Fool's Journey

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  Mrs. Ruiz narrowed her eyes. “Deirdre,” she said, “I understand a little part—the spirit part of last night. You are right. Evil walks into your life. But I don’t know the story. Manny?”

  He nodded. “I know some of it. All I’ve needed to know, but...”

  “You need to know the rest if you’re going to help me,” Deirdre finished for him. “I’ll pay you a real retainer, too.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “I can pay, as you’ll see. Scruples don’t matter at this point and I have more money than anyone can count.” She glanced up and took in the expressions of the two people sitting at the table with her. “None of this is making sense, is it? I’ll start over. As soon as I tell you a little, you’ll be able to fill in a lot. To begin with, the name I was born with, the name I thought I’d left behind, was Katie McClellan.”

  The bright, cheerful kitchen didn't suddenly darken at the sound of her birth name, but Deirdre had almost expected it to. When she had whispered it in her mind over the years, an aura of mothballs and bloodstains hovered about her.

  “You probably only know what the tabloids reported,” she continued. “I was the little rich girl who murdered her famous, respected father. Little Lizzie Borden, the tabs called me.”

  The photos had been lurid, her father’s body being carried from the mansion in a black bag, the bloody murder scene, her mother’s face, pale and vacant, as Deirdre was escorted from the house in over-sized handcuffs that threatened to fall from her slim wrists. The stories had gone on for months until the attorneys for her father's corporation had swept her out of the juvenile system into a private sanitarium. The records were sealed. Nothing more came out after that. To the corporation, it was more important to preserve their founder's reputation than to reveal the cruelty that had forced his daughter's hand. She'd had no advocates, no one to fight for her. To the world she remained a bad seed, a heartless sociopath, evil from the cradle.

  “I remember,” Rosa Ruiz said softly. “That house you lived in . . . it was Hell. I thought that when I saw the pictures by the checkout at the grocery. I prayed for your mother—and for you. But something was always wrong with the story. The whole truth never came out, did it?”

  Deirdre felt the sharp sting of tears forming in her eyes. She’d thought she didn’t have any left, but there they were.

  “Your mother?” Manny asked. “What happened to her? I don’t know this part of the story, Deirdre.”

  “You were young—not much older than Deirdre was,” his aunt explained. “Not paying attention to scandals in grocery store tabloids.”

  He pressed his lips together and wished that he’d been silent.

  “It’s all right. The night it all happened,” Deirdre went on, “my father was furious with me. He was a devil and he knew how to get me. When I sinned, he punished my mother. Usually, he’d lock me in my room. When he eventually let me out, I’d see her face all black and blue.

  “This time was different, though. Something had changed in me. I had begun my first period. I had heard about it from the other girls at school. When I told my mother, she went pale and begged me not to let my father find out. I couldn’t understand it. I told her not to worry. Surely, even my father knew there was nothing either of us could do to prevent my body from changing. She just shook her head and cried.

  “I was going to be different from her, though. Her survival was in endurance. Mine would be in mutiny. It was as if I’d discovered my power in becoming a woman that night. It separated me from my past, as if I had stepped through a mirror. I could look back and see my backward life more clearly than I ever had before. You saw that in the cards Mrs. Ruiz, didn’t you?”

  The older woman nodded, but did not break the spell of Deirdre’s narrative.

  After a long moment, Deirdre went on. “I took the power into my hands that night. I accepted it. When my father found out he was furious, crazy. He cut off my hair and called me a bleeding whore. When he left I didn’t stay in my room as I’d been ordered. I knew I had to face what he was doing to my mother and try to stop him, not just weep about the aftermath. I crept down the hall to their bedroom and crouched at the door. I could hear his low, cold voice oozing obscenities. Then there was silence.

