The Woman in the Wall

by Patrice Kindl

  "August nineteenth?" Andrea looked startled. I thought I knew why, but I had to ask.

  "Why are you surprised?" I asked.

  "Because—because I don't see why somebody like you should be friends with Kirsty," she answered, looking mulish.

  "Kirsty has other friends my age," I said confidently. Hadn't Kirsty said a ninth-grade girlfriend once invited her to a dance? "But that's not what surprised you," I pursued, with freshening courage. "You were surprised by the day I was born."

  Andrea shrugged dismissively. "I used to know somebody with that birthday, that's all."

  I smiled. She didn't say she was surprised because it was the same as her own birthday, which would be reasonable. No, she said that she used to know somebody else with that birthday.

  Foster frowned. "Weren't you born in August?" he asked.

  "Y-es," Andrea admitted reluctantly. "That day. The nineteenth."

  "Do I look like her?" I asked boldly, removing the mask from my eyes.

  Andrea became very still. Then she turned her head and stared at me for a long, time-without-end moment. Her eyes searched mine. She examined my face, my hair, my waving antennae, my dress. Her eyes swept back up to mine.

  "Excuse me," she said and, gathering up her mermaid's tail, she fled out of the room.

  "Wuh-ho!" exclaimed Foster. His handsome face went stupid with amazement. He looked at me. "Huh?" he inquired. He seemed to be groping for the power of human speech and failing.

  Unable to explain, I fell back on my usual conversational ploy with Foster Addams. "Shall we dance?" I suggested, with an insouciant little wave of the hand.

  At that moment, Kirsty and F appeared. Finally. Kirsty had removed her head-mask and F his faded flowered sheet in order to gape at Foster and me.

  Foster Addams did not seem to see them, although they were standing at his elbow. "Are you really only fourteen?" he asked, wrapping his arms around me again and beginning to dance.

  I nodded.

  He drew back far enough to study my face. "I guess that's not that young," he said doubtfully. My age, however, did seem to put a damper on his enthusiasm. His grip was relatively loose and he didn't talk much. When the dance was over, he took my chin in hand again and smiled down at me.

  "Listen, mystery woman," he said, "gimme a call in a couple of years. You're gonna be a little heartbreaker, you know it? And a woman to be reckoned with, I might add. Any fourteen-year-old who can dispose of Cast-Iron Andrea in three minutes flat is a power in the land. Hell," he said, his grin widening, "you're a little heartbreaker right now. Here—" He looked around us and, seeing F standing there goggling at us, he grabbed him by the arm. "This guy looks like he's about fourteen. Go break his heart." To F he said, "Watch out for this one. She's a dancing fool." He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Toodles, kid," he said, and off he went, waving a lordly farewell with his plastic headsman's axe.

  "Thank you, Foster," I said serenely. "Goodbye." I turned to F and produced my foolproof line: "Would you like to dance?"

  Kirsty and F looked like the dogs in the fairytale: Kirsty's eyes were the size of saucers, and F's were the size of dinner plates.

  Kirsty began to giggle. "Oh, Anna," she shook her head helplessly, "I told you you'd knock 'em dead, and you did. But I never thought you'd knock Foster Addams dead. Isn't he the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen?"

  "Not bad," I admitted. Of course, to me Foster Addams could never compare with F, but there was no doubt that he was a nice-looking young man.

  "Not bad!" Kirsty squealed in protest. "Not bad! I absolutely thought I'd die when I heard you ask him to dance. I tried to rescue you, but..."

  "Yes, I saw you," I agreed, rather tardy. "Only pausing for a moment to blink your eyes and drop your jaw on the way to liberate me."

  Kirsty blushed. "Well, you were busy dancing with Foster and they asked, so—"

  I turned to F and repeated my request. "F? You said you would dance with me. Will you?" I held out my hand.

  "I—sure, A. Sure I will," he said. He took my hand in his and gingerly placed his other hand on the small of my back.

  "Um," he said. "I'm not very good at this, A. Not as good as you, anyway. I was watching you with that Addams guy, and you looked so graceful. And so comfortable, like you'd been doing it all your life." He placed his foot squarely on mine. "Oh, sorry."

