Bradstreet Gate: A Novel

by Robin Kirman

  O Lethe, what ruins thou holdest of body and soul!

  Of the greatest of masters, and of wrecks and disasters.

  Thy sweet forgetful flood sweeps over us all…the living and dead…

  and them that live on…after honor is fled.

  27

  It was on the final day of her service to the Friedlanders, as Alice was already on her way out, that Christine announced they’d be making a small detour on their way to the airport.

  “Just over to Great Falls for a quick brunch.”

  Alice warned her there really wasn’t time. Her flight left in two hours and she couldn’t miss this one; as it was, she’d barely make it to the campus for the memorial at four.

  “We’ll have to be quick then. What else can we do? Paula Moreaux insists on meeting you. You really can’t say no to Paula.”

  She might have guessed Christine would spring something like this on her, Alice thought: the woman couldn’t simply let her go; for three interminable weeks, she’d been the Friedlanders’ prisoner, along with the Siamese cats and trellis roses. Kept for the wife’s benefit rather than the would-be mayor’s, it turned out, to provide conversation throughout the unbroken chain of breakfasts, lunches, teas, and dinners underpinning Christine’s days.

  Brunch with Paula Moreaux was one final torture Alice could have done without, and would have, if Christine hadn’t found a means of holding her in her power for just a while longer: the payment from the Friedlanders still hadn’t come through.

  “I’ll phone the bank again, from Paula’s,” Christine promised; meanwhile she was sure Alice wouldn’t find the visit boring. Paula was always good for an amusing anecdote; her family went back two centuries in Great Falls, and she knew anybody of interest within a hundred miles, including details about that unfortunate young master, Storrow, whose name Christine had, apparently, had occasion to recall.

  Paula Moreaux wasn’t what Alice had envisioned as the dear friend of frail, high-strung Christine, nor as the owner of the restored plantation house where she greeted her guests at the door, dressed in overalls—her “work clothes,” she proudly called them. She was older than Christine, past sixty, but robust: tall and lumbering, about Alice’s own height, and nearly twice as wide.

  She lived on her own in the huge house, she and her pretty maid, Maria: there were no traces of another presence—no man’s jacket on the hook, no children’s or grandchildren’s pictures on the mantel—little to fill the seven bedrooms, except for numbers of large, brightly painted pots and vases. Her creations, Paula announced, as she dragged her guests on a tour through her potter’s studio and up and down the stairs to view its issue. Only then came brunch, served on the back porch by Maria, during which Paula poured out tall glasses of mimosas, and Christine raised the subject they’d all gathered to discuss.

  “Alice was the expert on Storrow herself once. Not to mention that she’s attending the memorial for that poor girl today. She wrote the speeches.”

  “Just one,” Alice corrected. “An introduction.”

  “Such a funny thing, your turning up now, Alice.” Paula smiled, slowly pulling open a brioche. “You’re not the first person this year to come to me asking about Rufus Storrow.”

  “Funny,” Alice agreed, neglecting to point out that she hadn’t asked about him, nor been the one to in any way suggest this meeting.

  “I don’t think I even mentioned it to you,” Paula went on, leaning toward Christine. “The investigator who came by this fall.”

  “No, somehow you neglected to,” Christine said, chiding.

  “Because, you know, it didn’t seem like such a big thing then.” Paula placed a morsel on her tongue and paused to chew. “But that was before those strange calls started coming. Did either of you hear about this? A month ago, almost exactly, a man starts calling people here in town, inquiring after Storrow: some business partner in Mumbai, I guess he was. I’m almost sure he must have been the one who hired that detective—not, as I’d imagined then, the wife.”

  “Storrow was married?” Christine’s wispy brows furrowed.

  “There’s another question, really—to hear Mimi tell it, no, he couldn’t possibly have been. Not to an Indian girl, anyway. But I’m getting sidetracked. How are we on time? Alice, how much longer are you mine?” Paula dropped the brioche and reached out to clutch Alice’s hand. The woman’s skin felt dry, and there was clay under her nails and in the wrinkles showing at the edges of her palm.

  “I can stay a few more minutes.” In fact, she should be on her way already; instead of lingering over rumors and mimosas, she should be pulling up to departures, picking out her seat at check-in.

  A clock stood on one wall of the porch, half concealed by immense hydrangeas, planted in stout, pink pots of Paula’s making. Alice had to force herself to keep track of the time while Paula finally told the story that Christine had vowed, that morning, would be well worth the trip.

  —

  The crowd gathered behind Thayer Hall filled just the first few rows of chairs. The gates onto the Yard were open. Security stood quietly by; no curious onlookers, no crush of press to manage, only a single cameraman leaning against the back wall of Holworthy and a student reporter, standing a few feet off, scribbling into a pad.

