“That’s Nick,” she spoke in a low tone, and came nearer.
“He doesn’t look like either of them,” I said.
“He was adopted.”
“Oh.”
“He …”
Thinking she was going to tell me about his disappearance, I said, “I know he’s … gone.”
She nodded, looking grave. “This is the first Thanksgiving they’ve celebrated since …” She paused. “I think you had something to do with that. They were afraid you wouldn’t have any place to go.”
So I had picked the right invitation.
“Did you notice that Paul wouldn’t say grace today?” Polly continued. “Maggie had to say it. Paul made a bargain with God, you know?”
I shook my head.
“If God brought his son back, he would go to church every Sunday.”
“And?”
“And—if He didn’t, Paul would never set foot inside a church again.” Polly, apparently a church person, frowned. “That was three years ago. And he never has.”
Not having been in a church for much longer than that, I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately Paul woke up and Maggie came in from the kitchen. I said my thanks and good-byes to everyone and left.
It was twilight when I emerged from the snug house. The vast expanse of ever-changing sky never failed to surprise me. Encumbered by a skirt, pantyhose, and heels, I boarded my bike more awkwardly than usual. And once settled, I drove more slowly, taking in the sky. It was a creamy yellow—the color of the corn we’d had for dinner. It spread around me like a giant comforter, threatening to defrost that frozen lump inside my chest that passed for a heart. Whoa! Too much wine? Or too much turkey?
A flock of geese stitched their way across the sky in swift, straight lines and disappeared. By the time I reached the motel, it had turned deep lavender and a few stars had broken out.
Jack-the-night-clerk was on duty.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.
He looked up from his tattered paperback, Return of the Jedi, and gave me a brief smile.
“I didn’t know there were so many Star Wars books,” I said.
“There aren’t. I reread them.”
With a twinge of guilt I wondered where he had had his Thanksgiving dinner. Or if he’d had one. I resolved to take more interest in Jack.
As I trudged up the stairs to my room, I felt weighed down by more than the heavy meal I’d just eaten. Instead of being buoyed up by the party, I was let down. Why was that? Later, while I undressed and got ready for bed, I tried to analyze my feelings. After all, I was a doctor—and I had taken a few psychiatry courses.
First, there was the photo of Nick on the desk. As I’d studied his cold, arrogant expression, I’d felt a chill in that warm living room. Then there was the awkward pause before dinner, when Paul had refused to say grace—even though it was a day especially set aside for giving thanks and his wife’s eyes were fixed on him beseechingly. Then there was my own weird behavior with Tom. For some reason I couldn’t relax and enjoy him—even though he had gone way out of his way to be friendly. Why? It was as if I was punishing myself. For what? Slowly it came to me, oozing up from my soul like sour mud from the river bottom. Sophie. I can never be happy until I forgive myself for her death. Stunned by my insight, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at my feet, not seeing them. I sighed. Well, Freud would be proud of me.
The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Tom’s face when I’d snapped, “There’s always the Winter Wheat!” His expression was a comical mix of bewilderment and—hurt. But somehow I didn’t feel like laughing.
CHAPTER 26
The worst part of office hours was I had to wear a skirt. As I approached my newly rehabbed cabin I was surprised to see Becca straddling her bike, beside the door.
“You’re late.” She pointed to the new sign displaying my office hours:
MON., WED. & FRI.
2:00 TO 4:00 P.M.
“Sorry.” I checked my watch. Five past two. I didn’t tell her I had so few patients I didn’t feel compelled to rush to the office. It was my motel clients that kept me solvent. But I had this secret yearning for private patients, too. Some practice I could call my own. Very old-fashioned.
“What’s wrong?” I unlocked the door. “You look pretty healthy.”
Becca followed me inside without answering. She was quiet while I changed into my white coat, washed my hands, and sat down behind my desk. She remained standing, or rather, lounging against the doorjamb, until I said, “Won’t you sit down?”
She plopped into the empty chair across from me.
I waited.
Avoiding my eyes, she muttered to the floor, “I want to go on the pill.”
I was silent for so long, she finally glanced up.
“You’re only thirteen,” I said.
“So? Girls in Shakespeare’s time married at thirteen.”
Romeo and Juliet must be on the curriculum at Bayfield Junior High. “When did you start your period?”
“Six months ago.”
I stared out the window, chewing my pencil. “Why do you want to go on the pill?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Don’t you know where babies come from?”
I wanted to slap her. Controlling myself, I said pleasantly, “You know, there are a lot of diseases out there.”
She smiled patronizingly. “Not if you use protection.”
“And who’s the lucky fellow?” I couldn’t prevent the unprofessional question.
She shrugged.
I took a prescription pad from my drawer. The only thing Becca needed less than the pill was a baby. Carefully I wrote the prescription, tore it off, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans, but she seemed in no hurry to leave. “Something funny’s going on at my house,” she blurted.
I was all ears.
“You know that refugee couple who came over from Prague a while ago?”
I nodded, although I didn’t know they were from Praque.
