Strings Attached

by Judy Blundell

  “No, thanks.” I didn’t think I could bear ribbons and bells. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

  He walked me to my door. Without my asking, he went inside and looked around, in closets, under beds. He put a chair under the handle of the front door. Then he hesitated at the kitchen door.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s all my fault.”

  “It’s not. It’s nobody’s. You couldn’t know I’d be there that night. Even you wouldn’t think I’d be such a drip.”

  “Not a drip,” I said, touching his arm. “Just a good guy, that’s all.”

  I closed the door behind him and locked it.

  I climbed into bed that night, praying for sleep. I had one more night to feel safe. One more night.

  But I didn’t sleep, of course. I tossed and turned, trying to escape my dreams. I woke up when it was still dark, not even seven a.m., which was the middle of the night for me. I knew I wouldn’t sleep anymore.

  I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen. I reached automatically for the radio, but stopped. I didn’t want to hear the news.

  I heard it now, the soft insistent knocking from the door to the street. Would reporters be out this early? I tiptoed to the door and leaned over the chair under the knob to get closer.

  “Kit? Kit, are you there? Let me in.”

  My heart lifted, and I felt giddy as I grabbed the chair and pushed it aside. I flung open the door.

  I didn’t know why he was there, it was just a miracle that he was. I put my hands on his lapels and pulled him inside. Then I fell forward until my forehead hit against his chest.

  “Jamie. You have no idea how good it is to see you.” My laughter bubbled out, fast and nervous. “Oh, I just remembered — it’s Thanksgiving! Did they send you down to make sure I’d come?”

  Laughing, I pulled back from him, but he only hugged me harder. Suddenly, I realized that he wasn’t holding me in an embrace. He was holding me up, or preparing to, and the first alarm began to clang inside me.

  His mouth was close to my ear and his voice was so much softer than the blow.

  “Billy was killed last night.”

  Thirty-one

  New York City

  November 1950

  The agony of the minutes. To go from one to the next. To hold on to Jamie as I started to fall. And Jamie’s eyes were wet, crying again as he saw me absorb what he was saying, trying to tell me though a curtain had slammed down in my brain — No, it must be a mistake, no, I don’t understand you, no, this is not happening — that Billy was on a train going to Long Island, did I hear about the big train wreck? He was on that train, and something had gone wrong, a signal or something, they didn’t know, and his train slammed into the other, and seventy people were dead, and one of them was him.

  Jamie had heard the news from Da. Da had borrowed a car so Jamie could drive down to tell me in person. I tried to ask details, and could only manage one word at a time. How. But. And finally got out the sentence that was roaring in my head.

  “Are they sure?”

  At the look on Jamie’s face something tore inside me, and I screamed.

  It was later that he coaxed me into the bathroom. He put the seat down on the toilet and bathed my face with a washcloth. I looked at him as he did it, as he concentrated on the movement of the cloth on my skin.

  He was thinner, and he needed a shave, reddish stubble on his cheeks. There was a muscle I’d never noticed in his jaw that jumped.

  We went back to the couch and he sat, his hands clasped between his knees. For some reason I held the washcloth now, and I felt water soak my robe as I squeezed it, over and over. I felt my hands and my legs shake. I couldn’t stop. Even my teeth chattered. Jamie put a blanket over me and took the washcloth away.

  “But why was he on a train to Long Island?” I asked. “He was staying in Brooklyn. And he was going home for Thanksgiving, he said.”

  Jamie shrugged. “I guess he got on the wrong train.”

  “Maybe it’s not him,” I whispered.

  “Nate identified the body last night. It’s all over Providence. Nate drove up to tell Angela. Someone called Da to let us all know. I’ll make us some tea. Do you have tea?”

  I nodded numbly. I sat waiting, listening to the normal noises in the kitchen of running water in a kettle, the clatter of cups. It seemed impossible that tea could be drunk on such a day.

  When he came back in, holding the cups, I noticed what he was wearing for the first time.

  “Why aren’t you in uniform?” I asked.

  “Da wrote to my commanding officer and told them how old I was. It took awhile — everything takes awhile in the army — but I got sprung. Muddie wanted to surprise you at Thanksgiving.”

  “The last time I saw Billy… he was here. We had a terrible fight. There’s a story in the papers —”

  “I know. I saw it in the Journal.“

  I couldn’t look at him. “Do you believe it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Billy believed it.” I gasped, feeling it again — the deep, sharp pain.

  He leaned forward, hands clasped. “I know from Fox Point, from school, from the army…. There are some guys who are always spoiling for a fight. Billy… he was always ready to be betrayed. He was always waiting for it. It made it hard on the people who loved him. That summer you were down at the beach, that summer… we saw each other every day….”

  I saw the muscle in his jaw jump again, and his face suddenly changed, went transparent. I could see the muscles under his skin, and I saw how thin and stretched the skin was, how hard he was working to keep his expression. And then in the next second his mouth opened. His sob was deep and breathless, just one, full of agony.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and a series of sobs tore out of him.

  I didn’t know where to look or what to do. I wanted to comfort him, but wasn’t he here to comfort me? Wasn’t it my place to grieve? Inside I felt myself shrink from this rawness. I didn’t want to see Jamie’s pain. I didn’t want to think about what it meant.