  "That's quite all right," I said. "Thank you." F didn't seem to know what to do with my hand. "Um," he said, standing there awkwardly and shifting back and forth.

  "Just relax, F," I advised him, "and listen to the music. It'll tell you what to do."

  "Oh, okay," he said humbly.

  I snuggled in a little closer to him. He tightened his grip and began to move slowly to the music.

  The events of the evening had made me reckless. I decided to take advantage of the fact that F seemed a bit befogged. I closed my eyes and laid my head on his chest. He was shorter than Foster, so my forehead rested at the base of his throat. I could hear his heartbeat, feel the movement of his ribs as he breathed. It was heaven.

  Slowly I felt the tension drain out of him. He moved more naturally and held me with more authority.

  "A?" he said after a while, "Did you like him? Foster Addams, I mean."

  I considered. "Yes, I did," I said finally. "I think he's a nice person."

  This reply seemed to sink him in gloom. Probably he would have preferred to hear that Andrea's beloved was a thoroughly nasty person. Then F could think how much better he would be as a boyfriend for Andrea than Foster.

  As if to confirm my guess, he sighed deeply. I tried valiantly to rejoice that F's love was doomed, but to no avail. That sigh cut me like a knife. I searched for something to cheer him up.

  "I'm not sure that he likes Andrea that much, to tell you the truth," I said. "He called her 'Cast-Iron Andrea,' which might be a compliment, I suppose, but the way he said it, it didn't sound very affectionate."

  "I know," he said. "I heard him."

  This didn't appear to make things any better. Maybe he was annoyed that anyone would speak scoffingly of Andrea.

  "He seemed to like you all right," F said at last. He sounded rather hostile. I pulled away from F's chest in order to look up at his face in surprise.

  "Oh, but—" I said helplessly, trying to explain what was so obvious to me, "it wasn't me he liked. It was the costume."

  "So what you're telling me is that if he'd found that dress laid out on a chair somewhere, he'd have picked it up and complimented it and kissed it and danced with it three times?"

  "No, no," I said, shaking my head impatiently. F wasn't usually this dense. "I mean that I was in disguise; it wasn't me. He doesn't know me, he doesn't know anything about me. He thinks I'm a flirt and a heartbreaker, and how much more wrong can you get than that? If you don't know that I'm shy, you don't know anything about me."

  "Then I guess I don't know anything about you," he said, with a meaningful stare.

  "What do you mean, F?" I asked, completely bewildered.

  "You did flirt with him. I saw you. And you liked it, the way he had his hands all over you." F sounded positively savage.

  "I didn't!" I cried, outraged.

  "Did too!" he said childishly, his voice climbing an octave. He seemed close to tears.

  Dawn broke abruptly over my mental horizon. "Why, F," I said, before I could stop myself, "you're jealous."

  "Me?" F demanded. "Of you? And Foster Addams? Don't flatter yourself."

  Crushed, I subsided into silence. My new-found confidence collapsed like a pricked balloon. Fool! Idiot! My hand crept up to my mouth, and I bit my finger hard to punish myself for my stupid self-deceiving vanity and pride. Great splashy tears began to roll down my face, smearing my makeup.

  F was muttering something, his whole body stiff with repressed emotion. When the song was over, he broke away without apology and marched off in the opposite direction.

  "Anna, what's the matter? Why are you crying
?" It was Kirsty.

  "F! Oh, F!" I sobbed like a little girl.

  "What did he do to you? Did Francis upset you? He did, didn't he? I'll kill him." And off Kirsty went to kill F.

  "No, no," I moaned weakly. "Don't kill him. Don't kill F, Kirsty." I sank, weeping, into a heavily cobwebbed chair.

  If, I thought, I got up and walked very quietly through the house into the kitchen, I could slip into the broom closet. I could reenter my own safe world and never, ever come out again. I'd barricade the entrances so F and Kirsty couldn't get in.

  Then I'd—I'd start burrowing underground. I would build myself a city underground, all for myself. That's what I'll do, I thought. If I can just summon up the strength to stand up and walk through these crowds of people out to the kitchen. In just a minute, that's what I'm going to do.

  "Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

  I looked up. A large, solid-looking man stood there before me. Mr. Albright.

  Now what?

