by Lois Duncan
Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the door and forced herself to fill her lungs with long drags of air. Slowly her anger at her aunt and uncle began to subside, and she felt drained and emotionally exhausted and a little guilty. On one level, she regretted the unpleasant scene downstairs, while on another, she was relieved at having let off steam. To be fair, she knew her relatives were dutiful people who had made a commitment and were doing their best to honor it. At the same time, the hypocrisy of keeping up the two-sided pretense that her current living situation was anything other than a business arrangement was becoming more and more difficult for her to deal with.
I just wish it were over! she thought. I wish I were graduating! How am I ever going to stand another whole year here!
She remained as she was until her heartrate had slowed and she was breathing normally again. Then she opened her eyes and took a survey of the room. As she had expected, her aunt had been in to “tidy up and make things nice.” The window that Tracy had closed the night before now stood open, and the curtains were stirring gently in the evening breeze. The clothing she had worn the previous day had disappeared from the chair on which she had tossed it, presumably having been transferred to a bureau or closet. When she turned to the bed, she saw without surprise that it had been neatly made, its two pillows lined up symmetrically beneath an unwrinkled spread.
An envelope with a foreign stamp sat propped against one of the pillows.
Tracy went over to the bed and stood gazing down at it. For a moment she was tempted to rip it up, unread, and drop the pieces into the wastebasket. Then, as though she had no control over her own actions, she found herself sitting down on the bed, picking up the envelope, and opening it.
Inside there was a single sheet of hotel stationery, with the Trevi Fountain embossed in gold at its top left corner. Tracy drew the sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. “Dearest Daughter,” the salutation read.
Richard Lloyd’s D’s were artistically shaped, curling and looping with graceful abandon and culminating finally in a great dramatic flourish. In the days when professional rivalry was just beginning to infiltrate their marriage, Tracy’s mother had liked to joke that, if her husband didn’t make it in show business, he could always make a living putting monograms on bathrobes.
As Tracy remembered, her father had not thought that funny.
“I hope all’s well in the good old Southwest,” the letter continued:
I haven’t had a word from you since arriving in Italy. I don’t hold you to blame, of course, since mail service here is the pits, but I do hope I’ll be getting a letter soon.
The filming’s going well, and if nothing happens to slow things down, we will be putting the wraps on this picture in another six weeks. That should put you at the end of your school year. If one of those romantic Texas cowboys hasn’t got you hog-tied, how about flying over to join me for some sight-seeing? We could start here in Rome and then move on to Florence. I’ll have a month before I’ll need to be back for the …
“One month out of the whole year!” Tracy murmured sarcastically. “That’s so good of you, Dad—to sacrifice four whole weeks for your daughter!”
She crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and pitched it in the direction of the wastebasket. Her hand was shaking with anger, and her shot went wild. The wad hit the rim, teetered there for a moment, and then tumbled in the wrong direction, landing on the carpet.
Tracy got up from the bed and crossed the room to the basket. She bent down and picked up the letter, holding it with two fingers as though she were disposing of a dead rodent, and dropped it into the trash receptacle.
“So much for that,” she whispered, rubbing her hand on her jeans.
She went over to the window to pull down the blind. It was still too early in the evening for the lights to be on in the second-floor windows of the house across the street. The lower windows were bright, however, and she could see a blur of color and movement as the occupants of the living room passed back and forth behind the glass.
Her mind flew back to the house on Sweetwater Drive. It had been a strange sensation to stand outside in the darkness and watch the dinner scene being played on a kitchen stage. Having grown up around the world of the theater, Tracy had spent many hours of her life watching professional actors practice their role playing. The experience tonight had been strange because there had been no dialogue, and as a result her attention had been concentrated on physical detail: on the dimple that appeared in the little girl’s cheek when she smiled; on the affection on the face of the aunt as she cut the child’s meat; on the look in Gavin’s eyes when he bent to lift Mindy from the youth seat, the glint that the twisted window had portrayed as tears.
As Brad had said, Mindy’s father had no reason for weeping. He was the cause of injury, not the recipient. Now that she had seen Mindy, Tracy could even better appreciate the incredible sense of loss her mother must be experiencing. It was ironic that Brad had managed to locate his sister only to find himself stymied by the problem of how to lay claim to her.
In the house across the street a light went on upstairs, and a couple of moments later the lights on the first floor went out.
Tracy closed her window and was just pulling down the blind when the quiet of the room was broken by a rap on the door.
Oh, no, Tracy thought. Not another good-night visit from Aunt Rene!
The thought occurred to her that perhaps, if she remained silent, her aunt would assume she was asleep and go back downstairs.
This did not work, however. When there was no response to the knock, the doorknob rattled pathetically, as the person on the far side of the door made an unsuccessful attempt to turn it.
“Tracy?” As she had expected, it was indeed her aunt. “Open this door! I told you last night I don’t like for you to keep it locked. It isn’t safe!”
With a sigh of resignation, Tracy did as instructed. She pulled the door partway open and stood with her body blocking the doorway, gazing defiantly out at the woman in the hall.
“I locked it because I wanted to be alone,” she said. “I have a lot of studying I need to do.”
