by Michelle Cox
“Yes, sir. This way, Mr. Howard,” Davis said plainly, gesturing toward the hallway.
“Good day, Captain,” Clive said as he stood now. “Thank you for seeing me. It was enlightening,” he said with a scowl.
“Glad to be of service, glad to be of service,” the chief almost hummed as Clive followed Davis down the hallways toward the front of the station. As soon as they were out of earshot of the chief’s office, however, Clive ventured to speak to Davis as they made their way down the corridor.
“Listen, Davis,” he said in a low voice, “you must have heard what I said. You must see that there’s a chance this wasn’t a mere accident.”
Davis stopped walking and turned toward him now, Clive detecting the faintest glimmer of acknowledgement in Davis’s eye.
“Anything’s possible, Mr. Howard,” Davis suggested coolly.
“Look, I don’t want to get you in trouble, but you’ll keep me informed of any new developments?” Clive asked softly, pulling his card out from inside his jacket and handing it to Davis.
Davis perused it and casually put it in his shirt pocket. “I will,” he said plainly. “But don’t expect much to develop,” he said, inclining his head at the chief’s office.
“How can I get a hold of you? Privately, that is,” Clive asked, his eyes inadvertently darting back down the hallway. “Do you have a card?”
“No, I don’t,” Davis answered, seeming amused. “Probably wouldn’t carry them if I did. But you can find me most nights at The Trophy Room.”
Clive gave him a quizzical look.
“It’s a bar on Elm.”
“Got it,” Clive said appreciatively and placed his hat on his head. He made his way around the front counter and crossed the lobby, feeling a little bit of hope that he might have at last found an ally. He had hoped for that in the chief, but he would take what he could get. And if his guess was correct, Davis probably ran circles around Callahan.
Clive drained his glass and wandered over to his father’s desk, shrouded in darkness along the far wall. He let his fingers rifle through the various stacks of paper he had gone through earlier today. He must be missing something, he thought again. If his father had really been having an affair, someone must have known about it. But who? John Exley? No, too close to his mother, Clive decided. A confession to John Exley would have been teetering too close for comfort. His mind then alighted on the image of Bennett, his father’s best friend and colleague at the firm. Would he have confided in him? Clive wondered. He recalled how Bennett had not been able to look him in the eye the whole day of the funeral. He had assumed it was due to grief, but maybe it was due to something else? Clive turned this theory over and over in his brain as he began to pace and found it more of a real possibility with each turn.
Yes, perhaps Bennett could offer some sort of explanation, he mused. It seemed very likely that Bennett would know something of his father’s personal life, having spent more time with him than probably any other person, including Antonia. Why had he not considered this before? And perhaps Bennett also suspected foul play?
Clive’s mind seized on this possibility, and a bit of a frenzy overcame him, perhaps marginally fueled by having had too much to drink. It became clear to him that he needed to speak to Bennett at the first possible opportunity—nay, immediately, he suddenly decided. He strode back over to his father’s desk and roughly pulled opened the top drawer, where he thought he remembered seeing his father’s address book earlier this afternoon. Easily, he found the book and began flipping through the pages until he found Bennett’s telephone number. Without a thought to the lateness of the hour, he asked the operator to put the call through, not even really sure what he would say. After an infernal number of rings and just as Clive was about to hang up, Bennett finally answered.
“Yes? Hello?” a scratchy, sleep-filled voice asked. “Who is this?”
“Sidney Bennett?” Clive asked.
“Yes. Who is this?” Bennett repeated, a little bit of fear in his voice.
“Bennett, this is Clive Howard. Sorry to disturb you so late.”
“Clive? What is it? Is anything wrong?” Bennett asked, the worry in his voice very clear now.
“Yes, there is something wrong, I believe. I’ve just discovered something unusual.”
“Such as?” Bennett asked unsteadily.
“I know about Susan,” Clive said quietly.
There was silence on the line for several moments before Bennett finally spoke.
“Leave it, Clive,” he said, his voice crisp and chill. “Don’t get involved,” he added and then hung up.