“There’s nothing special about that. My aunt’s always taking in strays from Europe, letting them stay with us until they get on their feet, as she says.”
“That’s very kind of her.”
“There used to be more of them, before the Velvet Revolution. Now there’s not so many …”
I didn’t interrupt.
“But this couple’s different …”
“In what way?”
She frowned. “They’re mean.”
“How?”
“They’re always watching me. And they tell tales on me. If they catch me coming in late or eating between meals, they rat on me. They tell my aunt, and then she grounds me.”
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows.
“And once … the woman slapped me.”
I flinched. Then I remembered having the same urge about two minutes ago.
“And they’re always whispering in corners, together or with Juri. My aunt doesn’t seem to notice.”
She wouldn’t, I thought. She’s in another world.
“I think it’s rude.”
“It is.”
“Besides …” she added, with the shadow of a smile, “I want to know what they’re talking about.”
“So would I.”
“But that’s not the worst part …”
She had my full attention.
“Yesterday, when I came home from school and went into the barn—I do that sometimes after school. It’s quiet there and smells good.”
I nodded, understanding. I used to seek out a quiet place after the noise and turmoil of school. But we didn’t have a barn. I went to my room.
“I was sitting there, not doing anything, when the floor started to rise up right in front of me.”
“The floor of the barn?”
She nodded. “It was a trapdoor. I’d never noticed it before. It had been covered with packed down mud and hay. Anyway, Mr. Pie Face … t
hat’s what I call him,’cause he has this pudgy, pushed-in face …”
“Go on.”
“Then I remembered my uncle talking once about a bomb shelter. His father had built it in the fifties, when there was an A-bomb scare. And I wondered if that was where the trapdoor led. Anyway, after Pie Face got over the shock of seeing me, he climbed out, grabbed my arm, and twisted it behind my back. When I started to yell, he covered my mouth with his sweaty hand.” Becca physically recoiled at the memory. “Then he hissed in my ear, ‘Tell anybody about this and I’ll break your arm!’” And he gave my arm an extra twist.” She winced and rubbed her arm. “It still hurts.”
“Let’s see.” I stepped quickly around my desk to examine her arm. It showed no obvious sign of a break. “Can you bend your elbow?”
She did.
“You’ll live,” I said. “But,” I added, “I’m going to look into this.”
“No.” Becca turned white. “You mustn’t tell him I told you.”
“But your aunt has to know about it.” My adrenaline had been steadily rising during this conversation. Now it was rapidly reaching its peak.
“No. Please, Jo.” The panic in her eyes startled me.
“I can’t let you go back to an abuser!”
“I’ll … I’ll call you if it happens again. I promise.”
“What if you can’t get to a phone?”
She pulled a cell phone from her back pocket. Cell phones were not as common in Bayfield as in Manhattan, but Becca had a slim, silver, lightweight, state-of-the-art model.
As I hesitated for a second, thinking, Becca darted toward the door.
“Wait.”
Cold air brushed my ankles. She had the door open.
“Could you get your aunt to ask me for dinner again?”
She turned with a smile. “Sure.” The smile died. “I mean … I don’t know …”
“What do you mean?”
“Lately, Juri doesn’t like visitors.”
I wasn’t about to let her go. “What if I just happen to drop by tonight, say around dinnertime?”
She grinned. For a split second she looked like Sophie—or, how Sophie might have looked at thirteen. I watched her hop on her bike and take off as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Had she really wanted the pill, or was that just an excuse to tell me about Milac?
CHAPTER 27
Since patients weren’t breaking my door down, I spent the rest of my office hours reading journals. I was about to call it a day when a pickup truck pulled into the parking lot behind the cabin. A burly man in jeans and a windbreaker got out. He looked cautiously left and right before coming to the door. This was unusual. I’d had very few male patients since I’d opened my office. They sent their wives, their children, and their mothers, but they didn’t come themselves. What kind of a guy would go to a woman doctor? was the general attitude.
He came into the waiting room, looking around uncertainly. Until I could afford a secretary, I acted as my own. Stepping from my office, I said, “May I help you? I’m Dr. Banks.”
He looked nonplussed and I’m sure his first instinct was to run.
“How did you hear about me?” I asked.
“My brother …” he grimaced. Obviously he guessed his brother had played a prank on him—sending him, unawares, to a woman doctor.
Since the fish was nibbling, I decided to give him more line. “What’s your name?”
“Jake. Jake Potter.”
“Won’t you take off your jacket, Mr. Potter?”
Slowly he unzipped his windbreaker. After removing it he looked for a place to hang it. I took it from him and hung it on the handsome clothes tree Maggie and I had snagged for a song at a yard sale.
“Please step this way.”
His eyes scanned the room, still searching for a way out. By sheer force of will, I reeled him into my inner office. He sat on the edge of his chair.
From the other side of my desk, I asked, “What seems to be the trouble?”
Resigned, like a condemned man, he cleared his throat. “I have these dreams … .”