  “Stop it.” My voice was harsh. “Just stop it!”

  He stopped. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, swiftly, and then on his pants. He got up, clearing his throat, and went to the bathroom. I waited, hating him.

  When he came out, he was composed, but his face had gone back to looking like a mask.

  “Do you want to pack a few things? The car is outside. The funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I can’t go to the funeral,” I said, and laughed. “I’m his father’s mistress. Don’t you read the papers?”

  Jamie left.

  There had never been such a silence between us. Never such a distance. I was afraid I didn’t understand him, and how could we still be close if I didn’t? I thought of Delia and Da, facing each other across the room, saying things that should never have been said. Did I just lose him the way Da had lost Delia? Had we gotten to a place where we didn’t know each other anymore?

  Outside this apartment, people all over New York were cooking. Cream and butter were set on counters. Crystal was examined against the light. Pumpkin pies were baking, and card tables were set up for the kids. Cars were packed with grandmothers and casseroles. All of it, all of that stirring, laughing life… and Billy was dead. I couldn’t hold that thought next to the idea of the world still spinning.

  Later that morning I was lying facedown on the bed when I heard Hank softly call my name. He was at the kitchen door.

  I turned over and tucked my knees under my chin. He would go away. I couldn’t talk to anyone now. I didn’t think I could walk out into the world, see people, open my mouth and have words come out instead of screams.

  But he wouldn’t go away. The knocking would stop and start again. He knew I was in here.

  I dragged myself to the door and opened it.

  “I think I know where she is,” Hank said.

  I blinked at him. I felt as though I were swimming through a murky
sea. I had to push the words out. “Who?”

  “Your aunt.” Hank walked past me into the kitchen. He held up an envelope. “I found this in the Christmas box. Remember I told you that my mother was a Christmas maniac? She saves cards for years. She keeps a list. She exchanged cards with Bridget Warwick in 1946 and 1947. So if Bridget Warwick is your aunt, she could be still alive.”

  I sat down heavily at the table. He pushed the card in front of me. “This friendly card is sent your way, to wish you peace on Christmas Day. Hank…”

  “Is it her handwriting?”

  I looked at the card, the slash of the B in “Bridget,” the way the t was crossed. The commanding W. “It could be… I don’t know.”

  “She lives out on Long Island,” Hank said.

  I turned slowly. “Long Island? Where?”

  “Babylon. Which is strange, because —”

  “On my forehead, the words are written in ash, and I am wearing scarlet and purple…”

  “What?”

  “It’s something Delia wrote. I remember now. It’s from the Book of Revelation… the whore of Babylon. That’s just the kind of thing Delia would do, pick a town for its name. She is alive.” And then I remembered. The two thoughts, side by side, clanged inside my head. “Hank, did you read the paper today? Did you hear about the crash? The train, where was it going?”

  “That’s what I was about to say. It’s a strange coincidence. One of them was going to Babylon,” Hank said. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Hey, are you all right?”

  I had started to cry again. It wasn’t a conscious thing, the tears just fell. “Billy —” I had to stop and take a breath. “He was on that train. He was killed. Last night.”

  Hank stared at me. “Last night? He… I’m sorry, Kit. I’m so sorry. Shouldn’t you be… with family or something? Is there anything I can do?”

  I pressed my hands against my forehead. It was so hard to think, so hard to reason around the grief. Billy didn’t get lost. He always knew where he was going. He knew his way to Brooklyn on the subway. Why would he be on a train to Long Island?

  I looked up. “I have to see her. I have to see her today.”

  “There’s no train service out there today. But I’ve been thinking about it. I knew you’d want to go. I have a car. My uncle loaned it to my parents — he talked them into driving to Boston tonight. He’s got a friend who’s a lawyer, the only one they’ll trust. He’s a federal prosecutor. They don’t trust anyone in New York. Anyway, I have the car. I can drive you to Babylon this morning. There’s time.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, but no. You don’t know how dangerous it could be. Nate’s got nothing to lose now that Billy is gone. He could be after me, too. I passed information about Ray Mirto to him. I could link him to the guy.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Hank said. “We finally have something in common.”

  Thirty-two

  New York City

  November 1950

  There were still a few reporters out front, so we went through Iggy’s apartment. We passed through the kitchen, where the turkey was cooking, past the dining room, where the mother was setting the table. It was a glimpse of a normal world, where families sat around a table and said a blessing, and there was plenty of grace to go around.

  On a table I saw the paper, and I quickly turned away from the screaming headline.

  75 KNOWN DEAD IN L.I. WRECK IN RICHMOND HILL TOLL MOUNTING IN CRASH OF EASTBOUND TRAIN

  “Hi, Mrs. Kessler,” Hank called.

  “Hello, Hank. Tell your parents Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Will do!”

  A few minutes later we were in a gray Ford and heading toward the Midtown Tunnel. I looked into every car, pressing back against the seat. If I saw anybody who seemed suspicious I would nudge Hank, and he’d take off fast from the light. But mostly I saw families in their good coats, or couples not talking, or someone fiddling with the radio.

