Towering

by Alex Flinn

  I began to dial my phone number.

  She answered immediately. “Is it you?”

  “Yes. Can you see the moon through your window?”

  “I can. I hoped we were seeing it together.”

  “Now, we are.”

  “Now, we are. But Wyatt?”

  “Yes?” I was whispering.

  “Something has happened. Two things, actually. I’ve been waiting for you to call so I could tell you.”

  “Me too. I mean, I’ve been waiting to hear your voice.” I sounded like a girl, but she had that effect on me.

  “I know. I mean, me too, but I have to tell you what happened.”

  “What happened?” I hadn’t really taken her that seriously when she said something had happened. I mean, what can happen when you’re stuck in a tower all day? And yet, her voice sounded strident with urgency. “Is it Mama?”

  That would be urgent. If something happened to Mama, what would happen to Rachel? She would be all alone in a world she knew nothing about.

  No, she would have me.

  But she said, “Nothing like that, but right before you called, someone else did.”

  “Who?” I hadn’t thought about it, obviously, in my excitement to talk to her. The phone had barely rung since I’d been here, but that was because of not having service. With service, other people—Mom, people from school, Astrid—might call and talk to her. I should have told her not to answer other calls. Wait, I did.

  “Oh, Rachel, you shouldn’t answer unless it’s this number.” I hoped it hadn’t been Astrid. She would have gotten an earful for sure. “I’m sorry if anyone said anything—”

  “Listen! Wyatt, it’s important. A man called, and he said he might have information about Zach.”

  “Zach?” For a moment, I couldn’t remember who Zach was.

  “About Zach,” she insisted. “About my father.”

  “Rachel, you didn’t tell anyone where you were, did you? Or who you are?”

  “Of course not! I just said I was your sister. And that’s when he said he had news about Zach. Here, wait. I wrote it all down: His name was Carl. You spoke with his brother, Henry. He wanted you to meet him at the Red Fox Inn tomorrow. He left his number.” She recited a number which I scrambled to write down. News! This was awesome! If it wasn’t creepy.

  “But wait, if the guy didn’t tell you Zach was your father, how did you know?” I twisted around to make sure Mrs. Greenwood wasn’t there. I could still just barely hear the television upstairs.

  “That’s the other thing that happened—the other amazing thing I had to tell you. I found a letter.”

  “A letter? Like in the tower? From Mama?”

  “No, from a girl. Emily Hill. Do you know her?”

  “Um, yeah. Emily Hill is my mother. There was a letter from her?”

  She nodded. “It was in the coat, the pocket of the coat you gave me.”

  “The coat?” Danielle’s coat? Was it possible the letter had been waiting there all along? “What did it say?”

  “It was from your mother to mine. My mother was pregnant, and your mother was worried about her.”

  “Why?” In retrospect, it made sense, but I was surprised to hear my mother had been worried all along. Then again, she was probably worried about normal stuff, like whether Danielle’s mom would throw her out of the house or if Danielle would go to college.

  “She said Danielle was talking crazy, about hallucinogens.”

  The rhapsody!

  “Danielle said it was destiny.”

  “What was?” Had my mother known about Danielle? About everything before she sent me here? No, it was crazy.

  “Emily didn’t say. She was trying to get Danielle to calm down, saying it would be okay, but . . .”

  She broke off.

  “But what?”

  “I have to go.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “What? Wait, Rachel. You have to tell me more.”

  “It’s Mama. She’s early.”

  “Okay. I’ll come tomorrow morning, early.”

  And then, the line went dead.

  I stood there, holding the phone, wondering if it had malfunctioned somehow. No, it hadn’t. Rachel had hung up on me. Then, I wondered if I should call my own mother, should see what she knew. She definitely knew about the baby. Had she sent me here on purpose to make me part of this?

  I dialed her cell phone, but it rang and rang. No surprise. She was probably working late. Without my cell phone, I couldn’t text her. I’d call tomorrow.

