by Greta Boris
How had the anchorites of the Middle Ages managed to live a lifetime like this? The anchorhold was their home as long as they were alive and often their grave when they died. The saving grace, she supposed, was they had social interaction. Unlike hermits, or those who entered monasteries, the anchorite did live in the center of town. Their holds were built onto cathedral walls. The public streamed by their windows, and often stopped for prayer, wisdom, or to buy small handcrafts the anchoress made. Abby didn't have that luxury.
She'd chosen the Mission for her anchorhold, because it was the closest to thing to a cathedral in Southern California. It was busy during the days, not with parishioners but with tourists. Still, it allowed her to watch. To observe humanity. This was an important task for the anchorite, and one Abby could do. But when the tourists left and time slowed, that's when the parishioners came.
She shared the far wall of her cell with the Old Stone Church. It had collapsed in 1812, taking forty souls with it. The ghosts said to inhabit the ruins never appeared to her, but she often thought she heard their whispering voices and saw flickers of otherworldly candles.
Night in the anchorhold had taken some getting used to. It was filled with unease and mystery. Vibrations of an invisible world hummed in the stones around her. Time seemed a thing without borders or meaning. But now she welcomed it. She wanted to talk to her father.
Darkness finally began its descent, and the last of the visitors faded into the dusk. A security guard thudded past in his heavy boots. He was making his final circuit before locking up. Once while she'd been secluded here, she'd heard him roust a homeless man out of the bushes. He'd checked the perimeter of the Mission grounds at the same time every evening since, walking past her small cell oblivious to her presence.
Soon the birds began their bedtime songs. The chirp of crickets filled the spaces between the noises of the cars passing on El Camino Real. The scent of night blooming angel's trumpet flowers, and the sour smell of her camp toilet permeated the air. Her father was late. As if responding to the thought, her stomach rumbled. It was used to being fed at eight o'clock. Based on the sharpness of her hunger pangs, it was past that now.
About a half hour later, Abby heard the soft tread of tennis shoes on the gravel path outside. She ran to the squint. Her father looked toward the window and nodded. He couldn't see her but knew she'd be there.
She tripped across her enclosure to the loose stone and slid it from its place in the wall. She didn't dare leave it open during the day for fear someone would notice, but at night it was a blessed relief. Fresh, clean air streamed through the opening.
"You must be starved. Sorry I'm late. I was at a committee meeting for the Swallows Day Parade. It ran over," her father said.
The aromas of rosemary and beef gravy made the rumbles begin again. A covered bowl appeared on the floor in front of her, followed by a plastic bag she knew would contain silverware, napkins, and a metal bottle filled with iced tea or juice.
She pulled the food into her lap and breathed a prayer of thanks. She loved her father's beef stew.
"Want to hand me the camp toilet? I'll dump it while you eat." Her father took it to the public restroom at the end of the path each night and cleaned it for her. It had taken her several days to get over the embarrassment, but it was part of the humbling process.
An anchoress must learn to receive the ministrations of others with gratitude. According to the Ancren Rule, her role was to devote herself to intercession and holiness, not to worldly tasks. Of course, she believed her father would be blessed for helping her. That was the only thing that assuaged her guilt about asking for this sacrifice from him. She slid the toilet out.
When he returned, she asked him about the girl between bites of food.
He sighed. "It's tragic."
"Yes, but who was she? How did she die?"
"Nobody knows who she was. She died of some kind of illness."
"Not murder?"
"They don't think so, but they can't be sure until after the autopsy. But murder or not, the girl had been horribly neglected."
An image of skinny arms jutting from a threadbare shirt came into her mind. "She was thin."
"She'd been starved, at least that's what the medical examiner said."
"I thought maybe it was cancer."
"They don't think it was cancer. She might have been anorexic, but the state of the clothing makes it more likely she'd been living in poverty." He paused. "Or, captivity. But, as I said, they don't know the cause of death yet."
"And they have no idea where she came from?"
"No. Nobody's reported anyone of her description missing."
"She couldn't have been in the States long. She didn't speak English." The memory of the night before hovered close, threatening to overwhelm Abby again. She shut her heart against it, dug a piece of crusty bread out of the bag and began mopping up gravy with it.
"What?"
"I tried to talk to her—"
"You talked to her?" He sounded shocked.
"Yes." Abby almost choked on the word. It sounded terrible. It sounded like she hadn't cared, hadn't been frantic to help.
"She was alive? Talking?" His voice was louder this time.
"I tried to get out, to get to her." Guilt and grief engulfed Abby. She set the bowl and bread on the floor, appetite gone.
"You saw the people who left her here." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes." Her voice dropped to something just above a whisper.
"How many?"
"Two. I didn't see them clearly. It was dark. They were in the shadows."
"You have to come out. You have to tell the police."
"But if it wasn't murder—"
"It doesn't matter. These men might have been able to save her if they'd taken her to a hospital instead of throwing her over a wall. That's got to be manslaughter, or criminal neglect. I know it's some crime." Her father was angry. She heard the growl in his voice she'd heard so many times through her bedroom wall before her mother died.