  I didn’t breathe easily until we left the city. Hank took a road that curved along the East River, and you could see the skyline of Manhattan bristling on the other side. Then we drove past dunes and marsh grass and seagulls. We passed Coney Island and Idlewild. I hadn’t quite realized how close Manhattan was to sand and sea.

  I tried to think about what to do when we got there, but instead I kept thinking about the day I’d left Providence. I thought I was going like a smart person, with my bills rolled up in my underwear. I’d thought I had enough money to stake me, enough looks and talent to get ahead. I’d thought that was all I needed to meet the world. How I’d hated Da for the speeches he made, walking into my room and shaking his finger. He had said things about “the characters you’ll meet” and “when you think you have all the answers, you’re just dumb.” I’d never thought I’d get to a place where Da would be right.

  We saw the sign for Babylon and Hank followed the curving road to a small, pretty town. He ran into a gas station to ask directions. I felt the first vibrations of nerves, and my stomach dropped away.

  He slid back into the driver’s seat. “It’s just a few blocks away.”

  I cranked down the window and gulped in some air. “The air feels different here.”

  “We’re near the ocean,” Hank said.

  “Delia liked the ocean,” I said. “We went once. She said”—and suddenly the memory was fresh and alive, Delia sitting on the beach, her dress tucked around her legs as the wind whipped tendrils of hair around her face — “that it must be the luckiest place to live.”

  The house was small, more of a cottage, really, with a white picket fence and a red door. The shutters were painted a blue that was close to violet, cornflower blue, Delia’s favorite color. I knew just looking at the house that Delia lived there. She was alive.

  My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard. “Could you just drive by? Drive by, please?” I added urgently, sliding down in the seat. Hank drove to the corner, pulled over, and parked.

  “Kit, it’s not too late. We can just drive back to New York.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well. We’ll have to go forward, then.” That made sense. Except I couldn’t seem to get myself out of the car.

  I twisted in the seat and looked again at the house. It looked spare and small in the gray light, a little narrower than most of the houses on the street, with its high peaked roof. There was a dried yellowish plot of grass in front and no porch or stoop, just irregular slabs of slate for a pathway to the door. They were placed too far apart, so that you’d have to have a wide stride to make it to the door without stepping in mud.

  A woman turned the corner, walking briskly, dressed in pants and sneakers and a navy coat, a wool cap pulled down to her eyebrows. She looked like a sailor.

  When I got out of the car, she stopped in her tracks. Slowly, she pulled off her cap.

  We stared at each other. I guess the changes were bigger for her. I was twelve when she left, with knees like door knockers. She had short bangs now, and her hair was the length of mine. She was dressed in a baggy gray sweater and khaki pants. The hems of her pants were wet — she must have been walking on the beach. Despite looking like she had thrown on some men’s clothes in the morning and despite the fact that she had to be over forty, she looked almost shockingly beautiful and wild. “Kit,” she said.

  “It’s me.”

  “All grown up.” She put a hand out, and then flinched as I took a step back. “You’re lovely.”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Well, you’d better come in, then.”

  She opened the door to the house. To the right I could see a living room with a small hearth and a couch facing it. There was one long table against the wall with books and newspapers and magazines arranged in stacks on it.

  I saw all this in a flash, all of it unfamiliar and strange, because I’d never seen Delia pick up a book in her life. Besides the Bible.

  “I like to read now,” Delia said. “Comes with the job. I work a
t the library.” There were two deep, dented lines on either side of her mouth. Laugh lines, they were called. Did she still have cause to laugh?

  Hank stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hank Greeley. I’m a friend of Kit’s.”

  “Greeley.” Delia frowned, as if the name tickled a memory. She shrugged out of her coat. “Come in, I was just about to light a fire. Take off your things.”

  It was a blessing, to have the fire, for Delia busied herself with kindling and newspaper and matches, so I was able to look around and get my bearings. A bookcase covered one wall, its shelves stuffed with novels and biographies. There was a small pastel of a beach scene framed and hung on one wall. On the mantel was a row of small vases, each of them with a bit of beach grass or dried roses in it. On the windowsill, beach stones were arranged in order of size, white and smooth. Between each one was a shiny new penny, heads up. The reference to Jamie made me bite my lip and turn away.

  How different it was from our apartment in Providence, chockablock with shoes thrown about and papers, sweaters left on chairs, blankets thrown over the worn spot on the couch, forgotten glasses of milk and cups of tea. I remembered Delia’s room, the plain lines of the wooden table she’d dragged out to the backyard and painted white, the white chenille bedspread, one brass candlestick. Delia had always liked things plain and spare. Back then we’d seen it as evidence of her need to show us up with her own superiority, neat in the face of our messiness.

  I guess I thought I’d cry, but I felt strangely numb. Maybe I was just all cried out. By the time Delia turned away from the fire — taking longer than she needed to, I was sure — I’d gone through relief and curiosity and pleasure and had settled right back into anger, my most comfortable place.

  “We thought you were dead,” I said.

  Delia looked startled. “You did?”

  “Of course we did! You disappeared without a trace! You didn’t send one word to us.”