Second Sight

by David Williams

  “Jennie, you can’t expect me—”

  “It’s the only way that makes sense, David. I can drive there in a cab. If I’m discovered talking with Ames, I can say I’ve just arrived in town to visit friends and I’ve come to the wrong address by mistake. That way no one would suspect anything.”

  “Mrs. Logan is right, David,” Rachel said. “It’s the perfect solution.”

  “It’s no solution at all,” David said. “I’ll have to learn where you’ll be going, how and when you plan to slip away, where to meet you. There are too many things to arrange still.”

  “I can give all that to Ames in a message for Mrs. Logan. There’s no need for you to be there.”

  “And besides,” Jennie said, “you remember Willis suggested you have dinner together before he goes back to New York? You can have dinner with him Thursday night, while I’m meeting Ames. It’s the perfect alibi if you’re suspected later of helping Rachel elope.”

  “It’s much too dangerous,” David said.

  “That’s just the point,” Rachel said, “Mrs. Logan is right. It’s not dangerous for her at all, but it’s much too dangerous for you, given the way Papa feels. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you on my account.”

  “You must let me go, David,” Jennie said.

  “Wait,” David said. “Did you hear that?”

  Now Jennie heard it too—someone moving along the porch at the rear of the house. She strained to see, but the moon had gone behind a cloud. She heard footsteps coming at a run across the yard and, panicked, clutched at David’s arm.

  “Wait,” Rachel said. “It’s Emily. She’s been standing watch on the porch.”

  The other girl paused at the edge of vision, a ghostly figure in the dark. “Come quickly, Rachel, your father’s asking for you. He wants you to play some pieces for the company.”

  “Stall him,” Rachel said. “Tell him I’ve gone for a walk along the lake. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “You’d better go now, Rachel,” David said.

  “Only if you promise me not to come Thursday night.”

  “How can I agree to that?”

  “David, think of me. How do you think I would feel if Papa did something to you? If my father, whom I love, committed violence on a man I also love, all on my account? Please, David, don’t make me responsible for something like that.”

  For a moment, David was silent. Then he said, “Very well, Rachel. If it’s important to you.”

  “Will you give me your word? You won’t change your mind?”

  “You have my word.”

  She embraced him again. “Thank you, David. I know there won’t be time to say much Thursday evening—but we’ll see each other again, after everything’s over.” She took Jennie’s hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry to have met you under these circumstances, Mrs. Logan. I’m very grateful to you for agreeing to help. I’ll tell Ames to wait just inside the gate. David will tell you where.” And with that, she was gone, dress rustling, disappearing back into the darkness toward the house.

  They waited until they heard the door close. Then, hand in hand, they made their way back along the water’s edge and up the hedgerow beside the house. In the dark, every footfall seemed very loud. Jennie clung to David’s hand, watching the lamp-lit rooms through the windows. She could not relinquish the fear that Hubbard might burst out of the dark at them at any moment, that any one of these footsteps might be the sound which started the entire sequence of events she was to hear from Mrs. Bates almost three-quarters of a century into the future.

  The fear did not leave her even when they reached the buggy. The moon had come out again, turning the road to silver, and the sky was again a scattering of stars. The quiet sound of the horse’s hooves carrying her away from that house, the comforting sense of David awkwardly holding the reins while he lit his pipe beside her, the giant silence of the surrounding night—none of that could ease her anxiety. She had found the opening she had sought; she had made it possible to intervene and determine the course of the events to come. And it was just that fact which frightened her now. The time was at hand. The burden of saving David’s life was now entirely hers.

  He placed a hand on hers. “It’s past eight o’clock. You did say he’d be arriving on the eight o’clock train?”

  “Yes,” she said, thinking how even he never used the phrase “your husband”; it was as if that imaginary man at the Henry Hudson were as mythical to him as he was to her. “You’ll have to leave me off somewhere away from the hotel. You know I’d rather spend the night with you than anything else. But I won’t be free again until Thursday.”

