No Place Like Home (5 page)

Earley, I thought. In my mind I was rereading the articles in the tabloids about me, the ones that had made me heartsick when I looked at them again only a week ago. There had been a picture of a cop tucking a blanket around me in the back of the police car. Officer Earley had been his name. Afterward he had commented to the press that he'd never seen a kid as composed as I had been. “She was covered with her mother's blood, yet when I put the blanket around her, she said, ‘Thank you very much, officer.' You'd think I had given her an ice cream cone.”

And now I was facing this same man again, and once more expected, I guess, to thank him for the service he would now perform on my behalf.

“Mom, I love my pony,” Jack called. “I want to name her Lizzie, after the name on the grass. Isn't that a good idea?”

Lizzie!

Before I could respond, I heard Georgette Grove murmur in dismay, “Oh, Lord, I should have known. Here comes the busybody.”

A moment later I was being introduced to Marcella Williams, who, as she grabbed and shook my hand, told me, “I've been living next door for twenty-eight years, and I'm delighted to welcome my new neighbor. I'm looking forward to getting to know you and your husband and little boy.”

Marcella Williams. She still lives here! She testified against me. I looked from one to the other: Georgette Grove, the real estate agent who had sold Alex this house; Sergeant Earley, who long ago tucked a blanket around me and then as good as told the press that I was some kind of unfeeling monster; Marcella Williams, who had verified everything Ted told the court, helping him to get the financial settlement that had left me with almost nothing.

“Mom, is it all right if I name her Lizzie?” Jack called.

I
have
to protect him, I thought. This is what would follow me if they knew who I am. For an instant the dream I sometimes have about being in the ocean and trying to save Jack rushed into my mind. I'm in the ocean again, I thought frantically.

Alex was looking at me, his expression puzzled. “Ceil, is it okay with you if Jack calls the pony Lizzie?”

I felt the eyes of my husband, my neighbor, the police officer and the real estate agent watching me intently. I wanted to run away from them. I
wanted to hide. Jack, in his innocence, wanted to name his pony after the infamous child I was reputed to be.

I had to get rid of all the memories. I had to act the part of a newcomer annoyed by vandalism. Only that, and nothing more. I forced a smile that must have come through as a grimace. “Let's not spoil the day because of some dumb kids,” I said. “I agree. I don't want to sign a complaint. Georgette, please get the damage repaired as fast as possible.”

I felt as though Sergeant Earley and Marcella Williams were taking my measure. Were either one of them asking themselves, “Who does she remind me of?” I turned and leaned on the fence. “You call your pony any name you want, Jack,” I called.

I've got to get inside, I thought. Sergeant Earley, Marcella Williams—how soon will it be before they see something familiar about me?

One of the moving men, a burly-shouldered, baby-faced guy in his early twenties, was hurrying across the lawn. “Mr. Nolan,” he said, “the media is out front taking pictures of the vandalism. One of them is a reporter from a television station, and he wants you and Mrs. Nolan to make a statement on camera.”

“No!” I looked at Alex imploringly. “Absolutely not.”

“I have a key to the back door,” Georgette Grove said quickly.

But it was too late. As I tried to escape, the reporters came hurrying around the corner of the house. I felt light bulbs flashing, and as I raised my hands to cover my face, I felt my knees crumble and a rush of darkness envelop me.

D
ru Perry had been on Route 24 on her way to the courthouse in Morris County when she got the call to cover the story of the vandalism of “Little Lizzie's Place” for her newspaper, the
Star-Ledger.
Sixty-three years old, a seasoned veteran of forty years as a reporter, Dru was a big-boned woman with iron-gray, shoulder-length hair that always looked somewhat unkempt. Wide glasses exaggerated her penetrating brown eyes.

In the summer, her normal attire was a short-sleeved cotton shirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes. Today, because the air-conditioned courtroom was likely to be chilly, she had taken the precaution of stuffing a light sweater in the shoulder bag that held her purse, notebook, water bottle, and the digital camera she carried to help her recall specific details of a breaking story.

“Dru, forget the courthouse. Keep going to Mendham,” her editor ordered when he reached her on her car phone. “There's been more vandalism
at that house they call ‘Little Lizzie's Place' on Old Mill Lane. I've got Chris on his way to get pictures.”

Little Lizzie's Place, Dru thought as she drove through Morristown. She had covered the story last Halloween when the kids had left a doll with a toy gun on the porch of that house, and painted the sign on the lawn. The cops had been tough on them then; they had ended up in juvenile court. It was surprising that they'd be bold enough to try it again.

Dru reached for the bottle of water that was her constant traveling companion and sipped thoughtfully. This was August, not Halloween. What would make kids suddenly decide to stir up mischief again?

The answer became obvious when she drove up Old Mill Lane and saw the moving vans and the workers carrying furniture into the house. Whoever did this wanted to rattle the new owners, she thought. Then she caught her breath as the full impact of the vandalism registered.

This is serious damage, Dru thought. I don't think you can just cover those shingles. They'll all have to be repainted, and the limestone will have to be professionally treated, to say nothing of the destruction to the lawn.

She parked on the road, behind the truck from the local television station. As she opened the door of her car, she heard the sound of a helicopter overhead.