  “I opened the door. He had a marble angel that always sat on her desk raised over her head. I knew that tonight he was going to kill her. It didn’t take a heartbeat’s hesitation to grab the gun he kept in the drawer by the bed and shoot the life out of him. It was the best and worst moment of my life. I saved my mother, but I lost her, too. One of the bullets hit her. In the head. My mother is still alive, but she never ... her mind was gone.

  A few seconds of silence passed. “Where is she now?” Manny asked.

  “Not far from me. She’s at the Theodosia Home on Queen Anne. She doesn’t know me. I don’t think she knows anyone or anything, thank God. She just drifts and they take good care of her.”

  Rosa got up and poured coffee all around again, then busied herself tidying the kitchen. Answers to nagging questions were falling into place now, but there was something more. She listened with one ear as Deirdre went on, telling about how she’d hid herself over the years and changed her identity, about her encounter with that professor. Rosa had dreamed last night about a creature with many heads: some laughed, some cried, some sang beautiful songs, but there was one that had opened its mouth and gobbled the others down. As the blood ran down its chin it smiled.

  A shudder ran through her as she recalled the dream. She would have to do a cleansing ceremony to get the demon out of the house. She glanced back at the table where Manny was asking more questions about what had happened last night. He was more disturbed than he let on, she knew. It would be good if Deirdre stayed here another night. They could do the cleansing together. It would do everyone some good.

  XXVIII.

  “We’re going out for awhile, Aunt Rosa.” Manny stood framed in the doorway, his arm resting lightly on Deirdre’s shoulder. “Is there anything you want?”

  “Stop by the thrift shop if you can,” Mrs. Ruiz told him. “Marco has everything he needs, but I don’t have any rain clothes for Ana. Look for size 5, okay? And you, Deirdre. Stop by your place and pick up everything you need for a few days.”

  “I’ve imposed enough already—” she began, but there was no conviction in her voice or heart. At the thought of returning to her apartment, a lump rose in Deirdre’s throat.

  “You really want to sleep there tonight?” Mrs. Ruiz asked.

  “No,” she answered quietly. She’d stay in a hotel before she’d spend another night in that place. And move. She’d have to move.

  “Then you stay here for now,” Mrs. Ruiz insisted. “No arguments. You got it?”

  Deirdre glanced at Manny who merely shrugged.

  “Got it,” she responded. Suddenly, the darkness that had descended on her as she recounted her tale that morning lifted. The happiness she’d experienced on awakening came spinning back to her. She could stay here. She didn’t have to go back today.

  “Where to first?” Manny asked as they drove through the neighborhood streets. “Do you want to stop by your apartment first to pick up your things?”

  “No,” Deirdre said. “I’m not ready to go back yet. I’ll just buy what I need.”

  Manny nodded silently and let the subject drop. She knew there were more questions he wanted to ask, so his restraint was doubly appreciated. She leaned back in the seat and took in the rare sight of Seattle, illuminated by sunlight. Clouds hovered still on the horizon, but for the moment the sky smiled down.

  As they came up over the crest of Queen Anne Hill, Deirdre wished she’d thought to ask Manny to take a different route. She didn’t even want to drive by her apartment. She could feel panic rising in her chest. As quickly as she recognized it, though, she felt stupid, childish, and thoroughly self-indulgent. Breathe, she told herself. Don’t be such a sap. You’re alive, after all.

  She stared
straight ahead as the car began to descend the hill. It bumped slightly as each downhill block disappeared behind them, until the road finally leveled.

  “We’re past now,” Manny said. “If I’d been thinking, I’d have gone a different way.”

  “I was being a coward. I don’t know what I was afraid of.”

  “Real ghosts don’t care whether it’s night or day—if you believe in them, they’re always waiting for you.”

  “So, I just need to stop believing in them?” she asked.

  “I don’t know if that’s possible,” he said after a moment, “but you have to stop allowing them so much power over you. It’s not just Freemont Willard that scares you, is it?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s not the boogey man anymore. Not after yesterday. He just dredged up the past for me. I keep thinking that one day it will be all over and I can live a normal life, but I’m always wrong.”

