“Unless somebody—or even you—deleted them,” Jenkins says.
February 12; Rochester, Ripton, Carleton, Vermont; 17 degrees, light snow
Eleanor’s mother had once been a close friend of Robert Frost, and until recently Eleanor was a docent up at the Frost farm. The current docent has asked her to come and help evaluate the damage from the vandalism.
Driving along Route 100, Eleanor tries to imagine whirlwind violence committed in a sanctuary whose objects are historical relics of a man who wrought the sublime out of language. She sees a flash of priceless, jacketless books arranged alphabetically on simple pine shelves flung everywhere; the destruction of nineteenth-century pharmaceutical vessels of various hues lined up against the windows; the shredding of painstakingly sewn samplers that the poet hated and that were brought out and framed after his death—to make the place seem more cheerful and homey. She wants to cling to the idea that the invaders had no idea of whose house it was that suffered their vandalism.
This incident is exactly what she has been dreading: Vermont has one of the highest per-capita heroin problems in the United States. Drug use plagues its population, scores of people who got hooked and scrounged desperately to buy more. She imagines how underage kids, to maintain their habit, would rob the Frost farm of anything valuable: first editions or old records or some of the lovely faded turn-of-the-century watercolors. She pictures the stolen objects pawned at junk shops across the border in northern New York State.
She is now passing Rochester, Vermont, a small town with a tightly knit clan of inhabitants and cluster of a secondhand bookshop, a bakery, a bike shop and a ceramic studio. As the road ribbons out of town, she reflexively glances at the phone lying next to her to see if Luc has responded to her text. Gently touches the forbiddingly blank screen that for her symbolizes her uncommunicative child who should at the very least have responded to her last message, a banner brightly announcing “Lucas,” her grandfather’s name that he always claims to hate. He rarely answers the phone and is often slow responding to her texts, but usually by the next day would have. His silences always make her uneasy.
As she ascends Route 125 through the Carleton Gap, the snow level rises with elevation. And yet curiously, the temperature on her car gauge also rises, meaning that there is some kind of inversion layer: the higher elevations are, for once, warmer than the lower ones. She passes Carleton Snow Bowl, which looks surprisingly crowded. Just ahead, a shuttle van from the college is pulling into the ski area. She wonders if Luc, who probably spends too much time on the slopes, may be among the students en route to Saturday skiing. She hates the idea of being the cloying, doting parent (the woefully out-of-touch parent). At last Eleanor drives past the snowy Robert Frost trail with its wooden placards engraved with poems, precious stanzas now lacquered in hibernal ice.
On the secondary road that leads to the Frost farm, a fresh dusting of overnight snow is trampled by a large number of vehicles that by 11 a.m. already have traveled up and down the road. On a normal midwinter’s day, her car tracks might be the only ones cutting the soft blanket of white dust on this class three road. She can see the barricade from a half mile away, a single patrol car parked at a diagonal in the middle of the lane. An officer in a starched Statie uniform stands rigidly in front of it, his arms crossed, and once he catches sight of her car rumbling toward him, begins striding swiftly, almost aggressively, toward her, no doubt itching to discourage her officially from going any farther. When she comes within fifteen yards, he jabs his finger toward the side of the road. She rolls down her window.
“Good morning,” she says. “You have my name on a pass-through list. I’m Eleanor Flanders.”
The rosy-cheeked young officer, who looks not much older than Luc, regards her at first with skepticism. “Just wait right here.” He stalks back to the patrol car, reaches in and grabs a clipboard. He scans it for her name and then returns walking more slowly, as though reluctant to say, “Yes, I have it here. Can you get around that vehicle? Or do you want me to move it?”
She studies the space between the patrol car and the five-foot-high pile of plowed snow. “I think I can make it.”
Several two-toned state police cars are parked in a neat, choreographed line, and the officers stand in a scrum just outside the front door of the nineteenth-century farmhouse. She spies Beverly, the current docent, in a maroon down jacket off to one side talking to a slim, wizened-looking man with thick unruly hair. Beverly squints when she notices the civilian car and waves her up.
