guilt. She laid the rings in the box beside Joe’s band and reached for a spade. After she dug a small hole, she wrapped the rings in a scrap of cloth, tied the tiny bundle with a ribbon, and lowered it into the earth, patting the soil back in place. “This won’t be complete without flowers, but I’ll bring some back. I promise.” She anchored her hands on her jean-clad legs.

“There’s a little girl, Joe. Her name’s Lily.” She smiled at the thought of the child. “You’d really like her. I know   how  much  you  wanted  children.  I’m  so  sorry  I

couldn’t give you any. It’s all my fault.” In the distance, a man and woman stopped by another headstone. Celeste lowered her voice. “But it looks like I might have a chance to be a mother after all.” She shook her head. “It’s complicated, but I think Lily might be my child.”

She gazed at the sky.
Oh God, if you’re really up there like Barbara says you are, please help me. My life’s a mess right now. Help me sort through all this about Lily and Don.

“Don. You remember him, don’t you? I know . . . I know, kind of a pest during our college days. You knew he had his eye on me. But you always seemed so sure of yourself. Not threatened in the least. And no need to be. I only had eyes for you, until you left . . .” Her bottom lip trembled. “But he’s back, Joe. And he’s looking real good right now. I’m tired, so
tired of being alone. And if what I suspect is true about Don, well, I could actually have a family. What would you think about that? A family.” A nervous laugh escaped her throat.