  “You want to live a normal life?”

  “I don’t think I know what it would be like,” she admitted. “How would I learn? I don’t even know how to have a good time. I’m twenty-eight years old and I live like a nun.”

  “We’re on our way to a good time,” he said. “Thrift stores are like carnivals, and we’ve got fifty bucks to blow.”

  Deirdre grabbed her satchel and yanked it open. She fished an envelope from the bottom.

  “We’ve got a hell of a lot more than that.” Deirdre ruffled the bills and glanced at Manny. “A little loose change,” she said dryly.

  Manny glanced over and nodded. “Looks like it.”

  She read the look of caution in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I didn’t stick up a 7-11. This money has been gathering dust and there’s lots more where it came from. It should be doing good instead of sitting in the dark.”

  “I remember now,” he said. “Your father was some kind of zillionaire, wasn’t he? I’d forgotten.”

  “I tried to,” she said. “It didn’t work, of course. It keeps leading right back to me, like ants on a sugar trail.”

  She told him briefly about her aunt’s surprise appearance at the nursing home.

  “It’s like you said,” she went on. “The past doesn’t always want to stay buried. Sometimes maybe it shouldn’t. I tried to bury all this money in a bank vault, as if it were a physical part of my father, like his skeleton or ashes. I didn’t think of anything except my own pain.”

  “We all cope the best way we can,” he said. “This aunt of yours—how long since you've seen her?"

  "Until yesterday it had been about three years. When I moved my mother here she found out and came up, supposedly to check the facility."

  "But not really?"

  "No. She just wanted me to release the contents of my parents' house to her. She claimed there were photos and family pieces she wanted. It didn't matter to me. Everything had been in storage for years. I signed it all over to her, hoping she'd go away. She could have sold the art and furniture for enough to last a lifetime."

  "Living well is addictive, I hear."

  "Apparently. When all of this dies down, I'll look into setting up a trust of some kind for her. As long as she stays away from me."

  "Sounds like a plan if she bothers you that much, and you can afford it. Now, where to?”

  “You choose,” she said. “I wouldn’t have any idea where to start. I don’t have much experience spending.”

  He shot her a sidelong glance. “It will come to you, I think.”

  XXIX.

  They didn’t go to the thrift shop. “These kids should have brand new clothes,” Deirdre decided. “And toys, bright happy toys.”

  As they drove through the downtown area, she spotted a store called Monday’s Child, and said, “Let’s start here.”

  She made her way through the boutique, touching the fabric and smiling at the rainbow colors. Her own clothes had been so serious when she was growing up. Everything in grown-up style, matched and muted. Protective coloration was her mother’s best defensive strategy. Don’t stand out in any way. You’re safe until he notices you. So there had been no oranges or reds or pansy purples for her.

  Now, she piled one item after the other on the dismayed clerk’s counter. Sailor caps, bunny slippers, ruffled socks. She picked out a bright yellow rain slicker for Ana and little green boots with frog faces on the toes. They made her laugh just to look at them.

  “Do you think she’ll wear them?” Deirdre asked Manny. “Will she think they’re silly?”

  He was sitting in a chair by the window watching her. “Sure she’ll wear them. They’re great!”

  “They are, aren’t they?” She held the rain boots up. “I just wish they had them in my size. I’d go jumping in puddles today! Come on and help me—you’re missing the fun.”

  Manny added several pairs of Levi’s lined with red flannel and some bright sweaters and stocking caps. It was great to watch her, he thought. She was smiling continuously, relaxed for the first time since he’d met her, and truly beautiful. It amazed him that simple things could bring her such joy.

  When the clerk wrapped up the purchases, Deirdre handed her a thousand dollar bill. “I’m sorry,“ she said, “I don’t have anything smaller.” It took all the money in the drawer to make change.

  “I hope you have a truck,” the clerk remarked wryly. “That’s quite a pile.”

