Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  For the moment, I file it away, and we delve into the details of In the Shadows of Justice.

  *

  We spend the main course breaking down the novel, discussing character arcs and fun stuff like who we would cast in the main roles, should the big-screen adaptation ever come to fruition. Denise knows her stuff and could absolutely be an author. We order another bottle of wine and take our time.

  After the main course, the waiter clears our plates and asks us if we’d like any dessert.

  I’m all in, but Denise gives me a pleading look.

  “I’m worried that this is getting a little expensive.”

  I lean in over the table. “If you don’t let us get tiramisu, I’m never speaking to you, again.”

  Without missing a beat, she throws her hands up in feigned disgust. “Fine.” She looks at the waiter. “He’s such a jerk.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the waiter says and walks away.

  “And two espressos, please,” she calls after him.

  The tiramisu arrives in dainty teacups and perfectly pairs with the espressos.

  We’ve been talking for hours about anything and everything. We’re clicking on every cylinder.

  Finally, it reaches the point where we’re the last two diners in the restaurant, and the chairs are being placed on the tables.

  Our poor waiter has had enough, and respectfully drops the check.

  I happily pluck it from the table.

  “Are you sure?” Denise asks.

  “More than you know. This is exactly what I needed.”

  She smiles. “Me too. Thank you, Daniel.”

  *

  She accepts my offer to walk her home, and even though she lives just around the corner, we decide to take the long way.

  We stroll through Kingsbrook, admiring the old houses, and talking of this and that—her job, other genres that I might want to try, her travels, where we grew up, etc.

  Eventually, the conversation slows, and I can’t contain my curiosity any longer.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it’s a little personal and if you don’t want to answer, I completely understand.”

  “Ooooh. This sounds interesting.”

  “Well, I’ve formed a theory and I might be way off-base.”

  “A theory about me?”

  “Well, it’s more of a general theory, but … yes.”

  “I know so much about you. It only seems fair. Ask away.”

  “Okay. Here goes … I sort of feel like anyone who has been through the kind of loss I’ve been through, they can recognize it in other people. I could be totally wrong, but I’m pretty sure I see it in you.”

  She stops and stares at me.

  Oh no. I may have just stepped way over a line, but her expression softens.

  She scoffs. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m a writer. I’m very observant,” I reply in an attempt at humor.

  She sadly smiles and we resume our slow stroll.

  After a thoughtful silence, she takes a breath.

  “It was back in Boston. I was married to a man I loved and he loved me. We wanted to start a family and we had a son—Toby. When he was seven, he started getting really weak. We took him in for tests. He had something called aplastic anemia. His, uh, his bone marrow wouldn’t … We lost him … and it wasn’t quick. It took a year … a year of helplessly watching him suffer … After that, our marriage disintegrated. We were scared to have another child because we worried what would happen. We couldn’t move on. We were stuck in that horrible place … We couldn’t be together anymore, even though we still loved each other … I’m sure we still do, but I haven’t spoken to him in years … I don’t even know where he is …” She shakes her head. “I think that’s why I became a second-grade teacher. Being around children the same age as Toby when he … left, it’s like I get to experience that part of him, you know?”

  We continue walking in silence.

  “It’s not fair,” I say.

  She sadly smiles. “No. No, it’s not.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Not too many people know that story, so consider yourself lucky.”

  In that moment, I feel closer to her than I’ve felt to anyone in a while.

  She stares down at the sidewalk, lost in her own tormented world; a world of what could have been, what should have been but will never be. I know that world, well.

  “Man, how great is tiramisu, though?” I dramatically sigh.

  She laughs and lightly nudges me with her elbow.

  *

  “This is me.”

  We stop in front of a large, Victorian home that has been separated into units.

  “Daniel, I had an absolutely amazing time. Thank you.”

  “Denise, this was a perfect evening, and if you ever need a break from grading and paperwork, let me know. We’ll do this again, and you can tell me all about the novel you’re writing.”

  “Deal,” she laughs. Then, she grows somber. “Listen, I know tonight was nothing but harmless, and we’re adults, but let’s keep it to ourselves, okay? It’s not technically against the rules for a teacher to see the parent of a student socially, but Principal Craig really, really frowns on it and I’m still relatively new to Concord. If it got around, it could make things kind of difficult for me at work.”

  “Our secret. My lips are sealed. Scout’s honor.”

  She smiles.

  “Good night, Daniel.”

  “Good night, Denise.”

  We hug.

  “Thank you, again,” she says next to my ear.

  “Thank you.”

  She turns and walks up the path to the door. I wait on the sidewalk as she gets out her key and opens the door. She looks back at me and gives me a slight wave.

  I wave back.

  Once she closes the door, I begin walking back to the main square, calmer and more content than I’ve been in months.

  *

  The smile hasn’t left my face by the time I pull into the driveway of the Nightingale House.

  I walk through the front door and flip on the light, filling the living room with a warm glow. With a flourish, I toss my jacket onto the couch. I’ve got the place to myself, and I’m going to enjoy it for a while before I go to bed.