Chapter 7
“Have you finished the exercises I gave you last night?” Sr. Sebastian asked gently.
“Yes, Sister. Well, I tried,” Elsie said, bowing her head as she sat side by side next to the young, frail nun in the little library of Philomena Hall. Sr. Sebastian was as thin as a will-o-wisp and very pale, so much so that upon first meeting her, Elsie had been afraid that she might collapse at any moment, so weak did she appear.
“Difficult, were they?” Sr. Sebastian asked with an encouraging smile.
“A bit,” Elsie said, looking at her. As always, she became distracted by how paper-thin Sr. Sebastian’s skin was; it was almost transparent, and Elsie could see some of her tiny veins beneath. If she stared at them long enough, they began to form themselves into patterns. Today she saw what looked like a snowflake.
Elsie shook herself now and looked back at her paper. Unfortunately, the patterns there were harder to unearth. She gave Sr. Sebastian another glance. She was certainly not how she envisioned a math and science teacher should look. A math teacher, in her mind at least, should be big and hearty and hard-edged, like the numbers being dealt with. Sr. Sebastian, by her appearance, should have taught something light and ethereal, like handwriting, Elsie thought. And yet, she was proving a skilled math tutor.
“Well, never mind,” Sr. Sebastian said. “‘Great works are performed not by strength, but by perseverance.’ Isn’t that true?”
“Proverbs?” Elsie guessed. It was a sort of game that had already sprung up between the two of them that had at first disconcertedly reminded her of . . . well, she wasn’t going to think of him!
“Samuel Johnson,” Sr. Sebastian said with a laugh. “But it never hurts to throw a prayer or two into the mix,” she said, giving her the slightest of winks.
Elsie returned the smile and made a mental note that she would try harder to pray more often. She knew she needed it, and yet ever since the whole affair with Harrison, she had admittedly lost her way a bit. Except for when she had resorted to praying the rosary each night so that she might not be pregnant with Harrison’s child, she just couldn’t of late bring herself to ask for God’s help and mercy. It wasn’t a laziness or a lack of faith; the truth was that she didn’t feel she deserved God’s love. She knew that was wrong, but she couldn’t seem to see around it. She tried here and there to pray, but it seemed empty and rote now.
In just the short time that she had been here among the sisters, however, she had already observed that whenever the sisters mentioned God or prayer, it seemed to have a lightness to it, even a happiness, rather than being something dull or fearful. Their faith effused their whole being; they were never separate from it. Theirs seemed a freeing sort of faith, not repressive, which was utterly new to Elsie, and which seemed, on the whole, contradictory, considering the vows and therefore the restrictions they lived under. They seemed different from the nuns she had known in the past, as if they were perhaps a more . . . enlightened? wiser? . . . version of any she had previously studied under.
At any rate, Elsie had already begun to feel oddly comforted here at Mundelein, almost at peace, though her studies were indeed rigorous. This was especially true in Sr. Bernard’s presence, in particular, though she didn’t often get an opportunity to be near her. When she was, Sr. Bernard exuded a warmth, a patience, and a gentleness that Elsie was desperately attra
cted to. Sr. Bernard was always encouraging and never cross, it seemed, nor was Sr. Sebastian, really. Elsie found it quite remarkable that they seemed genuinely more interested in her mind than in following rules and catechism. She was still terrified of many things, particularly her grandfather and the Exleys, and Ma, to a certain extent, and even of failing here at this thing she was beginning to want more than ever, but for the first time in a long time she felt hopeful. For what exactly, she wasn’t sure, but she felt it nonetheless.
Thanksgiving had come and gone without exception. Henrietta had not come to them, which was as expected. She had to stay at Highbury, she explained, as Mrs. Howard was insisting on having the usual family dinner, something about wanting to carry on as normal despite Alcott’s absence. From what Henrietta had related in a short letter on beautiful, thick, ecru stationary with her new monogram—HHE—it had been a quiet affair, just the three of them. Antonia had not extended an invitation to the Von Harmons, as Henrietta had thought she might, which was just as well. Alternately, Mr. Exley had tried to force them all to come to Gerard and Dorothy’s, but Ma had put her foot down and insisted that they remain home alone as a family, especially as the boys would soon be “ripped from me,” is how she had put it. Mr. Exley had oddly given in to Ma, but not without commenting that Christmas would be a different story.