Mindful of the ice beneath the freshly shoveled path, Eleanor begins heading up the cleared walkway toward the farmhouse. Although the poet spent a good deal of time here, this was actually the residence occupied by his caretakers and, sometimes, supernumeraries. Frost spent most of his time higher up on the property in a stark bare-bones shack, now boarded up and permanently locked away from public access and, presumably, untouched by the despoilers.
She dreads seeing the state of the farmhouse, a place of reverence she’d first visited as a child, old books that smell of maple and dust, watercolors of hardscrabble New Hampshire with tiny smudges of human figures painted in great mountainous shadows, battered antique kitchen utensils, the pine floors, beeswax-polished to a high glaze. All those years ago, she invented a game in which she committed to memory every single object in residence and then tested her own recall. She’s certainly the daughter of a librarian.
Beverly gives her a quick perfunctory hug and then introduces the man. “This is Detective Nick Jenkins,” she says. “He’s from Carleton.”
“Hello, Mrs. Flanders.” Jenkins’s voice is soft and articulate. He’s handsome in a sharp-featured, wizened sort of way with strikingly sad, dark eyes. There is something at once familiar and odd about him; he doesn’t exactly fit her vision of a detective. He seems to be possessed of some weighty uncertainty, even fragility.
Beverly faces her. “Elle, I told Mr. Jenkins that you would have a . . .” She smiles and says elegantly, “A better read of what might be amiss.”
Eleanor turns to the detective. “Is it really a mess?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Let’s all have a look,” Beverly says somewhat brightly, as though suggesting that perhaps the cabin won’t be as bad as they’re imagining.
“I just wanted to prepare myself,” Eleanor tells them, nearly breathless from a sudden rash of anxiety, and Beverly gives her an understanding look, as if to suggest that Eleanor will find the desecration more upsetting than she does.
The farmhouse windows are blackened from smoke and Eleanor gets a hint of the sulfurous smell of charred objects never meant to burn. Arcs of yellow—probably urine—stain the fresh layer of snow. Inside books are flung from shelves, shards of dishes strewn everywhere, the fabric of the furniture torn and spiked with silverware. There are coverlets and sheets bunched on the floor, also yellow from urination. There is even a brassiere—God knows whose—lying on the ruined sofa, and a bull’s-eye welter of red wine in the middle of a cable knit rug.
The detective asks if they notice anything missing.
“The catalog will tell us,” Beverly says.
Eleanor drifts to the bookshelf in disarray. “I don’t know why, but I think some of the books are gone.”
Back in her car, she feels inexplicable numbness toward the wreckage she has just witnessed in a place of reverence that she, herself, has helped care for. It makes no sense at first. She wonders if it’s because her phone reveals neither a text nor a phone call from Luc? Then again, there is only one bar of service and she wonders if positioning herself in better range will grant her some shred of communication from him. So, holding her phone in one hand like an offering, she drives down the deserted snowy road, glancing back and forth between navigating the car and the phone, scanning for signs of better coverage. By the time she reaches the state police roadblock, there seems to be no ce
ll service at all, and the young trooper who’d been initially intimidating happens to spy her staring at the phone and now has sufficient grounds to scold, “Please just put that down when you drive.”
Frightened, furious, she nearly, uncharacteristically, tells him to “fuck off,” but manages to contain her reaction and, holding her phone down by her hip, continues driving until she glances down to see three bars. She promptly pulls over to the side of the road and holds the phone out the window, angling it, shaking it, positioning it properly as if some celestial intervention will bring in a bright message banner from Luc. But the screen remains black, insolently remote. She isn’t young enough to believe that messages will always reach their intended recipient, won’t be expunged by some atmospheric fluke. She tells herself she has no choice but to continue driving the nine miles to Luc’s apartment in Carleton.
