by Eric Wilson
“My evening walk on the treadmill. Barbara and I meet at the fitness room and pace each other.”
“Mom! I’m talking about Kara’s life! First, you tell me that you suspected this would happen, then you ignore my requests, now you’re going to leave? I need that journal. I’ll tear this place apart if that’s what it takes! Why be so obtuse when I need a direct answer?” Marsh could feel every nerve jangling along his arms. His wrath was a corrosive fluid eating at his thinking processes. The very idea of what might be done to his wife pumped him full of terror and rage.
“Your pent-up anger,” Virginia replied, “will be nothing but a detriment. This is why I can’t entrust you with it, Marsh. You’re heading into a battle against an evil that you know nothing of. It will find that rage in you and use it against you. Only light can overcome darkness. Before rushing into conflict, you must first show selfless love, godly love. That’ll be your best protection.”
“Love?” Marsh snorted. “I’ve got my own scars to show from that.”
“As I’ve said, it’s also your best weapon. You can put it to use or fall back on your own sword while screaming vain threats at your enemies. I suggest the former.”
“I do better with anger. I’ll tear off the arms of whoever’s responsible for this!”
“Your anger can never make things right in God’s sight.”
“I swear, if they hurt her, I could kill someone. Let God sort ’em out.”
“Son, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Every word. Except for the location of Chance’s journal.”
That sent her scuttling down the hall. Marsh wanted to slam a hand on the table, to demand her assistance in finding the journal; he wanted to blame her for not telling him more of his father’s past; he wanted to storm off before things went deeper. But he had to know the full story now. Nothing less than the truth. Her words echoed in his head: Hidden things are at work here. Elements that remain dark to our mortal eyes.
Marsh had both feet on the coffee table and ignored his mother’s look as she returned from her bedroom in a powder blue sweat suit. He faced the antiquated RCA television that took up half a wall. Thirty seconds had passed since he’d turned on the power, and the screen still showed but a wink of life at its center.
“Why do you even hang on to this old monstrosity? Been around forever.”
Virginia deflected the question with one of her own. “Do you still wonder if she’s your daughter?” She held up a replica of Josee’s photo. “Kara faxed it to me last week, the first time I’ve seen my granddaughter all grown up.”
“I’ve seen it too. Don’t need to look again.”
“She’s yours, Marsh. Have no doubt about it. You’ve made honorable decisions, and I respect you for that. I believe Josee’s return is a reward for those choices.”
“One photograph. Not what I’d call hard evidence. And what about you? What if someone told you that she was your child? Wouldn’t you want some proof?”
Virginia stood motionless at the hall closet door. “I did lose a child.”
“Mom, I’m not trying to stir that up again. Just trying to explain.” Marsh spread his arms over the couch. “I saw Josee today, ran into her at the police station. Sure, when I saw her, I wanted to believe it. To have lived all these years without a daughter of my own? To imagine all I might’ve missed out on? It’s hard to rewrite the past.”
“Then you need to ask yourself”—Virginia started tying on her New Balance jogging shoes—”whether you are prepared for a revision.”
“This is me you’re talking to. Be prepared—it was my father’s motto.”
“Be back shortly. Stay as long as you like. Lock the door if you leave.”
“Can’t wait for long, Mother.” The television was barely alive, and the idea of sitting idle was enough to drive him mad. “That journal’s the reason I drove all the way over here. I’m trying to be patient, but without it I’m lost. That’s my one bargaining chip.”
“No promises on my end, I’m afraid. If you do stay, sure could use your help with a couple of items needing repair. If you have time. You saw the honey-do list?”
“On the fridge.”
“Not going to think any less of you, but it’d sure be a blessing to me.”
Marsh sighed. “What stuff are we talking about?”
“The television’s the worst off. If you could fiddle with it, try to adjust it, that’d be wonderful.”
He watched her depart. His first thought was to ransack the place, tear apart every room, look behind every picture. What if he sped back to Corvallis? Could he access the stored heirlooms? Would a night watchman let him in? Where, where, where? Why couldn’t Chance Addison’s ghost whisper a clue in his ear? Where!
