Black Evening

by David Morrell

  The morning is overcast, as gray as your thoughts. After checking out of the hotel, you follow the desk clerk's directions to Cape Verde's public library. A disturbing hour of research later, under a thickening gloomy sky, you drive back to Redwood Point.

  From the highway along the cliff, the town looks even bleaker. You steer down the bumpy road, reach the ramshackle boarded-up hotel, and park your rented car. Through weeds that cling to your pantlegs, you walk beyond the hotel's once-splendid porch, find eroded stone steps that angle up a slope, and climb to the barren ridge above the town.

  Barren with one exception: the charred timbers and flame-scorched toppled walls of the peaked, gabled, Victorian structure that Dr. Adams had called the nursery. That word makes you feel as if an icy needle has pierced your heart. The clouds hang deeper, darker. A chill wind makes you hug your chest. The nursery. And in nineteen forty-one… you learned from old newspapers on microfilm at the Cape Verde library… thirteen women died here, burned to death, incinerated — their corpses grotesquely blackened and crisped — in a massive blaze, the cause of which the authorities were never able to determine.

  Thirteen women. Exclusively women. You want to shout in outrage. And were they pregnant? And were there also… Sickened, imagining their screams of fright, their wails for help, their shrieks of indescribable agony, you sense so repressive an atmosphere about this ruin that you stumble back as if shoved. With wavering legs that you barely control, you manage your way down the unsteady stone slabs. Lurching through the clinging weeds below the slope, you stumble past the repulsive ruins of the hotel to reach your car, where you lean against its hood and try not to vomit, sweating despite the increasingly bitter wind.

  The nursery, you think.

  Dear God.

  ***

  The Redwood Bar is no different than when you left it. Chief Kitrick and his friends again play cards at the far right corner table. The haze of cigarette smoke again dims the light above them. The waiter stands behind the bar on your left, the antique nautical instruments gleaming on a shelf behind him. But your compulsion directs you toward the wrinkled, faded photographs on the wall to your right.

  This time, you study them without innocence. You see a yellowed image of the peaked, gabled nursery. You narrow your gaze toward small details that you failed to give importance the first time you saw these photographs. Several woman, diminished because the cameraman took a long shot of the large Victorian building, sit on a lawn that's bordered by flower gardens, their backs to a windowed brick wall of the… your mind balks… the nursery.

  Each of the women — young! so young! — holds an infant in her lap. The women smile so sweetly. Are they acting? Were they forced to smile?

  Was one of those women your mother? Is one of those infants you? Mary Duncan, what desperation made you smile like that?

  Behind you, Chief Kitrick's husky voice says, "These days, not many tourists pay us a second visit."

  "Yeah, I can't get enough of Redwood Point." Turning, you notice that Chief Kitrick — it isn't yet five o'clock — holds a glass of beer. "You might say it haunts me."

  Chief Kitrick sips his beer. "I gather you didn't find what you wanted at the courthouse."

  "Actually I learned more than I expected." Your voice shakes. "Do you want to talk here or in your office?"

  "It depends on what you want to talk about."

  "The Gunthers."

  ***

  You pass through the squeaky gate in the office.

  Chief Kitrick sits behind his desk. His face looks more flushed than two days ago. "The Gunthers? My, my. I haven't heard that name in years. What about them?"

  "That's the question, isn't it? What about them? Tell me."

  Chief Kitrick shrugs. "There isn't much. I don't remember them. I was just a toddler when they… All I know is what I heard when I was growing up, and that's not a lot. A husband and wife, they ran a boarding house."

  "The nursery."

  Chief Kitrick frowns. "I don't believe I ever heard it called the nursery. What's that supposed to mean?"

  "The Gunthers took in young women. Pregnant women. And after the babies were born, the Gunthers arranged to sell them to desperate Jewish couples who couldn't have children of their own. Black-market adoptions."