  Seventeen

  "Leave?" I stared up at him. Was I being thrown out of the house into the street?

  Evidently I was.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated firmly, not sounding sorry at all. "You've really upset Andrea. I've never seen her like this, she's practically in hysterics. And she tells me that she never invited you to the party. She says she doesn't even know who you are."

  "She does too!" I burst out.

  "Oh?" Mr. Albright's voice was cold. "Well, I suggest that you two pursue your feud some other time. And now—" He reached out to grab my arm so he could escort me forcibly out of the door.

  I eluded him, almost vaulting out of the chair, my heart pounding. How I longed for my lost invisibility! Always before I had felt small and insignificant compared to others; now I felt as though I had grown monstrously large, a bloated, fleshy giantess trembling foolishly before him.

  "I—I'm Kirsty's friend," I stammered.

  "Oh." Mr. Albright seemed somewhat disconcerted, but then he rallied. "What's your name? I'll tell her you've gone home. Do you have a ride?"

  "No, no, I haven't," I murmured, my mind racing. Hidehidehide screamed every instinct I owned. But once again, I could not hide. I remembered what F had said about his father hunting me down, and I was paralyzed with fear.

  Mr. Albright sighed. "I'll take you home. Where do you live?"

  I simply gaped at him.

  Evidently Mr. Albright had decided that I was simple-minded. "Okay, let's start with the basics. What ... is ... your ... name?" he said loudly, enunciating each word carefully.

  "My name?" I asked, stalling for time.

  Unfortunately, this seemed to irritate him.

  "Now listen here, young lady, I've about had enough of you. Tell me your name and where you live, or I'll simply boot you out of the door. You can't behave like this in other people's houses, you know."

  The injustice of this made me gasp aloud. A sudden fury swept over me.

  "You—you—" I struggled for utterance, and finally managed, "You should talk! How—how dare you!"

  Mr. Albright's brow darkened. He hadn't been exactly sunny-looking before, but now he resembled a tornado about to smash a small town to smithereens.

  "And what, precisely, do you mean by that?" he demanded.

  Mad with rage and grief, I rolled on, disregarding the dangerous edge to his voice.

  "What right do you have to order people out of this house? It isn't yours. You don't even live here. You're not—not even related to the Newlands!" my voice caught with a sob. "And if my father knew how you were talking to me he'd—he'd—" I faltered, unable to imagine what my gentle, shy father would have done to avenge this affront to his daughter.

  For some reason, Mr. Albright looked less angry after this outburst.

  "I'm going to marry Mrs. Newland," he explained in a quieter tone. "That gives me a right."

  "You can't," I said stubbornly. "Mr. Newland isn't dead."

  Mr. Albright frowned. He looked at me a little oddly.

  "Mr. Newland was presumed dead three years ago," he said.

  "That doesn't mean that he is!" I protested.

  "Do you have any evidence that he isn't?" Mr. Albright had stopped treating me like I was stupid, at least. He asked me seriously, as one adult to another.

  "No, but—do you have any evidence that he is?"

  "Well, no, not direct evidence. But I do have evidence that he is dead so far as this family is concerned."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that any father who loved his family, or even had the slightest concern for their feelings, would have gotten in touch over the past eleven years."

  "But what if he had amnesia?" I burst out. "What if he got hit on the head and forgot all about his family? That wouldn't mean he didn't love them." This had long seemed like a possible explanation to me.

  "Is that what Kirsty thinks?" Mr. Albright asked. He had sat down in a chair facing me and no longer looked quite so intimidating.

  "Kirsty?" I said, puzzled as to why we should be discussing Kirsty. "I'm not sure."

  "You can tell Kirsty that if her father did have amnesia—and I should add that such extensive, long-lasting amnesia is pretty rare—he's made a new life for himself by now. He may have another wife, a whole other family."

  I stood silent, horrified by this idea. That possibility had never occurred to me. "But—what if he remembered suddenly? He could leave them and come back to his first family."

  "I doubt it." Mr. Albright shook his head. "After eleven years, it would be the needs and rights of the second family that would seem far more important. Don't forget that the first family has been getting along without him for over a decade."

  I began to cry again, noiselessly, the tears slowly rolling down over my face and my neck and into the bodice of my dress.