He was right, of course, but Abby was torn. She'd invested so much, given up so much, to be where she was. And, she only had two more weeks. The end was in sight. Part of the premise of her book was that the forty day period was a sacred time, a time of renewal. If she didn't complete it, the entire experiment would be a loss.
Then what would she have? All her savings had gone into building the anchorhold, and she wouldn't be able to return to it if she left. Her father had agreed to help her once. She knew she wouldn't be able to talk him into doing it again.
She had her job at St. Barnabas, but had put any thought of career growth on hold until her dream of becoming an author either came to pass or died. She'd put Carlos on hold. She'd put everything on hold. The idea of abandoning the book now was more than she could bear.
Not to mention, if she did reveal to the police where she was when she saw the men. . . No, she couldn't think about that. It would reinforce what people already thought, that there was a crazy gene in the Travers family.
She looked at her hands where they lay folded in her lap for a long moment. Then, she sat up straight. An idea popped into her brain fully formed. "What if you went to the police?"
"What good would that do? I didn't see the men."
"What if you said you did? I could tell you everything I know, everything I saw." She tried to control the excitement in her voice. "You could say you left work late—"
"I didn't. Tallulah locked up. She saw me leave."
"Then you forgot something and went back for it." Abby paused. "You forgot your phone." She gained confidence as she spoke. "On your way home, you saw two men near the east wall of the Mission on El Camino Real. You didn't think anything about it at the time, but when you heard about the girl, you realized it might be connected."
"Abby." Her father sounded weary. "I've supported you through this whole thing, but it's over. It's gone far enough. You've lived this life for a month. A few days more
isn't going to change anything. It's time to come out. I brought the crowbar."
He had supported her. He'd even presented the proposal to Grant Hawthorne as if it had been his idea and took on the task of building the hold. Prior to her father's improvements, there had only been a flimsy false wall supported by scaffolding to house the swallows' nests. He'd made a beautiful structure that was both more stable and that blended with the Old Stone Church ruins.
Abby's grandfather had been in construction, and her father had worked for the family business when he was young. He had experience in stone masonry and bricklaying, and offered to build the structure at no expense to the Mission. Miraculously both the Diocese and the foundation agreed. Even the city released permits for the project, which Abby had interpreted as signs from the Divine.
She hadn't wanted to test God any further, however. She didn't believe anyone would have agreed to her plan to move into the hold for six weeks. She'd entered in secrecy, which suited her just fine. "Do your good deeds in secret, and God will reward you openly." That's what the Bible said. But, prayers and miracles notwithstanding, she couldn't have done any of this without her father.
"But, don't you see, it's perfect. The police will get the information they need. I can finish what I've started. And, you have a rational reason to have been here late at night."
"This is your civic and moral duty."
"I could be prosecuted if I came forward."
"For vagrancy. That's a fine, nothing more."
"But I didn't call out to the police when they were here. Isn't that aiding and abetting, or something illegal? Not to mention, you could lose your job for aiding and abetting me."
It was her father's turn to be quiet. She could feel the tension through the stones. He was a religious man, and lying was a sin in his eyes. She hated to put him in this situation, but she couldn't see any other way. Going to the police now would mean public humiliation even if she wasn't in legal trouble. Their family had experienced enough of that.
"All right. I'll do it," he said. "Tell me what you saw."
Abby breathed a sigh of relief and began.
CHAPTER FIVE
MONDAY, MARCH 12, 5:05 PM (TWO DAYS BEFORE THE GIRL DIED.)
The Wife
ON THE NIGHT my life began to slide into hell, I sat on the couch in my living room savoring my last ten minutes of peace. My husband would be home soon, and that meant dinner, dishes, and all the usual evening chores.
When I heard the front door open, I slipped the magazine I'd been reading under the couch cushion. My husband didn't approve of O, or Oprah. Women who never marry or, worse yet, create empires are dangerous aberrations as far as he's concerned. I found Oprah fascinating, but I kept those thoughts to myself. It was better to keep the peace.
"Where are you? I have a surprise for you." He sounded cheerful.
I hurried to the front hall, and almost collided with him. Behind him, hiding in his shadow, stood a bedraggled wraith of a girl. He pushed her forward. "This is Hannah. Seb brought her all the way from Egypt just for you."
The girl was emaciated and unnaturally pale. Her eyes were sunken. Her clothes were little more than rags, and she carried a backpack that looked like it should have been thrown away a decade ago. "I don't understand," I said, but I was afraid I did.
"Hannah will help you with the house, so you can focus more on work, the kids, committees. . ." He waved away the details of my life like he would a gnat.
I didn't know what to say. He was so proud of his gift, and I had complained that the house was a lot of work. Of course, I'd expected him to hire weekly cleaners not bring me a live-in maid. At our last house, when we decided the yard was too much, we'd hired a gardening service. We hadn't moved a laborer into the garage.
"She's happy to be here, aren't you Hannah?" my husband said.
The girl's face was filled with confusion. She looked on the verge of tears.
"Her parents need help to raise her younger siblings, and Hannah is a good girl. She knows it's a privilege to work to support her family."