  Chief Kitrick slowly straightens. "Black-market. Where on earth did you get such a crazy…"

  You press your hands on the desk and lean forward. "See, back then, adoption agencies didn't want to give babies to Jews instead of WASPs. So the Gunthers provided the service. They and the doctor who delivered the babies earned a fortune. But I don't think that's the whole story. I've got a terrible feeling there's something more, something worse, although I'm not sure what it is. All I do know is that thirteen women — they were probably pregnant — died in the fire that destroyed the nursery in nineteen forty-one."

  "Oh, sure, the fire," Chief Kitrick says. "I heard about that. Fact is, I even vaguely remember seeing the flames up there on the bluff that night, despite how little I was. The whole town was lit like day. A terrible thing, all those women dying like that."

  "Yes." You swallow. "Terrible. And then the Gunthers left, and so did the doctor. Why?"

  Chief Kitrick shrugs. "Your guess is as good as… Maybe the Gunthers didn't want to rebuild. Maybe they thought it was time for a change."

  "No, I think they left because the fire happened in November and the authorities started asking questions about why all those women, and only women, were in that boarding house after the tourist season was over. I think the Gunthers and the doctor became so afraid that they left town to make it hard for the authorities to question them. They wanted to discourage an investigation that might have led to charges being filed."

  "Think all you want. There's no way to prove it. But I can tell you this. As I grew up, I'd sometimes hear people talking about the Gunthers, and everything the townsfolk said was always about how nice the Gunthers were, how generous. Sure, Redwood Point was once a popular resort, but that was just during the tourist season. The rest of the year, the thirties, the Depression, this town would have starved if not for that boarding house. That place was always busy year round, and the Gunthers always spent plenty of money here. So many guests. They ate a lot of food, and the Gunthers bought it locally, and they always hired local help. Cooks. Maids. Ladies in town to do washing and ironing. Caretakers to manage the grounds and make sure everything was repaired and looked good. This town owed a lot to the Gunthers, and after they left, well, that's when things started going to hell. Redwood Point couldn't support itself on the tourists alone. The merchants couldn't afford to maintain their shops as nice as before. The town began looking dingy. Not as many tourists came. Fewer and… Well, you can see where we ended. At one time, though, this town depended on the Gunthers, and you won't find anyone speaking ill about them."

  "Exactly. That's what bothers me."

  "I don't understand."

  "All those pregnant women coming to that boarding house," you say. "All year round. All through the thirties into the early forties. Even if the Gunthers hadn't hired local servants, the town couldn't have helped but notice that something was wrong about that boarding house. The people here knew what was going on. Couples arriving childless but leaving with a baby. The whole town — even the chief of police — had to be aware that the Gunthers were selling babies."

  "Now stop right there." Chief Kitrick stands, his eyes glinting with fury. "The chief of police back then was my father, and I won't let you talk about him like that."

  You raise your hands in disgust. "The scheme couldn't have worked unless the chief of police turned his back. The Gunthers probably bribed him. But then the fire ruined everything. Because it attracted outsiders. Fire investigators. The county medical examiner. Maybe the state police. And when they started asking questions about the nursery, the Gunthers and the doctor got out of town."

  "I told you I won't listen to you insult my father! Bribes? Why, my fath
er never — "

  "Sure," you say. "A pillar of the community. Just like everybody else."

  "Get out!"

  "Right. As soon as you tell me one more thing. June Engle. Is she still alive? Is she still here in town?"

  "I never heard of her," Chief Kitrick growls.

  "Right."

  ***

  Chief Kitrick glares from the open door to his office. You get in your car, drive up the bumpy street, make a U-turn, and pass him. The chief glares harder. In your rearview mirror, you see his diminishing angry profile. You reduce speed and steer toward the left as if taking the upward jolting road out of town. But with a cautious glance toward the chief, you see him stride in nervous victory along the sidewalk. You see him open the door to the bar, and the moment you're out of sight around the corner, you stop.