  "Have you lost your father too?" Mr. Albright inquired gently.

  "I—yes. Yes, I have."

  "It's a very painful thing to happen," he said.

  I nodded.

  Hesitantly he reached out a hand and patted mine.

  "Some injuries take a long time to heal," he said somberly. "They seem to be fine on the surface, but there's always a tender place under the skin. Listen—what was your name?"

  "Anna," I said absently, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand.

  "Listen, Anna. If you care about Kirsty, and it sounds like you do, I hope you'll be glad for her. About this marriage, I mean. I think I can be a good father to her and Andrea, and a good husband to their mother."

  I was silent for a long time, thinking. Finally I said, "So you think he's dead? Really and truly?"

  "It's hard for me to believe that the father of Kirsty and Andrea and the husband of Mrs. Newland would just go away and never write or call or come for eleven years. So, yes, I think he's dead."

  I sighed. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

  He smiled. "Now, shall I take you home, or do you want to stay a little while longer? Here comes Kirsty."

  I looked up. There was Kirsty, face white as salt, her eyes shifting from me to Mr. Albright.

  "Oh, please, let me stay," I begged. "I won't go near Andrea, I swear it."

  "Sure, stay a while. But you're right, it might be better to keep away from Andrea. If you've been suggesting that her father is about to stage a return from the dead, that might explain why she's so shook up. Kirsty, your friend Anna here has been giving Andrea a bit of a fright. Why don't you take her up to your room?"

  Kirsty nodded vigorously and grabbed me by the wrist.

  "Come on, Anna," she said and dragged me out of the chair and away from Mr. Albright.

  "Wait!" I stopped and dug in my heels. I looked back at Mr. Albright speculatively.

  "Yes?" he said, seeing me looking at him.

  I stared at him for a long moment, measuring him with my eyes.

  "Um ... do you like your dress slacks with or without cuffs?" I asked.

 
"Excuse me?" He sounded rather startled.

  "Your dress slacks. Some men seem to like them with cuffs and some without. And how about your shirts?" I asked, my imagination beginning to take fire, "Do you prefer button-down or plain? You look," I said, now happily launched on a whole new winter wardrobe, "like someone who wears a three-piece suit to work."

  "Anna! Come on right now!"

  And Kirsty dragged me away. It seemed as though I had spent the whole evening being dragged around by the wrist.

  "Kirsty," I asked as we began to mount the stairs, "is he dead?"

  "Is who dead?" Kirsty halted halfway up and stared at me.

  My mind was in such a turmoil, I wasn't entirely sure which "he" I had been inquiring about, whether I meant F or our father.

  "F," I decided. After all, I reasoned, if our father was dead he had probably died a long time ago, while F might still be lying in a pool of blood somewhere on the premises. "You didn't—hurt him, did you, Kirsty?"

  "I'd like to hurt him," she said ominously. "No, I couldn't find him. Maybe he walked home."

  I sighed, half with relief that he was safe from Kirsty's vengeance, and half with sorrow for the unhappy love, which had undoubtedly sent him home alone.

  "And to think," Kirsty went on, "that I was actually almost pleased at getting him for a stepbrother. He seemed semihuman."

  "Please, Kirsty," I begged, "please don't hurt F."

  Kirsty looked at me in silence for a moment.

  "One of the reasons I liked him," she said, "was that you seemed to like him."

  I looked down at my feet and said nothing.

  Evidently she read something in my face because she exploded. "That stinking rat! And he made you cry. He knows how rough this is on you."

  "Well," I said, struggling to be fair, "it isn't very hard to make me cry."

  "There he is, talking to Andrea. Don't worry," she reassured me, starting back down the stairs, "I won't lay a finger on him."

  "But, Kirsty—" I objected, following along in her wake.

  "What do you mean, 'That's Anna'?" demanded a voice below us. "What would you know about Anna?"

  It was Andrea's voice, threatening to soar into hysterics at any moment. "Mother!" Andrea cried, looking wildly about herself, "This kid here says that girl is Anna. There! That girl right there on the stairs!" She pointed accusingly, and once again a whole roomful of people turned to stare at me as I stood, elevated for their inspection on the staircase. "It's not! It can't be!"