Ohmygod. He thinks I’m a psychiatrist. “What sort of dreams?”
“Nightmares!” Once hooked, the fish was cooperating.
I assumed my most sympathetic expression. A patient is a patient is a patient. “About what, Mr. Potter?” I adopted my most reassuring tone.
“About the body I found.”
Ohmygod—was he a psychopath? I kept my cool. “When was this, Mr. Potter?”
“Didn’t you read about it? It was in all the papers. I was even on TV!”
“Oh, that body,” I said quickly. (So this was the guy who found the scarecrow—that wasn’t a scarecrow. Interesting.) “Do they know how he got there?”
He shook his head. “But he was drugged and hung out there to die. If I hadn’t found him, the buzzards woulda picked his bones clean.” He shuddered involuntarily.
“It’s only natural, after such an experience, that you would have some after effects,” I said soothingly.
“I can’t sleep,” he said.
On closer examination, he did look exhausted. Deep shadows lay under his eyes, and beneath his farmer’s tan I suspected a pasty complexion.
“I thought maybe you could give me a pill.”
A pill—that magic solution to all problems. “What do you do each night before you go to bed?” Bad question; he probably peed. I hastily rephrased it. “I mean, what’s your nightly routine?”
“Oh, me an’ the boys go out to the Anchor an’ have a few beers, play some pool, listen to the jukebox … you know …”
“And when you come home?”
He looked puzzled. “I go to bed.”
“Don’t you ever take a hot bath? Listen to some soft music? Maybe read a book … ?”
He stared.
“Well, that’s what I want you to do tonight. Instead of going to the Anchor, I want you to stay home. Watch TV until about nine o’clock.” (I was going to suggest a glass of warm milk, but I didn’t want to scare him to death.) “Then take a long, hot bath. Soak in the tub for about half an hour. Then get into bed. Read a magazine or look at the newspaper, until you start to doze off.”
“How ’bout a comic book?”
“Fine.”
“No pill?”
I went to the medicine chest, shook some Tylenol into an envelope, and gave them to him. “Take two before your bath.”
Relieved, he stowed the envelope in his pocket.
“And if all else fails, Mr. Potter …”
He looked up expectantly.
“ … you can always think about pretty girls.”
He chuckled. “What d’ I owe you?”
“Twenty dollars.”
He pulled out a roll of bills and peeled one off. As he reached for his windbreaker, I said, “Let me know how you make out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His words had the ring of sincerity.
I was jubilant. I’d landed a new patient! But the memory of the body in the field sobered me. Not everything in Bayfield was peaceful and serene. I locked up and checked my watch. Just time to freshen up for my impromptu dinner engagement at Becca’s.
CHAPTER 28
As I tooled up the driveway of the Sheffield farm, I saw Juri working on the porch. He had returned to his farmhand role. In old jeans, a faded work shirt, and thick work boots, all signs of the dapper houseman had disappeared. Some of the screening had come loose around the porch door and he was tacking it back.
“Hi,” I shouted over the rumble of my motor. “Becca around?”
He shook his head, continuing to pound.
“When will she be back?”
He shrugged.
I was getting anxious.
He stopped pounding. “She and her aunt took a trip.”
“A trip?” I shut off the motor. “I just saw her.”
“I drove them to the airport this afternoon.”
“Where’d they g
o?”
“Florida.”
“Florida? For how long? What about school?”
He looked up, annoyed. “She has tutors,” he snapped.
I got the message. Becca’s education was none of my business.
“When will she be back?”
“In a few weeks.” He stuck the hammer into the pocket of an apron-belt contraption he wore around his waist.
“By the fourteenth?”
He looked wary. “What’s the fourteenth?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a little excursion we’d planned.”
“I doubt it.”
“Will she be back by Christmas?” We could always go the week after Christmas. The decorations would still be up and there’d still be a festive air.
He had turned to go into the house. “Don’t count on it,” he tossed over his shoulder and disappeared inside.
I fluctuated between relief and alarm. At least Becca was out of the house and away from that creep Milac. But it was so sudden. She hadn’t mentioned anything about a trip. Her aunt must have been packed and ready to go when the kid returned from my office. Strange. If Becca weren’t her niece, I’d call it kidnapping. Maybe her otherworldly aunt had suddenly caught on that her niece was being harassed, and decided to remove her from the scene. That would be the best scenario.
I sat staring at the closed, forbidding house. Shades were pulled down over the tall windows, hiding the old glass and creamy white curtains. Two wicker rockers were tipped forward against the wall of the house, their backs turned to me. And the porch swing was shrouded in a dark green canvas cover.
I was about to take off when I spotted the corner of Becca’s sketchbook, sticking out from under the swing. It might get wet if it rained. I dismounted, and went up on the porch. For some reason, I walked quietly, almost tiptoeing. I even glanced over my shoulder once. I snatched up the book, and instead of stashing it on the swing—it would have been perfectly safe under the canvas cover—I tucked it inside the front of my jacket. With more furtive glances, I mounted my bike and took off.
CHAPTER 29
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