  The clouds are darker, thicker, lower. The wind increases, keening. Sporadic raindrops speckle your windshield. You step from the car, button your jacket, and squint through the biting wind toward the broken skeleton of the pier. The old man you met two days ago no longer slumps on his rickety chair, but just before you turned the corner, movement on your right — through a dusty window in a shack near the pier — attracted your attention. You approach the shack, the door to which faces the seething ocean, but you don't have a chance to knock before the wobbly door creaks open. The old man, wearing a frayed rumpled sweater, cocks his head, frowning, a home-made cigarette dangling from his lips.

  You reach for your wallet. "I spoke to you the other day, remember?"

  "Yep."

  You take a hundred-dollar bill from your wallet. The old man's bloodshot eyes widen. Beyond him, on a table in the shack, you notice a half-dozen empty beer bottles. "Want to earn some quick easy money?"

  "Depends."

  "June Engle."

  "So?"

  "Ever heard of her?"

  "Yep."

  "Is she still alive?"

  "Yep."

  "Here in town?"

  "Yep."

  "Where can I find her?"

  "This time of day?"

  What the old man tells you makes your hand shake when you hand him the money. Shivering but not from the wind, you return to your car. You make sure to take an indirect route to where the old man sent you, lest the chief glance out the tavern window and see you driving past.

  "At the synagogue," the old man told you. "Or what used to be the… Ain't that what they call it? A synagogue?"

  The sporadic raindrops become a drizzle. A chilling dampness permeates the car, despite its blasting heater. At the far end of town, above the beach, you come to a dismal, single-story, flat-roofed structure. The redwood walls are cracked and warped. The windows are covered with peeling plywood. Waist-high weeds surround it. Heart pounding, you step from the car, ignore the wind that whips drizzle against you, and frown at a narrow path through the weeds that takes you to the front door. A slab of plywood, the door hangs by one hinge and almost falls as you enter.

  You face a small vestibule. Sand has drifted in. An animal has made a nest in a corner. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling. The pungent odor of mold attacks your nostrils. Hebraic letters on a wall are so faded that you can't read them. But mostly what you notice is the path through the sand and dust on the floor toward the entrance to the temple.

  The peak of your skull feels naked. Instinctively you look around in search of a yarmulke. But after so many years, there aren't any. Removing a handkerchief from your pocket, you place it on your head, open the door to the temple, and find yourself paralyzed, astonished by what you see.

  The temple — or what used to be the temple — is barren of furniture. The back wall has an alcove where a curtain once concealed the torah. Before the alcove, an old woman kneels, her withered hips on her bony knees, a handkerchief tied around her head. She murmurs, hands fidgeting as if she holds something before her.

  At last you're able to move. Inching forward, pausing beside her, you see the surprising incongruous object she clutches: a rosary. Tears trickle down her cheeks. As close as you are, you still have to strain to distinguish what she murmurs.

  "… deliver us from evil. Amen."

  "June Engle?"

  She doesn't respond, just keeps fingering the beads and praying. "Hail, Mary… blessed is the fruit of thy womb…"

  "June, my name is Jacob Weinberg."

  "Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…"

  "June, I want to talk to you about Dr. Adams. About the clinic."

  The old woman's fingers tighten on the rosary. Slowly she turns and blinks up through tear-brimmed eyes. "The clinic?"

  "Yes. And about the Gunthers. About the nursery."

  "God help me. God help them." She wavers, her face pale.

  "Come on, June, you'll faint if you kneel much longer. I'll help you up." You touch her appallingly fleshless arms and gently raise her to her feet. She wobbles. You hold her husk of a body against you. "The nursery. Is that why you're here, June? You're doing penance?"

  "Thirty pieces of silver."

  "Yes." Your voice echoes eerily. "I think I understand. Dr. Adams and the Gunthers made a lot of money. Did you make a lot of money, June? Did they pay you well?"

  "Thirty pieces of silver."

  "Tell me about the nursery, June. I promise you'll feel better."

  "Ivy, rose, heather, iris."