“But you haven’t had your dinner yet,” Aunt Rene protested. “I have a plate already made up for you in the kitchen. It’ll take just a minute in the microwave to heat it up.”
“Thanks, anyway,” said Tracy, “but I’m not hungry.”
“Just some milk and cookies, then?”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
There was a moment of silence. Then her aunt asked, “Did you find your letter?”
“Yes,” Tracy told her.
“Was it from your father?”
“Of course it was from Dad,” Tracy said impatiently. “You must have seen the return address on the envelope. Who else do we know who’s currently living in Rome?”
“Did he say anything about making plans for the summer?”
“Nothing that mattered.”
“Then he probably doesn’t know yet what his work schedule is going to be.”
“It doesn’t matter what his schedule is,” said Tracy. “I don’t want to visit him, and I don’t want him coming here. I’ll find something to do with myself so I won’t be a drag on you and Uncle Cory. Maybe I could go to some sort of summer camp.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so bitter about your father,” said Aunt Rene. “I know you were disappointed when he didn’t take you to live with him, but he had his reasons, and I’m sure he thought they were good ones.” She paused. “It was distressing to me to hear you say the things you did tonight,” Aunt Rene continued in an injured voice. “Your father insists on contributing to your support. The checks he sends are no more than the payments he used to send your mother. We didn’t ask him to pay us, and we’d have taken you in regardless. We consider it a blessing to have you with us.”
Tracy did not take the trouble to contest the statement. Instead, she said, “Uncle Cory said I couldn’t go out wit
h Brad this weekend. Does that mean I’m grounded from everything?”
“Why, no,” Aunt Rene said. “It’s only when you get with Brad that problems seem to develop. I suppose if you wanted to go out with some other boy—”
“I don’t want to go out with any of the boys from Winfield,” Tracy said. “What I was thinking about was baby-sitting. A friend of mine knows some people who need a sitter Friday night. If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d apply for the job.”
“I don’t believe Uncle Cory would object to that,” said her aunt. “Of course, we would want to know where it was you’d be sitting.”
“The people’s name is Carver,” Tracy told her. “If they call you to check me out, will you tell them I’m responsible?”
“Of course,” Aunt Rene said immediately. “You are responsible, dear. It’s been just these past two evenings that you’ve acted thoughtlessly. Brad really doesn’t seem to be a very good influence. I hope you’re not going to let him cause problems in your life.”
“I won’t,” Tracy assured her. “In fact, Brad won’t be around much longer. He’s going to be leaving soon to go live with his mother in New Mexico.” She paused and then asked, “Is it all right if I call him? I promise I won’t be on the phone more than a minute, but I do have to tell him that our plans for Friday have been changed.”
Chapter 9
BRAD WAS NOT AT the Trade Winds to receive Tracy’s call, and he did not find out she had phoned until the following morning. After he dropped her off at her house, he drove on to a Steak-In-the-Rough a few blocks from the high school and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a milk shake to go. Then, too filled with adrenaline to contemplate an early return to the motel, he drove to the shopping mall where he had seen the spy movie and picnicked in the darkened theater to the accompaniment of a double feature presentation of a nonsensical action movie and its sequel.
When he did, at last, get back to the Trade Winds, it was after midnight. He stripped off his clothes, took a shower, and got into bed. Almost at once he realized that sleep was not going to come easily. His mind was too busy churning with the events of the evening.
Incredible as it might seem, he had really found Mindy! Against all odds, despite all the negative predictions, he had found her! Lieutenant Souter had termed him crazy. His own mother had advised him to accept the fact that Mindy was gone forever. Even Jamie, the one person in the world he had always been able to count on, had told him, “It isn’t going to work. You don’t know what you’re doing.” But it had worked! He had made it work! Tonight he had seen his sister, and when he returned to Albuquerque, she would be with him.
He could not wait that long to share the wonderful news. He was too excited, too triumphant! He considered phoning his mother, but decided against it; he did not want to ruin the glorious surprise. With Jamie, it was different. He just had to make contact with Jamie! It was only fitting that Jamie-of-little-faith should be the first to learn that what had so scornfully been termed “impossible” had been accomplished. Besides, Jamie might be able to provide some helpful suggestions. Within the context of their longtime friendship, it had always been Jamie who had been the down-to-earth partner, while Brad was the one who operated on inspiration and impulse.
Sitting up in bed, Brad switched on the light and reached for the telephone. His fingers knew the familiar number so well that they were already on the sixth digit before he remembered he was calling long distance and had to hang up and start over with the area code.
At the far end of the line the phone rang again and again. Finally, there was a click, and a sleepy voice said, “Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Hanson,” Brad said. “I’m sorry if I woke you, but I need to speak to Jamie.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then Jamie’s mother said, “Brad, where are you? Jamie told me you were up in the Pecos fishing.”
“I am,” Brad said, the lie coming so easily and naturally that he did not even have to compose it. “I had to drive down to Terrero to pick up supplies, and I thought that while I was here I’d give Jamie a call.”
“Are you all right?”
“What do you mean, am I all right?”