He stood to go. Action was required.
At the sink, a sand-dollar dove perched. He thought of Kara … in his study, at the stream. Bound. Wounded. What had he done to her all these years? What had precipitated the events of the past few days? And he thought of Virginia.
Take a moment, he told himself, and think of all that your mother’s endured.
Alone through the decades. Working, raising a son.
He spread open the photo album once more to consider Chance’s photo. He slapped the covers together, stared across the room at the decrepit, one-eyed beast.
The old RCA stared back.
After perusing Virginia’s list, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to do her a favor or two. Shouldn’t take long. If this was a test, he would pass with flying colors. See, he could care for a woman’s needs; maybe this old dog could learn new tricks. He found spare bulbs in the pantry, replaced the burned-out ones in the hallway, reset the time on her digital clocks and VCR, adjusted the chain on the toilet flusher.
The RCA’s faded picture tube. He unplugged the cord and wrestled the huge set from the wall. With a screwdriver, he removed the backing. Cobwebs and dust balls attached themselves to his sleeves, and his breath sent husks of dead spiders spinning into the cavernous innards. What’d his mother think he was, a repairman? He coughed. Poked into the darkness. Ran an exploratory hand over the outdated tube. As his fingers slid down, they brushed against fabric.
Fabric? Marsh closed his hand upon an object wrapped in oilcloth. His heart thumped. He knew already; it was Chance Addison’s journal.
23
Secret Sight
“Did you enjoy that?”
“Good stuff. Moist. Never had friendship cake before.”
“Glad to have you here for another night, Josee. A pleasure. Of course, the friendship cake is my daughter’s favorite.”
“Annalise?”
Kris said, “Yes. You remembered.”
Josee had showered and changed into freshly laundered clothes. She smelled like a commercial for Bounce fabric softener. She wanted to sneeze. Without the facial hair, Scooter looked younger, goofy. He had unloaded his belongings in the room down the hall and followed John Van der Bruegge back to the family room. He shot her a look that said he was enduring this torture for her sake.
Kris answered the shrill of the teakettle and poured hot water into mugs of rich cream and cocoa. She dipped bars of dark chocolate into the concoctions, then handed one to her female guest. “Careful, Josee, it’s hot. Oh, there I go again, a mother to the end.”
“Smells good, what do I do with it?”
“You either stir the bar in until it melts or dip it a bite at a time.”
Josee felt like royalty. This was a step above the dollar-store hot cocoa packets.
“Marshmallows?” Kris said.
“Oooh. The big fluffy ones?”
Kris produced a bag from behind her back, and Josee grinned.
The two ladies, cradling decadence in their hands, stepped down into the wood-paneled area where Scooter and John were shooting a game of pool over bottles of root beer. A far cry from the bars and pool halls Scoot had frequented in college.
Despite the Van der Bruegges’ hospita
lity, Josee felt out of place in the spacious home, as if she might stain the carpet or soil something. In the past, she’d been yelled at for less … A rock-solid hand yanking at her arm, a work boot kicking her to the floor. What’re you doing? Get those filthy feet off my couch! What d’ya think, Josee, that you’re some kinda animal? Here then, here’s your dinner! The dog’s dish scraping across the floor. A hand pressing down on the back of her head. Her teeth bared, wanting to bite back. Cruel laughter.
Pages ripped from her scrapbook. The foster-home section.
“Make yourself at home,” Kris invited.
“Do what?”
Josee turned her head and, as she did, tipped the mug and dumped a third of the liquid chocolate onto plush carpet. She blurted out an obscenity. In her effort to set the mug on a stool, the half-melted bar of dark chocolate collapsed over the rim and landed with a sloshy splat on the oak flooring beneath the cue rack.
“What am I doing? Such a clumsy fool!”
“It’s okay, Josee. Here, I’ll—”
“No, it’s not stinkin’ okay! What am I, some kinda idiot?”
