The very next day Gwen saw Mrs. Creel backing out of her driveway. Gwen was surprised to see the woman in a sporty yellow convertible, top down. She would have guessed Anastasia's mom owned a more serious vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car or some other expensive boat.
Passing Gwen, the convertible slowed. “You're walking that sweet little pooch again,” the woman called. “I like to see you walking down my street.” Gwen nodded and waved. The words lifted her spirits.
On Thursday, Mrs. Creel was kneeling in her garden again. “Hello dear,” she said.
"Great weather,” Gwen answered. “I love your flowers.” She added this despite the awkwardness of Anastasia's portrait standing between them.
The woman stood. “Did you notice, farther down?” She motioned down the street. “They're at it again, those boys. Hoodlums. Spoiled brats."
"Oh no. What exactly?"
"They're trenching again. It's that time of year."
Gwen had never heard the term before. She pulled Piccolo closer to the curb to hear the woman's explanation. The rich, spoiled boys in the area liked to get in their cars at night and run over people's lawns, especially after a rain when the ground was soft. They called it trenching, and the practice left deep ruts in many a manicured lawn. “They hit the Crosbys and the Bledsoes last night."
"How awful,” said Gwen. “Hope they don't hurt mine."
"They've never struck here,” said Mrs. Creel. “I'm saved by the way my garden juts out, the river rock border. They don't want to hit stones and wreck their chassis. I'm so glad my daughter never went joyriding with those types."
Gwen didn't know how to answer that. “Nice seeing you,” she said, backing up. “Such vibrant flowers, lovely garden."
"I hope you pass by again soon,” the woman said. “Such lovely hair.” Then, standing on her toes amid the verbena, she waved at someone down the street. “Hello, Princess!"
Gwen saw the blond-haired girl standing in a driveway one house down, across the street. Her friend was on her knees drawing hopscotch blocks on the pavement. At Mrs. Creel's hello the blond girl folded her arms and turned away. The woman didn't seem to notice the rebuff. She simply bent over and pulled up a dandelion.
When Gwen passed by moments later, the girl said, “You talked to Mrs. Creel. My mom says her husband flew the coop."
Gwen giggled, startled by the expression. “She waved at you, I noticed. Why didn't you wave back?"
"My mom said not to talk to Mrs. Creel. I used to, but she said not to. Her daughter died, you know."
Gwen nodded, thinking, what was this? Was the girl's mother not wanting to associate with Mrs. Creel just because her daughter died, as if death might be catching?
"She fell,” the girl continued, unprompted.
"Yeah.” The youngster with the chalk seconded her friend. “Out of her window."
How odd, Gwen thought, not really believing their version of Anastasia's end. She remembered how such dreadful subjects fascinated her and her own friends at that age, how they embroidered gruesome details into the story of a child who'd died of meningitis in a house on the corner.
"That's sad,” said Gwen. “Mrs. Creel must be lonesome. You might just say hello some time."
"Mom said she's weird, and she takes too much interest."
"Whatever,” said Gwen. “You girls have fun playing hopscotch.” She moved on. Hopscotches weren't drawn the same anymore. She and her friends used to insert cross-hatched sections they called poison in the top, number ten, bubble. If you stepped on one of those, you were out.
Mrs. Creel took too much interest, Gwen thought, reaching the park. She kept trying to interpret the comment in financial terms, but it didn't fit. Too bad—the girl being ordered away from Mrs. Creel merely because the woman was a little different. That mindset was typical of perfect, predictable Brigadoon. Everyone had to be alike. No poison bubbles in hopscotch. The atmosphere was suffocating.
Still, she put off her trip. “Don't worry if I don't call for awhile,” she told her mother. “I'm starting on my play. I get so much done with Walt gone."
Walt stopped calling because of problems getting a line out from the compound. He managed to send one e-mail, saying he loved her and reminding her to keep all grocery receipts. For that matter, the only people Gwen had occasion to talk to were grocery cashiers. Instead of bemoaning her solitude, she regarded it a rare opportunity to do as she pleased.
But when she read the old notes on her play, her mind wandered to Anastasia Wynn Creel. The play was about a girl of about Anastasia's age who felt her life had already been mapped out by her incurably conventional parents.