“It’s the middle of the night,” said Mrs. Hanson. “There aren’t any stores open anywhere at this hour. Jamie’s been asleep for hours. What’s happened, Brad? Where are you really?”
“I told you,” Brad said, exasperated with himself for having invited this interrogation. “I’m calling from a convenience store that’s open all night. When you’re out where there aren’t any clocks, you lose track of time. I’m sorry I woke you. I didn’t realize it was this late.”
“Well, it is.” She sounded irritated, but somewhat mollified. As the mother of three sons and a daughter, Mrs. Hanson was used to the foibles of teenagers. “This isn’t an hour to call people for casual chats. I’ll have Jamie call you back in the morning.”
“I don’t have a phone,” Brad said. “I’m staying up at my dad’s cabin and I don’t get cell reception here in the mountains. Just tell Jamie …” He struggled to find the exact words that would get across a message that Jamie alone would understand. “Say I’ve got a wonderful catch, the catch I’ve been dreaming about. My mom’s going to go out of her mind when she sees what I’m bringing home. Say …” He paused, then spoke the words that were in his heart. “Say I wish that Jamie were here to be in on this with me.”
“Wait, Brad. Don’t hang up,” said Mrs. Hanson, her voice filled with maternal concern.
Brad realized that he had gone too far. “I’m going to get Jamie right now. You two do need to talk. I can tell there’s something the matter—”
“There’s nothing the matter,” Brad insisted, interrupting her. “In fact, it’s just the opposite. Everything’s great—even better than great. Give Jamie my message, and I’ll be back with my catch on the weekend.”
He replaced the receiver on the hook, angry with himself for having made the call in the first place. He had been so zeroed in on the idea of talking with his friend that he had not realized how unreasonable the hour was. Now the best he could hope for was that Mrs. Hanson would return to her bed without feeling compelled to fill his mother in on the phone call.
It was at least another hour before he was able to get to sleep, and, as had been the case the previous night, when he did at last drift off, his slumber was rampant with dreaming. With Mindy on the saddle in front of him, he was riding a child’s bounce horse along the road leading back to Albuquerque. The hot dry air of the desert filled his nostrils, and the brilliant midday sun beat down upon his head. Fine strands of Mindy’s pale hair blew back to tickle his face with silken fingers, and her shoulder blades felt fragile as bird wings against his chest.
A car horn blared behind them, and when he turned to look over his shoulder, he could see in the distance the glitter of silver reflecting the sunlight. “Faster!” he told the horse. “Faster!” He dug his heels into its hard plastic sides, and it put on a burst of speed that sent it flying along the highway, but the silver Jaguar was coming up behind even faster.
When the car drew opposite, Brad saw Jamie was behind the wheel.
“Go back!” Jamie yelled across at him. “I told you it wasn’t going to work!”
“It is going to work!” Brad shouted. “We’re almost home!”
He could see the city of Albuquerque looming up ahead of them—the Sunwest Bank Building, the downtown Convention Center, the public library. He could see the roof of his own home shining like a beacon, as though the roof were glass and it were lighted from within. The Jaguar passed them and then changed lanes to block the horse’s path, but the giant springs on the animal’s legs catapulted it skyward, and when it descended, the car was nowhere in sight.
“We’re almost home!” Brad announced to Mindy. “See that building ahead? It’s the Holiday Inn!” But, as he spoke, he suddenly realized the motel he was pointing out to her was not the Holiday Inn on the o
utskirts of Albuquerque, but the one he had passed when driving into Winfield. The building he had thought was the public library was Winfield High School, the bank building was Steak-In-the-Rough, and the house he had identified as his own was actually the Carvers’ house on Sweetwater Drive. In the instant it took him to absorb this knowledge, Mindy vanished from his arms, and when he glanced frantically about for her, he saw Gavin standing by the side of the road, his hands extended in a gesture of helpless pleading and his face distorted by tears.
He was blasted into consciousness by the telephone on the bedside table. When he opened his eyes the room was gray with the light of morning, and the pipes in the bathroom were already alive and rattling. Fragments of his dream clung to his brain like wisps of cotton as, still numbed by sleep, he groped for the receiver.
The caller turned out to be the motel manager.
“You got a phone call last night at ten fifteen,” he said. “The girl on the desk tried to ring you, but there wasn’t any answer. Somebody named Tracy left you a message that she’s got something important to tell you. She said for you to come by the school at lunchtime.”
“By the school at lunchtime,” Brad repeated, coming abruptly awake.
He was tempted to return the phone call, but decided against it. If the Stevensons had been upset by the fact that Tracy had not come home for dinner, there was no sense in making things worse by phoning the next morning.
Since B lunch was not until 12:30, he was left with five hours to kill. Too wide awake by this time to go back to sleep, Brad got out of bed, got dressed, and drove over to McDonald’s. There he consumed two Egg McMuffins and washed them down with tinny-tasting orange juice. Then he got back in the car and, after driving aimlessly about for a while, found himself turning onto the highway that led to the east side of town.
This time he was able to locate the subdivision easily. He drove down Sweetwater Drive to the twenty-seven hundred block and pulled to a stop on the far side of the street from the Carvers’ house, in the exact spot in which he had parked the night before.