Secrets in the Shadows (6 page)

"Are you saying you don't think she did it?"
"No. She probably did it, but not with careful, well-thought-out premeditation like the stories implied. When you're in a panic or under some threat or struggle, you would do whatever you can. Actually, I think Harry was on the floor already when she stabbed him in a panic."
"On the floor already?"
"Maybe in a struggle with her and she reached for the knife. That's why he had his arms out." He shrugged. "My theory."
"Why wouldn't the police consider that, think about her being left-handed and wonder about it like you did?"
"It wasn't important to them. They knew she had killed Harry. She was telling a story that was so off-the- wall that they discounted everything. There was no reason to believe any of what she said, no evidence, no one who said a bad thing about Harry Pearson. And besides, police like to close cases, make it easy. She had been diagnosed and sent to a mental clinic. What difference did anything else make? From what I can tell, it's as if her attorney fell asleep in the courtroom."
I looked at
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the report again and at some of the headlines on the stories. Could he be right? If he was . . . It made me dizzy, and I put my hand on the desk to keep the room from spinning. Then I took a deep breath.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," I said quickly. "Thank you," I said and stood.
"Hey, no problem. I'm happy to talk about it with someone, especially you. I haven't looked at that stuff for some time, but I've thought about it often."
"I've got to go."
"C'mon," he said. "I said I would drive you home." "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I'm an American citizen," he said, laughing. "I have the freedom of choice, but I would like to, okay? So don't take away my fundamental rights."
I had to laugh, too. After all the heavy reading, it was a relief to laugh about something.
"Okay," I said. "I don't want to be accused of being a bad citizen." We started out.
I glanced back at the room and the hallway before I followed him down the stairs.
"This way," he said and took me through the kitchen to the door that opened to their garage, where he had his car.
"When we bought the house, there was an area behind the garage where construction had begun to turn it into what my mother thought was a maid's quarters. She didn't like the idea of having a maid live with us, so she let my father turn it into a small workshop for himself. He put a television set in there and uses it as a hideaway." Craig added, smiling. "Although he pretends to be working on his little projects."
We backed out of the garage.
"I've got to tell you," he said after turning onto the street, "that I've always been curious about you. Not," he added quickly, "like some of the others in our school. I know what Mindy and Peggy did, and I've always thought they were air heads."
"What are you curious about?"
"Why you keep to yourself so much, for one thing. Where do you go in the summer, for another."
"I haven't found anyone I'd like to pal around with," I said.
He smiled. "C'mon. You really don't even try, Alice. You don't belong to anything, any club, any team. You don't go out for plays, chorus, whatever."
"You sound like my grandparents. If you know so much about me, why ask?"
"I don't know so much about you. That's the point. The other point," he said, looking at me again, "especially after seeing you dolled up, is I'd liked to."
I didn't say anything. I could feel the heat come into my face, and I didn't want him to see me blush, so I turned to look out the window.
"I go to my aunt's cafe in New Paltz every summer and work."
"Oh. And you stay there all summer?"
"Yes."
"You're going to do that this summer, too?" "Yes. I'm going to be a waitress."
"Well, that's not too far."
I looked at him.
"Too far for what?"
"A visit or two or three," he said.
If there ever was such a thing as a magical, winning smile, Craig Harrison had it, I thought. It made me want to dive into his face. Again, I felt the heat rise up through my neck.
"You like riding the bus to school?" he asked. "I don't mind. I get some reading done."
"How about I pick you up tomorrow?" he asked as we drew closer to the Doral House.
"Why do you want to do that? It's out of your way."
"That depends on what my way is," he said, smiling again. "I'll be here at seven a.m. The bus doesn't come by until about seven-fifteen, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
He pulled into our driveway and looked up at the Doral House.
"Your house is the most interesting in the area. I think, anyway. You ever go up to the attic?"
"Of course. That's where I do my artwork," I said. "Oh. Well, how about quid pro quo? You know what that is?"
"Yes. Tit for tat," I said, and he laughed.
"So? Do I get to see it?"
"Not right now, but maybe," I said.
"I'd even volunteer to be a model," he added, now smiling impishly.
"I bet you would. Thanks. For everything," I added and got out.
"See you in the morning."
He waved and backed out. I watched him drive off. Why was he doing this? Was he really interested in me, or was he going to use me to amuse himself and his friends? How do you know when to trust someone, especially someone like him, who, as far as I was concerned, could choose any girl in the school?