Boring. Her notes were boring; so how could the play be otherwise? But now that she'd met Anastasia, if only in the form of a life-sized portrait, her interest in finishing the play picked up. She might benefit from learning more about this tragic girl. There might be something in her story Gwen could use, though she hated to think of herself as a vulture, feeding on another's misfortune to fill out her play. But then, wasn't that what writers did?
She wondered if the girls were right about Anastasia falling from a window. If so, how odd. Maybe it had been one of those long french windows. If it were open, she could have stepped right through. Gwen had heard of people falling out of french windows, but she imagined that only happened to a person who was visiting an unfamiliar house. How could Anastasia not be aware she was on the second floor? Then again, horseplay might be involved, or drugs, alcohol. Maybe she could work the window into the play.
On her walks she scrutinized the windows of the Creel house. Two ordinary dormers overlooked the street. If Anastasia's room were one of these front ones, she'd have difficulty dying from a fall. The roof slanted beneath the dormers at a mild angle like a safety net.
The little she could see of the rear of the house convinced her that Anastasia's room must be back there. The roof abruptly stopped at the top of the second story. She wished she could go into the yard and see.
But what a morbid turn her curiosity was taking! It reminded her of the time she and her friends walked back and forth in front of that little boy's house, talking about how his illness had started with just a little headache. His temperature skyrocketed to two hundred degrees, her friend Amy said. The nurses packed him in ice! That fascinated them. They regarded the house with intense curiosity, as if they might catch a glimpse of what meningitis looked like, might see a dark form lurking at one of the windows.
* * * *
The next time Gwen passed Anastasia's portrait, she heard a musical voice call from the front porch. “Hello dear. You with the little weenie dog. Won't you come in and visit? Fresh coffee's brewing."
"Oh.” Gwen hesitated, rattled. It was rather warm out. The idea of hot coffee made her face flush.
"Come in where it's cool,” said Mrs. Creel.
"Thanks, but I have Piccolo with me.” Gwen laughed. “I wouldn't wish her on you."
"I don't mind one bit,” said Mrs. Creel. “If she's rambunctious, she can run in my yard. It's safe."
"Yes, then, I guess I will join you. Can't stay long.” This was what she had been waiting for, after all. To learn how Anastasia died. So what if her curiosity was not something to be proud of. This was what writers did. Found out all they could about anything that caught their interest.
Gwen felt the cold air from inside pouring out the door even before she reached the porch. She followed Mrs. Creel in, Piccolo's nails skittering on the foyer's white marble floor.
"This is nice.” Gwen glanced into the living room at her right while Mrs. Creel turned the key in the front door. A grand piano dominated. On the wall above its open lid was a collage of pictures arranged in the shape of a cross. A fleeting glimpse confirmed that all were baby pictures.
Mrs. Creel led her down the main hall toward the back. In the kitchen, they sat at a round table in a bay window overlooking the yard. Piccolo sniffed the floor, then plopped on the cool tile, resting her chin on Gwen's foo
t.
"My name is Gwen Hastings, by the way,” Gwen said after complimenting Mrs. Creel on the flower beds just outside the window. “We're new here. Moved only this past March. And now, this soon, my husband's been sent overseas on a project, and well, here I am."
"I've made the coffee just as you like it. That wonderful mixture of Gevalia and hazelnut.” Mrs. Creel set a bright tangerine-colored mug in front of Gwen.
"Just as I like it?” Gwen giggled, then composed herself. Perhaps Mrs. Creel had a touch of dementia. How much would it cost to humor her for this brief visit? She sipped the coffee. “Yes, this is very good. I do like it."
They sat in silence. Gwen had expected Mrs. Creel to make some follow-up comment about the fact that she had only recently moved to Brigadoon. “I've never lived anywhere like Brigadoon before,” she went on. “A planned community, I mean. Everything is so perfect. It's beautiful really, like paradise."
"Make no mistake.” Mrs. Creel raised her brows and nodded knowingly. “There is a worm in the apple."
"Really.” Gwen watched the woman's sinewy hands curl around the cup rather than hold it by the handle. Her hands looked much stronger than Gwen would have thought.