  I stride into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge … and then make it two. I take my beers out into the living room and plop down onto the couch. Firing up the television, I find the Cubs game that I DVR’d this afternoon. I kick off my shoes, prop my feet up on the coffee table, crack open a beer, and settle in.

  Look, I know this may not seem like the height of cutting loose to you, but for me, it’s kind of a big deal. For the next few hours, with the place to myself, I get to belch as loud as I want. I can swear at the television as loud as I please (and it’s the Cubs, so it will happen frequently), and best of all, I can fast-forward through the commercials and the pitching changes. This is the most ‘at home’ I’ve felt since we moved in.

  I’m halfway through my second beer, sitting forward on the couch as the Cardinals mount a rally in the top of the ninth. Bases loaded, one out, and the Cubs are clinging to a one-run lead. The Cardinals batter slaps one on the ground towards the hole between short and third. I curse because it’s going into the outfield, but at the last moment, the shortstop snags it, pivots, and throws to second. The second baseman bare hands it, drags his foot across the base, and fires to first. The ball pops into the first baseman’s glove a fraction of a second before the runner reaches the bag. Double play. Game over. Cubs win.

  I jump off the couch and yell in triumph, because I clearly had something to do with this victory, even though the game was played earlier this afternoon.

  This has officially been a good day.

  I finish my beer and head upstairs to my room, pausing outside Caitlyn’s door.

  It feels strange for her room to be so dark. I can’t tel
l you why, maybe it’s the slight buzz I have going from the beer, but I quickly step inside, reach down, and flip on the night-light before walking down the hall to my own room.

  I change into some pajama pants and a tee-shirt. While scrubbing my face and brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I start making plans for tomorrow. Let’s shoot for three chapters. It’s an ambitious goal but in my current mood, I’m confident that I can get it done.

  I hit the light, step out of the bathroom, and climb into bed, taking up my customary side.

  The moon is visible through the window. The silvery light cuts sharp angles across the fireplace.

  It’s unbelievably quiet.

  How long should I wait before asking Denise to grab dinner again? Not romantically. That’s not what I’m looking for. It was just such a great night, and it’s been a while since one of those and I wouldn’t mind doing it again in the not-too-distant future.

  I sigh, roll onto my side, and see Nicole.

  She’s there, in the bed, lying next to me. Her body is shattered. Blood runs down her face and seeps into the bed. Her open, lifeless eyes stare blankly ahead.

  I tumble out of the bed, onto the floor, and back away until my back slams into the wall. I reach up and hit the light switch.

  The bed is empty.

  I remain on the floor with my back against the wall. My hands and legs are violently trembling.

  It’s grief. I know it’s just grief. It’s some part of my sleep-starved brain laying a guilt trip on me for spending an evening with another woman and not thinking about Nicole.

  I press my hands against the side of my head and wait for my body to stop shaking.

  Finally, I stand up and grab my pillow from the bed.

  It’s going to be another night on the couch … and maybe another beer.

  July 4th, 1900

  My hands are shaking so hard, it’s difficult to write.

  Because Father insisted on being open during the Fourth of July Celebration, one of us had to work. Carol left yesterday to visit her sister in Philadelphia. At least, that’s what Father told me. So, one of us was going to have to work and one was going to the picnic. He wanted to go so that he could talk up the pharmacy. I argued that I had been offered the invitation and it would be rude if he attended without me. It took some convincing but Father finally allowed me to attend the Carrington’s Fourth of July Celebration, but only after I promised to mention the pharmacy to everyone at the picnic. It was a lie, but I don’t care.

  I spent far too long in front of my mirror. I tried on three different outfits and settled on a green summer dress. I also wore the butterfly necklace.

  The day could not have been more perfect. There was red, white, and blue bunting on every house and ribbons on the trees in the square. The parade wouldn’t start for another two hours, but people had already begun to stake their claims on the sidewalks to watch. The main square was beautiful. There were games and concession stands.

  I ventured close enough to the pharmacy to peer inside. Father was behind the counter, reading a newspaper. There were no customers, of course. I felt a pang of guilt at how miserable he looked, but it’s only fair for all the time I’ve wasted behind that counter.

  It got warmer and I ducked into the only other establishment that was open, besides the pharmacy, which was the soda shop. I purchased a chocolate malt with some of the leftover money Mr. Carrington gave me, and enjoyed it in a booth, next to the window.

  When it was time for the parade, I left the shop and settled into a corner of the square, nabbing a spot right next to the street. As one of Kingsbrook’s most esteemed citizens, Thomas was going to be in the parade, and I wanted him to see me. As people all around me sipped lemonade, ate popcorn, and chatted, I began to grow restless.

  Finally, there was the distant sound of the marching band. It appeared down at the end of the street. The parade was led by a drum major in full uniform, carrying a baton. He was followed in perfect step by the band playing ‘Stars and Stripes, Forever’. Next there were the floats, pulled by teams of horses, from the different social societies of Kingsbrook: the Order of the Elks Lodge, Sons of Union Veterans, Women of Main, and the fire brigade.

