The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane

by Laird Koenig

  She was grateful that before he came in, the officer shook his cape of rainwater. Once inside, he tried not to drip on her freshly waxed floor.

  To her surprise she offered the man a cup of tea.

  In the kitchen she reminded herself that even if he seemed likable, his smile had nothing to do with the reason that brought him here.

  What did he want?

  She had a terrifying thought. Had Mrs. Hallet sent him? But Rynn knew the school board had not met. That was not the reason. Was he here to pick up the jelly glasses? She decided whatever the reason it would be better to relax, and it was the officer’s name which made this possible. At first she found it difficult, but now it struck her as having poetic possibilities. By the time she poured the tea Rynn was pronouncing it with a nice, rolling Italian accent.

  "Miglioriti."

  The officer smiled, his usual response, it seemed, to everything. But over the teacup his heavy brows drew together and met in a frown. He was finding it difficult if not impossible to get his huge thumb and forefinger around the teacup’s handle. The cup wobbled.

  Rynn stared at his hand. Large, square and strong. She imagined on other Saturdays not many years before, this same hand held a football. Football would explain the broken nose.

  Still frowning, Miglioriti juggled the cup and managed a sip of tea.

  "Has your family been in the village long?" She used tea-party manners when she spoke.

  A grin spread slowly across Miglioriti’s face.

  "Sounds like you’ve been talking with Mrs. Hallet."

  Mrs. Hallet. Did she send him?

  Officer Miglioriti managed another sip of tea before he spoke.

  "Don’t tell her I said it, but according to Mrs. Hallet, you have to smell of whale oil off the first sailing ship that ever put in here or to her you’ll always be an immigrant." "I suppose we’re the newest," Rynn quickly added, "my father and I."

  "At least Mrs. Hallet let you in the village. She doesn’t let in everybody. Not if she can help it." Miglioriti attempted a third sip but splashed tea into the saucer. He looked around the sitting room. "She must have approved of you enough to lease you this house."

  Rynn took her tea with a precision she believed the policeman considered very British.

  "I expect," she said, "she let us in because my father’s a poet. That’s one of his books. There, on the mantelpiece."

  Miglioriti was happy to put his jiggling tea cup on the mantel. He reached inside his wet raincape and carefully dried his big hands on a handkerchief before he picked up the thin book.

  "He wrote this?" he asked with considerable awe.

  Rynn watched him over her teacup. He was like a huge black bear examining a flower. He turned the pages slowly, clearly impressed.

  "I’m sorry my father’s translating right now. When he’s in his study translating and that door’s shut, I’m under the strictest orders to see that no matter what happens, he’s not disturbed."

  The giant’s hands turned the pages one at a time.

  "Would you like him to sign a copy for you?"

  The officer’s face broke into another of his radiant smiles

  "Sure—that is if he can spare one."

  She liked everything about the man, even the absurd rain cover on his hat. She loved the way he held the book: He made it clear he had respect; he realized it was something precious.

  "First author I ever knew."

  Rynn sipped tea. "He’ll be happy to hear we’ve gotten to know one another. My father says it’s always a very good idea to get to know the local constabulary."

  "I know this must be great poetry, but don’t laugh if I tell you something?"

  "I won’t laugh."

  "Well I can never really believe people like poetry. I’m not counting birthday card stuff, but, you know—poetry. Stuff that doesn’t even rhyme."

  Rynn forgot her chipped tooth and smiled in acknowledgment of that wonderful moment when near strangers find they share something more than mutual agreement, when they both reach a point of shared intuition. When she remembered her tooth she covered her smile.

  "I’m not laughing at you," she said. "I used to ask him the same thing. Most people like poetry to rhyme."

  "I guess I’m like most people then."

  "No. You’re honest. My father says most people who say they like poetry only pretend to like it."

  "I guess you like it?"