Eleanor spent most of her childhood in Carleton. Her father died when she was five, her mother, an alum, landed the college librarian job when Eleanor was eleven, and they moved to Vermont from New York City. The town kids immediately embraced her and she grew up in their ranks, hanging out at the Congregationalist church, watching boys drive by and, when she got older, riding with them and hanging out at Chapman Hill, the local ski jump, in the winter, and going with busloads of kids down to Lake Dunmore in the summer, where she lifeguarded and taught swimming. Later on, as the child of a staff member, she attended Carleton College tuition free. But then she had to deal with all the snotty coeds, many of them wealthy girls from the city she had left.
As she’s driving through the town, she sees a poster “Save the Town Hall,” which she knows is the local pushback against the college’s expansion, against its annexation of local land, its exemption from state taxes. She’d actually wanted Luc and Janine to attend Dartmouth, but Giles, ever resentful of his employer, convinced her that their children would get a better, healthier education at Carleton.
Luc’s battered, secondhand Mini Cooper is parked in front of his apartment building; it’s Saturday, so there won’t be class. Once she occupies the space behind his, she calls again. This time Luc’s phone cradles immediately to voicemail, which makes her assume that since her last attempt, he’s turned it off. She composes herself for a moment, picturing his predictable annoyance at her unannounced appearance. Then the front door swings open, and Will McKinnon comes hurtling through it. Eleanor grabs her keys, leaves the car, and starts walking toward him. Wearing a black down jacket, a dark green woolen cap pulled halfway down his florid face, McKinnon seems shocked to see her and stops. “Oh, Mrs. Flanders,” he says, scratching at the bright red scruff on his several-day unshaven face. “How . . . are you? I heard about what happened up at the cabin.”
She explains that she’s just driven from the Frost farm and, assuming McKinnon knows what has happened, tells him the place is crawling with police. “But now I’m actually looking for Luc. I haven’t been able to reach him.”
McKinnon hesitates before saying, “He’s not here. Actually, I haven’t seen him since . . . I don’t know, maybe five thirty yesterday afternoon. We played some pickup hockey on Skylight Pond.”
“So you mean he never made it home?”
McKinnon shrugs and looks cornered. “No, he actually didn’t.”
She puts her car keys in the pocket of her coat. She has left her gloves in the car, and the cold metal stings her fingers. “Doesn’t that concern you?”
“He was doing that a lot when he was seeing Elizabeth. And he did go off with her last night after we played hockey.”
“So they’re they back together?” Eleanor’s thoughts are firing in many different directions, propelled by an unexplained yet palpable anxiety.
McKinnon shrugs. “Might be. I don’t know.”
“So then he could be at her place?”
“Or with her somewhere. Maybe skiing.” And yet McKinnon looks uncomfortable. “I actually have to go,” he says. “But let me get your number.” McKinnon whips out his phone. Eleanor is so unused to giving out her cell number that she can’t recall it at first. But then she remembers and rattles off the digits, amazed at how fast McKinnon’ s fingers record the data.
Eleanor already has Elizabeth’s contact information. Elizabeth offered it surreptitiously the only weekend that she and Luc visited Norwich, offered it while Luc and his father were outside chain-sawing a fallen apple tree. When Eleanor had complained that her son was impossible to reach sometimes, Elizabeth, sotto voce, said, “If you need to get him and can’t find him, like in case of emergency or something,” dutifully writing her number down in beautiful handwriting that Eleanor rarely saw in people younger than forty, penmanship no longer being taught in schools. And while she had appreciated the gesture of trust, Eleanor couldn’t help wondering if Elizabeth was doing this to curry favor, remembering Luc’s comment that his girlfriend often tried too hard.
Elizabeth answers, Eleanor announces herself, and there is a confused beat of silence. “Oh my gosh, hi. This is a surprise.” Eleanor doesn’t even need to ask; deflated, she divines that Luc isn’t—and hasn’t—been there.
Nevertheless she says, “I’m sorry to bother you like this. I’ve been trying to find Luc. Will said he might be with you.”
“No, he isn’t,” comes the plaintive reply. “I did see him last night, briefly. I mean, I’m sure you know . . .”
