by Paul Lederer
‘Yeah, all right,’ Raymond muttered, and he started out of the bar, wondering who the young guy was. He must have known Ellen. What did the bartender say his name was? Oh well, it probably made no difference. They always had names, but usually Ellen never knew what they were. Number Four, line up, take a number….
He slammed the bar door behind him and went out into the day which suddenly was glaringly bright, the sun spraying golden light through the rifts in the drifting, parting clouds. Looking seaward the ocean seemed blue again. A storm crew’s street-sweeping machine bumbled along the road, picking up blown leaves and papers.
What now? The hell with Ellen! There was no point at all in chasing her down at the hospital. The only reasonable thing to do was to find Edward and tell him where she was so that the contracts could be signed. And to find Sarah.
Who was that kid?
It was totally illogical after all of his absent years that Ellen could still raise a rage in him, some sort of residual jealousy. What could you call that?
Dumb.
He climbed into the Buick convertible and fiercely banged the door shut. He sat there for a long minute, trying to sort through his thoughts. Still a few occasional raindrops plopped against the windshield. The big orange street-sweeping machine swung around him and continued on, brushes swirling with lazy competence.
‘OK,’ he said to himself with sudden decision, ‘find Edward.’ He would let him know what was going on; sign the contracts himself. Find a room somewhere and hole up until the checks were cut and he could blow this town. By no means talk to Eric again….
Find Sarah.
Ellen, the bitch, had run off and left his little girl in the streets in the rain and … a sudden thought interrupted his angry brooding: the kid. Now, who was this guy, and if he knew who Ellen was, mightn’t he know something about Sarah? It was possible. He wasn’t long gone, this Don guy. Raymond thought he should be able to catch him and ask him, if he was walking. Which way had the kid gone?
Starting the Buick’s engine, Raymond stared southward in the direction the sweeper had gone. He looked northward in his mirror, frowning. Which way? Flip a coin. He dropped the car into gear and pulled a slithering U-turn across the boulevard, cutting off a woman in a yellow Thunderbird. He roared northward, back up the damp road in the direction of Dennison’s offices.
‘Is that the guy?’ Edward asked Eric.
He could see a young blond guy in a green jacket, red baseball cap tugged low, plodding up the hill toward them, his hands thrust into his pockets, face grim.
‘I don’t know,’ Eric said, ‘I think maybe it is.’
‘Hey!’ Edward called across the street. Rainwater still rushed past in the gutters. The young man looked up at him. ‘Yeah, you! Wait a minute, will you?’
They splashed across the street toward him, Edward’s shoes sinking ankle-deep in cold water.
Don March stood waiting for them, his hands on his hips, unsmiling as the two strangers crossed to meet him.
‘We’re looking for our sister….’
‘Sarah?’
‘How did you know? Yes, Sarah.’
Don was staring at Eric’s bruised face. ‘I’ve seen you before. Earlier. You were running past us.’
‘Yes,’ Edward said with a sharp glance at his brother, ‘but that doesn’t matter. What matters is….’
‘Sarah’s all right,’ Don told them. His expression was one of frank disgust. ‘No thanks to her family.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘She’s in my studio – and don’t give me that kind of look, friend – either one of you. You’re the ones who left her out in the rain. I just tried to keep her dry. Have you got a problem with that? Because I’ll tell you, I don’t think much of you.’
‘Our mother.…’ Eric began weakly.
‘Yeah,’ Don said bitterly. ‘I know all about that. Your mother was watching Sarah. Except it doesn’t seem that your mother is competent to watch anybody, does it?’
‘Watch it,’ Eric said, leaning nearer, but his own battered face subtracted from his menace.
‘OK,’ Don said with a sigh, lifting a semi-apologetic hand, ‘maybe there are things I don’t understand about this business. I just found your sister sitting in the rain and took her someplace dry. If you don’t already know, your mother’s been taken to the hospital. She got drunk and fell off a barstool.’
‘How could you know…?’
‘I went looking for her. I sort of met your mother earlier and knew what she looked like. I found a bartender who recognized her from my description.’