  "I love it very much." Her long hair swirled as she shook her head to correct herself. "That’s redundant. The word 'love' stands alone. 'Very much' only weakens it. I love words. Most people aren’t very careful with them."

  "You should try listening to witnesses some time. Simplest kind of statement and you can count on them to get it all messed up every time."

  If Mrs. Hallet had sent this officer why was he waiting to tell her what she wanted?

  "He must be good—your father."

  "T. S. Eliot said he was. My father knew Sylvia Plath when she was married to Ted Hughes. Of all living English poets, Hughes is my favorite. He likes Emily Dickinson, too. She’s my favorite of all,"

  Rynn shut her eyes.

  She began to speak, Her voice was unlike all the teachers Miglioriti had ever heard intone poetry in school—natural, clear, and not a bit affected. She was not trying to force her own meaning to the words; she was letting the words say what they had to say,

  There’s a certain Slant of light,

  Winter Afternoons—

  That oppresses, like the Heft

  Of Cathedral Tunes—

  Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—

  We can find no scar,

  But internal difference,

  Where the Meanings, are—

  None may teach it—Any—

  ‘Tis the Seal Despair—

  An imperial affliction

  Sent us of the Air—

  When it comes, the Landscape listens—

  Shadows—hold their breath—

  When it goes, 'tis like the Distance

  On the look of Death—

  The maple log in the fireplace burned through and fell with a tiny crash of sparks. Rynn lifted the woodbox lid, took out the poker, and pushed the broken log into a mass of red coals.

  "Do you love that too?"

  " ‘Shadows hold their breath,’ ... I sure like that."

  She smiled at him without opening her mouth.

  Miglioriti put the book back on the fireplace mantel.

  "Sounds especially good—the way you say it."

  "I love the way it sounds. Like I love ‘Miglioriti.’ "

  The young man blushed. Strange. Her father always said it was impossible to embarrass an Italian.

  "Like I said, I’ve never known a poet."

  "Neither has Mrs. Hallet. I think it thrills her quite a bit."

  "You’ve been here since September?"

  "Ever since we saw the yard blazing with zinnia. Red and gold and purple and white and orange.... First we saw the zinnias. Then I heard the ocean. And the trees. Did you know they talk?"

  "That’s more than. some of the people here do."

  Rynn grinned to show she go this joke.

  His smile was wide. "I guess, then, you could say, you like it here?"

  "I love it."

  "School okay?"

  Rynn swallowed, forcing down the panic that rose within her. She shrugged. "It’s okay."

  "Being new isn’t easy. People around here can seem a little cold at first."

  "That’s okay too...."

  "After you’ve been here longer," the man was smiling to show he was still joking, "they get even colder."

  Rynn forgot her tooth and laughed. When she found the big man watching her closely, she quickly closed her mouth.

  "You’re quite funny. For a policeman."

  He asked whether she meant funny peculiar or funny ha-ha. She said he was the most ha-ha cop she had ever met.

  "Most American cops don’t drink tea, eit
her. Ever notice?"

  He was looking around the room. "This used to be the Wilsons' place."

  "And you’re going to tell me it’s haunted?"

  "Not a chance. Happiest people you could ever meet."

  "Until." The girl held up a warning finger and spoke in a dark tone appropriate for a ghost story. "Until they met grotesque, mysterious, and quite extraordinarily hideous deaths."

  "No. As a matter of fact they inherited a couple of million dollars and live on the French Riviera."

  "Good! I knew it was a lucky house!" She looked at the man in the shiny raincape who stood on the hearth.

  "I like knowing you’re our policeman."

  "Thanks." Miglioriti’s grin was almost boyish. "Sure beats being called a 'pig,' I mean how would you like being called a pig? These days kids don’t have any respect for the law."

  Rynn wished she could ask him to take the absurd refrigerator cover from his hat and shed his rain slicker. But now that he had finished his tea she dared not encourage him to stay. She reminded herself not to like this man too much. His presence here raised a question that was still unanswered.