  “It doesn’t matter. After this is over, we’ll go away. We’ll go to France. I have friends there, I can work there. We can start a whole new life together.”

  Subtly, she turned her hand so that her palm slipped into his and held there, tightening. She thought of the sunswept beaches of Deauville and Trouville, the line of blue ocean and the boardwalk and the blurred forms of bathers as she had seen them in so many Impressionist paintings—by Boudin, and Monet, and Pissarro—and she tried to stifle the dream that all that could be real for her; tried not to see herself on that boardwalk, the wind off the sea whipping at her dress and sending the thin clouds racing across the blue of the sky; tried to avoid the image of herself breakfasting with David on a sunlit terrace overlooking a stretch of beach, in a seaside hotel; tried not to see David happy and suntanned, working at his easel on the beach while she unpacked a wicker basket of food and wine on a blanket a few steps away. No good could come of dwelling on these lovingly imagined scenes; they brought, after the longing, only pain, because she was afraid—despite her hope and determination—that they would never come true.

  The buggy crested a small hill and started down toward the lights of town, and every inch of road seemed to be taking her closer to disaster. Her time was running out; Thursday evening was only forty-eight hours away. If she failed then in her attempt to alter the past, David’s life would end. And so would hers. She would not be able to go on living in her own time, knowing he had been murdered in his.

  20

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING she felt a captive in her own century, imprisoned and helpless, while events advanced unhindered beyond that barrier of time. The day was uncomfortably warm, humid air trapped beneath dull gray clouds. The house, with Michael gone to work, seemed unnaturally silent. All morning she had paced the house as if it were a cage; now she stood at the living-room windows, staring out at the motionless trees along the road, the leaden lake reflecting the ominous gloom of the sky.

  There was nothing she could do but think. The elopement was set for tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, in 1899—that was the night David was killed, she was sure of it. Something must have gone wrong. Hubbard must have discovered Rachel missing too soon. He must have seen her in David’s buggy, or he was told at the station that David had driven her to the train, or—somehow, sometime—he must have overheard the plans for the elopement. She lay down on the couch in front of the windows, propped a pillow behind her head. If only she had some way of discovering what really happened. For an instant, she paused, one hand still on the pillow. Then she rose from the couch, quickly gathered up her purse and car keys, and left the house.

  The Chesapequa Star-News was housed in a large one-story brick building at the corner of Wade Street. Inside was the clattering of typewriters, a hubbub of voices, the rhythmic rumbling of the presses somewhere in the back.

  She sought out the editor and asked if she could look up an old story in the paper’s morgue. “I don’t want to take it out, just to read it here.”

  “If it’s older than 1928,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. A big fire in 1927 took everything there was—files, presses, the works.”

  Slowly, she assimilated that information. “Is there someone here who could tell me something about a story that happened before 1928?”

  �
��How long before?”

  “In 1899.”

  He grinned and regretfully shook his head. “We got some old moss-backed reporters here, but nobody that goes back that far. Why don’t you try Mrs. Bates at the historical society? She’s closed today, Wednesdays, but she wouldn’t mind you stopping by the house. Nothing Mrs. Bates likes better than talking about old stories.” A phone rang somewhere in the back. “Excuse me,” he said, and retreated through the assemblage of desks.

  Jennie went back out to the car, sat for a moment in its stuffy heat. She knew where Mrs. Bates lived, but would going there do any good? Mrs. Bates had said she knew nothing more about the story. But why not? She started the car and backed out of the parking place. There was nowhere else to turn. She would force Mrs. Bates to let her talk with her aunt, senile or not.

  • • •

  But Mrs. Bates balked at the idea.

  “I really don’t think I should,” she said. “She’s not at all well. The doctor says she hasn’t much longer.”

  They were drinking tea in the living room of Mrs. Bates’ house, an old two-story Tudor on a landscaped corner. The room was filled with antiques.

  “I certainly don’t want to disturb her,” Jennie said, “but this story has really become very important to me.” It had taken her twenty minutes of idle visiting to bring the subject up at all; she was not going to give up now.

