It was late afternoon by the time I reached Sandburg. I had almost no memory of the village-- not that there was all that much to remember about it. It had two main streets, one that ran through the village and one that joined about three-quarters of the way and then ran north. There was a post office, a firehouse, a dozen stores, including a supermarket, and two bar-restaurants. The bus depot was a small confectionery store run by an elderly couple, who had been there for nearly twenty-five years. It was called George's, and the wife's name was Annie. I was actually the only one to get off the bus. There had been only five people on it, and the others had gotten off at Centerville, the village preceding Sandburg.
The streets were nearly empty, only an occasional vehicle passing. I saw some boys at soccer practice on the school grounds as we went past the field. The air was brisk, but the sky was mostly clear, the late-afternoon sunlight making windows glitter. When we turned up toward the bus depot, I saw a man washing a storefront and, a dog lying comfortably on the sidewalk, as if he knew no one would come by to disturb him. His eyes popped opened with curiosity when I stepped down. The driver got out my suitcase, looking at me and the surroundings as if he was leaving me at the end of the world. He got back into the bus and drove off as I went into the confectionery store to see about getting a taxicab.
"Hello, there," George said. He wore a starched white full apron and was washing down the counter with a large sponge. His wife, who wore a half apron over a bright print dress, was sitting on a stool and reading the newspaper. She turned and glanced at me before returning to whatever held her interest in the paper.
"Can I get a taxicab?" I asked.
"Sure. I'll call Al for you," George said. "He's the only taxicab operating at the moment. Where you heading?"
"I have to get to the Atwell farm," I said.
"The Atwell farm!" Annie said, perking up. She couldn't contain her curiosity. "Why are you going there?"
"I own it," I said.
George froze with the receiver in hand.
"You own it? Are you . . . you're the baby?" Annie asked, amazed.
"Yes," I said, smiling. "The baby."
They both just stared at me.
Annie realized it first and spun on George.
"Call Al for her already," she ordered.
He quickly tapped out the numbers.
"I have a fare for you," he said over the phone. "To the Atwell farm. Okay." He hung up. "He'll be here in five minutes. Just throwing on his jacket," George said. "He's right down the street."
"Do the Parleys know you're coming?" Annie asked.
I didn't want to let out how little I knew about the tenants at the farm.
"I mean," she continued, "Pru Farley was in here just this afternoon and didn't mention you."
"Not everyone tells you their business, Annie," George told her.
Her eyes went to my suitcase.
"You're staying a while, I see."
"Yes," I said, smiling. "I'm staying a while."
"Well, I . . how have you been?" she asked, dying to know everything. "Where have you been all these years?"
"I've been. . . away," I replied.
"I can remember your mother carrying you in here just like it was yesterday," she said. "For an infant, you had such a serious way of looking at people, fixing your eyes on them like two tiny searchlights. Your mother wouldn't let me give you a lollipop, but she did let me give you a carrot. You ate it like a rabbit. Remember, George?"
He grunted and smiled.
"Pru and Brice Farley are a very nice young couple," George said. "He's the guidance counselor at the high school."
"I'm sure she knows all about the Farleys, George," Annie told him. Then she looked at me to see if I did.
I nodded without comment.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"There's a rumor that Marvin Becker, an attorney, is trying to buy your land and develop tract vacation homes on it. Is that why you've come?" she asked.
"Don't mind her. She thinks she has to write the column for local news," George said.
"I do not. Everyone knows about it," she protested. A car pulled up in front of the store.
"There's Al," George said. "He got here quicker than I thought. He doesn't get that many fares this time of the year, so he's anxious."
"Don't worry, he's a good driver," Annie said. "Thank you."
"You were some beautiful child," she said. "It doesn't surprise me to see that you're a beautiful young lady now."
I held my smile.
"I'm not here to sell my property," I gave her in return. She beamed with the exclusive news.
During the short ride up to the farm, the taxicab driver, Al Shineman, filled me in on the property's history since I had left.
"It took your attorney quite a while to get it rented, you know," he said. He lowered his chin and looked at me over his thick-lensed glasses.
"Considering what went on there, most people were afraid of the place. On Halloween the teenagers used to go up there and have bonfire parties until the police finally put an end to it. They could have caused forest fires, and someone was always breaking into the house.
"I hear the Farleys have fixed it up nicely inside. Brice coaches the junior varsity basketball team, andI'm works for your attorney, you know. She's a paralegal."
I said nothing to indicate I knew or didn't know. The quieter I was, the more he chatted. All the while my heart was thumping like a parade drum. As we drew closer and closer to the farm, the surroundings became more and more familiar. I was truly falling back through time with every ticking minute, every mile, every tree and field and rock we passed.
"Are you all right, miss?" Al asked when we reached the entrance to the long driveway and I uttered a clearly audible gasp.
"Stop!" I cried when he made the turn onto the property.
"Stop?" He brought the car to a halt. "What's wrong? This is the Atwell farm."
I took a deep breath. To my left I could see the small old stone cemetery, the tops of the three tombstones just peeking over the fieldstone walls. Many times I had held Noble's or Mama's hand at night when we stood there and held a prayer vigil, all of us looking at the unmarked grave that held our deepest secret.