  Miglioriti picked up his saucer and teacup. "All in all, the village is a pretty good place to live. Just don’t let Mrs. Hallet hassle you. She’ll try to. Like I said, she thinks she runs the place."

  "Does she?"

  "Parts of it I wish she would,"

  "Meaning?” With a boldness that surprised her Rynn looked directly at the police officer, a look that demanded an answer.

  "That’s all." He had said too much, and now he wanted to avoid going any further. He picked up his cup and saucer.

  "Meaning her son?’

  "You met him already?"

  Rynn spoke very quietly, but this time it was without looking at the officer.

  "He says I’m a very pretty girl."

  "You are." The man was choosing his words carefully. "But it might sound better coming from someone your own age."

  "Is he a deviate?"

  Miglioriti looked around for a place to put the cup and saucer.

  "What do I do with this?"

  Rynn took the delicate china from his big hand.

  "He has two children,” she said.

  "Yeah,” the officer said, clearly unconvinced.

  She recalled feeling how unlike a father the man with the pink hands and face had seemed as he stood in this very room. Again she surprised herself with her boldness.

  "Are they really his?"

  For a moment she did not think Miglioriti was going to answer. When he did he seemed to be speaking to a grown person, someone who could be expected to understand the full implication of what he was saying. "His wife’s. From another marriage."

  "In other words"—the girl dared to look at the officer—“Mr. Hallet is the kind of man who tries to give candy to little girls?"

  Miglioriti pulled off his cap and ran his big square fingers through his dark mass of curly hair. He did not choose to answer. He shook his head in feigned incomprehension.

  "Where did you say you came from?"

  "London mostly."

  "I guess kids grow up fast in big towns."

  She finished her tea and put it with the officer’s cup and saucer on the kitchen counter. "My father and I’ve lived in a lot of places. We’ve known all kinds of people." She carried the tea things to the sink. She was looking out the window over the kitchen sink into the back garden, rank with overgrown weeds and dead flowers.

  "Why isn’t Mr. Hallet under treatment?"

  "Like what did you have in mind?"

  She realized the officer was letting her do most of the talking. "There’s such a thing as psychoanalysis."

  Now it was Miglioriti’s turn to talk and it would be difficult not to say more than he intended, for the two were still sharing the unusual intimacy of a shared intuition.

  "Two places people who’ve been out here on the Island for three hundred years don’t go. They don’t go to psychoanalysts, and they don’t go to jail."

  Rynn was running tap water onto the dishes. "You have my solemn word I shan’t take any candy from strangers." She turned off the water, dried her hands and returned to the officer.

  "I’m glad you came by."

  "Except I haven’t told you why I came."

  Rynn hoped she had not shown the sense of cold shock she felt. She fought to keep her eyes looking straight into his.

  She waited for him to speak.

  "You like turkey?"

  "I’m supposed to say yes?"

  "You don’t."

  "If you want the truth, no. Not very much." Immediately she felt she should give this pleasant man a reason. "Birds are reptiles. Way back, biologically. Did you know that?"

  "I guess I didn’t." He put on his shower-cap police officer’s hat. "Then you won’t want any raffle tickets?"

  "You mean if my father and I buy tickets we might win a turkey?"

  "Chances are you won’t win.” He seemed very earnest about the raffle. "For Thanksgiving. Twenty-five pound minimum. Course that is a lot of turkey if you don’t like turkey." He was moving to the door. He grinned. "Your father like turkey?"

  "Even less than I do. We’ll take two tickets."

  "Wow," the young officer said, taking his cap off and plowing his fingers through his shiny black hair. "I really hate doing this, you know? I’d a lot rather be at the football game this afternoon. Doing this I always sort of feel I’m blackmailing people."

  "Not at all," Rynn said is her most worldly manner. "It’s for a worthy cause. At home in England you’d be surprised the things the Queen has to sell tickets for."

  Miglioriti looked at the girl. She looked at him, and her grin was wide enough, for a second, to show her broken tooth.