She saw two reporters and a cameraman starting to run around the side of the house. Running herself, Dru caught up with them. She got her camera out just in time to snap Celia toppling over in a faint.

Then, with the gathering media, she waited until an ambulance pulled up and Marcella Williams came out of the house. The reporters pounced on her, peppering her with questions.

She's in her glory, Dru thought as Mrs. Williams explained that Mrs. Nolan had revived and seemed to be shaken but otherwise was fine. Then, as she posed for pictures and spoke into the television microphone, she went into detail of the history of the house.

“I knew the Bartons,” she explained. “Will Barton was an architect and restored this house himself. It was all such a terrible tragedy.”

It was a tragedy she was happy to recall for the media, going into great detail, including her belief that Liza Barton at age ten knew exactly what she was doing when she took her father's gun out of the drawer.

Dru stepped forward. “Not everyone believes that version,” she said brusquely.

“Not everyone knew Liza Barton as well as I did,” Marcella snapped back.

When Williams went back inside, Dru walked up to the front door to study the skull and crossbones that had been carved into it. Startled, she realized that there was an initial carved into each of
the eye sockets of the skull—an
L
in the left socket, and a
B
in the right one.

Whoever did this is really creepy, Dru thought. This wasn't slapped together. A stringer for the
New York Post
had arrived and began to study the skull and crossbones. He gestured to his cameraman. “Get a close-up of that,” he ordered. “My guess is that we have tomorrow's front page photo. I'll see what I can find out about the new owners.”

That was exactly what Dru was planning to do as well. Her next stop was going to be the home of the neighbor, Marcella Williams, but on a hunch she waited around to see if anyone representing the new owners came out to make a statement.

Her hunch paid off. Ten minutes later, Alex Nolan appeared before the cameras. “As you can understand, this is a most regrettable incident. My wife will be fine. She's exhausted from the packing, and the shock of the vandalism simply overwhelmed her. She is resting now.”

“Is it true you bought the house as a birthday present for her?” Dru asked.

“Yes, that's true, and Celia is delighted about it.”

“Knowing the history of the house, do you think she will want to stay here?”

“That is entirely her decision. Now if you'll excuse me.” Alex turned, went back into the house, and closed the door.

Dru took a long sip from the bottle of water she kept in her shoulder bag. Marcella Williams had explained that she lived just down the road. I'll go
wait for her there. Then, after I talk to her, Dru decided, I'll look up every detail I can find about the Little Lizzie case. I wonder if the court transcripts are sealed. I'd like to do a feature article about it. I was with the
Washington Post
when that happened. And wouldn't it be interesting if I could find out where Liza Barton is now, and what she's doing with her life. If she did deliberately kill her mother and try to kill her stepfather, chances are she's gotten into trouble again somewhere along the way.

W
hen I opened my eyes, I was lying on a couch that the moving men had hastily placed in the living room. The first thing I saw was the terrified look in Jack's eyes. He was bending over me.

My mother's eyes, so frightened in that last moment of her life—Jack's eyes were so like Mother's. Instinctively, I reached up my arm and pulled him down beside me. “I'm okay, pal,” I whispered.

“You scared me,” he whispered back. “You really scared me. I don't want you to die.”

Don't be dead, Mom. Don't be dead.
Hadn't I moaned that as I rocked my mother's body in my arms?

Alex was on the cell phone, demanding to know why the ambulance was taking so long to arrive.

An ambulance. Ted being carried out on a stretcher to an ambulance . . .

Still holding Jack, I pushed myself up on one elbow. “I don't need an ambulance,” I said. “I'm all right, really I am.”

Georgette Grove was standing at the foot of the couch. “Mrs. Nolan, Celia, I really think it would be better if . . . ”

“You really must be checked thoroughly,” Marcella Williams said, interrupting Georgette.

“Jack, Mommy's fine. We're getting up.” I swung my legs around and, ignoring the wave of dizziness, leaned one hand on the arm of the couch for balance and pulled myself to my feet. I could see the look of protest on Alex's face, the concern in his eyes. “Alex, you know how busy this week has been,” I said. “I simply need to get the movers to put your big chair and a hassock in one of the bedrooms and let me take it easy for a couple of hours.”

“The ambulance is dispatched, Ceil,” Alex told me. “You'll let them check you over?”

“Yes.”

I had to get rid of Georgette Grove and Marcella Williams. I looked directly at them. “I know you'll understand if I just want to rest quietly,” I said.

“Of course,” Grove agreed. “And, I'll take care of everything outside.”

“Maybe you'd like a cup of tea,” Marcella Williams offered, clearly unwilling to leave.

Alex put his hand under my arm. “We don't want to keep you, Mrs. Williams. If you'll excuse us, please.”

The wail of a siren told us that the ambulance had arrived.

The EMT examined me in the second-floor
room that had once been my playroom. “You got kind of a nasty shock, I would say,” he observed. “And with what happened outside, I can understand why. Take it easy for the rest of the day, if that's possible. A cup of tea with a shot of whiskey wouldn't hurt, either.”

The sounds of furniture being hauled around seemed to be coming from every direction. I remembered how after my trial, the Kelloggs, my father's distant cousins from California, came to take me back with them. I asked them to drive past the house. An auction was going on at which they were selling all the furniture and rugs and fixtures and china and paintings.