by John Coyne
Coming out of the drive, the headlights of Derek's car pinpointed the guest house as if with spotlights. Barbara bolted up in the front seat. The front door was open and the screen door hanging on one hinge. The lights of the living room were on; they blazed out onto the circular gravel drive. "Something's wrong," she said quietly, already preparing herself. Derek pushed down on the gas pedal and his car skidded up the gravel. Barbara's fear for Scott was distorting time, slowing her reactions. She saw everything precisely, in clean bright images, recording it all as if on film-the house blazing with lights, open front door, and Derek's car swinging into the cul-de-sac and skidding to an abrupt stop. He slammed on the brakes and Barbara ran into the house, shouting for Scott. She saw at once the living room had been ransacked, with lamps tipped over and the couch pillows tossed across the room. Someone had gone to the shelves beside the fireplace and pulled down the library of books, scattering them on the floor. "Scotty!" Barbara kept shouting, spinning around, searching. Her shock confused her. She did not know which way to run. "He's gone," she could only cry out to Derek as he came through the open front door. Now Derek shouted. His voice roared through the small cottage. Down the long hallway they both heard the bedroom lock tumble over and then Scott appeared in the shadows. "My God, you're safe," Barbara whispered. Seeing him left her weak. She dropped helpless to the arm of the couch. "Scott, what happened?" Derek went to him. "Where's Valerie?" Scott gestured behind him, to where Valerie followed him timidly. "Are you two okay?" Derek asked, glancing at them both. Scott nodded. "What happened?" he asked, astonished by the sight of the upheaval. "We have no idea, Scott. Why were you two hiding in the bedroom?" Barbara had recovered and gone to her son, to hold him by the shoulders. She could see the glazed look in his eyes, the traces of shock. She embraced him, used her touch to comfort and reassure him. "We were playing Hobgoblin." He turned to Valerie, as if for verification. "And...someone was trying to get inside, then..." He gestured feebly, unable to explain. Someone had been after them. Someone had watched them and tapped on the window and come into the house while they'd been barricaded in his room. And then he saw his Hobgoblin game on the floor. The tiny figure of Brian Boru had disappeared.
Fourteen
They had painted his locker yellow. And recently, too; the paint was still sticky. Up and down the hall kids hung around, waiting for his reaction. "I'm going to get blamed for this," Scott said. "No, you're not." Valerie opened her locker, put away her coat, and began to pull out her geometry notebook. "Those fuckers." Scott kicked the bottom of his locker, leaving a mark in the fresh paint. At the sound, some of the kids burst into giggles. Others ducked behind their locker doors and whispered to friends, explaining what was going on. "Just keep quiet," Valerie advised, speaking under her breath. "Don't make a big deal of it. Just pretend nothing is wrong." "Borgus, that shithead." "Come on, get your books and we'll go down and tell Mr. Carpenter. He'll have it painted over before second period. This happens all the time, Scott. It's almost a tradition at Flat Rock. Kids are always getting their lockers painted." "But none of them ever ran the wrong way in a football game," Scott said. "I should've known Borgus would get me for that. This is probably just the start." Valerie's mouth tightened and she spoke slowly, as if to a child. "Scott, everybody does something dumb. I do something dumb every day, almost. Look at Saturday night when I thought there was someone outside the house and scared us both to death." Scott glanced at her as he locked his locker. "There was someone in the house." "There was?" Valerie's eyes widened. Scott moved away from the locker and Valerie followed closely, anxious to hear his explanation. "I went along with Mom and Mr. Brennan about how we had just frightened ourselves. We did pull the cushions off the sofa, and I know I knocked a lamp over on the way to my room. But there's no way we could've spilled all those books from the bookshelves. And, besides, Brian Boru is missing. She ripped it off." "Who? Scott, damnit!" Valerie grabbed his arm and made him stop walking. "What are you talking about?" Scott shrugged, as if he wasn't supposed to say anything, and then began, keeping his voice low and backing Valerie into one of the classroom doorways. "You know when you saw someone in the woods on Friday?" Valerie nodded. "But you said it wasn't true...?" "Well, Mr. Brennan doesn't want anyone from town to know, but some crazy woman got loose at Ballycastle. One of those shoppingbag women. She got off the bus on 12 or something and got lost in the woods. After I dropped you off, I went back and tracked her down and she got me, but good. Look!" He pulled the sleeve of his sweater up and showed Valerie the bandages, told her about his adventure in the woods. "You kept saying it was a Black Annis." "I said she looked like a Black Annis. I mean, there isn't any such thing. They're only a character in Hobgoblin." They began to walk again down the crowded hallway. "And that's who was tapping on the windows and knocked over all the furniture?" "Yeah. They got her once, but I guess she got another bus back out to Ballycastle." "Did Mr. Brennan tell you that she got off a bus on Route 12?" "He told my mom." "Well, I live on is and there's no bus. Maybe he meant a charter bus or something." Valerie looked up, then down the hallway to Times Square. "Oh, shit," she whispered. Scott glanced up too. Over the heads of the other students he could see the banner, painted in yellow and taped across the busy intersection. "Wrong way Preppie beats Flat Rock," it read. "Oh, God," he sighed. "Now everybody is going to be after my ass." Valerie grabbed Scott's arm. "Let's cut through