This was the Von Harmon’s first Thanksgiving in their new home on Palmer Square, but Elsie wasn’t exactly looking forward to the food. Now that they had a cook, Elsie’s previous affection for food had ironically diminished considerably, resulting in a significant amount of weight lost. The cook that Grandfather had installed had trained under a distinctly notable chef in Paris, so that all of the food prepared by him seemed foreign and unnatural, at least to the Von Harmons, anyway. Too fancy by far. But what would you expect of a male cook? Elsie had thought more than once and wondered if he was inflicted on them by Grandfather as yet another punishment, for what infraction she wasn’t sure—perhaps that they had even been born in the first place. At any rate, it seemed unnatural to have a man in the kitchen, checking the ovens, briskly stirring batters and ordering Odelia about.
Only Doris and Donny were prepared lighter fare and were fed upstairs in the nursery, and more than once Elsie had longed for the plain ham and cheese sandwiches she saw going past her on a tray on their way up the stairs. Meanwhile, the rest of them were given things like foie gras or bouillabaisse or coq au vin. Elsie knew it was wickedly wrong, but sometimes she simply longed for a plate of Ma’s hash.
Martha Exley, having herself grown up in luxury, had not the slightest idea of how to cook when she married Leslie Von Harmon, but all the time she had spent as a lonely little girl hanging about in the kitchens of the Exley mansion had at least come in handy for something. She remembered enough basics from watching the old cook at the Exley manor to imitate some of her recipes and had likewise learned much from the neighbors who came and went over the years in the apartments around them in the city. This, plus the fact that she had no money for expensive ingredients, ultimately informed her limited menu selections over the years.
Their Thanksgiving dinner, however, had not been as bad as Elsie had thought it might be. Apparently, the cook—or Chef, as he insisted on being called—had deemed it acceptable for the meal to have a decidedly American flavor, considering the occasion, and had left off any of his usual French influences.
Afterward, Elsie had tried to organize a game of charades, but after a few halfhearted attempts, it had broken up rather early. She tried not to think of last Thanksgiving when Stanley had come over and had kept them all laughing.
—
“Elsie? Elsie, are you quite with me?” Sr. Sebastian was saying now in her very thin voice. “I think we should work on geometry for a bit.”
“Oh, sorry, Sister!” Elsie exclaimed and resolved, again, to try to keep her mind from wandering. “Must we?” she asked, trying to stifle a groan.
“Your test showed it to be your weakest subject, I’m afraid. But that just so happens to be my specialty,” she said, smiling kindly. “Come along, let’s begin. That’s the best way.”
The two spent the next hour and a half working methodically through pages of problems until Elsie thought she couldn’t think straight any longer. It was painfully tiring, and yet she felt a certain thrill when even just a small fraction of the angles and secants and degrees began to make a bit of sense.
“I think this would be a good time for a rest,” Sr. Sebastian said, interrupting her work as Elsie tried and failed to discreetly rub her eye.
“I think so,” Elsie agreed, now stifling a yawn and stretching. She got up early every day and took the trolley across town, refusing to let Karl drive her. Having a chauffeur was something she thought she’d never get used to.
“Why don’t you take a walk outdoors,” Sr. Sebastian suggested. “Or perhaps you’d like to have a look at the room you’ll have next term.”
“You mean if I’m here next term, Sister.”
“Nonsense! Don’t be so pessimistic! You’re making wonderful progress. I’m sure you’ll pass the entrance exam with flying colors.”