I took a deep breath and gazed around the property. The forest surrounding it had thickened and expanded, as if it had begun a slow march toward the house. The three-story Queen Anne with that oh-sofamiliar turret in which I had been hidden so many times looked unchanged. The lawn immediately in front of the house was well maintained, but the fields were overgrown, the weeds raging even up to the walls of the old barn. I saw that the area where the herbal garden had once bloomed was totally overrun by wild grasses and some flowery weeds. A latemodel ruby sedan was parked in front of the house, a black pickup truck just to the right of it. To the left of the house, the inhabitants had obviously worked a small vegetable garden. I saw the remnants of pumpkin plants and recalled how Noble and I used to cut out the faces for Halloween. We'd give them names.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked Al.
"Don't you want me to drive you up to the house?"
"No," I said. There was no way to explain it so he would understand.
"Oh. Well, that will be twelve dollars," he said.
I opened the envelope Mrs. Cukor had given me and counted out the money. He took it and stepped out to get my suitcase off the rear seat.
"Sure you don't want me to drive you to the house?" he asked, handing me the suitcase. "It's not light."
"No, thank you," I said.
In a little while he'll be back at the
confectionery store talking about this for sure, I thought, but I didn't care.
I started down the driveway.
How many, many times had I walked this driveway with Mama or with Noble and heard them both talking about the spirits of our family standing to the side, smiling at us! Were they here now? I didn't blame them for not appearing, for not trusting me. Look at
the detours I had taken. Look at how I had denied and avoided them, treating them as if they were figments of a disturbed young imagination.
In the wind that brushed my hair and flowed past my face, I could recall Mama's singing. Perhaps sounds, voices, words, and music linger just like anything else that hovers about, and when it's proper, when all the forces of nature come together just right, those memories return as echoes, reverberating once again. I was thinking about all this as I walked. I didn't even notice how heavy my suitcase was, nor did I look back at Mr. Shineman, who had yet to back out of the driveway. I knew he was watching me, expecting to see something strange and amazing, something he could take back to the store for gossip.
What he did see was my stopping and standing so still, he surely wondered if I had changed my mind and was about to turn around and flee. I stopped because there was no question, no doubt, that I could hear someone playing the piano. The melody was familiar. It made my heart jump in my chest. Would I knock on that door and find Noble greeting me? Would Mama be at the piano? Would all that had happened ever since disappear like a dream when the sunlight wakens me? Would the forest move back, the weeds be gone, the herbal garden bloom?
Slowly now, each step very deliberate and careful, I walked toward the front door. A large cloud cast a shadow like a fisherman's net over the house. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
"Please, please," I whispered. "Let my dream be true."
I knocked on the door, using the old brass knocker that was still there. I heard the piano playing stop. A few moments later the door opened, and a young man with closely trimmed light brown hair and hazel eyes looked at me. Surprise curled his firm lips into a pleas-ant smile. He was in a flannel shirt and jeans and wore a pair of running shoes. I thought he was easily six feet tall, with a slim, tight build.
"Well, hello," he said in a jovial tone. He leaned out and saw no automobile. Al Shineman had backed away and gone. "Who are you?"
"I'm Celeste Atwell," I said.
His mouth fell open, and his eyes went wide. He looked past me again, and I realized immediately that he was thinking I had somehow materialized out of thin air. It brought a smile to my face, too. "A taxicab brought me," I explained.
"Oh. I didn't hear it," he said. "My wife was playing the piano."
"Who's there, Brice?" I heard a woman call from the living room.
"It's Celeste Atwell," he called and stepped back. "Come in, come in," he urged.
"Who?" I heard, and looked at the living room doorway to see Pru Farley. She was a very pretty woman about my height. She had green eyes the shade mine often took, and dark brown hair. Her features were small, but she had full lips, and a sharp angle to her jawbone made her high cheekbones seem even more prominent. She was slimmer than I was, and longer legged. Her hair lay softly, curling up at the ends.
"It's our landlord," Brice said with amusement. "Celeste Atwell."
"Really?" Pru said, stepping toward me. "How did you get here?"
"She said a taxicab," Brice explained. "Come in, come in," Brice continued, taking the suitcase from me.
"Yes," Pru said, stepping back. "Come into the living room."
I saw them look at each other with expressions of amazement and confusion.
I paused as soon as I stepped into the living room. The furnishings were different, but the piano was the same, and sat exactly where it had always been. A cream-colored area rug had been placed beneath it.
"Please, sit anywhere," Pm said.
I nodded, but I had to walk to the piano first and put my hand on it.
"That sheet music was part of the collection we found here when we moved in," Pru said.
I kept my hand on the piano. Just for a few seconds, I closed my eyes, and a melody played up my arm and into my heart. It brought tears to my eyes to remember Mama playing and Noble and I sitting on the sofa, listening. After another moment I sucked in my breath and sat on the new soft, light brown leather settee, one of a pair facing each other.
"Can I get you something cold to drink?" Brice offered.
"How about some soda, juice?" Pru suggested.
"I'm fine."
