From the kitchen, I’d heard a cry somewhere in the house—I thought from the servants’ wing. God, it was a horrible, mournful sound, like something in pain. Not quite human, not quite animal. First, I’d rushed up the stairs off the dining-room hallway, to make sure Michael was all right; finding his door still closed, I’d started toward the back of the house. Then I saw the animal. At least I was sure right away it was an animal. What else might have made such a sound? (And here I did not tell them that I’d been terribly afraid it was an unnatural sound, and that I had experienced a huge sense of relief on seeing the creature’s tail and two hind legs.)
Although I had no weapon, I followed after it, searching the servants’ wing, but all the doors were closed. Was it a cat? I wasn’t sure because it seemed too big. I went downstairs and searched every room.
The cry came again, reverberating in the hallway from above. This time so loud and long that I was sure it would wake Michael. I hurried up to the third floor, but the theater and ballroom doors were closed and it wasn’t in the hallway or any other of the rooms. So I went back down to the servants’ wing, and grabbed a broom to shoo whatever it was outside. I opened every door.
“Nothing?” J.C. looked concerned.
“For God sakes, Charlotte. This isn’t helping us find Michael.” Press ran his hand through his hair. “You must have fallen asleep.”
“Of course I didn’t fall asleep! I told you I was reading a magazine.” Although I knew it was a fair assumption, it made me angry that he would accuse me.
I described how I had looked down into the hall again from the second-floor gallery to see a fox skirting the wall near the front door. As it trotted, it made a kind of hissing sound as though it were talking to itself, or calling to someone—something—else. Then it disappeared into the dining room. I started down the stairs, but I thought of Michael and I turned back. And when I reached the top, I started for the nursery.
Again, I hesitated. What I couldn’t tell them was how it had seemed that time had slipped, just as it had when I was in the forsythia looking for the rabbit. Over an hour had been lost, but I knew that I hadn’t been asleep.
“What did you see?” J.C. had come to stand very close to me. There was no skepticism on her face, as there was on Press’s. Only concern.
“It ran into his room.” Now my voice was almost a whisper. “The door was open, and it ran into his room, and when I got there, neither of them was inside.”
No one else spoke for a moment.
“Jesus Christ.” Press ran his hand down his face, covered his mouth.
J.C. touched my arm. I didn’t move but only stared at her. “There’s not time to explain, Charlotte. But I need you to trust me right now. Will you try?”
The stairway leading to the door to the roof was as claustrophobic as a dark, unwanted thought, and the air was heady with humidity from the rain on the other side of the door. I imagined Michael carefully climbing the deep wooden stairs, pressing his dimpled hand against the wall for balance. I could imagine it, but I didn’t believe it. It seemed like madness.
Press turned the key in the lock one way, and then the other. The bolt clicked into place.
“It wasn’t locked. How did you know?” Looking back at J.C., I heard the wonder in my own voice and all the horrible implications. Michael had never been in this stairwell, had never even been in the small room beside the theater where the stairs began—at least not with me. It was impossible.
“Let me by!” I didn’t wait for J.C. to answer, but squeezed by Press to turn the key again myself, and pushed open the door.
Blinded by the brilliant sheen of silvery gray sky, I stumbled out onto the tar-covered roof. When I blinked, I could see the stark black outline of the dome, the two blocks of rooms, and the short iron railing around the edge of the roof. I squeezed my eyes shut until the shapes dissipated.
Press was behind me. “Terrance, you go on to the far south section. Charlotte, for God’s sake, just wait here with J.C.”
Ignoring Press’s ridiculous admonition to stay where I was, I circled back around the odd little shelter that embraced the doorway, with Press calling after me.
“Dammit. Why won’t you listen, Charlotte? Stop!”
“I’ll go with her.” J.C.’s footsteps followed behind me on the gritty rooftop.