Elsie felt her stomach clench at these words. She did feel as though she was making progress, but she also saw, with a certain amount of awe, and excitement, actually, how much more there was to learn. Even Sr. Bernard, the last time she had seen her, had hinted that she thought she would be admitted for winter term if she kept on as she had begun. If she somehow was admitted, however, Elsie still wasn’t convinced that she should stay here in the dorms. It didn’t make sense to her, as Palmer Square was only across town—but Henrietta was insistent that she not remain in the Von Harmon house, that she have a complete break from that lonely environment and Ma’s discouraging comments and live among other young women.
“As a matter of fact, I believe Melody may still be up there yet. She hasn’t yet left for break,” said Sr. Sebastian. “She’s one of the last to leave, I think.”
“Who’s Melody?”
“Why, Melody would be your roommate, as I understand it. Didn’t Sister Bernard mention that?”
Roommate? Quickly Elsie tried to remember everything Sr. Bernard had said the day that she and Henrietta had toured the grounds, and for the life of her, she could not recall the mention of roommates. But she did remember now that when they had toured Philomena and Piper Halls, they had only seen rooms with two or even three beds, so that made sense. Somehow, however, it had not registered that she would have to share a room with a stranger, the thought of which filled her with her all-too-familiar feelings of dread.
Sr. Sebastian rose from the desk where they were seated, her rosary beads barely clacking against her paper-like body, and gestured for Elsie to follow her. Elsie sighed. For a moment she considered insisting on a walk outside instead, but in truth, she didn’t feel like going out in the cold, and she supposed she would have to meet this girl at some point, if Henrietta got her way, as usual, and forced her to live here.
As she followed Sr. Sebastian up the wide, beautifully carved walnut staircase leading up to the dormitory, Elsie tried to rein in her anxiety, remembering that she had resolved to try to be more like Hen—braver and more impetuous. She studied the swirling patterns of the William Morris wallpaper as they climbed, trying to distract herself, and glanced at the various paintings hung on the walls, all of them dwarfed by a large portrait by van Dyck of Jesus crucified with Mary and St. John standing, heads bowed, at the foot of the cross. It did little to quell Elsie’s nervousness, but the refracted, colorful light from the large Tiffany stained-glass window on the first landing, on the other hand, did much to calm her. It was like walking through a rainbow, and Elsie held out her hand to touch it, the rainbow appearing on her hand now.
When they reached the top floor, Sr. Sebastian led her down the hallway to the very last room, the door of which stood slightly ajar. Sr. Sebastian rapped gently on it and called out, “Miss Merriweather?”
“Is that you, Sister Sebastian?” called a sprightly voice, and within seconds, a matching face appeared at the door. “You don’t have to knock, Sister!” the girl said. “I was just packing. Who’s this? New recruit?” the girl, apparently Melody, said with an oddly melodic lilt to her voice.
“It is, we hope. This is Elsie Von Harmon. Miss Von Harmon, Miss Melody Merriweather. She may be joining you next term,” Sr. Sebastian explained and gestured toward the interior of Melody’s room.
“So you finally found me someone! Just when I thought I was to be left high and dry after all! My old roommate left after only a week!” Melody explained to Elsie. “I hope it wasn’t me! But I don’t think so. She was terribly homesick, you see. Anyway, pleased to meet you,” she said, thrusting out her hand toward Elsie. She was a girl her own height with blonde hair, green eyes, and a very trim figure. She was dressed smartly in a red dress with tiny white polka dots with a wide white collar, and she gave off an air of happy gaiety.
Timidly, Elsie shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, too,” she tried to say confidently.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Melody said. “Well, why don’t you come in, then? Look around, seeing as this is to be your home away from home, as I call it,” she said, opening the door widely and stepping aside.
“Well, it’s not for sure . . .” Elsie tried to say, stepping inside the bright, cheerful room.
“What do you mean it’s not for sure?” Melody asked.
Before Elsie could explain, however, Sr. Sebastian interrupted. “I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted,” she said, removing a tiny watch on a thin silver fob from under her habit and studying it. “Come back down in a half hour, Elsie, and we’ll resume.” She gave them both a smile and then disappeared down the hallway, her rosary beads clacking softly at her side.
“So, where you from?” Melody asked, making no effort to hide the fact that she was looking her up and down.