She was so small, and although she had none of the baby fat of American teens, I didn't think she could be more than fifteen. "She looks so young. I don't like taking her away from her family." I immediately regretted my words.
"You don't like my gift?" His lips turned down like a spoiled child's.
"No, no, of course I do." I was quick to mollify him. Hurt feelings had a way of spinning into annoying temper tantrums that could last for weeks. "But is it legal?" I had to know.
"Legal? Would I do anything illegal? I can't believe you'd ask such a question." His eyes flashed.
I cleared my throat. "She has a green card then?"
"Of course. She has a passport, and a visa, and all those kind of papers. Seb's nephew works at the American Embassy in Cairo. Seb owed me a favor, so he had his nephew pull a few strings."
This did not set my mind at ease. I'd only met Seb Skandalis on two occasions. My first impressions weren't positive. He reminded me of a weasel, small and nervous with eyes that never rested. Even his name, Seb, made me think of a sebaceous cyst—a slow growing abnormality according to Webster’s. I didn't trust him, but what could I do now? The girl was here, and looked as if she didn't lie down soon, she'd fall down. I would have to come up with a permanent solution later.
"Where will she sleep?" I said the words without thinking.
A storm cloud crossed my husband's face. "Can't you handle anything? I made the arrangements, paid the money—no small fee—and picked her up from Seb. I assumed you could take care of the domestic details." He sniffed. "You don't seem very grateful. Maybe I should send her back."
Yes, please. I wished he would, but I didn't want to push him into a full blown pout. Instead, I hurried to his side and kissed him. "I am grateful. It will be wonderful to have help." I'd learned to manage his moods the first year of our marriage, a little affection, a stroke or two of the ego, and he purred like a kitten.
"You were the one who said the house was too much to handle on your own."
"I know. You are so thoughtful." I patted the sullen lines of his cheek.
"I was only thinking of you."
"Of course, you were. I'll take her to the garage and make a bed in the laundry room." We didn't have an extra bedroom—besides I didn't want her in the house when we were sleeping. The previous home owners had put a lock on the laundry room door for some unknown reason, pets maybe. Tonight I was glad. I would feel better knowing she was secured.
"I knew you would think of something." He brightened. "I'll get my own drink while you take care of Hannah."
Magnanimous of him, I thought, but said, "Come," to the girl. She followed me out to the garage. I opened a cupboard along the back wall and took two sleeping bags from a shelf. "Have you eaten?" I asked. She didn't answer.
I placed the sleeping bags one on top of the other on the floor of the laundry room. "I'll find a pillow for you, but for now you can use your backpack." She swayed on her feet, so tired or ill she could barely stand. I reached for the pack. She clung to it but only for a moment. When she released it, I placed it on the sleeping bags and gestured to the pallet. "Lie down. I'll bring you some dinner in a bit." I closed the door behind me when I left. The click of the lock was reassuring.
It was quite a while before I was able to follow through on my promise to bring her dinner. My husband was buoyant now that his gift was received with what he considered to be the correct spirit. We sat to dinner in the dining room. It was just the two of us that night. I would have preferred to eat in front of the television, but he wanted to talk.
"It was last week, remember the night you were so upset because the vacuum was sitting in the front hall when I got home?"
I nodded, although I hadn't been upset. He was the one who’d been upset, but it wasn't worth arguing about.
"The next day I told Seb, I said, 'Seb, my poor wife is working herself to the bone with this big house. What is th
e good of all the money I'm making if I can't take care of my wife?' Do you know what Seb said?"
Was this a rhetorical question? But he looked so expectant I said, "No. What?"
"He said, 'I have the solution to all your problems.' Then he told me about Hannah. Her parents are dirt poor. You can see by how skinny she is they haven't been able to feed their children adequately. Seb assured me we'd be doing both Hannah and her family a great service by bringing her to America." He bragged about the cleverness of his acquisition the way some women brag about their shopping conquests.
"What did Seb charge you for that?" I kept my voice light.
He dropped his gaze to his plate and stabbed at a piece of meat. "There were fees, the airfare, the cost of the visa and the passport. I was happy to cover them."
"How did she get her paperwork so quickly?"
"I told you," he said between bites, a shadow of his former pout around his eyes. "Seb's nephew works at the American Embassy in Egypt. Those guys can get anything done."
I didn't believe that. More likely the passport was a forgery and the visa nonexistent.
"Anyway, now all I have to pay is two hundred dollars a month into an account. Seb will send that home to her family, minus a small cut for handling everything for us. Even considering the initial investment, it will save us in the long run. Those cleaning services are very expensive, besides Hannah will live here. She'll be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And she can do more than clean. Seb tells me she's a very good cook." He rocked his chair onto two legs and beamed an expansive smile in my direction.
I stood and carried the dinner dishes into the kitchen. I couldn't bear to listen anymore. But he followed me. "She's seventeen. That's young, I know, and she doesn't speak a word of English." That explained why she didn't answer any of my questions. "We'll have to teach her and take care of her until she's at least eighteen. But I should make back my investment by then."