The dome, with its circlet of narrow windows, rose in front of me to a height of about eight feet. The windows were not particularly clean but were spattered with bird droppings and grime, and streaked where the rain had come down hard against the glass. Though I hardly gave it a thought then, I wondered later at the state of the windows. From far below, the windows seemed clear as new glass, filling the hall with sunlight. But, then, who would come out to clean the windows? Much later, when I had time to think about it, I wondered why it hadn’t bothered Olivia. Perhaps her vision hadn’t been what it had used to be. Still, it seemed a strange oversight.
As I walked around the dome, I had the feeling that we were wasting time. Of course Michael wasn’t up there! J.C. was still following, not saying a word, when I went to the front railing and looked out over the drive. Old Gate rested in the northern distance, oblivious to what was happening far above it. As I watched, the view shimmered with bands of moisture like some kind of mirage, the steeple of the Presbyterian church the only thing that seemed to remain firm and upright. Behind me, far on the other end of the roof, I could hear Press opening and shutting the creaking doors of the old storage sheds far beyond the dome and calling Michael’s name.
“Michael,” I whispered. “Where are you, baby?”
I forced myself to look down into the circle of the drive, moving my gaze cautiously closer to the house, which was where he would be if he’d fallen. Michael was a climber. Curious. He always wanted to be close to the things he was curious about: examining them intently, sticking them in his mouth if he could. Once, when Nonie had brought him into her room to watch a news program, he had crawled to the television cabinet and pulled himself up. Holding firmly to either side, he had pressed his face against the screen and made a loud humming noise, causing us to laugh. When he pulled away, he had left behind a wet, round smear on the glass.
Having once been close to the small sheds Press was searching, I didn’t want to go near them again. He’d told me they were filled with paneling, old tools, furniture, and trunks. Who knew what the extremes of heat and cold had done to the contents? Everything was probably worthless by now. Worthless, but perhaps concealing a little boy. I turned back to look, but the dome was in the way.
I made my way back toward Press along the western edge of the roof, whose lines were unbroken except for the upright brick rectangles of yellow brick chimneys. The shallow wing’s rooftop was a half dozen feet lower than the rooftop I was on now, and it held no strange dwellings or doorway shelters. Below were the garden and maze.
“Charlotte! J.C.!”
Press called from an open doorway in the farthest strip of rooms. I felt the new, constant pain in my stomach slip, lighten for the briefest second. The rush of hope propelled me toward his voice. J.C. was suddenly ahead of me.
But I saw movement in another direction. Something, perhaps an animal, had just disappeared around the curve of the dome. Dropping to one knee, I tried to peer through the windows, but the angle from where I was seemed all wrong, and the windows were too dirty. Yet there was something moving. And quickly.
Press called my name again, but I had to know what I’d seen. Brushing off a bit of loose, tarry gravel from my knee, I stood up. By now, the wetness of the roof had permeated the thin leather soles of my heels. Michael had been in bed barefoot and was too young to put on his own shoes, let alone tie them. What might the coarse rooftop do to his tender feet? (In a split second, I had a sudden memory of Eva as I’d seen her in the morning room. When she’d died, she been wearing the pink playsuit I’d put her down for her nap in, but why had she come to me wearing muddy sandals as well? And the ribbon. What
about the hair ribbon?)
Ignoring Press, I hurried around the dome, staying close by the windows.
I called Michael’s name. A clammy breeze picked at my hair and blew across my neck, giving me a chill; and with it came a certainty that the thing I had glimpsed was no animal, but Michael himself. Press called to me again, but the breeze carried his voice away. I heard it only as someone might hear from deep under water.
Yes! It was Michael!
Perhaps it was momentary joy that brightened the gray afternoon for me; but whatever it was, the light grew brilliant as a vast, newly stoked flame, and when my son stopped briefly and grinned back at me, naked as a cherub, he was the color of a golden peach.
I ran, but my feet were clumsy. My low heels weren’t made for running, and I stumbled a second time, this time falling, falling, my arms reaching for Michael, my cheek scraping the crumbled tar.
I screamed Michael’s name and pulled myself up onto my hands, mindless of the scrapes, to see him at the northern lip of the roof, squeezing his plump little body through the decorative iron trim. He didn’t look back again, but disappeared over the edge of the roof without a sound.