It was nice of him to think that my mother wasn't as terrible as she had been made out to be, and yet I had to wonder if he was saying all that and showing me all that just to win my trust. My family was right, I thought, I needed to get out and about more so I wouldn't be so naive and helpless when it came to socializing, especially with boys.
"That you, Alice?" I heard my grandfather call as I entered the house. He was in the living room, reading. My grandmother was in the kitchen. I could hear her moving about and then saw her peer out to see me.
"Yes, Grandpa."
"Where were you?" my grandmother asked. "We didn't know you were still outside."
"I went for a walk and ended up in the village." "Oh?"
Should I dare tell them I had been in my mother's home and even in her room? Should I dare tell them about the research Craig Harrison had done? I had to at least tell them about him. He was coming for me in the morning, or said he was. Maybe he wouldn't show up.
"Yes. I met Craig Harrison," I said. "And then he drove me home."
"Really?" I heard my grandfather say. He came to the living room doorway. He looked down the hall at my grandmother and then back at me. "We didn't know you were friendly with him."
"I wasn't until today," I said. "He wants to pick me up in the morning for school. I said okay. Is that all right?"
"Sure," my grandfather said quickly. Then he looked at my grandmother. "Right, Elaine?"
"I suppose so," she said. She looked nervous. "Especially since you jumped in so quickly to say it was."
"Hey," he told her. "You're the one who had Rachel turn her into Miss America."
"I did not. Anyway, what are you implying, Michael Stern?"
He laughed and then winked at me.
"I'll be right down to help with dinner," I told my grandmother.
"There's nothing to help with. I was just cleaning up a bit. Your grandfather is taking us to have Chinese food in Monticello. We'll leave about five-thirty."
"Okay," I said and hurried up the stairs to the attic. Suddenly, I felt I had to be up there. It was the only place where I could think clearly and be comforted. My mind was reeling with a kaleidoscope of mixed emotions. The girl in me was excited and even fascinated with the way Craig Harrison spoke to me and smiled at me. I had no idea he had been watching me, thinking about me all this time. And of course, I had no idea he had developed such interest in my mother's story and secretly done so much in the way of research.
When I had first seen it, I was bothered by what he had done. I thought, just as his mother accused, that he might have a macabre fascination with it all, but he seemed so sincere when I spoke with him It was not only comforting but intriguing as well. After all, what if his theory was right?
Isn't that what I had wished for so long?
His explanation as to why no one would believe anything she had said made sense, too. I had no trouble considering the possibility that my mother had exaggerated and created so much more in her story than what might have been. Craig didn't hear my aunt Zipporah speak about her. He didn't understand how much she depended upon and used her imagination.
But that didn't mean it was all untrue
necessarily.
Did it?
Would there ever come a time when I could confront her and win her trust enough to ask her?
And if I did and she told me her side of it all, would I believe her?
I'd be predisposed to do so. I couldn't be objective--or could I?
I sat on the sofa, where my father had sat when he was up here with me, and I looked at the window and tried with all my imaginative powers to see her standing there the way he obviously had. I envisioned her turning to me and smiling.
"I knew you would come up here," she would say. "I always had faith that someday you would come to my defense, my only real ally, my daughter. You'll find a way to show them all. You'll set me free so I can walk out of here and outside again. I'll leave the attic.
"Finally, we'll be together, mother and daughter, walking and talking and laughing about everything that happens to you as you grow up. be there at your side when you fall in love and get married and have children of your own.
"And then I'll make sure that you never, ever get trapped in any attic."
Tears streamed down my cheeks when she turned away. I had lost her so quickly again.
What could I do to bring her back?
I looked around the attic and at the picture of the tree both my
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grandfather and my father so admired, and then it came to me. Maybe it came from her.
I would paint her standing there by that window. I wouldn't let my grandparents, Zipporah, my father, anyone know until the picture was finished.
That way, I would lock her forever and ever in my eyes, my mind and my heart.
And she would never disappear again.

I had just finished outlining the picture when my grandmother called up to tell me to get ready to go to dinner. I hated leaving the work, but I knew it would be exactly the wrong sort of message to send if I told them I'd rather stay home to paint. They were so determined to get me out of this house, and
specifically out of this attic, more.