"The youngsters in these parts, the boys especially, have no upbringing. They run wild in fancy cars their parents give them without blinking an eye."
Gwen nodded. “I remember what you said about trenching."
"Trenching is the least of it.” Mrs. Creel rose. At the kitchen counter, she lifted a large round tin. “Would you like a coconut macaroon?"
Mrs. Creel's long hands clasped the cookie tin to her thin bosom; her clawlike fingers gripped the lid's rolled edge and pried it off easily despite the tight fit. When Gwen had spoken to Mrs. Creel in the garden, the woman had appeared slight of build. Seeing her up close, Gwen was struck by how robust she looked, possibly more fit than she herself at nearly half her age.
Gwen checked the kitchen for more traces of Anastasia, but found none. The home was decorated in a tastefully predictable way. She accepted two cookies on a doily-topped china plate and sipped the coffee, planning her exit.
"No young girl is safe dating those boys. Wait until everyone is more grown up, I always say. You could be killed driving with these wild boys, and they only have one thing on their minds. I ask you, what is a mother's first duty but to keep her daughter safe?"
"Hmm,” said Gwen. “If I had a child, I know I would worry."
"How would the little dog like a cookie?” Mrs. Creel bent down, and Piccolo jumped to her feet, eager for a treat.
"No, we don't feed her at the table.” Gwen put out a hand, too late.
"Come along, Little Bit,” Mrs. Creel said, fingering another cookie and going to the back door. Piccolo followed, pulling the unmoored leash along behind her.
Gwen rose.
Mrs. Creel paused and gave Gwen a pretty-please look. “Let's put Little Bit in the yard a minute. Perfectly safe. I want to show you something upstairs."
"We really need to be going."
Mrs. Creel unhooked Piccolo's leash from her collar, opened the door, and frisbeed the cookie into the yard. Piccolo scampered out in pursuit.
What nerve, Gwen thought. It was definitely time to go, but how to disappoint this woman who was so much in need of human contact? “Well, all right,” Gwen said. “But first let me make sure.” She stepped outside and immediately saw that a tall brick wall enclosed the entire yard. Piccolo could not possibly get out of this fortress.
Stepping back inside, she said in a humoring way, “Now understand, I only have a few minutes to spare. I have an appointment and..."
Mrs. Creel grabbed Gwen's arm above the elbow, guiding her to the main hall and the staircase. Her grip was tight, like the desperate squeeze some old people clamped on you when they were unsteady on their feet; but then Mrs. Creel's balance seemed fine. Gwen hiked her shoulders, pulled away. Mrs. Creel did not appear to take offense.
"This way,” she said, and began climbing the stairs.
What the hell, Gwen thought. She would like to catch a glimpse of the girl's room, the fateful window. What was the worst that could happen? Mrs. Creel would rattle on about whatever she wanted to show off, perhaps another portrait of Anastasia.
At the top of the stairs Mrs. Creel turned right, then stopped before a door, opened it, and ushered Gwen inside.
Clearly a girl's bedroom, it was decorated in a fashion even more predictable than the rest of the house. A sampler of the Lord's Prayer hung above the bed, which was covered with a frilly white spread that matched white eyelet curtains. Two cozy country house scenes hung nearby. A long, broad window filled the wall opposite the bed, a desk beneath it. As Gwen had guessed, the room overlooked the back yard, not the street.
"This is very nice,” said Gwen, sad to see that Anastasia's room betrayed not a shred of personality.
Mrs. Creel stepped into the connecting bathroom and flushed the toilet. “If you don't flush these once in awhile, the bowl gets dirty,” she said, her normally musical voice now sounding raspy.
Behind the woman's back, Gwen rolled her eyes. She edged forward to sneak a look at the bathroom and was amazed to see an incredibly stunning window of stained glass above the toilet. She recalled the fairy tale it depicted: a woman in a tower, letting down her long golden hair through the casement window.
"Beautiful,” said Gwen, thinking this must be the treasure Mrs. Creel had wanted her to see.
"That thing?” Mrs. Creel raised her already high-arching brows. Only then did Gwen notice that her eyebrows were hairless, drawn on with a brown pencil. “It is nicely executed, I suppose. Anastasia made it in art class."
