The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane

by Laird Koenig

  She snuggled close to him, her face against his neck. She could feel him tense as he waited for her whispered words.

  "Better?"

  He nodded but did not speak. His arm went around her and they lay wrapped together looking up at the ceiling where the firelight moved the shadows of the rafters. The concerto ended in a final rush, a burst of shimmering notes. The player clicked off.

  The only sound now was the pattering rain.

  Mario coughed, coughed again and covered his face with his hand. Rynn’s fingers touched his mouth.

  "Sshh."

  They watched the shadows deepen on the ceiling as the only glow in the room burned low.

  "Your hair," she said.

  "What about it?"

  "Dry?"

  The question gave her the right to reach over and run her fingers through the boy’s tangle of curls. Her hand lingered, stroking his head. The muscles in the back of his neck were rock hard.

  "Mario the Magician?"

  "I know what you’re going to ask."

  "Have you ever?"

  "Hundreds of times."

  "Like me and hashish," she said, turning and kissing his neck. Her finger trailed across his face.

  But Mario did not laugh. She let her hand fall to his shoulder.

  They stared up into the rafters and the ceiling, now almost totally in shadow.

  Was it an hour later? Two hours? The fire cast no more glow. On the hearth the embers were dull. Rynn shivered. The one blanket was no longer enough to keep them warm. Raising herself on an elbow she turned to look at Mario. To her surprise she found his eyes glistened with tears.

  She whispered, "I’ll get another blanket.

  He shook his head, and she wondered at his silence. For such a long time he had said nothing that she had begun to think perhaps he wanted her to leave him.

  “Once you’re warm, it’ll be all right," she said. It’ll be lovely. Really it will. You’ll see...." As she rose he turned his face from her, his shoulders were shaking. He was crying.

  Rynn returned to the couch and lay perfectly still. The last time she had reached out to him, she had felt him pull away. What could she do?

  "Mario?"

  He was sitting up and reaching across her he pulled his still-damp shirt from the rocker and drew it across them.

  "Mario?"

  He said nothing. He drew on the shirt.

  She found herself supplying the excuse. "They expect you home for dinner?"

  Buttoning his shirt he nodded.

  Never had words seemed so powerless.

  "Mario?"

  The boy slid his white legs from the couch.

  She couldn’t let him go.

  Every instinct demanded she say something, something to make him stop buttoning his shirt . . .

  "It wasn’t your fault," she said and as soon as she said the words she felt him tense, and she wished very much she had said nothing. She should have said nothing and stifled her instincts. Up till now she had not questioned these impulses. Now they were failing her. What should she have said? For the last hour she had said nothing, or very nearly nothing, and that had not helped either.

  Mario pulled on one leg of the trousers. He stood to draw on the other leg.

  She dared speak again, only because she could not face the silence.

  "Would it be so terrible if you didn’t go? I mean if your family did find out about us?"

  As if angry with his shirt he jammed it down over his hips and zipped up his trousers.

  "Mario?"

  He had worked on one damp sock and was searching for the other.

  "Your Uncle Ron knows—"

  "They’d want to know all about you. Every goddamn thing, I’m not as good at lying as you are."

  "He didn’t say that to hurt me," she whispered to herself.

  He reached out for his wet shoes.

  "Like your father said in that letter. Since when do they let kids do what they want?"

  She rose. Her bare feet felt the hearthstones, and she wrapped the blanket around her. Without a word she followed him out of the parlor unable to think of a way to stop him from rolling his bicycle through the hall and opening the door.

  Outside a soft rain fell, the drops sparkled in the shine of the spotlight. She handed him her father’s Macintosh, and Mario drew on the coat and turned the collar up to his ears against the rain.

  "Come back after?"

  Did he hear her?

  She heard him cough. He was on his bicycle and gone into the night. Rynn shut the door and went back into the sitting room. Wrapping the blanket around her she sat alone in the dark.

  15

  LATER THAT EVENING the house was dark except for a faint red glow in the fireplace.

  A tap at the front door went unanswered.

  Nothing in the dark moved.

  A louder tap, a knock. Then another.

  Upstairs a light sprang on and in its glow Rynn appeared on the stairs tugging her sweater over her head and yanking it down to the top of her jeans. She hurried down to the hall. At the door she stopped.

  "Who is it?"

  "Ron Miglioriti."

  Her hand on the lock, she paused to glance into the sitting room. The couch had been shoved from the fireplace and was back where it usually stood; all of Mario’s clothes were gone; she had even taken the blanket upstairs. There was nothing about the room, nothing the officer should not see, no reason not to open the door.

  Ron Miglioriti wore the same civilian clothes he had worn the previous Saturday. Only his shirt was different. At the collar and the cuffs, the shirt, undoubtedly new, frothed into lace.

  "Hi," he said with his wide grin. "Looks like I’m making my usual Saturday night call."

  Rynn stepped back from the door, a way of saying that it was all right—if the officer wanted to, he could come into her house; he was welcome.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Of course. I’m fine."

  Miglioriti’s grin split into one of his dazzling smiles.

  "Just checking."