  “Well, as I told you, dear, I’m sure I know as much about it as Aunt Betty. It was my favorite story as a child.”

  “But mightn’t she remember more about it now? Old people sometimes do, you know. The past comes back to them when they get old. My friend practically promised to publish the story if I can learn more about it. I’ve told her all about Chesapequa, and she says we might do a whole series of articles about its past.”

  “Oh, really?” Mrs. Bates seemed to brighten. “That certainly would be nice.”

  “Couldn’t I just meet her? I do owe my interest in Chesapequa to you, and it would mean so much to me to meet your aunt, who started your own interest in it. It’s so rare to meet a real link to the past.”

  Mrs. Bates smiled, flattered. “Well, perhaps it would be all right. Yes, I suppose it might even be good for her, to meet a young woman like yourself who shares her interests. I’ll have to warn you, though—Nurse Jenkins will object very strongly. But never you mind. The poor woman can’t accept that she’s a paid servant. I always have to assert my will with her on the subject of Aunt Betty.”

  They started up a flight of carpeted stairs; a metal track fixed to the wall and carrying a small chair ran up the length of the stairwell.

  “I had that put in when Aunt Betty first got down,” Mrs. Bates said. “I’m afraid she didn’t get much benefit from it. She’s been bedridden practically ever since.” She paused outside the closed door of an upstairs bedroom. “Now don’t be disappointed if it turns out she’s not able to remember anything. Some days she’s just incoherent, I’m afraid. Gets confused about what year it is, and who she’s talking to—you know how old people are.” She knocked gently and opened the door.

  A screen had been placed across the room, creating a small anteroom just inside the door. In it was a daybed, a small table and some chairs. A nurse reading a book in a chair looked up as they entered.

  “Nurse Jenkins,” Mrs. Bates said, “this is Mrs. Logan, a young friend of mine. She’s very interested in Chesapequan history. I’ve been telling her some of the stories Aunt Betty used to tell me, and I promised to introduce her to Auntie. Is she awake?”

  The nurse closed the book and got up from the chair. “I doubt she’s in any condition to discuss the past or anything else today. Even if she were, I would emphatically not recommend bringing a stranger in to upset her routine.”

  “Nurse Jenkins, we’ve been over this before. Aunt Betty’s life was never routine, and I’m sure if there is anything she would not want at this point it’s a routine that consists of lying alone in an empty room.”

  “I’m sorry you force me to be so frank,” the nurse said, “but we both know your aunt hasn’t long to live. She’s a dying woman, Mrs. Bates, and I would think she should be left alone.”

  Mrs. Bates bristled. “If I had wanted Auntie to spend her last days alone, I could well afford a private room in a hospital. I brought her home here, and hired your assistance, precisely because I think it barbaric to allow one’s loved ones to die alone in the cold and unfamiliar room of a hospital. When my time comes, I dearly hope my room is filled with friends—yes, and interesting strangers—right up until I draw my last breath. Now if you will please step aside.”

  “I can’t accept responsibility for this,” the nurse said.

  “That’s perfectly all right. The responsibility is mine in any case.”

  Subdued because of the trouble she was causing but holding fiercely to her knowledge that it was necessary, Jennie followed Mrs. Bates into the main room on the other side of the screen. The room was dimly lit, the shutters half drawn. The old woman lay in a tall hospital bed, with a crank at the foot to raise and lower the mattress. She looked very old, with a pale haggard face and stringy white hair. Her eyes were closed. She seemed not to hear them come in.

  Mrs. Bates seated herself in a chair beside the bed. “Aunt Betty? Auntie, dear? I’ve brought you a visitor.”

  Standing at the foot of the bed, Jennie watched the old woman’s eyes open and turn to Mrs. Bates. She was tremblingly aware of being in the presence of the one person who might be able to tell her what really happened, and how. She thought she saw a faint smile flicker across the withered lips. One of the liver-spotted hands moved ever so slightly on the coverlet.

