Preston Falls : a novel (33 page)

Jean calls Rosellen Miller [Always glad to have Mel and Roger! Erin will be thrilled\), then goes back down to check the laundry, and settles in the old stuffed armchair that was in the basement when they bought the place. God, Carol can be wearing. And whatever this scheme of hers is about—well, she'll find out tomorrow. Or not. The chair smells musty and has white stuff showing through the arms, but really this is the most comfortable place to sit in the whole house. Jean used to think about having it reupholstered and bringing it upstairs, except she was afraid that might somehow ruin it. So this is one of her secrets; she always keeps a book down here next to the chair to read while she's doing laundry, something she reads nowhere else. She reaches down and picks up Rex Stout's The Father Hunt, which she's been working on now for a couple of weeks. The part she's in now, Nero and Archie are finding out that Eugene Jarrett can't be the father because he's sterile, though you already sort of knew he couldn't be anyway because it was too obvious.

She feels her head start to go forward and down onto her right shoulder; as the muscles relax, they give her back a twinge, and she realizes she was almost asleep. She's got to stay awake to put in fabric softener. But she's already drifting again, remembering she once heard that if you want to bend wood you can soak it in fabric softener and it gets limp as an egg noodle; and then something about putting jeans in to soak; and then she pictures letters peeling up off the page of a book she's holding down under water and just floating there around her wrists, not spelling anything.

She jumps when Carol puts a hand on her shoulder. "You poor thing, you were sound asleep," says Carol. "Here, let's get you up to bed. I put the clothes in the dryer for you."

As Carol helps her upstairs, Jean is wildly trying to tell her she still has to do a load with colors and she forgot to put in fabric softener and the kids have to do their homework—she told them she'd be right up. Carol says, Shh, it's all taken care of. But what about the pair of jeans in the thing, in the— I found them, Carol says. But the kids— Shh. I put them to bed. Here, let's get your shoes off.

"So: you, me, Cooperman of course," Jerry Starger says to Anita Bruno. "And our designing woman here." He nods at Jean. "Boy girl boy girl. Martha's got the rezzies for us. We see the contractor in the afternoon, scope out the space, chow down, check out the nightlife, breakfast with the bank guy in the morning and we're back in civilization by noon. Questions." Nobody says anything. "The Falcons may be at home tomorrow night, which I'm sure thrills you ladies to the marrow. Martha's checking into this as we speak."

"Seven-foot men in shorts?" says Anita Bruno. "Sweating? I can deal with that."

"This is tomorrow?" says Jean.

"Is that a problem?" Jerry says.

"No, it shouldn't be. My sister's here visiting, and I'm sure she could watch the kids."

"Groovy," he says. "Oh, and Bruno. Just FYI. The Falcons are football? Basketball is the Hawks."

"Shoot," says Anita. "Well, there goes my boy credibility."

"But it's why we love you. You're always in there pitching."

"I live only to impress you, Jerry," she says. "I know I can bounce back from this."

"Jerry, can I take a second and run this past my sister?" says Jean. She gets up, and she can just feel Anita Bruno judging her.

On the way to her office, she checks at the reception desk. No messages.

"Hi, it's me," she says when Carol answers. "Listen—"

"Hi—listen, I was just about to call you. I've got everything set. So how early can you get a train?"

"I don't know. Carol? Look, I just found out I have to fly to Atlanta tomorrow morning."

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"Oh, that's great."

"It's not great. I've hardly seen Mel and Roger, I'm totally exhausted, there's this whole thing with WiUis—"

"I think it'll be great for you to get away."

"I've been away."

"Yeah, but you know what I mean," Carol says. "Will you get a chance to play down there, or is this all business?"

"It's only overnight." Jean's ashamed to mention the football, which she doesn't even want to go to.

"How far is Atlanta from, like, Stone Mountain?"

"I have no idea. What is Stone Mountain?"

"A town," says Carol. "Anyhow. So, what I thought we'd do, why don't I pick you up at the station and we'U just go, and we won't have to take—"

"Wait-wait-wait. Carol. Would you just please tell me what this is?"

"Okay, look. There's somebody who I think can help you locate Willis, or at least find out what's going on. I made an appointment for five-thirty, which was the latest I could make it for, so do you think you could get to Chesterton by like four-fifteen, four-thirty at the latest?"