Press shouted for me, but before he could reach me I was up, running for the edge of the roof. Was I screaming? Maybe. I do remember hearing the wind in my ears as I ran. Just as I reached the edge, two firm hands tried to pull me backwards from the waist. I couldn’t see! Fighting him, holding hard to the iron trim, I strained to see the ground below.
Finally, for the briefest of seconds, the hands loosened and I collapsed over the railing so that I was staring at the ground. There, curled into a helpless crescent, was the body of a fox, the creamy-white tip of its tail stark against the stone of the patio below.
When I opened my eyes again, it was dusk, and the light of a single lamp groped pitifully in the overwhelming dark of the big room.
Oh, God. Was it happening again? It couldn’t be.
I was afraid to turn my head, lest the person I sensed nearby turn out to be Rachel. Now Michael would be dead. I squeezed my eyes shut again. It was hard to think because my brain was fogged, but I knew enough to be afraid.
“Charlotte. Charlotte, you should wake up.”
A woman’s voice. I turned my head cautiously.
J.C. had pulled a chair up beside the sofa so that her angular body threw its shadow over me. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t wake up. I’ve been waiting.” The gloom made it difficult to see her face clearly. What I could see was her worry.
“Have they found him? Where is he?” I tried to sit up. Jack had promised that the shot he was going to give me would help me stay calm enough to keep searching for Michael without knocking me out. Clearly he had lied.
“I told Press it wasn’t fair to you. Here’s some water.” She helped me sit up and gave me a tall glass of tepid water that I downed in just a few swallows. “Now that you’re awake, we can both search for him.”
When she took the glass back, and I thanked her, she sat back in her chair. “Does Press always treat you like this?”
My head ached. I wanted to get up and look for Michael, but I found it hard to move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re not a stupid woman. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“Is that what Press told you? That I’m crazy?”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s said to me, Charlotte. I’ve seen you with my own eyes. I’m no fool either.”
“I thought I was ‘Precious Bride’ to you.” I didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“That’s just business, honey. We all play different roles, and it’s never good to be serious all the time. You’ll understand one day.” She gave me a rueful smile. “Listen. I don’t like what’s going on here. There’s too much pain.” She glanced around the room as though pain were something one could see stuck to the walls or the ceiling, something to be disguised with a throw rug or a swath of paint. “I think Jonathan is afraid to contact me.”
I stood up slowly, using the arm of the sofa for balance.
“I don’t know who in the hell you’re talking about. Where is everyone?”
J.C. followed me out of the salon. The chandelier was dark, and only a couple of lamps were on in the hall and along the upper galleries. I could hear voices coming from outside and the kitchen.
“The police and a lot of the neighbors’ hired men are out searching the woods and orchards. I heard someone say there were extra lanterns out front. We can get one and go out and join them.”
I didn’t answer, but started for the front door. I’d only gone a few feet before I realized my legs and feet were bare, and the front of my skirt and blouse were streaked with dirt and tar. Not only had I been out of my mind with worry and panic, I looked like a madwoman. It wasn’t any wonder that Jack had sedated me. Still, I wouldn’t forgive him unless he walked through the front door carrying Michael.
He’s gone! It’s my fault. Again, my fault!
“I’m going to run upstairs to change and get a jacket.” Without turning around, I asked J.C. if she had one warm enough for searching outside. I have no idea what led me to give her that consideration, except that she and I were alone.
“I do. I’ll get it and meet you down here?”
We started up the stairs in silence, but when we reached the first landing I stopped.
“How did you know about the roof? Do you know where Michael is?”
“I don’t know where he is. I swear to you I don’t. Please don’t think I’m cruel, Charlotte.”
“I think you’re worse than cruel.”
J.C. briefly closed her eyes. “That’s not fair. I just knew we had to go to the roof. But it wasn’t a bad thing, don’t you see? Nothing happened to Michael up there. We know that now.”
“Why are you really here?”
“Do I really matter that much right now? Isn’t the most important thing that we find Michael?”