  Nat Krauss—Alice was sure it must be him: greasy haired, jittery and self-serious. If she squinted, she might mistake him for the editor who’d published her in the Crimson ten years before. She passed behind the boy and around the corner of Canaday Hall, choosing a spot nearly out of sight of the crowd. The reporter wasn’t the only one she didn’t wish to see her. From a distance, she regarded her former classmates, clustered on the green; some hairlines had receded, some cheeks had thinned, others grown rounder. They looked adult, if not yet old, chatting soberly in suits and skirts, turning their faces up to scan the clouds. The air was damp, the strong breeze threatening rain: no provisions had been made for bad weather, no costly tent erected on the grounds, just a platform in front of Bradstreet Gate, where a small plaque had been hung ten years before.

  On the platform sat the speakers and the family. Alice had arrived late, spared the difficulty of avoiding the Patels, who were already removed from the audience and set out on display. Alice observed them from the side: Mrs. Patel, surveying the sparse gathering ahead; Mr. Patel, preferring to study his hands, or gratefully exchange a few words with the first fellowship recipient, seated on his left. Darlene sat at the end, scarcely recognizable, stripped of combat boots and nose ring, resembling her late sister in a modest gray dress and a braid. The next row contained the speakers: the Quincy dean, the university’s chaplain and president, and, on the far right, an empty chair that must have been reserved for Charlie. Fifteen minutes before the start of proceedings, Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a baby cried. Alice searched the courtyard, studying the several women leaning over carriages, arranging shades and blankets to protect their little ones from any pending drops of rain. Georgia wasn’t among them—she’d no doubt had enough death to commemorate this month—though Alice did recognize two of these new mothers: friends of Julie’s. Julie’s former boyfriend was here too, Lucas Parker; he’d grown a short beard, but looked otherwise the same. His arm was around another woman, a trim brunette who stood with a fixed smile, pretending to be listening to whatever it was Lucas was saying, and not to notice Mrs. Patel staring at her, sadly, from the stage.

  The microphone let out a screech; a technician stood over the dais, fiddling with the wires. The first raindrops were falling. Time to begin; the crowd grew quiet, obedient students once again. The president eyed the empty chair at his right.

  It was then, while the president sat, craning his neck, and people lifted their jackets up above their heads, that Alice heard a woman’s laughter behind her and turned to see a couple passing: Charlie and Georgia, her baby in a sling across her chest, crossing through Meyer Gate to enter the Old Yard.

  They hadn
’t seen her, caught up in their own dizzy absorption with each other. Georgia was wiping the cheek beneath one eye: either tears of laughter or else she’d been crying. Her nerves were frayed, of that much Alice was sure; Georgia’s hands kept fluttering up to her hair and even that laugh of hers, though still husky, aware of its own charm, sounded unsteady.

  Alice’s experience with loss, at the age of twelve, remained enough with her to identify what she was seeing: Georgia wasn’t yet among the living; she’d been married to death for the last year. Perhaps, here, today, revisiting her past, she hoped to be revived a little, to think back on afternoons such as she and Alice had spent together: running, stealing lunches from the dining halls, picnicking on the grass.

  Brilliant days because of Georgia, who’d had such a gift for being young. She’d understood so much better than most others—better than Alice, herself—how to be agile and audacious and unencumbered by ambitions or the weight of great affections.

  So Georgia had come, thought Alice, to a memorial of all occasions, to recall life and freedom, and her own simple glory, and to be looked on again by Charlie, who’d always adored her.

  Charlie walked beside her, stiffly, staring at her, then lowering his eyes; his face was drawn, his complexion yellowed. At the platform he stopped and reached out a tentative hand to touch the baby. Georgia squeezed his arm, and a small flush colored his cheeks.

  The speakers looked on, waiting; at last Charlie stepped away to mount the platform. The university president nodded to him, no longer free to scold, not the young man who’d financed these proceedings. He stood, instead, to offer the opening remarks.

  A quotation stands on the opposite side of Bradstreet Gate, by its namesake, Anne Bradstreet, America’s first published female poet: “I came into this Country, where I found a new World and new manners at which my heart rose.”

  Julie Patel was also a newcomer to this country; her parents moved here when she was two, and instilled in her appreciation for the unique opportunities afforded her here….

  —

  Ten years before, this same man had stood in the same spot and offered similarly bland and careful remarks. Alice had listened to his words from the sidewalk, standing on the other side of Bradstreet Gate. She meant to go unseen that afternoon, to avoid the dark glances from Julie’s friends. The only classmate who’d ever known she’d come to hear the speeches on that day was Charlie.

  He’d spotted her on his way out and paused to say good-bye, feigning cheer and looking mournful in his black and gaping robe. Then he’d left her, to meet his family, she’d supposed, like all the others clustered inside the dining halls to grow dull with food and sentiment. Not her; she’d skipped the family and the formal meals; her robe and cap lay in a pile at her feet. For her, the finest celebration was to enjoy a cigarette and the relative quiet on Cambridge Street.

  Across the road, a car was parked, engine idling. She wasn’t sure when it had appeared, or how long she’d failed to note the man, watching her, it seemed, from the driver’s seat. He might have been anyone: some father waiting for his son or daughter to come down with a last piece of luggage. But something in this figure—his straight posture, his stillness—made Alice suspect otherwise and cross the street to the brown sedan: a deliberately nondescript replacement for the black BMW Storrow used to drive.