  You cringe, suspecting that she's gone insane. She seems to think that "the nursery" refers to a plant nursery. But she knows better. She knows that the nursery had nothing to do with plants but instead with babies from unmarried pregnant women. Or at least she ought to know unless the consequence of age and what seems to be guilt has affected her mind and her memory. She appears to be free-associating.

  "Violet, lily, daisy, fern," she babbles.

  Your chest cramps as you realize that those words make perfect sense in the context of… They might be… "Are those names, June? You're telling me that the women in the nursery called themselves after plants and flowers?"

  "Orval Gunther chose them. Anonymous." June weeps. "Nobody would know who they really were. They could hide their shame, protect their identities."

  "But how did they learn about the nursery?"

  "Advertisements." June's shriveled knuckles paw at her eyes. "In big-city newspapers. The personal columns."

  "Advertisements? But that was taking an awful risk. The police might have suspected."

  "No. Not Orval. He never took risks. He was clever. So clever. All he promised was a rest home for unmarried pregnant women. 'Feel alone?' the ad read. 'Need a caring, trained staff to help you give birth in strictest privacy? No questions asked. We guarantee to relieve your insecurity. Let us help you with your burden.' Sweet Lord, those women understood what the ad was really about. They came here by the hundreds."

  June trembles against you. Her tears soak through your jacket, as chilling as the wind-driven rain that trickles through the roof.

  "Did those women get any money for the babies they gave to strangers?"

  "Get? The opposite. They paid!" June stiffens, her feeble arms gaming amazing strength as she pushes from your grasp. "Orval, that son of a… He charged them room and board! Five hundred dollars!"

  Her knees sag.

  You grasp her. "Five hundred? And the couples who took the babies? How much did the Gunthers get from them?"

  "Sometimes as high as ten thousand dollars."

  The arms with which you hold her shake. Ten thousand dollars? During the Depression? Hundreds of pregnant women? Dr. Adams, Jr. hadn't exaggerated. The Gunthers had earned a fortune.

  "And Orval's wife was worse than he was. Eve! She was a monster! All she cared about was… Pregnant women didn't matter! Babies didn't matter. Money mattered."

  "But if you thought they were monsters… June, why did you help them?"

  She clutches her rosary. "Thirty pieces of silver. Holy Mary, mother of… Ivy, Rose, Heather, Iris. Violet, Lily, Daisy, Fern."

&
nbsp; You force her to look at you. "I told you my name was Jacob Weinberg. But I might not be… I think my mother's name was Mary Duncan. I think I was born here. In nineteen thirty-eight. Did you ever know a woman who…"

  June sobs. "Mary Duncan? If she stayed with the Gunthers, she wouldn't have used her real name. So many women! She might have been Orchid or Pansy. There's no way to tell."

  "She was pregnant with twins. She promised to give up both children. Do you remember a woman who…"

  "Twins? Several women had twins. The Gunthers, damn them, were ecstatic. Twenty thousand instead of ten."

  "But my parents" — the word sticks in your mouth — "took only me. Was that common for childless parents to separate twins?"

  "Money!" June cringes. "It all depended on how much money the couples could afford. Sometimes twins were separated. There's no way to tell where the other child went."

  "But weren't there records?"

  "The Gunthers were smart. They never kept records. In case the police… And then the fire… Even if there had been records, secret records, the fire would have…"

  Your stomach plummets. Despite your urgent need for answers, you realize you've reached a dead end.

  Then June murmurs something that you barely hear, but the little you do hear chokes you. "What? I didn't… June, please say that again."

  "Thirty pieces of silver. For that, I… How I paid. Seven stillborn children."

  "Yours?"

  "I thought, with the money the Gunthers paid me, my husband and I could raise our children in luxury, give them every advantage, send them to medical school or… God help me, what I did for the Gunthers cursed my womb. It made me worse than barren. It doomed me to carry lifeless children. My penance. It forced me to suffer. Just like — "

  "The mothers who gave up their children and possibly later regretted it?"