‘All right,’ Edward said hastily, ‘we’re sorry you had to get involved in this.’ He was beginning to feel ridiculous in his gray suit. As the sun beamed down now, steam rose from his shoulders; a $300 suit ruined forever. ‘All we want to do is find Sarah and take her home.’
‘OK, follow me,’ Don said. Residual anger still stiffened his expression.
The three men slogged up the street where puddles as bright as mirrors now danced with a blue and silver sheen. A flock of gray pelicans passed overhead, returning to the sea now that the storm had passed.
‘Up here,’ Don said, leading the way to the studio.
When they had climbed the outside stairs and entered the cluttered studio, Don’s blue robe was neatly folded on the wooden chair, the kerosene heater turned off, Sarah’s dress, which had been hanging from the ceiling, was gone.
And Sarah was not there.
‘What’s going on here?’ Eric demanded. ‘Where is she?’
‘I guess she took off….’ Don rambled into the other room and returned, his cap tipped back, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. ‘She’s not here. I don’t know where she went.’
There was nothing to show that she had ever been there at all, it seemed. But Don discovered the small piece of paper carefully pinned beneath the study of fish and winging birds, and he showed them what was written on it:
Sarah.
‘That’s terrific,’ Edward said roughly, ‘where in hell is she? You let her just walk away!’
Don turned on the lawyer, his face set dangerously, ‘Listen, my friend, she isn’t my sister. I found her out there and tried to help her. I’m not the one who lost her … oh forget it!’ Don said, calming a little. He took a deep breath, ‘Let’s go out and find her so that you can take her home.’
‘Is that where she thinks she’s going, Edward?’ Eric asked his brother with evident hostility. Edward didn’t answer. He seemed to pale slightly; his hand tightened on the handle of his briefcase.
‘What does he mean by that?’ Don asked.
It was a long silent moment with rain trickling from the eaves beyond the window before Edward replied.
‘She’s going to a hospital where they are equipped to take care of people like Sarah,’ he said at last.
‘A hospital, is that what you call it!’ Eric said hotly. ‘“People like Sarah!” What do you know about people like Sarah? Except that they get in the way of everyone else’s little plans.’
‘You’re one to talk, Eric,’ Edward said, loosening his tie with one hand, ‘we at least tried to take care of her, not carve her up psychologically as you did!’
‘Oh, sure! I did it! Not you and Mother and Dad … you were always so concerned about Sarah! You always had her best interests at heart. What do you think put her in the strangled little world she lives in? It wasn’t me, Edward.’ He shook his head heavily, ‘No, it wasn’t me.’
‘The hell it wasn’t, you son-of-a-bitch!’ Edward took a step toward his brother, half-raising his briefcase as if he wanted to hit Eric with it and all the weight it contained. Don watched them in astonishment.
‘Jesus!’ he said, not loudly. ‘I don’t know what happened, what all of this is about, but I can look at you two and see what a lovely family you are. What a pleasant home Sarah must have had.’
‘That’s right,’ Edward shot back, ‘you don’t know, so keep your opinions to yo
urself. You’re right, though. Sarah’s home life is a mess and always has been. Which is exactly why she’s going to be institutionalized – don’t let the word put you off – put in some place where the people, if anonymous, are kinder to her.’ Edward smiled as if his point had been made and taken, ‘You see, Mister … the house we grew up in and the surrounding one hundred and eighty acres is being sold. Is sold. Within thirty days there will be no home for Sarah to return to.’
‘As if she ever had one!’ Eric yelled, his words muffled behind his hands. ‘As if any of us ever did! They never gave us that simple thing. Home.’
‘I admire you, Eric,’ his brother said sarcastically, ‘I really do.’ His suit continued to drip on the floor, he was bedraggled-looking, but his confidence had returned. ‘You have a unique capacity for blaming everything that has happened to you on everyone but yourself.’
Now it was Eric who became angry again. His hands dropped from his bruised face and he stepped forward, hotly flushed. He halted his movement abruptly and turned back toward the steam-fogged window and muttered, ‘Screw you, Edward.’