  Instead, I dialed the number Rachel had just given me.

  Someone answered immediately.

  “Is this Mr. Fox?” I said.

  “Not the Mr. Fox you met,” a smooth voice said. “This is Carl, his brother. I assume this is Wyatt?”

  “Yes.” I glanced out the window. It was snowing again. “Did you have something to tell me?” I didn’t want to give too much away. This might have been the guy who’d followed me. I wanted to ask him.

  But he said, “I talked to your sister before. Henry said you were looking for information on Zach Gray. I have it.”

  “Great . . . um, what do you have to tell me?”

  “I actually can take you to him.”

  “Your brother said he moved.”

  “My brother, fact is, he’s losing it. He’s got total recall for a football game he watched six months ago, and then, he can’t remember something that happened yesterday.” He laughed. “Zach moved to New York City, wanted to be a rock star. But then, he moved back.”

  “Oh.” That was weird. “Wouldn’t people know he was there?”

  “He’s sort of a recluse, I guess. Doesn’t come out much. But I could take you to see him.”

  Everything in the world told me to say no. No, I couldn’t meet him. But, finally, I said, “The supermarket in Gatskill? I could meet you there.”

  “You’re really making this difficult.”

  “Sorry. Someone followed me yesterday.” Probably you. “It was weird.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. I don’t get out much. I’ve been sick.” He coughed, a bad smoker’s cough that came up all the way from his chest, and he kept coughing for almost a minute. “Can we just meet outside the Red Fox? Maybe at noon?”

  “Can we make it earlier?” I wanted to see Rachel.

  “I can make it as early as you want. Eight?”

  “Eight’s fine. How will I find you?”

  “I’ll find you.” And then, the line went dead.

  40

  Rachel

  I could hear Mama’s footsteps on the stair. Usually, she was easy to hear, for her steps were labored, which reminded me that she was old. But, of course, I had never needed an early warning before. There had never been any danger. Now, I fumbled with the strange phone. I thought, at first, to stuff it under the mattress. But, at the last minute, I dropped it into a tall, empty vase in which Mama had placed some fake flowers. She would never look there.

  Mama’s footsteps grew still closer, then paused. I heard her fumble for her keys. If she would but allow me to open my own door, I could let her in. But no, she did not trust me.

  I sighed. I wasn’t trustworthy. I had done exactly what she feared—allowed someone inside. She would see it as endangering myself.

  But Wyatt was not a danger to me.

  I had begun to wonder if there was any danger at all. But, indeed, the letter, and then, the strange phone call had confirmed that there was, that Mama’s fears were justified.

  But she had no reason to fear Wyatt. But still, I wouldn’t tell her about it. She would, as Wyatt had said, flip out.

  I heard her key enter the lock. Phone hidden, I sat on my bed to read.

  Just as I did, she entered. Her face was lined with urgency.

  “I heard voices. Is someone here?”

  Calm. Keep calm. “You heard . . . voices?” I knew she had heard only one voice, my voice talking to Wyatt. But I tried to make my face a blank. �
�How could anyone be here. I am in a tower, at least five stories up and in the middle of a vast forest. I have not seen anyone but you in years.”

  Her glance darted around the room. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know I heard something.” She walked to the closet and threw open the door. Nothing, of course. Then, under the bed, the very bed upon which I sat. Fortunately, I had moved the rope, just that day, to the back of one of my bureau drawers, under my clothing. That would have incited justifiable suspicion indeed. But there was nothing.

  “Are you finished? Perhaps I have a boy under my pillow.” I lifted it up to show I had none. “Or a tiny little man in that vase over there.”

  She sighed and embraced me. “Oh, darling, I am sorry. I worry about you, and I could have sworn I heard voices. It must have been my ears playing tricks on me.”