"But Carol—the police are on this."

"Right. Well, this is somebody who's worked with the police, okay? On exactly this kind of thing. I mean, they keep it very hush-hush, but you remember the little girl that was missing in Peekskill?"

"Oh crap. This isn't some psychic or something, is it?"

"Well, she's a reader, yes," says Carol. "But this isn't some crazy-person, Jean. Like I told you, the police even use her."

"Here we go."

"Jean, you can't just dismiss this person. I used to go to her years ago, when Dexter and I were living up in West Hurley? Plus a lot of famous people go to her, like I think Bob Dylan went one time?"

"Great."

"And listen, she has told me stuff. Like one time—okay?—she told me somebody that was out of my life was going to reappear, and a week later, or like a month later, I got a letter from Gid? First time in five years} Come on"

"Uh-uh," says Jean. "Sorry, no way."

"Why? What do you have to lose? Your faith, right? That everything is just, you know, on the surface and that there's no other dimensions except what you've been narrowly taught to accept."

PRESTON FALLS

"Carol, we've had this discussion. Many times."

"Okay, but these are actual documented facts, the things she's done."

"Documented?"

"Jean, this person is really known. She's not some fly-by-night. Like I say, even the police go to her. Not because they of all people buy into— you know—but because it works. You can't just dismiss that."

"Oh God."

"Will you just try her? Not decide anything, but just go with an open mind?"

"Oh God."

"Okay, look," says Carol. 'Tm going, irregardless, okay? I'm very concerned about this."

"You think I'm notV' says Jean.

"Yes, I know you are. And that's exactly why . . . Look, I respect your beliefs, and I just hope, you know, that you respect mine."

"Carol, I'm not trying to . . . Okay. Okay, fine. I'll go along with you on this, but if—"

"Okay, great, that's all I'm asking," Carol says. "And I promise you won't be sorry. So anyway, find out what train you can get, and we'U—"

"Where is this person, exactly?"

"She's up in Beacon."

"Beacon?" says Jean. "God help us. Okay, fine. Look, this is your show."

At quarter after five, they're in this absolutely grim little city, whose main street dead-ends at the Hudson River. Mrs. Porter lives on some side street; on the corner, black teenagers—baggy jeans, caps on backward— stand around a metal barrel with leaping fire inside. Carol parks in front of the one decent building on the block, a narrow three-story brick house, painted white, whose shutters have little cut-out crescent moons; she locks The Club on her steering wheel. They climb the three steps to stand under the aluminum awning and Carol pushes the doorbell: an Avon-calling chime sounds inside. There's a sign on the door reading ESTAMOS CATOLICOS ROMANOS. If this woman is such a whiz, what's she doing here? But Jean instantly reproaches herself: truly spiritual people live where they're needed, among the lowly.

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"Believe me, I know how weird this looks," says Carol. "Actually, it's sort of gone downhill since I was here."

"She's Spanish, this woman?" Jean means Hispanic, but that sounds racist, and she feels stupid saying Latina.

"No, why? Oh, the thing. No. Just a lot of Dominicans or something in this neighborhood. I think it's to keep like Jehovah's Witnesses away."

A smiling woman opens the door. That's the first thing you notice, the smile, and only after that the doughy face and white beauty-parlor hair. She wears half-glasses with a strap fastened to the earpieces and a Marimekko flower-print dress—though would this woman wear real Marimekko?

She notices Jean's look. "Yes, it's gay, isn't it?" She smiles. "Won't you come in? Now, you're Mrs. Willis—anyone could see the two of you are sisters. I'm Margaret Porter. And you look wonderful, dear. I knew moving out there was the right thing for you. Now, you're visiting for how long?"

"Well, I was going to go back this week," says Carol. "But now ..."

"Of course," Mrs. Porter says. "It's uncertain, isn't it? But you know, I'm so ashamed, I forgot to ask when you called: how is your son? You were so concerned about him."

"Oh, he's great. He's at the University of Washington."

"You see? Isn't that wond^viul}" Mrs. Porter stretches forth a hand to indicate the living room, where Jean sees a cat's tail disappearing behind a pea-green Naugahyde sofa. "Come in and make yourselves comfortable. Would you care for tea or coffee?"

Jean shakes her head, then remembers her manners. "Nothing, thank you." Carol hadn't prepared her for the picture of Jesus with the red, heart-shaped heart coming out of his chest, or the grove of candles on the table beneath it.