Josee followed the self-condemning jut of her jaw into the kitchen and pulled off a handful of paper towels. She bit the inside of her cheek and punched a fist into her thigh. She marched back to the scene of the crime and mopped at the carpet the best she could. Kris provided her a spray cleaner and focused her own energy on the stained oak. To Josee’s relief, the men, in atypical displays of wisdom, reestablished their interest in small talk and eightball.
“Sorry about that, Kris,” Josee said, completing the cleanup. “Really, I—”
“I forgive you. Things happen, Josee. You know what, this place’s been a gift to us, a true blessing. Isn’t that right, John?”
“Absolutely.” He gestured with his cue stick. “Five ball in the corner pocket.”
“Most gifts are meant to be used,” Kris said. “Nothing honorable in hoarding them for posterity’s sake. In my opinion, it’s the memories that increase their value.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think this stain’s gonna—”
“That’s quite enough, Josee. The gift to us is that we’ll never forget you.”
“Some gift.”
“If I hear another word about it, you’ll be assigned dinner cleanup.”
“Okay, okay.” Josee rolled her eyes, twisted her eyebrow ring. “I get the point.”
“Ready for a visit to the ladies’ room?” Stahlherz indicated the five-gallon paint bucket in the corner. When Kara said nothing, he moved behind her and started working the knots. He brushed aside her bedraggled hair. “I’ll remove the ropes and turn my back once you’re situated over there, but don’t even contemplate some dimwitted escape. You’re stiff as a board and no match for me.”
Kara hitched her way to the corner and shot him a sulky glare.
Alert to any misconduct, he turned away at the base of the steps and, when she was done, ordered her back to the chair. He saw defiance flicker in her face. He waggled the dagger in the light. “You’re scared, understandably. I don’t intend to hurt you, but I’ll do what I must to let you know who’s making the rules.”
“I have nothing to lose,” Kara said in a cracked voice.
“Sit down! Now!”
“When’re you going to let me go?”
“That’s up to your dear hubby. Sit! I’m not going to ask again.” He stabbed the dagger toward the chair, watched her ease her cramped body back into the seat.
“Wise move.” He roped her back into place. “No one can hear you scream from here, and even if you slipped by me, which would be difficult in this small space, I’m more than capable of bringing you down with this knife in your back.” From a grocery bag, he removed Wheat Thins, an apple, and a bottle of water. “Hungry?”
She fixed her gaze on the wall. “What do you suppose?”
Stahlherz lifted the bottle to her torn lips and let her drink until water dribbled down her chin. He wiped it away, then feathered his fingers like a black wing over the fist-sized bruise on her cheek. Kaaw-kaw-Kara … let me care for you. He set a cracker to her mouth, and she ate it. Fed her a couple more. Felt a smug curl on his lips. See how well he tended to her? The Professor would approve of this face-to-face contact.
“Drink,” she requested.
“More water? Or”—Stahlherz toted a wine flask into view—“a little something to take the edge off? A well-earned reward for your patience here alone.”
His captive shook her head.
“It’ll help set you at ease.” He removed the cork and put the bottle to her mouth.
After brief resistance, Kara let her lips part. She sipped. She pressed her eyes shut as though repulsed by her own decision. “That’s awful. Hardly wine.”
“Not as good as your husband’s? Why’d you partake?”
“What’s it matter? Are you after our money? What do you want?”
“Afraid Marsh won’t pay up?”
“He’ll do whatever it takes. He’ll find me. Probably on his way as we speak.”
Shree-acck! Kaw-ka-ka. Stahlherz laughed. Or thought he did. With the laughter came a bilious taste that raked his mouth and shot needles into his nasal passages. He twitched, shaking off the sense of being mocked. He would not be made a fool; he was here for a purpose and refused to be distracted.
“I’m not in this for money,” he told her, bending to look her in the eyes—such round caramel eyes. Her fear charged him with excitement. She looked away. “Kara, you’re the bait,” he said, “for my traps.”
“Traps? Please, let me go.”