On the way to the restaurant, my grandfather teased me about Craig Harrison until my grandmother gave him those big eyes of hers, a look that usually froze him in place. He told me even the big-shot doctors at the hospital fled from her when she did that to them.

In the back of my mind, I was still unsure about Craig's motives anyway. I was terrified of being deceived and made the object of even more ridicule at school. My new fashionable appearance was bound to create enough chatter as it was; adding Craig's driving me to school would surely make me topic number one on the chatterbox network. Disappearing in the rear of everyone else's thoughts was soon to be impossible.

The following morning, as I stood outside where I normally waited for the school bus, I almost hoped

Craig wouldn't show up, but he appeared just a few seconds after 7:00 a.m. I glanced back at the windows in front of the house and was positive I saw my grandmother sneaking a peek through the curtains as he pulled into the driveway, backed out and right up to me standing on the side of the road.

"Forget the school bus. Your chariot has arrived, madam," he said, and then he leaped out and went around to open the car door for me. He did a silly, sweeping bow and I got in. "You look great," he told me as soon as he got in and started away.

"Thank you."
"So what really made you change? I mean, your clothes, your hair and makeup, if I might be so bold to ask."
"Let's just say it was either this or banishment."
He laughed: `And here I thought it was all to win my heart."
I glanced at him. "You mean your heart is that easily won?"
"Whoa," he said. "I'd better bring in
reinforcements quickly. You're not going to be easy."
"You mean as easy as the others were?" "The others? Another false accusation?"
He pretended to be wounded and then lose control of the car.
I screamed and he laughed.
Then I saw him turn serious.
"You know when you first really caught my attention?" he asked.
"How would I know that? I didn't even know I had."
"It was in English class when Mr. Feldman pushed you to give your interpretation of why Frost repeated the last line in his poem 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.' You know the line I mean: 'And I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.' Everyone else was saying or would say he repeated it because he wanted to emphasize his responsibilities, but you said because he was insecure about what he had to do. He had to talk himself into it with the repetition. When you added the words 'like most of us,' I went, Wow. This is a girl I'd like to know."
"That was months ago," I said. "What happened since?"
"What can I say? I'm shy."
I looked at him skeptically.
"I am! I'm the basic example of someone who tries to overcompensate to cure his shyness. Besides, as I told you, I did look at you, smile at you, even nod at you, but you looked like you were looking right through me, so I thought, forget it. She's not interested."
Could that be true? I wondered.
"I'm not blaming you. You probably thought I was like the others, just playing with you."
"Maybe that's what you're doing right now," I said, and he pretended to be wounded again, this time coming so close to the right shoulder of the road that I was positive we would go into the ditch.
"Reinforcements! Reinforcements!" he shouted, and I screamed again.
By the time we pulled into the school parking lot and he parked beside another student's car, we were both laughing. That alone stopped some of the girls entering the building. They stared in utter disbelief.
"What'cha doing, catching flies?" Craig asked them as we walked by and saw their mouths still open.
I smiled to myself.
Maybe, I thought, just maybe, I might enjoy being in school for once. But that made the possibility of being disappointed and deceived even more terrifying for me. I felt like holding my breath all day and tiptoeing my way from classroom to classroom, fearing that if I moved too quickly, I might shatter the illusion of happiness and bring the world of hope crashing down around me in sharp shards of betrayal.
It wasn't that way. Craig was truly like my bodyguard, fending off any teasing comments his friends threw in my direction.
"Who's the new girl?" was the top ten remark.
"Wouldn't you like to know," was Craig's defense, and then he would scoop his arm through mine and direct me away, talking and laughing as if we had been together for months and months and not just hours.
"How about coming to baseball practice today to watch me show off?" he asked me at lunch. "I'll take you home right afterward."
I had never even gone to a game, much less a practice, where, I knew, the girlfriends of other players hung out to watch. I could easily use the excuse that my grandmother would worry if I didn't step off the school bus or show up after school. Craig wouldn't know she was going to do an afternoon into the evening shift at the hospital and wouldn't be home. My grandfather would be at the office until late in the afternoon. Our dinner would simply have to be heated up, and either I would do it or he would because I was so involved in my work in the attic.
My hesitation in replying concerned him.
"I'll do better if you're there," he said, "and so the team will benefit. You'd be helping your school." "Yeah, right."
"You'll see," he said. "What do you say?"