the library. They're waiting for you at Times Square." "No." He shook his head. "Fuck 'em." He kept walking. "Scott, it's only going to get worse. Keep away from them." She had grabbed hold of his hand and was holding him back. Now she was frightened. Scott was staring ahead, watching the football players. His eyes had hardened and he no longer looked like a kid. "Scott, they'll hurt you." "No, they won't." He moved forward, down the long hallway. The first bell rang and from both sides of the hall there was a flurry of activity. More locker doors were slammed, and the hallway jammed with students. Valerie lost Scott's hand in the sudden press. She reached out again, stretching for his shoulder, but he dodged her neatly, and pressed forward. "Scott, don't!" she pleaded. They had seen him. Ahead, she saw Borgus straighten up, glance around at the other football players who were leaning against the walls. They would get him between them, she knew. They would work him over like a ball, bounce him back and forth between them. She turned away and pushed through the crowd of students, running for the principal's office. They had begun to chant. Borgus had started it. Raising his hand, he had yelled out, "Preppie, Fairy; Preppie, Fairy; here comes...the Preppie Fairy." Lining both sides of the hallway the football players picked up the chant, clapping their hands in cadence. Scott kept walking, thinking of Brian Boru. Once, crossing Galway Bay, Brian had encountered the Blue Men of the Minch. They had swum out from Inishmaan and Inisheen to wreck his ship, and he had kept them at bay by singing a rhyme, hypnotizing them with his voice. Scott smiled, laughed at them and yelled back, "Flat Rock Flat Heads. Flat Rock Flat Heads." Students in the hallway were giving him room, backing off as he got closer to Times Square. The crowd opened up, giving him a wide path through the intersection. And then he and Borgus were face to face, surrounded by a gauntlet of teammates. "Flat Rock Flat Heads." Scott came in shouting and spun around the circle, shouting into each of their faces, the same way Brian had circled from the port side to starboard, shouting into the rough seas, keeping off the Blue Men of the Minch. Borgus yelled back but Scott's voice drowned him out. The preppie was laughing at him, facing him down in front of the team. He was the leader; he had to do something. Like a bull, Borgus lowered his head and charged Scott, butting him hard in the solar plexus. Scott gasped and bent over in pain. Borgus raised his hands, acknowledged the cheers of the team. Scott came after him then; using his armful of books like a ramming rod, he bowled Borgus over. Furious, the senior came back at once, hitting Scott on both shoulders, knocking him across the hallway. Scott let himself fly, hurtling into the row of football players standing against the lockers. He had lost his books and as he fle
w backwards he swung his elbow into Hank Simpson's middle. As the tall halfback doubled over, Scott pushed away, running for an opening he spotted in the line. "Get him!" Borgus shouted and dove after him. He caught Scott behind the legs, clipping him, and Scott hit the cement floor. The girls in the corridor were screaming, their voices echoing down the hallways. It had been worth it, Scott was thinking. He had hit both Borgus and Simpson; he had really showed them. He was in a tight ball on the floor, shouting, "Flat Rock Flat Heads" when someone kicked him in the head.
The personnel folders were waiting on her desk when Barbara Gardiner arrived that morning. She had left them there the evening before, when she left early to get ready for dinner with Derek. It seemed like a century since then. She turned to the events of fifty years ago with a sense of relief. It was easier to concentrate on the past than worry why her home was suddenly under siege. There were dozens of files, but she knew which names to look for-the ones on the scrolls at Steepletop. One by one she culled those from the pile, and when she had all ten she stacked the remainder on her windowsill. Now, her desk cleared for serious work, she took off her coat and went into the kitchen off the first-floor office to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Come and drink that in here," Karen DeWitt called to her. Valerie's sister was sitting with several other tour guides and secretaries at the staff lunch table. Barbara smiled over at them and shook her head. "Thanks, Karen, but this is my week to be a grind, I'm afraid. The board is expecting an initial report from me." Back in her office she closed the door, sat down and contemplated the pile of folders for a moment. Then she lifted up the one on top and opened it on the desk before her. The name on the manila tab was Carmel Burke. Well, she thought, why not start right off with a bang. Carmel Burke, whoever she was, had already caused them all enough trouble. The file was a letdown. It contained very little: the carbon copy of a letter from Ballycastle to Carmel's parents, agreeing to accept her as an employee; instructions for her to take the Cunard-White Star steamship from Cork; and a note saying where she should obtain her ticket. Ten pounds also had been included in the letter, for pocket money. The letter had been signed by Helen Wilkinson, housekeeper. Beneath this was Carmel's original letter, responding to an advertisement that Mrs. Wilkinson had apparently placed in the Irish Times. It was a studiously formal letter, written in simple, careful script on oilskin. Barbara held the fragile paper gently in her hands. Reading it was like looking at an old portrait, a black and white photograph from another age. She could almost see the young Irish girl, dressed in a high-necked, stiff white blouse, her face rosy with color, her eyes deep blue. A lass. Barbara set the letters carefully aside and picked up the girl's payment sheet. In 1933 Carmel had been earning ten dollars a week. There was little else in