From my darkened bedroom, I could see the driveway and the road leading to the orchards. There were several pickup trucks and a couple of sedans I thought I recognized parked in the driveway, but the dusk made it hard to make them out. Well beyond them, faint points of light bobbed through the trees, a many-eyed beast hunting for the slight, warm shape of my baby boy.
Alive. He had to be alive.
I quickly stripped out of my dress and stockings and grabbed a blouse, heavy sweater, dungarees, and tennis shoes from my closet. After using the bathroom, I splashed water on my face, smearing what little makeup hadn’t worn off, and dabbed my face with a towel. Then I ran a quick brush through my hair. My wrist was sore from falling on it, but not sprained. Each action was automatic. Fast. When we found Michael, I wanted him to see a mommy he recognized. Not a pained, frightened mess.
Without the chandelier on, the gallery was heavily shadowed. I wondered about Terrance and Marlene. What were they doing? Had they joined the search?
I called out for J.C. “I’m going downstairs.”
Hearing a familiar sound, I looked across the gallery at Olivia’s room, which we had already searched several times. The door had certainly clicked shut.
“J.C.?”
There was no answer from J.C.’s room, though her door was open and the light was on. There was no light of any kind beneath Olivia’s door. As I hurried over, I was thinking it might be a searcher who had decided to take advantage of the situation and explore places they weren’t wanted.
I confess that when I put my hand on the doorknob, I hesitated, afraid that Olivia was going to show me something and I wouldn’t be able to leave. But if she were there, wouldn’t she want to help me? I went inside.
The sky outside Olivia’s window was a dusky plum color, and the room was full of shadows. That the air smelled of roses—decaying roses—I tried to put down to my imagination.
“Olivia?”
I waited for what seemed like several minutes. The scent
seemed to fade.
Disappointed, I turned to leave.
“Mama! Mamamamamama! Mama!”
Michael’s voice. Above me.
I looked up. Michael’s pale, happy face peered at me from behind the carved pediment of Olivia’s seven-foot-tall French armoire. Seeing me notice him, he gave me another triumphant “Mama!” Then, “Michael down.”
Chapter 24
Reunited
The front hall was filled with people, many of whom had been at the house after the funeral the week before, and the mood was light, as though they’d come by for an impromptu party. Marlene was handing around coffee, and Terrance had brought out a tub of bottled beer. I held Michael tightly in my arms as Press and I thanked everyone who had searched. It was mostly men, though there were a few wives too, mostly of the men who worked on nearby farms. Shelley, the cheerful, blond nineteen-year-old sister of the orchardkeeper, had even put on work boots to help with the search. I wouldn’t have noticed, but she mentioned them, embarrassed that she was wearing them in the house.
“I had to come,” she said. “My baby brother was lost for a day and a half when he was three, and we found him in an old well someone hadn’t covered. It about killed my mother.”
Michael shifted in my arms, wanting to get down, but I just held him more tightly. Relenting, he rested his head on my shoulder with a sigh, sucking on two of his fingers.
Shelley smiled. “She said there were years of leaves down there that broke his fall. He was just bruised, and very mad. Now he’s training in the Navy to go on a submarine. You’d think he’d be afraid of dark small places after that happened, but he isn’t.” Shyly, she reached out to touch Michael’s damp curls. “And where were you hiding, little one?”
Michael watched her intently for a moment, then grinned and turned his head away, shy.
Where had he been? I still wasn’t certain.
After I’d shouted down the gallery to let J.C. know I’d found him, and asked her to find Press, I quickly changed his very full diaper and took him to the kitchen to feed him. Before everyone started gathering at the house to see Michael for themselves, I told Press and J.C. that I’d found him on top of the armoire. I saw the muscles in Press’s jaw tense—a sign that he was either angry or trying to make a decision. Finally he said, “Well, he’s a magician, this one.” He rubbed Michael’s head and kissed him. “But let’s just tell everyone he fell asleep under his grandmama’s bed and we missed him. It’s not anyone’s business.”
Charlotte’s Story Page 17