  Then came the most illustrious residents of Kingsbrook, riding in open-topped carriages and dressed in their finest. There was the Mayor, his wife, and of course, his daughter, the gossip Patricia. She saw me and waved, as if I was part of the peasantry. I waved back, while touching the necklace with my other hand, hoping that she remembered Thomas’s instructions she heard while eavesdropping—that I should buy something pretty for myself. To my satisfaction, she stopped waving and glared at me for a moment before the carriage carried her away.

  Some of the other residents I recognized from my birthday party, such as Mr. Abernathy, who owns the bank, or Mr. Patterson, who owns the grocer’s.

  At last, I was rewarded.

  There he was, resplendent in his coat tails and top hat with those blue eyes, mustache, and beard. Even though he was sitting, he still seemed to tower above his wife and daughter. As they drew nearer, my heart swelled. I couldn’t wait for him to see me. They came even with my spot. I waved and smiled. He saw me. He looked right at me … and nothing. He took no notice of me. He recognized me, surely, but showed no pleasure in it. I was just a face in the crowd. Someone to ignore.

  The parade filled the square and stopped. The Mayor got out of his carriage and mounted the steps to the gazebo. He gave some remarks, thanking everyone for their hard work, and declared it the best Fourth of July Celebration Kingsbrook had ever seen. Someone nearby mumbled that he gave the same speech every year. All the while, I couldn’t take my eyes off Thomas. He didn’t so much as glance at me. After his speech, the Mayor got back in his carriage. The band started up, and the parade marched out of the square.

  I couldn’t understand it. Had I done something wrong? I wasn’t expecting anything grand. Just a small acknowledgment that he was happy to see me. One of our shared, knowing glances. He had no problems with sly winks or smiles before. Why was he ignoring me now? Then, I was furious with myself. I was behaving like a child. What could I really expect of him? His wife and daughter were there. I would see him at the picnic, where I was sure he would pay me at least some attention or maybe contrive a way for us to be alone.

  My only means of transportation to the picnic was the pharmacy bicycle, which was in the alley behind the store. To avoid Father, I went around the block to the back of the pharmacy, rather than the front door. I took the bicycle and quietly rode away.

  I didn’t know how fashionable it would be to arrive on a bicycle, so I took the long way out of town, avoiding the main route, which was sure to be an endless train of guests heading to the picnic. I made it to Willow Lake without being seen, but as there was only one road leading to the Nightingale House, it could no longer be avoided. As I suspected, there was a steady stream of fancy carriages. Even at a distance, I could see the white tables and chairs arranged on the lawn. I did my best to keep my head up as I pedaled alongside the carriages, but it was so humiliating. There were some polite ‘hellos’ and I caught one or two derisive chuckles.

  But the worst was just beginning.

  To my horror, I saw that Thomas and Mrs. Carrington were out front, greeting the guests as they arrived. I almost turned and rode away but it was too late. The road wasn’t wide enough to turn and if I tried to brake, I would be thrown.

  With as much dignity as I could muster, I brought the bike to a stop, rested it against the bushes, and walked to the gate.

  Mrs. Carrington smiled at me as if it was all perfectly normal. Thomas looked bored.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Ms. Harker,” Mrs. Carrington said.

  I thanked her for inviting me. As much as I didn’t like seeing her there, I was grateful to her for making me feel welcome.

  I turned to Thomas. With my back to his wife, I tried to give him a coy smile. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Carrington.
”

  He shook my hand with a cordial grip. “Please enjoy yourself at our home.”

  He released my hand and went on to the next guest.

  That was it. No playful pressing of his finger to my palm. No wink. No vicious smile.

  I was no one.

  I joined the growing mass of people on the lawn and wished that Father had come instead of me. I tried to be social and make polite conversation while feeling totally out of place. Even my green dress went against the standard white that everyone was wearing. For most of the afternoon, I tried to hide on the outlying fringes of the gathering and avoid speaking to anyone.

  As the afternoon wore on, so grew my appetite. I was finally forced to join the crowd as the food emerged from the house. It was carried by waiters who deposited the dishes on long, cloth-covered tables. The valet, Mr. Whitlock, oversaw the proceedings. I found a spot at a table a few yards away from the head table, where Thomas sat with his wife. I noticed the coldness between them. It was the same as I had seen the other day when I made the delivery. They were polite to the guests and each other, but he and his wife clearly didn’t have the connection that he and I shared.

  In the corner of the lawn, a photographer was setting up a camera.

  After the food had been set on the serving tables, Mr. Whitlock conferred with the photographer, who nodded. Mr. Whitlock held up his hand to the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, before dinner, we’d like to take a photograph to commemorate this occasion. The exposure will take twenty seconds. So, if you could please remain very still. Ready?” he asked the photographer who nodded from behind the camera. Mr. Whitlock turned back to us. “Here we go. One, two, three …”

  The photographer pulled the shutter open and shouted, “Very still, now!”

  The children, including the Carringtons’ daughter, continued to run around the edges of the lawn, but their parents were too afraid to move to stop them. They instead hissed at them to settle down.