  She’d guessed what Storrow meant to say before she’d even reached the car: she should tell the police he’d been with her on the night Julie was killed. Already he’d approached her once to ask this impossible favor; four days before, he’d come to Charlie’s room at night when Charlie and Roger were both out. She’d have gone out, too, if she’d guessed that Storrow would dare to find her, would risk anything so foolish, with police watching him the way they were—they’d tapped his phones, he said, using this as an excuse, also, to appear this way: they had to speak in person.

  Through the door would have to do. Just his voice in the night was enough to make her think about calling the police herself.

  She wanted to be left out of it, she’d said; there was nothing she could do to help him anyway. Her story would only make him more detestable—a serial lecher—besides, the timing of his alibi was off; he’d left Georgia’s apartment at midnight, not at one, and so what he, with his talk of honor, required, was a lie.

  She made the same point that afternoon, taking her place beside Storrow in the passenger-side seat. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t change the facts to suit his interests. “It’s a crime, what you’re asking.”

  “It’s an act of mercy.”

  From outside came the sound of young voices; two students in graduation gowns were crossing in front of Storrow’s car. He dropped his head, not to be seen, and waited for them to pass.

  “I can’t teach; I can’t go out. They’ve taken my life away. One hour, that’s all it comes down to. If I’m innocent, what does it matter? I’m innocent, Alice. What’s one hour, for a man’s life?”

  It was terrible—and wonderful—to hold the fate of another person in one’s hands. Of course, she didn’t really. Two facts were already becoming clear—to her if not to Storrow yet: Storrow would not be arrested, nor would he ever, no matter what she might say, be cleared of suspicion.

  “You’re still a free man. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Storrow’s eyes narrowed, his looks grew sharp, anger enlivening that blandly handsome face. He thought her remark glib, but in fact she’d been sincere; he ought to have been grateful, not only for being spared prison, but for being released from that burdensome idea he maintained of himself, from the whole antiquated and exhausting effort of being Rufus Storrow.

  “I’m going to go now,” she announced. “You should, too; you shouldn’t even be here.” She pulled the handle on her door, but Storrow reached his arm out, pinning her to her seat.

  “I am here, dammit.”

  One hand gripped her arm; the other clenched into a fist. His whole face was like a fist then: strained and blank. His anger filled that tiny space of the car, flooded it, robbing her of breath.

  “I am here,” he repeated, through pursed lips. “I have plans. I have ambitions. I will not just disappear because some people would prefer I don’t exist.”

  —

  Storrow endured and would continue to endure—whatever the hell anybody wished—this, at least, was one heartening way to interpret the account produced by Paula Moreaux that morning, over the last warm sips of mimosas:

  “Simply disappeared is what I’ve heard. Two months he’s been gone. And before that, the last day anyone saw him, it seems he was clearing out a bank account in Mumbai. A business account that he’d been sharing with his partner, one of those criminal lawyers who’s half a criminal himself. It must have been a considerable sum Storrow went off with, too—enough for this partner to mount an inquiry, come and beat the bushes here.

  “Of course Mimi’s been mortified; in public, she’s done her best to hold herself above it, not to acknowledge this shady partner or dignify his complaints. I can tell you she’s the last person to bear a scandal, so to be put through yet another, after everything: first her boy’s an alleged killer and now he’s a thief among the lowest kind of thieves. Not to mention that Indian family that some claim he’s left behind—little brown Storrows running around—this is Mimi’s view, not mine, obviously. She’d prefer to deny the possibility of such creatures: if they’re out there, better they stay hidden. I imagine she must feel the same way about him. No pity left. That son, she must be thinking—wouldn’t it be the best thing for everybody, really, if Rufus Storrow never showed his face again?”

  —

  Standing in the shade of Canaday Hall, beside the gate that now stood open, Alice could hear Charlie’s voice through the microphone, his tone measured, meant to reassure the several dozen people gathered on the patch of grass inside that they were still among the sheltered, favored and secure. It was up to him to introduce the fellowship recipient being honored on
that day and to enumerate her many virtues: daughter of immigrants, like Julie, valedictorian of her public high school, like Julie. A young woman possibly as good as the other one buried in the Pittsburgh earth, good enough to inspire clapping, though nothing thunderous enough to block out the ring of a cell phone.

  Alice took the call, which was from her lawyer, letting her know that the last payment to Mary Wittmer had been made, reminding her that, with enough money and luck, sometimes, one could receive a second chance and that she, Alice Kovac, was, officially, forgiven of her debts. Thirty-one, alone and broke, not a young woman to inspire applause, but innocent, at least under U.S. law, the surest innocence there was, either in heaven or on earth.

  Acknowledgments

  For their wisdom and vision, I’m indebted to Adam Eaglin and Elyse Cheney, Alexis Washam, and Molly Stern. For their dedication to getting this book made and read, thanks to the rest of the marvelous team at Crown. For his expert advice, thanks to Barry Carr and, for their generosity and insight, to Jon Dee, Debbie Cohn, and Diane Greco. Finally, I’m grateful to my family, for inspiration and encouragement.