  “Had you allowed me to speak, I would have told you that the voice you heard was mine. I was reading aloud.” I tuned to an oft-dog-eared page of Jane Eyre, one I might have been able to recite even without looking upon it. I trusted she had not heard my exact words. “‘I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, or even of mortal flesh:—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!’ Is that not so beautiful that you need to read it aloud?”

  “Of course it is, my darling.” She stroked my hair. “And I should not have doubted you.”

  “I forgive you, Mama.” Though I did not.

  “I’m glad.” She opened the hamper she had brought with her. “And if you have not, you will when you see what I’ve brought—your favorite roast chicken!”

  This did cheer me somewhat. How sad that, before I met Wyatt, food had been my only pleasure.

  “And I thought,” she continued, “that, after dinner, we could play a round of Rummikub!”

  41

  Wyatt

  I couldn’t call Rachel because, of course, Mama might still be there. The phone was on vibrate, but around here, it was so still, so quiet, that even vibrate was loud. So, instead, I went upstairs. Through Mrs. Greenwood’s door, I could hear the TV, still blasting, another sitcom. How could she sleep through that? But maybe her hearing wasn’t good. I thought about going in and turning it off, but seeing her in her jammies would be . . . awkward.

  I couldn’t sleep anyway. What had the letter said? And what would I say to Zach when I met him. “Hey, dude, you know you fathered a child seventeen years ago, and she’s, like, locked in a tower?” Maybe he was a total waste case from all the drugs he’d taken.

  In the darkness, I swore I could hear Rachel singing. I wondered if she ever heard me.

  It was weird, when you thought about it, my mother moving to Long Island and getting pregnant at almost exactly the same time her dear friend Danielle. Rachel didn’t know her birthday or anything about her parents, but if the dates in Danielle’s diary—the date her mother had met Zach and the date he’d left—were true, her birthday was very close to mine.

  I thought about that a while, listening to a late-night show with a comedian who must have been hilarious. Then, the audience laughter turned into the drone of an infomercial which, thankfully, I could only hear if I tried. Finally, Mrs. Greenwood must have gotten up and shut off the TV because I couldn’t hear anything.

  I could not sleep. I fell asleep, then woke an hour later, slept then woke again. Outside my window, the wind howled and rattled the glass. When I finally went into something approaching REM sleep, I was roused from it once again, violently, like my mother shaking me when I was late to school. I heard a tapping noise, like someone banging at the window, and a voice crying. Was it Rachel? No, just the wind. I pulled my pillow over my head, ignoring it.

  The voice said, “Let me in!”

  Imagination! Way too vivid, for sure. With one hand, I searched the nightstand for my earbuds, to muffle the sound. I couldn’t find them. In doing so, I knocked over a glass of water, soaking my bed and probably the earbuds I was looking for. I stood and walked across the room, searching for the light switch for the ceiling lamp.

  Across the hall, the banging continued, and the voice. “Let me in!”

  I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. As I entered, I heard glass breaking. I looked to the window.

  It was Danielle. She looked just as she had the first night I had arrived. But, this time, she didn’t wait for me. Instead, she reached through with one glowing hand, unlatched the window, opened it, and stepped through.

  “Whoah!” I said.

  She shook her head, then pressed her finger to her lips. She started toward me.

  Instinctively, I knew I must step aside, must follow her. Now, I would pursue wherever she went. I felt an icy chill as she passed, but maybe it was just the wind through the broken window.

  She went only to my own room. Once there, she surveyed the unkempt bed, the messy desk, the spilled water, until she found what she sought.

  Beside my bed was the plain brown bag from Hemingway’s. She slid her hand inside it and brought out the hairbrush. She ran her finger across the flower pattern, as if to make certain it was the right brush.

  Then, she began to take down her hair. It had been in a ponytail, but once down, it was very long, almost as long as Rachel’s hair, but dark instead of blonde.

  She brushed her hair. As she did, the hairbrush opened to reveal that it was, in fact, a box. Carefully, she held it up, then turned it over.