“Out of the question. Marsh has things that I need in order to reclaim my past, but I don’t expect him to relinquish those willingly. Would rob all the fun. What’s a game for but a little entertainment? Do you recognize this?” He produced the glass queen from his pocket and fondled it. “With his queen in my hands, he’ll deliver what I want.”
“What do you want? Why not just ask?”
“And Josee Walker will deliver what I want.”
Kara’s composure cracked. Her head fell forward as she released shock and fear and anguish through one heartrending cry. Stahlherz moved back. Startled, but also drawn to provide comfort. He thought of peeling back her hair with his fingers and stanching her tears with a kiss. He had never kissed a woman other than his mother.
And that was years ago. She recoiled in repugnance. Never again!
“Let me go. Please. We can settle this somehow but not like this. Please.”
Stahlherz listened. He watched Kara’s neck muscles twang with tension. He did not mean to lie; that had never been his intent. But he caved to his compassionate side. “You’ll see your husband and daughter tomorrow evening,” he said, “and no one will be hurt. Once my conditions are met, the three of you will be together. I promise you that.”
Hope returned to her eyes. A glimmer.
“Josee’s safe,” he said. “Don’t work yourself up, my queen. You’ll see your long-lost daughter. On my terms, of course, but a reunion nonetheless.”
“What day is it? Thursday? I have to see her. She’ll be worried.”
“How noble of you, Kara. Of course, after your abandonment of her as a baby, it rings a bit hollow, don’t you think? What drives a parent to do that? Answer me that, queenie. What sort of parent?” He thought of the years wasted, the privileges robbed from him. “Answer me!”
“Please. Leave me alone.”
Stahlherz crouched to his prisoner’s level. He tilted his head, birdlike, and stared at her. “Kara, you misunderstand. I’m here to care for you. I stopped by to see that you were fed. I’m concerned for you.” He squeezed her arms. “Don’t push me.”
“You frighten me.”
“But your rescuer, isn’t he on his way? Isn’t that what you told me?”
“You know where Marsh is, don’t you? You know.”
“At this precise moment, yes and no. I’m keeping tabs on him, shall we say.” St
ahlherz offered her the apple, another cracker, the wine bottle. “No reason for you to fear. See how I’ve fed you and made sure that you’re well. I’m here for you.”
“You’ve tied me to a chair. What sort of care is that?” She closed her eyes and winced as though expecting a blow. “Marsh takes care of me. Not you and your lousy Wheat Thins … but Marsh!”
“I’m sure you’d like to believe that. However—”
“Let me go!”
“I’ve already explained—”
“Let me loose. Let me out of here! Stop talking to me, you freak!” With eyes clamped tight, Kara thrashed her hair. “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Let … me … gooooo!” In the cold space, the crescendo of her scream moved wisps of cobwebs overhead and dislodged dust from the crevices. The sound faded, and she sat with shaking shoulders, heaving chest, and silent tears the color of breaking glass.
Frozen tears, chips of glass … alas.
Stahlherz gave a benign smile. “Take it easy now. I need to ask you a question, from your husband. He wants proof that I hold you captive.”
After a vegetable lasagna dinner, they gathered in the living room where John situated a music stand and opened his velvet-lined oboe case. He wet the reed and began to play. Kris stretched on the chaise lounge and lost herself in the pages of an Anne Lamott book, Scooter folded himself into the recliner with all the unrest of a man trying to look restful, and Josee propped herself against the sofa.
Working on a poem. Scribbling in her sketchbook. Words taking form.
Veiled as yet, unfolding behind
Curtains of circumstance
Realms unseen, unrecognized
Players in the game of chance
Grant me this wish: revealing light
Yoke these eyes with thy secret sight
She thought about swapping players for actors but decided to leave it.
John concluded his piece. “There you have it then, a sampling of my classical stylings. My parents were first-generation Dutch. They played long ago—look at me, and you can imagine just how old they must be—in the Amsterdam Philharmonic Orchestra. So it’s hardly surprising that they wanted me to learn an instrument as a child. Now I’m a fuddy-duddy music professor. Usually I have only Kris to torture.”