I'm getting in deeper and deeper, I
thought,
but isn't that what I really want?
"Maybe," I gave him, and that was enough.
When the bell for the end of the final class of the day rang, I had still not really decided. My heart was racing. I went to my locker and found myself moving exaggeratedly slowly. If I missed the bus, I would have to attend the baseball practice. Maybe it was the coward's way to decide, but that's exactly what I did. I missed the bus.
At the end of the day, the school always cleared out so quickly that it looked like a deserted sinking ship. Doors slammed closed, and except for some students who were in detention or doing some extra help session with their teachers, no one was around. I made my way through the corridor to the doorway that led out to the ballfields. The girlfriends and those interested in becoming girlfriends of players were already getting into the stands to watch the practice. Of those who were there, there was no one with whom I had much contact in school. I barely had spoken to most of them, even though some were in my classes.
The ballplayers came charging out of their locker room entrance with the coach and his two student assistants trailing behind. When Craig saw me walking toward the bleachers, he stopped to wave, and I waved back. It drew the immediate interest of all the girls already seated. They watched me approach, but no one called to me to sit beside her. I sat a good two levels behind and above them all and set my books down. Whether it came from my nervousness or somewhere else I wasn't sure, but I opened my sketch pad and at first pretended I was doing some sort of drawing related to the baseball practice. I knew that all the girls were turned to look at me. They were buzzing away like a mad hive of hornets. Mindy and Peggy were there among them, so I didn't expect I was getting any flattering compliments.
Nevertheless, one of the African American girls, Charlene Lewis, stepped away from the pack and headed in my direction. She was a very tall, pretty girl with very light brown eyes and probably the most attractive figure of any girl in the school. I knew she was going steady with a senior, Bobby Robinson, the baseball team's best pitcher. I overheard enough in the hallways and cafeteria to know he'd been offered a scholarship, like my father, to play baseball at a prestigious Midwestern college.
"Hey," Charlene said as she approached. "Why are you sitting way up here?"
"Better view," I said and continued to sketch some lines.
"That the only reason you came to the practice?" she asked, nodding at my pad and smiling
I looked up at her.
"Maybe."
"Sure," she said, laughing. She slipped onto the bench and looked at my preliminary sketching. It was a random view of the field. I hadn't yet drawn any players. "You know you and Craig were the biggest topic of discussion today?"
"I can't imagine why," I said, and she laughed.
"I like your outfit. Where'd you get those jeans?"
"I think the place was called Bottoms Up, something like that, in Middletown."
"You think? You don't remember the store?"
"We were in and out of so many. It's a blur." She pulled her head back.
"Girl, you sure surprising everyone 'round here."
"I can't imagine why," I said, and she laughed again. I stopped drawing for a moment and looked at her. "You know, if you form stereotyped opinions of someone, you get surprised when they do something different. Whose fault is that? I think you would know something about people forming stereotyped opinions. I think you would understand better than any of them why that's so distasteful and hurtful," I added, nodding at the pack of girls below us.
Her expression changed so fast I was sure she was going to jump up, say something nasty and go off, but instead, she nodded, smiled again and relaxed.
"I've been looking for an excuse to get away from those pack rats. Glad you came," she said.
We watched the players start their batting practice. Her boyfriend was on the mound pitching.
"Bobby is really graceful out there. Watching him wind up and throw is like watching a ballet sometimes," she said.
I studied her boyfriend and agreed.
"So, all kidding aside, how come you changed your style, and how did you hook up with Craig Harrison so fast? No one even saw you two talking before today."
"All kidding aside," I replied, "were you sent over here to find out?"
She laughed. "Sorta."
I liked the fact that she was honest.
"Well, I sorta decided to try new clothes, and then I put a spell on Craig and seduced him," I told her. "I've been studying witchcraft in the basement. You had better warn them. I can cast spells and turn girls into houseflies."
"Girl, you are something else," she said, laughing. "We're all something else, Charlene. That's the point."
She nodded. "You two go out over the holidays?" "Not really. I had a lot of family visiting."
"Here he goes," she said, nodding at the ballfield. Craig was at bat. "Bobby says he's the only one he can't figure out. They're always competing with each other."
I leaned forward.
Bobby's list pitch seemed to go right through Craig's bat.
"He's too anxious to show off because of you," Charlene said. "Bobby's going to get him"
Already someone's mistakes are being blamed on me, I
thought.