  Out fell an object. She tried to catch it in her hand, but it tumbled onto the floor.

  From her glow, I could see that it was a key.

  I leaned to pick it up.

  She handed me the hairbrush and motioned that I should replace the key inside it.

  I did and closed the box. She watched as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to open it. It wouldn’t budge. She took it from my hand, brushed her hair, and repeated the process, then handed it back to me. I closed it and placed it on my nightstand.

  She started to walk away.

  “Wait!” I said. “What’s it for?”

  She didn’t answer, which was maddening. I knew she could speak. I’d heard her screaming just moments before. But she merely continued to walk away.

  “Wait!” I said.

  Again, she pressed fingers to lips. “Shh, you’ll wake my mother again.”

  “But . . .”

  She shrugged and continued out the door.

  Blackness began to swirl around me. I didn’t, couldn’t pursue her. I was suddenly so tired, more tired than I had ever been before. I fell to the bed and didn’t even see her cross the threshold of my room.

  In the morning, I woke comfortably tucked into bed. I looked at the nightstand. It was dry, and my earbuds were where they belonged. The hairbrush wasn’t there.

  I checked the hallway for Mrs. Greenwood. No sign of her.

  Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room.

  Had I expected to see broken glass? A mess where snow had made its way in? I wasn’t sure. In any case, I didn’t see any of it. I peered out the window.

  In the circle of lamplight, I could see that footprints dotted the doorstep. I couldn’t tell where they started, but they definitely ended at the door.

  Had Danielle returned last night?

  Or was it someone else?

  Again, checking carefully, I traversed the hall. I spied the Hemingway’s bag on the floor. I reached inside.

  The brush was there, as it had been last night in my dream . . . vision . . . visitation. I drew it out, as Danielle had then. I tried to open it.

  It didn’t work.

  I drew it through my own hair. Nothing. Still, when I shook the brush, I could hear the key rattling inside.

  I gasped.

  I understood. I thought. Rachel would be able to open the box by brushing her hair
. That’s what Danielle had been telling me.

  I took the brush with me.

  It was cold even inside the house, so I put on a sweater, grabbed my coat and gloves, and went downstairs.

  Mrs. Greenwood’s car keys weren’t where I’d left them. Strange. I finally found them, then left a note for her, saying I’d gone skiing.

  I thought about calling Rachel before I left, but it was too early. I’d see her later. And by then, I’d know about Zach, her father.

  I got into the car and drove down the still-dark road to the expressway. I drove slow because something about the day was dangerous. I could barely make out the snow-dappled boulders that lined the road. I imagined myself running off it, dashing against those rocks, no one knowing who I was, where I’d come from.

  And Rachel would never know what happened to me.

  I slowed further and moved to a different lane.

  In the first morning light, I thought I heard a voice, Rachel’s voice, saying, “Call me.” Crazy. But I didn’t have my phone anyway, and I’d be there soon. Aloud, I said, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”

  Finally, I reached Gatskill. The streets were deserted. I passed the library, then almost missed the Red Fox Inn. As I was about to pass it, I noticed something. A light in a window. Someone was there.

  With a deep breath, I pulled into what was left of the parking lot and got out of the car. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like dead bones. Its whistle was almost a warning. Almost. I reminded myself that the real danger was in the place I had just left. I trudged toward the door. The snow was high here, as if the wind had collected it. I left footprints where there had been none.

  I hesitated. Last chance to leave.

  Before I could knock, the door opened.

  “Are you Wyatt?”

  I stepped back, but I nodded.

  The man was just as old as his brother, maybe eighty, maybe more. Like his brother, he had startling bright blue eyes.

  “I’m Carl.” He held out his hand. “Come in.”

  “I’d rather not.” Even as I said it, the wind kicked up, and a chill ran from the bones in my shoulders down my body to the ground. “I’d rather stay out here.”