They both stood there gaping at me, until Pru realized first what they looked like.
"Oh, sorry," she said, sitting on the settee across from me quickly. She looked up at Brice, and he sat beside her. "It's just that this is so unexpected."
"What brings you here now?" Brice asked. "We know most of what everyone else knows about what went on here, of course, and how long you've been away."
How do I begin? I thought.
And then, as if the words were always there in the house, just waiting like ripe fruit to be plucked, I started to tell my story.
Nearly three-quarters of an hour later, after we all had had some cold drinks, I had brought the events up to date, and they both sat looking stunned and saddened.
"How horrible," Pru said. She turned to Brice. "I can understand why the poor girl came here. It's the only real home she's known. We have to do
something."
"Yes," Brice said, and then pulled himself up firmly. "First," he began, "you'll move in here with us immediately. I'll take care of getting you transferred to my school, so you can finish achieving your high school diploma. I'll contact the agencies involved and arrange for us to take charge. We can ask your attorney, Mr. Deward Lee Nokleby-Cook, to help with that. Pru works for him."
"I know. The taxidriver told me," I said, and they both laughed.
"It is a small town, you know. Anyway, we'll do all those things first."
"But I didn't come here to throw myself on you, or anyone else, for that matter."
"Understood," Brice said. "I know I'm speaking for both of us when I say we don't see it that way, Celeste. You're not eighteen yet, and we don't want to see you tossed about from one agency to another."
"Exactly," Pru said, standing. "I'll get our dinner under way. I'm sure you're starving."
"I know I am," Brice said.
"Which is nothing new," Pru told me.
I liked them both immediately. It reinforced my faith that I would be comfortable and safe here, for a little while at least.
"Can I help you with dinner?" I asked.
"No, go on. Let Brice get you settled in."
"Sure," he said. "I'll show you upstairs. Which room, Pru?"
"The one on the right when you go up is the nicest," she suggested.
"Right, right," he said.
I stood at the foot of the stairway and looked up after he had taken the first few steps. A torrent of memories rained down upon me, the most shocking and traumatic being the sight of Betsy Fletcher crumbled at the base of the stairway, her neck broken in the fall. It had been forever imprinted in my mind.
"Are you all right?" Brice asked.
"Yes," I said. "Just a little tired, I guess."
"Sure you are," he said. "You rest up. Don't worry about helping with dinner. We've got it down to a science. She cooks, and I do everything else. C'mon," he urged, and I followed him up the stairs and to the room on the right, which had been my room what seemed now more like a hundred years ago than eleven.
They had painted the walls and redone the floors. There was a pretty queen-size bed with pink and white pillows and comforter, a matching dresser, and to the left, a small vanity table with an oval mirror that swung back or forward.
"Some of our old furniture," Brice said, "but the mattress is quite recent."
"It's very nice," I told him.
He put my suitcase by the closet door.
"Get some rest. I'll call you when we get ready to eat."
"Thank you," I said.
I was tired, so tired I was afraid I'd fall asleep for the rest of the night if I did lie down and close my eyes. Instead, I found myself drawn to the small stairway that led up to the turret room. Once again, I hesitated, the memories flashing over my eyes like miniature bolts of lightning. How many times had Noble carried me up and down
those stairs?
I took a deep breath and ascended. The door was unlocked. For a moment I stood there with my hand on the knob, debating whether or not I should continue to open it. Perhaps I was rushing back too quickly. Even if that were so, I couldn't help but do it.
The room looked so much smaller to me now. There was more old furniture in it and more cartons piled up, even against the two windows. There was barely any room to navigate too far into it, but I managed to squeeze past lamps, mirrors, and two dressers to reach the center, where I had spent endless hours reading my picture books, coloring, or sleeping on Noble's lap while we waited for whomever had come to the house to buy herbal medicines to leave. This was before anyone knew I existed.
I lowered myself to the small clear space and sat on the floor, my eyes closed, remembering, drawing up images from my past as if I were panning gold out of a stream. I heard a Mozart sonata and recalled discovering a music box that intrigued both Noble and myself, but I also remembered Mama's fear and anger at our playing with it. It was gone after that, and no one would talk about it.
So much of my early life was truly like a knotted ball of string, difficult to unravel so it would make sense.
I leaned against an old dresser and folded my arms under my breasts, keeping my eyes closed as I whispered for Noble, for those comfortable, happy times when I felt loved and secure, even cloistered and hidden, in this small room. I didn't mind whispering. I didn't mind cloaking myself in shadows. It was truly as if I knew it would all change for the worse when I was brought out and into the light.
"Celeste!" I heard, and opened my eyes. I realized I had dozed off. "Celeste?"
I stood up quickly and stepped out of the turret room. Brice was at the foot of the short stairway.
"Oh, I . . . just . ."
"I know," he said. "This is a great house to explore, especially for you. Anyway, dinner's ready," he said. He waited for me, a smile on his face.
"You'll be fine," he told me. "Don't worry."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, as if my returning to the turret room had made me stronger and more wary.
"It's like Pru said. We just feel . . . this house has been so good to us. We've been so happy here that we feel obliged to preserve it and all that belongs with it," he said.
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