‘Fine,’ his brother said with audible tension, ‘screw me, screw us all and you go on your way – that’s your pattern isn’t it?’
‘Just sign these goddamned papers, please!’ Edward continued, ‘I’ll see that you get some money today if I have to advance it out of my own pocket. You have to get out of this town, out of our lives and this time, stay out.’
Don March stared at his two unwelcome visitors with blank disbelief. They were going to deal with business matters now and look for Sarah later!
Edward had placed his alligator briefcase on the table, thumbed the gold-plated latches open and produced a set of blue-backed contracts and a mother-of-pearl fountain pen, shoving Don’s cameras aside. Eric, his jaw set, went to the table and signed the contracts in three places without reading a word on them.
March couldn’t contain himself, ‘That is what you’re concerned about now?’ he said, gesturing toward the contracts, ‘not Sarah, but your paperwork? It’s all becoming quite clear to me now. Now I am beginning to see why she is like she is.’
‘You don’t know,’ Edward said. ‘You don’t know a god-damned thing. Just butt out. Forget it; it doesn’t concern you Mr.…’
‘March, Donald March,’ the photographer said, ‘and no, I won’t butt out, pal. I’ve known your sister only for a bit of one morning, but apparently I care about her more than you do. You sign your contracts, whatever you have to do,’ he said, putting his cap back on. ‘Close the door when you go out, please.’
‘Where are you going…?’
‘Take a guess!’ Don said from the doorway. ‘To find your sister! I only wish there was some way I could find to keep from returning her to the bosom of her loving family.’
Don slammed the door behind him. Both brothers were yelling after him, but he paid no attention. He walked out into the windy, bright day. Fleet clouds still scudded past overhead, casting quick-running shadows. He had no idea of where he was going, what he was going to do. Except to know that he would find Sarah.
All that Sarah could think of to do was to go back to the pier again. She saw that a few fishermen had returned now that the rain had stopped. There were flocks of wheeling, shrieking seagulls, and two pelicans winged slowly past, flying low over the blue ocean. The breeze was light; there were only a very few intermittent raindrops, but still she was very cold in her light butterfly-and-roses dress.
The young man with the pictures had not come back. She knew he had gone to try to find Mother, but what if Mother were sick? Edward and Aunt Trish had dropped them off at the pier, surely they would come back some time to pick her up?
It was more than a little confusing. They said they would come back, but Daddy had the car now. Eric had come back with a bloody face. Edward was walking with him through the rain. Where were they going? It was the rain, she decided. It confused everyone and they had become lost, as she had.
Walking out on the pier, she came across a crippled bird. Not even a bird yet, really. It was bald all over, no larger than a mouse. It was trying to fly, but it was so small and hadn’t even real feathers yet – only a few black whiskers.
She crouched and scooped it up in her hands. Where had it fallen from? One wing, if it could be called that, was broken. A tiny yellow beak opened and closed soundlessly crying. Its eyes were bright and terrified and it flapped around crazily, uselessly in her hands for a minute and then was still.
It was dead. Sarah knew that. She knew what dead meant. It happened to babies too small and weak to live.
Because they had told her that when Baby had died.
That was when Sarah still had trouble walking because her insides hurt. When Baby had wanted her so-sore nipples and she had been taken into the parlor to sit near the fireplace in her bloody robe.
Then Mother and Aunt Trish had gone up the stairs toward the room where Baby cried in her cradle. Mother carried an old silk curtain, one of those which had hung in the parlor when Grandfather had still been alive, and Aunt Trish had carried a pillow; they moved, grim shadows, up the firelit staircase.
After a while, Baby stopped crying. Then it was time to take Baby into the basement.
Baby had been too small, they said. Not strong enough for life. And it was true, of course, although Sarah remembered crying for a week afterward. Baby’s little arms were not right. Only that one soft and so-tiny hand reaching for her breast had any real fingers.
Baby was so small. No larger than the bird in her hands, it seemed.