the folder except receipts-for uniforms, doctor's bills, etc. Barbara shook her head. She had seen the same pattern of information in other personnel files. Fergus had paid all his employees' expenses, as if they were his children. That had been common practice in the nineteenth century, but by the thirties it was a little passè. Barbara went on to Nuala O'Neill's file. It was as disappointing as Carmel's. She was skimming a series of weekly payment slips when the letter slipped out. It was a heavy envelope, mailed from Ireland and still unopened forty years later. Barbara picked it up and read the addresses. From Mary O'Neill, Rock Road, Co. Donegal, to Nuala O'Neill, Ballycastle, Hamilton County, New York. Barbara squinted at the fading postmark. The letter had been received in Flat Rock on August 9, 1940. Barbara didn't remember the exact date on Nuala's tombstone, but it seemed to have been around then. Perhaps the letter had arrived after Nuala was already dead. Creepy. Barbara dropped the envelope back in the folder, then reached for the next file. Her hand stopped in mid-air. The allure of the unopened letter was irresistible. Once more she extracted the thick envelope and turned it in her hands, as if weighing its value. Mary O'Neill was probably Nuala's mother, which meant that she, too, was probably dead. A letter from the dead, to the dead, and opening it now would be a little like violating a tomb. She tapped the letter against her nails, debating a moment more. Then she told herself she was being morbid and unbusinesslike, and she slit the flap decisively. Inside were half a dozen folded pages, covered in a large, awkward script. Barbara glanced up, checking her office door, as if she half-expected to be caught in the act. She took a deep breath and read the dead girl's letter.
Dear Nuala, It has been a fortnight now since your last letter. I have not written in all this time because so help me God I haven't known what to say. As you must know your letter caused us all a good bit of worry. Your father hasn't slept a whole night since it arrived. He keeps thinking it was his fault for letting you go off to America in the first place. And since you didn't say what was troubling you, we have been imagining the worst. I took your letter with me to Mass on Sunday and had a word with Father Kerwin. I was hoping he might have a notion about what we should do to get you home, but reading your letter put him in a foul mood. He said it was a crying shame that you left Drumfree in the first place, and he blames your father for bringing the Irish Times into the house. I don't know if we can blame the Times. You always had a mind of your own, Nuala. It would be easier to catch a hare in my bare hands than to have kept you home with me. And now Michael, God help me, wants to go off to New Zealand. He'd be gone by now, if we had the money. What can I tell you, my child? We haven't the fifty pounds. This place, as you well know, is back of beyond, and if you weren't sending home an odd pound here and there, I would never put a piece of mutton on the table. It tears my heart not to know what troubles you. God willing, perhaps Mr. O'Cuileannain will change his mind and give you passage home. Sure, it would be a pittance to a man like him. May God bless you, Nuala, and remember it would do no harm to hear a second Mass on Sunday. Prayer will help you find your way in America. I wish to heaven you were with me now before the hearth. I miss you all the time. I think some days my heart will break with worry. God bless and keep you well. And grant us a way to bring you home to Ireland. Please write us at once and say why you must leave America. Not knowing what troubles you is a great cause of pain. Your father sends his love.
Barbara slowly folded the letter and tucked it away. There were tears in her eyes. The poor mother, she thought, breaking her heart for a child already dead. The daughter never returned to Ireland. She would have to ask Conor; he would know why Nuala O'Neill had wanted to leave Ballycastle.
"Who hit you, Scott?" the principal asked. "Who started all the trouble?" He was standing before the boy, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. The principal was short and wiry and had the quick moves of a bantamweight. Scott shook his head. "I tripped." He was still sitting on the nurse's cot, with a bandage on his temple. He looked like a war casualty. "All right. Have it your way." The principal had small change in his pocket and as he rocked he fingered the coins nervously. "Mr. Russell will drive you home." "I have my own car." "You can leave it in the lot today. I'm not going to have you driving on the highway. If you can't remember who hit you in Times Square, then you're not well enough to drive home." "I fell down, sir. Kids were pushing to get to class and I bent over to pick up one of my books, and someone-I don't know who-ran into me and I fell and I couldn't get up." As he talked, his explanation slowly began to make sense, as if it had actually happened. The principal kept bouncing nervously. He knew the boy was lying, and he was relieved. There would be no need to take on Tagariello and start expelling football players. Besides, he reasoned, this Gardiner boy would only be at Flat Rock for the year. "Go on home now. I'll have one of the secretaries call your mother." "No, don't telephone." Scott jumped up from the cot. "It will only get her upset. She'll worry, you know, until I get home. It's better if I just see her." The principal nodded. "Fine, fine." He had Scott by the elbow, ushering him to the door.
It wasn't until the fifth file that Barbara noticed the connection. It wasn't explicit; it wasn't even certain. It was simply a hunch, growing out of the accumulation of information in the var
ious files, the similarity of the details, the medical prescriptions. She shuffled the files together, then picked up the telephone and buzzed Derek to ask if she could come up and see him.