That didn't take long.
Craig swung and missed the next pitch, too.
He paused, stepped away from the plate, looked down at the ground and seemed to say a prayer or something. Then he returned. Bobby Robinson was all business, intent. He went through his windup and hurled what looked like another strike, only Craig timed it just right. The ball came sailing toward the bleachers in a high arc and fell near the pack of girls, who shrieked and leaped in every direction.
"That boy's definitely in love," Charlene said. "No other explanation Bobby gonna accept."
She laughed, squeezed my arm gently and returned to the pack.
The contest sparked an idea for me, and I began to work madly on a new drawing, concentrating on it so hard that I had no idea how much time had gone by or that I had worked to the point where the coach had blown his whistle and declared the practice had ended. The pack of girls exploded in every direction, each catching up with one of the players. Craig came sauntering out toward me and waited while I finished a line. Before he could speak, I turned it so he could see it.
It was a picture of him, swinging hard, his whole body in movement, but as the ball came off his bat, it turned into a bird.
"Wow," he said, taking it to look closer. "Can I have this?"
"Sure," I said.
He handed it back. "Sign your name. Someday it's going to be worth a ton."
I laughed and wrote my name in the bottom right corner.
"See," he said, "I knew you'd have a good time coming to practice. What did you think of my first hit?"
"It looked like you were aiming for those girls." "I was," he said, holding his hand out for me.
I took it and we started back toward the school building.
"Give me fifteen to take a shower and dress and I'll be out to drive you home."
"Okay," I said. Before he turned to go in, he leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips.
"In baseball," he said, his lips still close to mine, "we call that getting to first base. Did I get on with a hit, a walk or an error?"
"Felt like a hit," I said. He beamed, kissed me again and hurried into the building.
Oh please, please,
I prayed,
let this not be deception.
While I waited for him, I gazed back at the ballfield and wondered why my aunt Zipporah never spoke about her or my mother having any boyfriends at school. Didn't anyone ever ask either of them out? Didn't they watch boyfriends at basketball or baseball practice? Why weren't they in the school plays? Surely, they could have met boys there. They were as void of any school activities as I was. Could that possibly have had something to do with what had been going on and what had occurred later?
It seemed that whenever I went into deep thought about my mother, I left time and place and had no concept of where I was or how long I had been there. The next thing I heard was Craig calling to me. Finally, I felt him nudge me.
"Hey, what's with you? I was shouting like crazy," he said.
"Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking about things."
"That deeply? I hope it involved me," he said, reaching for my hand.
"In a way it did."
"Great. I'll take anything. Even 'in a way,' " he said, and we headed around the building toward the parking lot. Just about everyone had already dressed and gone. There were only a half dozen cars left, including his.
"I saw you were talking to Charlene Lewis in the stands," he said as we approached his car.
"You weren't concentrating on your practice?"
He laughed. "No, but I did finally. She's a nice girl. I like Bobby, too. Maybe we'll go on a double date with them."
I didn't say anything. He opened the car door for me, and I got in.
"You didn't say anything when I mentioned a double date," he said after we drove out of the lot.
"What should I say?"
"You'd like it or not, for one thing."
"I don't know. I've never been on a double date. I've never been on a date," I added unashamed.
"No secret romances?" he kidded.
"If there were, they were so secret, even I didn't know," I told him, and he laughed.
"You know you're a pretty interesting girl, Alice. As I told you, what I like about you is I can't tell what you're going to do or say. Most of the other girls here are carbon copies, almost mass produced. I was thinking about them when Kasofsky was describing Henry Ford's creation of the assembly line the other day, and then I looked at you and I thought, unique, custom made from the bottom up."
"Not weird?"
"No," he said and then smiled at me and added, "well, maybe a little."
I laughed.
"But I like it," he said.
I said nothing.
Am I being seduced? Am 1 hearing what I want to hear? How cautious should I be? How trusting? How truthful? What are the rules, the guidelines? How much do you rely on your own instincts? Does it boil down to how much you can trust yourself? And what am I risking anyway? My virtue, my virginity, my reputation? What does that amount to here? Or is it something that will change me so much, I will hate myself, never mind what others think?
"You get into your thoughts so deeply again, Alice, that I feel like you're gone every once in a while. Does anyone else tell you that?" he asked.
"Sometimes my grandparents do."