“Yes, of course. He told me. And I wouldn’t have bothered you if—”
“I’m talking about the vandalism,” Elizabeth clarifies.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”
“No, I’m sorry. Honestly, I wouldn’t have seen him if I hadn’t heard about what happened at the farm and thought he should know.” And then she explains about showing up while Luc and his roommates were playing pond hockey. “Did you check at his place?”
Eleanor now reveals her location, her conversation with Will McKinnon, swallowing before she mentions (because now she is bound to) that Luc actually never returned to the apartment. She can feel the discomfort on the other end. “Wow. Really?” Elizabeth says softly.
After a few moments of strained silence, Eleanor says, “Would you mind having a cup of coffee with me?”
Elizabeth takes this in for a moment, as though weighing her options, and then replies, “Okay. Sure.”
Elizabeth, whose cheeks are stung crimson from the cold, is standing just inside the door of the student union. She is wearing a stylish aqua-colored parka, and her long, fine, sandy hair is tightly pulled back in a ponytail. She looks fearful, blinking, as though stupefied. Eleanor’s very first impression had been that this was a solid, sorted-out girl who knew what she wanted. Even though Elizabeth might still be hanging on to the notion of a relationship, Luc surely will be a blip on the screen of her romantic history.
Soon the two are sitting in a quiet corner, each with a latte in a tall white paper cup. “Did they find out who broke in out at the farm?” Elizabeth asks, carefully sipping her coffee.
“They’re still gathering information.”
“A lot of damage?”
“Quite a bit, yes. It’s all so disgusting,” Eleanor says. “Probably one kid came up with an idea and then it spread. And then there was drinking. Funny—I was thinking that Luc was never like that. He never willfully destroyed anything.”
Elizabeth stifles a yawn and then, pursing her lips, blows a stray tendril of hair out of her face. “Sorry if I seem a bit out of it. I hardly slept at all last night.”
Sensing this might be a lead-in, Eleanor says, “Everything okay?”
Elizabeth’s hands are shaking and she’s fidgeting in her chair.”Not really. After I saw Luc and talked to him and then he went off without me, I felt . . . well, you know—it’s only been a few weeks.”
The distress is palpable. Eleanor reaches across the table and momentarily covers Elizabeth’s hand with her own, wanting to conve
y understanding, but then withdraws it, reluctant to display too much sympathy. Appreciating the gesture, nevertheless, Elizabeth says, “I’m okay. Hoping to catch a nap later on after I study. If I don’t fall asleep in the library.”
A tall, beautiful black woman with cornrows drifts into their presence and places an elegant, perfectly manicured hand softly on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Piling her hand on top, Elizabeth says, “Hi, Portia.”
“You all right?” Portia asks.
“Sure.” Elizabeth suddenly looks awkward. “This is Luc’s mom, by the way.”
Portia looks bemused. “Why, hello there, Mrs. Flanders. How is Luc?” she asks in a rancorous tone of voice that Eleanor takes to mean she has little if no interest in the well being of her son.
“That’s what she’d like to know,” Elizabeth says, smiling forlornly at Eleanor.
“Oh, okay, then I’ll leave you to it and I’ll see you in a bit, ” Portia says, and with a graceful turn, walks away.
“My roommate,” Elizabeth explains.
“She seems concerned.”
“I was . . . crying last night. And to be honest, she’s not wild about Luc.”
“I get that impression,” Eleanor says and then after a moment, “So do you have any idea where Luc might have gone after you saw him?”
Hesitating, Elizabeth replies, “Well, he was going back to the pond. Because he lost something.”
“Lost something,” Eleanor repeats.
Elizabeth nods. “The ring he was wearing around his neck.”
“What ring around his neck?”
“The Carleton ring.”
“Oh, okay. That ring.”
Elizabeth continues, “After I found him at the pond, Luc was walking me back to my dorm. His jacket was open and I noticed the ring was gone. I told him and he freaked out.” In a no-big-deal tone of voice that Janine often uses when she makes a significant pronouncement, Elizabeth goes on to say, “The ring belongs to the guy he’s been involved with.”
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