  "How much are they?"

  "For two? Two dollars."

  "Just a second."

  Rynn made a sign that the officer was not to leave, and she ran up the stairs to the second floor, which was above the closed door of the study.

  Miglioriti, finding himself alone in the parlor, hurried to the hall and the study door and knocked softly. There was no answer. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. From the top of the stairs came the little girl’s voice.

  "One. Two dollars." She took the stairs two at a time unfolding bills as Miglioriti drew a book of tickets from his pocket and tore the tickets from the stub.

  "And if my father and I are very unlucky," Rynn said with a smile, "we win a twenty-five pound turkey?"

  They both laughed.

  Miglioriti beamed. "Why is it English kids are always so polite? Never catch them calling us ‘pigs."' Rynn folded the lottery tickets. The officer was still smiling. "I wish we had more like you around here. Sure would make my job easier." He put the book of tickets inside his jacket. "Well, I guess I better go hustle more turkey tickets. Thanks for the tea. And the sympathy."

  The little girl and the policeman shared grins.

  "Thank your father, too."

  "I will." She crossed to the door with him. "Shall we see you again?"

  "Can’t avoid me. We get to be a pretty small place in the winter." He opened the door.

  "Still raining."

  "Like home."

  Miglioriti took off his hat and made sure the plastic liner was snapped into place. He pulled the cap back down over his black hair and went out.

  From under the dripping wet trees the officer called back to the girl, "Thanks again, Miss Jacobs. And I hope you don’t win the turkey."

  Watching the dark young man go, Rynn felt a sudden loss. She was still looking into the misty afternoon even after the patrol car left the lane.

  For a long time she breathed the cold air that was heavy with the smell of wet leaves and thought of days like this in London’s Hyde Park when the naked trees looked like black-and-white pen drawings in a children’s book.

  Another car came down the lane, a dark-red car that stopped before the house. A metal door slammed and t
he woman in a tweed coat hurried toward her under a bright-red candy-stripe umbrella.

  Rynn waited till the woman in the scratchy coat had almost reached the door.

  "Hello, Mrs. Hallet."

  The woman lowered her umbrella. Her hard blue eyes narrowed in fat pouches at the sight of the girl already at the entrance. Her voice was cold.

  "I may come in?"

  "I invited you."

  6

  RYNN GRIPPED the door handle as Mrs. Hallet’s squelching shoes printed mud with every step across the polished oak floor. By striding through the house and stationing herself in front of the fire, Mrs. Hallet was making her declaration—any rights the child had claimed during their last visit were now dismissed.

  The woman tapped the umbrella’s steel tip on the hearthstones to shake off the rainwater. She snapped the candy stripes open and shut to shed more drops into the fireplace.

  "Never open an umbrella inside the house." The girl remembered the words of a neighbor in London, an old woman with no teeth who lived entirely on condensed milk and who, one rainy day like today, had shrieked that warning at her. Of all the kinds of bad luck one could bring on, the woman had warned, opening an umbrella inside the house brought the very worst. Rynn remembered the warning, but prided herself on her own lack of superstition. Mrs. Hallet, she found herself forced to admit, did not look like the kind of woman on whom bad luck would dare thrust itself.

  Leaving the door wide open to the rain, to show the woman at the fireplace that she did not expect her to stay in the house any longer than it took to pick up the jelly glasses, Rynn moved into the parlor, yanked the curtains shut and switched on a lamp. Making the room ready for the night had been an impulse, an instinct. The woman could not escape the change. The girl had made the house seem smaller, cosier, more than ever her own place.

  Rain beat on the roof and splashed outside the door.

  Rynn knew Mrs. Hallet was waiting for her full attention before she spoke. She also knew this woman, in shadow against the fire’s glow, was carefully considering what she was about to say. Neither seemed prepared when the woman’s voice cracked out—sharp as the breaking of a dry tree branch.