  “I didn’t think of that. What are we going to do, Manny? Your car’s going to fill up too fast.”

  The clerk cleared her throat. “Some people,” she said hesitantly, “call a cab and have the driver deliver their purchases. It’s expensive, but...”

  “Practical,” Deirdre finished the sentence for her. “Sounds like a plan.”

  They cut a swath through every toy store and children’s department in downtown Seattle before Deirdre took a breath. At almost hourly intervals, cabs had been dispatched bearing goods. Deirdre felt like a fairy godmother and liked it. Doing good was gratifying in and of itself, but doing it extravagantly afforded more enjoyment than she had ever thought possible. It was uncontrolled and wonderful. There was more, too, that made it satisfying, although not for the most admirable of reasons. Her father had been detestable in many ways and bigotry was among them. The notion of spending his money to help little brown-eyed children pleased her enormously.

  “I don’t know about you, Deirdre,” Manny said at last, “but I’d like to sit down and have some lunch. You’ve worn me out.”

  “Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away. Do you think your aunt will be offended?”

  Manny laughed and shook his head. “Don’t be silly. How could she be offended at such munificence? Come on – here’s a spot.”

  He caught her glancing at another window display and grabbed her by the elbow before she could protest. He steered her into a small restaurant just off the lobby of a small elegant hotel.

  “It does feel good to sit down,” she admitted. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Almost three o’clock.”

  “Is it too early for champagne?” she asked.

  “You really are feeling festive.” He smiled. “I don’t think it’s ever too early for champagne. Besides, as someone once said, it’s bound to be after five o’clock somewhere.”

  As she returned his smile, Manny suddenly remembered the dream he’d had of her last night. He had stayed with her long after she had dropped off to sleep, listening to her even breathing. She’d felt comfortable, curled against his arm. Finally, he had nodded off to sleep as well. In the dream, he had watched her from some high rocky promontory as she walked along a gray shore. Now he knew what lay under the vague depression that had haunted him throughout the day. The menace that had hounded her had been disarmed, at least for the present, and she was enjoying herself. There was a gulf between them, however, as steep and dangerous as the one in his dream.

  He had known her for mere days, but the fact that he was lost in fascinated love was as clear as the fact that he cou
ld never have her. That’s what the dream told him. He hadn’t even known until this moment how hopeless he was. All the usual reasons confronted him: her beauty, education, wealth – yet even these obstacles were artificial. However stupidly adolescent it sounded, loving Deirdre was like loving a statue of a goddess brought to life. No matter how sincere his love might be, it could never be brought to any real fruition.

  “What are you thinking, Manny?”

  His frustration died when he looked into her eyes and saw there was no guile, no intent to dazzle then withdraw.

  “Why do you ask?” It was a cowardly response, of course. No way could he tell her what had actually been on his mind.

  “You looked so sad for a moment. I guess maybe this isn’t the way most guys would like to spend their days.”

  “I’m not hankering to be watching a football game, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He’d wanted it to sound light, but somehow it came out as flat and ungenerous.

  Deirdre studied Manny’s face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the compression of his lips, and quick glance toward the door as another patron entered. She could imagine the play of thoughts that lay behind the subtle changes – not their content, of course, but the telegraphic interchange between logic and intuition, even emotion.

  She considered the situation as it might appear to an outsider. Here they sat, two young, attractive people, in a restaurant in a hotel.

  If this were a book and not her life, she would say, Manny, I want you to make love to me. He would make the arrangements and she would follow him to the room a few minutes later. She might wonder if she were making a mistake, but she’d dismiss it with a live for today sort of thought.

  What would come next? The only images she had came from books and movies.

  Manny caught her eye and she felt a deep blush flood her cheeks. He smiled. Impossible, she told herself, in all ways. This wasn’t fiction. There would be no “fade to black” and a cut to the next scene. If nothing else, fear would make a silent third party and crash any hope of intimacy.