  Mrs. Bates took it in both of hers. “Auntie, dear, this is Mrs. Logan. I’ve been telling her about you, and she so wanted to meet you. She’s interested in Chesapequan history, too, Auntie.”

  The eyes turned and focused on Jennie. They were large and feverish, deeply set in the haggard face.

  Jennie moved closer to the bed. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’ve wanted so much to talk to you.”

  “Mrs. Logan is interested in the Reynolds story, Auntie. You remember the story about David Reynolds—how his wife was killed and he claimed he saw her ghost come back? And then he was murdered and nobody ever found out who did it?”

  “I really can’t allow this,” the nurse said.

  “Can you hear me, Auntie?”

  Jennie saw the old woman’s lips move, tremble, as if she were trying to speak. The large, feverish eyes were still focused on her own. She felt a stir of hope, as if the eyes burning out of that wrinkled, emaciated face were trying to communicate with her, and she leaned down across the foot of the bed. “Please try to remember. The David Reynolds story? Do you remember that story?”

  The old woman’s eyes glazed over. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and turned her head away and began to cry, two large tears beginning a slow descent down her face.

  As if recognizing a signal, the nurse stepped quickly to the bedside, ran a hand beneath the blankets. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. I warned you not to bother her. This happens when she’s upset. She’s lost control of her bladder again.”

  “Not again,” the old woman cried, her head still turned away, “not again.”

  Ashamed now to have invaded the privacy of this dying old woman, Jennie meekly followed Mrs. Bates back down the stairs. Somehow now she felt this had been inevitable, that she was meant to learn nothing more, to act on faith alone.

  In the living room, Mrs. Bates poured out more tea, as much, it seemed, to cover her embarrassment as anything else.

  “I’m really very sorry,” Jennie said. “I shouldn’t have insisted. I really didn’t want to upset her.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Bates said. “It’s not your fault at all. You couldn’t have known. Some days she’s right as rain, perfectly lucid. Then, other days—well, you see how she is sometimes. I’m sure she would have loved talking
with you. I won’t have Nurse Jenkins closing her off while she can still enjoy things. You come back another day, one of her good days, and we’ll get her to talk about the Reynolds story. I’m sure she’d enjoy it very much.”

  Jennie accepted some sugar for her tea. She had no hope left, but she would not leave without one more try. “Are you sure you’ve told me everything you remember? Maybe if you told me the story again, you would remember something else.”

  Mrs. Bates shook her head. “I’m sure I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Could you just tell me the part again about how he was murdered? Please? It’s important.”

  “Well, dear, no one knows how he was murdered. That’s the point. There was a band concert by the lake that night, and some of the concert-goers heard the shot and found him just after it happened, but they never found the murderer. As I say, some thought it was his father-in-law, some thought it was the woman he’d taken up with, because she was seen leaving the scene of the crime. She disappeared then, you see, and was never seen or heard from again.”

  Through two more cups of tea, Jennie coaxed Mrs. Bates into telling the story again, pressing her with questions, probing for un-remembered facts. But after an hour, she finally gave it up. It was clear she was going to learn nothing more. She left clinging to that one additional bit of information: a band concert, she had to beware of a band concert.

  • • •

  That night she lay in bed in her attic room, with a glass of milk and a book she had got from the library during her last visit with Dr. Salzman. The milk was for her stomach; her anxiety had it in knots. She was acutely aware that David was probably in this room right now, in his own time. She would need only to put on the dress to go to him. How she wished she could. It might be his last night alive. If she failed tomorrow night she would have killed him as surely as if she really had been the one who pulled the trigger.

  She heard Michael climbing the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. The poor man—his life had become so lonely. She almost wished he would get angry again, break through that exaggerated caution with which he treated her, so she would have an excuse to bring it all out in the open, this secret life she carried around inside her like a growing tumor. She longed to ask his advice, seek his help, anything to alleviate the awful loneliness she felt when she thought of what she might not be able to prevent, less than twenty-four hours from now.