"Rapunzel.” Gwen gave her voice a romantic lilt. “She was held prisoner in a tower, wasn't she?"
"I wouldn't know. Last year ... I didn't want to, but afterwards—” Mrs. Creel paused and stared at Rapunzel as if trying to remember how she got there. “Oh yes. Well, something had to be done. The window had to be fixed, you know, so I hired some men to mount Anastasia's stained glass. She'd always begged me to do that. Before, she kept it on the sill beside her desk. The light would come through. She liked that. But why she'd choose such a subject I do not know. Children.” Mrs. Creel shook her head as if to say there was no figuring them out.
"Rapunzel let her hair grow long so her lover, the prince, could climb up,” Gwen said. “Then he helped her escape."
"An ugly, ugly style. These young girls wear their hair much too long now, like in the seventies. Anastasia's was clear to her waist! I put my foot down. Young ladies should keep their hair short, above the bottom of the earlobe. What a battle! I cut it, cut it right off. Beautiful color. Like yours, the very same.” Mrs. Creel held out her hand as if to touch Gwen's hair, but instead slapped her palm to her own cheek and wandered back into the bedroom.
Gwen followed, repelled by the idea of Mrs. Creel chopping off her daughter's hair. “What a nice visit,” she forced herself to say, “but now I have to be going."
Mrs. Creel was busy plumping a pillow on the bed. She didn't seem to hear Gwen's exit line. Creepy. Gwen fully grasped the sad fact that this family was dysfunctional to the max. The stained glass Rapunzel, the only original thing in the house, was obviously Anastasia's self-portrait, this room her unreachable tower. The girl had been caged most inartistically, but despite her imprisonment she managed to create a fine work of art.
Though the room was spacious, Gwen felt claustrophobic. “I hate to leave this lovely room,” Gwen tried again, “but Piccolo calls."
"It is lovely,” said Mrs. Creel. “If this room were mine I'd never leave. I would be that grateful. Now, I want you to sit at your desk. Yes, sit right there, dear."
Gwen frowned. “My desk?” she said. “But—"
"Go on. Just a moment. For me. Sit and look out the window, and ask yourself, can you picture a lovelier room?” Mrs. Creel pulled out the desk chair and coaxed Gwen with a plaintive smile, her eyelids fluttering.
Burglar bars? No one had burglar bars in Brigadoon. They used alarm systems. Bars were against code. Her spine stiffened. “Oh, that nutty dog of mine,” she said. “Listen to her, bothering your neighbors. I've got to get her. She's allergic to bees, you know, and..."
"Not to worry. There's no neighbors back there—only a greenspace. She sounds like a healthy girl. You sit, enjoy this room.” Mrs. Creel backed up to the door as she spoke. “A little later I'll fix your favorite dinner. Don't worry about a thing, honey. We just have to remember, no matter what happened before—words said in anger—we can always start fresh. Every day is the first day of the rest of your life, a new beginning. Why would anyone leave this room, ever, to go riding with some wild boy, misguided friends? How could you go to the prom, a silly dance with this strange boy? Why go with strangers when you have this pretty room?"
Gwen's mouth hung open in a disbelieving, foolish grin as she watched Mrs. Creel back out across the threshold.
"What was that poem I once recited to you?” Mrs. Creel asked, a simpy smile on her face. “'To Persephone, in Hell'? ‘My dear, my dear. It's not so dreadful here.'” At that, she firmly closed the door.
Gwen was slow to process the words of the bizarre speech. Next came the unmistakable grind and click of a deadbolt lock sliding into its slot. A tardy flutter of adrenaline jazzed Gwen's heart. As if coming out of a trance fit for a fairy-tale princess, she finally closed her mouth. She rose and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Piccolo had stopped barking. She was out of view, too close to the house to be seen.
"Don't panic,” Gwen said aloud. “Very strange, but don't panic. Think. Let's think."
Her legs felt like soft rubber. She glided to the door, tried the knob. Locked. What she thought had happened, really had. That madwoman had locked her in, and it wasn't just a regular lock you could work with a paper clip. She tapped the door. Solid wood. Odd, the hinges weren't hung on her side.
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