Aunt Trish had screamed, ‘God, I never thought I could do such a thing!’ and she had thrown the pillow into the fireplace where it burned, smelling of fetid decay.
Mother had gone away for a little while then, and when she came home she was sick again. Some man with a big truck had brought her back to the house, but he didn’t come in. He just drove away with his radio loud, and Mother had stumbled upstairs and Edward had helped her move Baby’s cradle out to the shed.
In the middle of that blue, moonless night, Sarah had gone out naked and taken the cradle out of the shed, moving it down to the basement where she dug Baby up and placed her in her bed. She had put her little pink blanket over her and sung her favorite little baby-song until dawn, when they had come down and found her there.
They had taken the cradle away and then smashed it and burned it in the fireplace. But no one could take Baby away, and so she still slept there, quiet and being very good, but just too tiny for the world.
‘Are you OK, girl?’
A big fisherman with a gray beard and concerned eyes was standing over her, watching. ‘You OK?’
Sarah stood and the bird dropped from her hands. The man kicked it off the pier with a big boot and went away.
Sarah walked on.
Raymond Tucker had given it up. Wherever his two asshole sons had gone, he wasn’t going to find them. The blond kid, whoever he was, was nowhere to be seen.
That meant there was nothing for it but to go see Ellen, as strongly as he disliked the idea. Edward couldn’t know where his mother was. The papers had to be signed so that each of them could be free of the dark tentacles of the old house, the past that haunted them, each in his own way. Yeah, pick Ellen up, drive her back to Dennison’s office. In dead silence. Make her sit in the back seat by herself and just keep her mouth shut all the way – unless she did know where Sarah had got to…. His little girl wandering around alone.… Raymond’s fury began to slowly build again. He fought it down, knowing that it limited his ability to function reasonably. Just now he had felt like buying a bottle of whisky and getting half-smashed to get him through the day more calmly. Yet the booze didn’t always work that way on him either. One too many drinks and his temper came back with unpredictable variants.
No, the thing to do was to get his check from Dennison, find a motel room, lock himself in and get staggering drunk. Maybe bring some young whore in to listen to his s
ad laments. Raymond smiled in self-deprecation. He supposed he had not been a good father, a good husband. It was self-delusional to pretend otherwise. But deep down he believed he had tried his best with the tools he had. Maybe it had been just too difficult for him, trying to be everything to everyone in the family. He set his goals lower for today. Get Ellen back to the lawyer’s office, sign the papers. Get a check cut. Find Sarah.
He had to stop and yell out to a half-deaf old man to find the right route to the hospital. It had been a long time since he had been back in town. And since he’d been to the hospital? Jesus, not since Sarah was born. Twenty-one years ago! His entire life was flickering past so rapidly. Like pages in a long, boring novel he simply rifled through. How short now seemed the years they had constructed and destroyed. He could think of so few things he was proud to have done, so many he regretted. Screw it. It was done. There was no changing it now.
He swung onto the coast road as the old man had directed and buzzed along with the soft-riding Buick beneath him.
Ellen knew that something was wrong, but only gradually did she realize what it was. She was undressed for one thing. It was not her own bed with its thick crimson comforter where she lay. The lights around her were brilliantly white; loudspeakers blared and people murmured in low voice.
She was in a hospital again. God! What had happened this time?
It was hardly her first time in a hospital, waking up not knowing where she was, sometimes not knowing who she was. It had all started … she tried to shut out the memories, banging a steel door of censorship closed in her mind. It did no good at all. The memories were as clear as yesterday. She remembered the first time, the well-meaning doctor asking her why she drank so much, beyond insensibility, as if it were a suicidal plunge, so deeply crazy were her blackouts. Doctors could be so funny in their way. They searched for organic solutions everywhere. Ellen closed her eyes to the lights. Her forehead hurt, but she didn’t reach up to finger it. She turned inward in a waking dream.
Funny. It was all so funny – they really expected her to talk about it. Cleanse the psyche. Walk away cured, a totally healthy woman.