"Not for me, thanks," says Carol.

"Please sit wherever you like," Mrs. Porter says. Carol takes an armchair upholstered in faded rose, and Jean sits down at one end of the sofa before noticing the tangy-smelling litter box right beside her; of course, she can't relocate without giving offense. Mrs. Porter takes the far end—smart lady—and sits with her hands folded in her lap. She closes her eyes, then opens them.

"Mrs. Willis," she says. "Let me make sure I understand. Now, your sister tells me that Mr. Willis hasn't been heard from in some

PRESTON FALLS

weeks, that you're very concerned about him and that your family's in trouble."

Jean looks at Carol, who's looking at Mrs. Porter. Carol took it on herself to say this?

"Are you and your husband separated?"

"Well, not—you know— calling it that," Jean says. "He took a leave of absence from his job, for two months, and he was up in the country working on this old farmhouse we own. He was supposed to be back at his job in New York on Monday, but nobody there has heard from him either."

"I see," says Mrs. Porter. "And he was?"

"He was what? I don't follow you."

"Oh well," she says, "That's all right. It's just a thing I do. It can be helpful to see what springs to mind, if anything. Some people will say, 'He was fifty-five,' or they may say, 'He was a carpenter' or 'the handsomest man I ever saw.' Whatever happens to be uppermost. And we can sometimes go from there."

"I guess nothing is uppermost," says Jean.

"Oh, that's perfectly all right. What this tells me is that you're an alert person and not drifting off in your own thoughts. Perhaps you're somewhat guarded. Or just wary in this particular situation. Most people, I have to say, are relieved when they find I don't sit around boiling bats." Her little laugh sounds as rehearsed as the line itself. "Now. You've brought me something of your husband's?"

"7 did," says Carol, reaching down for her purse. Mrs. Porter looks at Carol; Carol looks back. "I didn't tell her a whole lot about this."

"I see. Well, then, no wonder you're wary, Mrs. Willis. Good heavens. What must you imagine?"

"Okay," says Carol. "Pair of socks." She holds them up. "Obviously. A hat." Willis's Yankees cap. "Passport?"

"You went through his drawers?'' Jean says.

"Razor?" says Carol.

"Ah. Give that here." Mrs. Porter leans toward Carol, who hands her a blue plastic razor. "You see, he would've held this while looking at himself in the mirror." Smiling, she holds the razor up with thumb and forefinger. "You should understand, Mrs. Willis, that it doesn't matter whether or not you believe in this."

"I guess that's good," says Jean.

"AU I need you to do at this point is let me have just a few moments

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of quiet. You can read a magazine if you like"—she gestures at the coffee table—"or watch, if you care to. You won't disturb me, though I'm afraid there's not much to see. An old lady sitting with her eyes closed can't be very entertaining."

Jean looks at the coffee table. Reader's Digest, McCall's, People, a newspaper called St. Anthony Messenger. An old Newsweek with a cover story glorifying fat Jerry Garcia. Neither she nor Carol reaches for anything.

"So, we'll speak in a few minutes, then," says Mrs. Porter. "Just make yourselves comfortable. You don't have to be statues. As I say, the only thing I ask is that you not talk or make a lot of racket."

"We won't," says Carol. Like a four-year-old.

Mrs. Porter closes her eyes, squeezes the handle of the razor in her left hand and folds her right hand over it. Her lips move, as if in prayer, then stop. Her breast rises and subsides, rises and subsides. Jean looks over, and Carol's eyes are closed too.

Jean closes hers, takes a breath, lets it out—and the bottom just falls away from under everything.

She feels her lips coming apart like a sticky seal peeling open, and her jaw dropping down to her collarbone, and then drool creeping over the corner of her mouth. That makes her eyes fly open: she's on somebody's couch, gasping. Never has she gone so deep so quickly. Mrs. Porter and Carol sit there, eyes still closed. She hears ticking; she turns and sees a banjo clock on the wall over her right shoulder. Twenty to six. What just happened seems already less profound and terrifying. She's exhausted, that's all, and she dropped off for a second.

"Well, he's somewhere with trees and grass," says Mrs. Porter. Jean whips her head around again to look. Mrs. Porter's eyes are open and she's talking as normally as before.