  "I mean I appreciate it, but you really shouldn’t worry about me sb." She wondered if the policeman noticed that she had picked up the expression—I mean—from Mario. She doubted that. The man was too busy concentrating on trying to keep everything he said sounding unofficial, off-hand.

  "I was coming by anyway."

  "Cup of tea?"

  "Can’t stay."

  "Your pumped-up lady waiting?" Rynn smiled.

  "Sorry. I guess I got that expression from Mario. Makes me sound rather a smartass, doesn’t it?"

  "That is one thing you’ll never be."

  What did he mean by that? Did the policeman mean there were other things she was? He probably did not mean that at—all. Sometimes American English was so vague. You never knew what people really meant. She hated that.

  He was looking into the parlor. Rynn switched on the light so the man could see that in there everything was in order.

  "All alone?" he asked.

  "My father’s here."

  Miglioriti did not look at her, but continued to study the room, making no reply.

  She knew that he said nothing because to answer her would be to begin a chain of questions and answers about her father, none of which he could accept as the truth. He had done that twice. He was no longer going to play her game. Not a third time.

  "Rynn, I think by now you realize I don’t believe what you’ve been telling me about your father."

  "No?" Her voice was more than cool, almost haughty.

  "Look. I can understand why you might want to make it seem like your father was here if Mario was. I mean you don’t have to tell me the way a small town talks. But what I can’t figure out is why you insist on going on with this pretense when both of us know your father isn’t here. Your father hasn’t been here...."

  The girl’s eyes looked straight into his, a look that stopped him. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  "
And don’t act like I’ve just kicked Her Majesty the Queen or something. I didn’t believe you the first time you told me. Look. I’ve been hoping you were going to help me. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me where he is."

  She continued to stare at him without answering.

  "Now youare going to help me, aren’t you?"

  "I wonder if you realize how patronizing you sound."

  "I’m sorry if that’s the way I sound, but you haven’t given me a straight answer yet." He moved to the studio door. "If I try to open this door are you going to tell me he’s in there working?"

  "No. But he was working. He was translating. All afternoon."

  "I see." Miglioriti could not mask his annoyance at having allowed her to slip so easily back into her game. With exaggerated patience, like someone who has told a story too many times, repeating the lines till he was sick of them, he said, "But he isn’t now? That it? Never mind. I haven’t got all night. Look. What do is your business, but ..."

  "Have I broken any laws?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Have I done something wrong?"

  "Rynn, why won’t you tell me about your father?"

  "Aren’t you keeping your lady friend waiting?"

  "Let me worry about that."

  She tossed her head with enough arrogance to send her long hair back from her face. One hand smoothed the hair against her shoulder.

  "What is it you want to know?"

  "I want to know where your father is."

  "Now?"

  "That’s right."

  "Now he’s upstairs. Resting."

  Miglioriti was no longer smiling. "Look. I’ve been in this house three times. Each time I’ve been impressed by how very good you are with words. The way you speak, you’re very careful. If you ask me, a goddamn lot too careful."

  "You don’t believe he’s upstairs?"

  "I’m afraid I’ve never believed a single thing you’ve said."

  The girl ran to the foot of the stairs.

  "Father?" She ran halfway up the stairs and called again. "Father?"

  Before Miglioriti could determine if he heard a voice answer her, Rynn ran down the stairs and crossed the hall to him.

  "He’ll be right down."

  "Mr. Jacobs?" Miglioriti’s voice sounded loud as a gunshot in the tiny house.

  The girl spoke. "You’re perfectly right of course. I haven’t always been telling the truth. That’s because"—she looked down at her black sweater and gave the waistband a tug—"well, you see, the truth is, my father’s not always well." She stopped as if there were more, much more, she could not say.

  The officer made it clear that he would wait, he would hear all of what she chose to say.

  "You see, poets aren’t like other people."

  "A minute ago you accused me of sounding patronizing."

  She didn’t apologize. "Perhaps you simply don’t realize. I mean Edgar Allen Poe was a drug addict. Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. Sylvia Plath took her own life."

  "We’re talking about your father."

  "My father," she said, "sometimes goes into that room off the hall and locks the door. In there he keeps something in a drawer. It won’t do any good to ask me what it is; I don’t know. But when he locks the door I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see him the way he becomes."

  Miglioriti’s face showed nothing, neither acceptance nor disbelief. The girl walked with him to the door. Miglioriti rattled the lock. The door did not open.

  "If he’s not in there now, why is the door locked?"

  "You don’t believe me when I say he’s upstairs?"

  "I want to go into that room."

  "Can the police in America simply knock down doors? I mean don’t you need a search warrant or something?"

  He held out his hand. "Please give me the key."

  The girl ran to the foot of the stairs. "Father!"

  Miglioriti repeated the words. "Give me the key!"

  "It’s upstairs." Too quickly, she added, "He has it."

  "Then get it!"

  Angrily, she turned, and climbed the stairs.

  While she was gone Miglioriti inspected the living room. He lifted cushions from the couch, found nothing and tossed them back in place. He opened the woodbox and brought the lid down silently. He took the book of poems from the mantelpiece.

  "You asked for the key."

  He turned to find Rynn standing in the hall holding a shining bit of brass. Placing the book back on the mantelpiece, he went to her, took the key, crossed the hall to the door, and put it in the lock. He was turning the key when he heard the voice from the top of the stairs.

  "Yes, Officer?"

  An astonished Miglioriti turned to look up at the second floor. Silhouetted against the light at the top of the stairs was a man in a robe and what looked like gray flannel trousers. The man took a step or two down the stairs, then grasped for the railing.

  "I’ll hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t come all the way down. Bit under the weather, I’m afraid."

  "Father, this is Officer Miglioriti, I’ve told you about."

  "Good evening, sir," the officer managed to say. "I’m sorry to bother you."

  "Quite all right. I’m the one to apologize. Apparently you’ve found me hard to find. You see, I have been intending to thank you for coming round, though I seriously doubt my daughter and I need worrying about. Rynn, don’t simply stand there. Get our friend a drink."

  "No thank you, sir." Miglioriti crossed to the bottom of the stairs. When the light caught the older man’s face the officer could see Jacob’s gray hair, poetically long, and his carefully trimmed beard.

  "I confess to being a bit tired. Your New York City is not, I’m afraid, a particularly restful place. But that, as they say, is neither here nor there. Now, how can my daughter and I help you?"

  "No problem, sir." As Miglioriti’s fingers burrowed in his hair, he looked toward the door. Rynn could see that nothing the man might do or say could disguise how desperately he longed to leave this house.

  "Rynn, nip into my study and get one of my books, will you?" The girl pushed open the door Miglioriti had unlocked. "And a pen," the poet called. When she returned with a book and a pen the bearded man on the stairs was leaning against the wall. He was talking:

  "I do apologize that up till now we’ve missed one another." He held out his hand to the girl "Rynn tells me we’ve promised you an autographed copy." He coughed.

  "If you’d be kind enough to spell Miglioriti."

  "Ron will be okay."

  "Of course."

  Jacobs wrote in the book and handed it to Rynn who brought it to the policeman. "Thank you, sir." "My daughter tells me you have a young lady waiting out in your car. Would she care for a copy of my book?"

  "She’s not exactly the poetry type." Miglioriti laughed. The man on the stairs, just a moment behind in catching the joke, joined in the laughter.

  Miglioriti was backing toward the door. "Good to meet you, sir."

  The man on the stairs pulled the collar of his robe close to his neck and waved. "A pleasure meeting you, Officer. Unless I return to England on business soon, I expect that doubtlessly we’ll be seeing one another," he added, with a chuckle, "socially, that is."

  "Good night, sir."

  "Good night." He had seemed very tired, but his farewell had a cheery English lilt as he turned and slowly mounted the stairs.

  At the door Miglioriti turned to look at Rynn.

  "Guess I owe you an apology."

  "Why? For doing your duty?"

  He handed the girl the key.

  "Good night." He opened the front door and disappeared into the dark.

  "Good night," Rynn called.

  16

  RYNN WATCHED the patrol car disappear down the lane, then slowly shut the door, locked it, and, with a burst of wild laughter, dashed up the stairs taking them three at a time.

  "Mario the Magician!"

  Jubilant, she
raced to her bedroom, then, at the doorway, stopped herself, consciously determining, striving, to make her joy last. She leaned against the door’s wooden frame. Her bedroom was white and yellow. The tongue-in-groove paneling, the slanting ceiling under the eaves—all gleamed white. Bright yellow curtains dotted with tiny white roses reflected the yellow lamplight, cheerful as May sunshine. A bedspread the same color was thrown back and spilled to the floor leaving the bed a blaze of yellow and white.

  Her room. Always her room alone. But now Mario, in her father’s robe, sat on the edge of the bed, a box of yellow Kleenex in his lap.

  "Your voice," she said. "Absolutely perfect. So deep."

  "That’s this damn cold." He smothered a sneeze with a tissue.

  "I mean you really sounded English."

  "You write good dialogue." He turned his bearded profile to the girl, thrust the pipe into his mouth, and spoke as he had to Miglioriti. "Rynn tells me we’ve promised you a copy of my book."

  "Absolutely super!” she giggled, her face shining with happiness.

  “How do you spell Miglioriti?"

  "That was your idea!" They both broke into laughter. In her glee, Rynn almost stumbled as she made her way to the bed.

  "What’s so bloody marvelous is it’s all so airtight. Your Uncle Ron won’t, but even if he takes the book to the bank or to the Hallet’s real estate office and compares the signature on the check form or the lease with the one in the book, it’s one father already signed."

  Mario sniffed into a Kleenex.

  "So you see, you’re not only a bloody good actor, you’re a marvelous forger as well."

  Slowly and carefully, as if lifting a scab from a healing wound, Mario pulled off the moustache and whiskers.

  "Talent, that’s me," he said lifting a moustache hair from his lip.

  Rynn drew her black sweater over her head, struggled out of her jeans and jumped onto the bed, grabbed the beard from the boy and hung it on a bed post. Looking up at it, they suddenly roared with laughter.

  When she was calm enough to speak, she said,

  "If you hadn’t come back, how would I ever have known your Uncle Ron was coming here tonight?"