“We’re on our way,” Norma said.
Isabel took out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. “Indeed,” she said. “We’ll go.” She took a step.
“Hold on there,” the officer said, standing in front of her. “Hold on there, Miss.”
Isabel shook her head. “No,” she said. “We’re on our way now.” Beyond the officer’s right shoulder she could see a the busy entrance of a hotel and the back door of King’s Chapel.
A young boy in knee-pants and two young men in suits had stopped to look.
“All right, nothing to look at,” the officer said to the gathering crowd. He took Isabel’s elbow. “You’re coming with me,” he said. He pointed to Norma with his Billy club. “You too. Let’s go.”
“Officer, please,” Isabel said. “Must we—”
“Quiet,” he said. “My advice to you is, if you don’t want to make this any worse for yourself, just shut up.”
“Iz, are you ok?” Norma asked.
The officer held them both by the elbow and led them through the gathering crowd. “Quiet now,” he said. “No talking’.”
Isabel stared at the ground as they walked. It was such a nice day, how could this be happening? She wondered where they were going. When she looked up she could see that people were staring at them. She gazed up Beacon Hill—just over the crest of that hill in a brick house just like the ones she could see now, at the heavy dining room table set with linen and polished silver, her father and mother and brothers were sitting down to dinner. To be there—even uncomfortable, even arguing, even corseted and dumb. She needed to figure out how to keep that existence from meeting this one.
As they passed the narrow streets of the West End a crowd of children began skipping alongside them.
“Hey,” a skinny blonde boy yelled, wiping his nose. “The copper got you! The copper got you!”
Isabel rested her hands on her knees. The sidewalk rose to meet her. She felt the officer tugging on her arm, she felt hands on her shoulders. She straightened and the sidewalk pitched violently.
“I can walk,” she said to the officer. “Get your hands off me.”
She set her jaw and took small steps.
As they entered the jail the smell of damp and urine and sweat nearly overcame her. She teetered but held up. Rough hands took her hat and pulled the pins from her hair, which fell around her shoulders.
I’ll have that cut off, she thought.
She leaned against a wall and wiped her face with a handkerchief. Her breasts ached under the tight-wound bandage. She tried to smile at Norma.
They were put in a small cell with a cot and an unspeakably foul bucket, into which Isabel was sick. She lay on the cot, her head in Norma’s lap.
“We’ll be all right,” Norma said, over and over, stroking her hair.
Around them the howls and calls of lunatics and criminals reverberated.
It is no use trying to change, Isabel thought, fingering the scrap of paper Hank had given her. I have humiliated my family publicly now—if they find out. How could she get out without them knowing she’d been arrested? Certainly she would have to be very circumspect now, for a long time. You cannot change what God has given you, she thought. No matter what kind of black magic exists, you cannot change what God has given you.
“What will we do?” she asked, looking into Norma’s grimy face.
“We’ll be ok,” Norma said. “Try to sleep for a while.”
“I can’t sleep,” Isabel said. She started to cry. “Either I never get out of here or my family finds out.”
“We’ll be ok,” Norma said, wiping her tears. “I’ll get out first and then I’ll bail you out.”
They were quiet for a while as Isabel cried.
“This place is disgusting,” she said eventually.
“It isn’t very cheerful,” Norma said, looking around with her eyebrows raised.
“South, let’s go,” a guard said, coming to the bars of the cell.
The shrieks and calls from the other inmates got louder.
“What?” Isabel said. “Just me?”
“Let’s go,” the guard said, opening the cell.
“There’s a mistake. I’m sure my friend—”
“Go,” Norma said. “Then you can come back and bail me out.”
“Come on, South. I mean, Miss.” The guard laughed.
Isabel looked from him to Norma. “Ok,” she said. “I will be back for you.”
“I know you will,” Norma said.
As the bars slid shut behind her Isabel nodded to her friend who, big-eyed and tiny, retreated to the corner of the cot and pulled her knees up to her chest.
“She should be in with the women,” Isabel said to the guard as he led her out. “She must be put in with the women.”
In the processing area Theodore was sitting stiffly on a bench he shared with a prostrate, unshaven man in a dirty suit. He stood up quickly when Isabel was brought in.
“My God,” he said. “You wore father’s old hat.”
“Please,” Isabel said, her jaw shaking. “Please be kind.”
Theodore blinked. He fidgeted with the brim of his own hat. He thanked the officer behind the desk and the guard who had retrieved Isabel and turned to leave.
“What about Norma?” Isabel asked.
“I am only here for you.”
“No,” Isabel said.
“I’ll come back for her,” Theodore said. “There’s nothing I can do for her now.”
“I won’t—”
“Please,” Theodore said, holding the door open. “You certainly will. Father is waiting.”
Isabel nodded. “You must promise to come back,” she said.
“I will. As soon as I can.”
Outside, Isabel breathed deeply, wondering if the odor of the cell would ever clear from her nostrils. She and Theodore walked silently along the narrow sidewalk between the cobblestones of Charles Street and the leaning brick buildings. At the corner of Beacon Street they stepped aside to allow a couple to pass.
“Father wants to see you right away,” Theodore said, walking the last few yards to their house.
Isabel stared at the soft, muddy Common. How long ago was it that she and Norma had walked by, not far from here?
“We’d better go in,” Theodore said.
“I should like to get cleaned up first,” Isabel said.
“Yes, I would imagine.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Was it awful in there?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t like to go back,” Isabel said.
Theodore held the door open, nodding in acknowledgement.
“Thank you,” Isabel said. “Thank you very much. I’m sorry—”
“I’ll tell Father you’ll be in presently,” Theodore interrupted. “But do hurry. He is anxious to see you.”
Isabel nodded. The front hall had a burgundy carpet that continued up the wide staircase to the main floor. The white paint on the walls was bright and clean; the brass fixtures were polished.
“Theodore,” she said. She wanted to thank him again. She could not face her father, she would rather have gone back to the jail.
“Why don’t you change in Meg’s room,” he said, nodding toward the maid’s room. “I’ll send her down with some—clothes and hot water.”
“Yes, of course,” Isabel said.
She went into Meg’s room and sat in an armchair next to a small window that looked out on the brick backyard. She could smell the jail in her clothes. She began to cry. Please, Lord, she prayed, let Father see who I am and let him not despise me.
There was a knock and at Isabel’s permission Meg came in, closing the door quickly behind her. Her face was red with effort, and she carried a dress and linen over her arm and a bowl of water in her hands. She put the bowl on the bureau and laid the clothes on the bed.
“Anything else, Ma’am?” she asked.
Isabel shook her head. She hadn’t been in this room for years, since she was a chi
ld. There was the bureau, a bed, a writing desk, a chest-high bookshelf filled with porcelain figures and trinkets, lace doilies, a leather-bound bible, and a book of household tips.
“This rug,” Isabel said. “Wasn’t this up in the play room, years ago?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Meg answered, staring at her.
Isabel smiled. She touched the curtains. “These are lovely,” she said. “You made them yourself, yes?”
“Ma’am?” Meg asked, her chapped hands smoothing her skirt. “Yes.”
“Fine,” Isabel said. “That is all for now.”
Meg nodded and left the room.
Isabel was still for a few minutes. A blue jay settled on the iron fence at the far end of the yard. A cat jumped up on a bench and arranged itself in the sun. No good could come from making Father wait, of course, but no good could come from hurrying, either. Better to wait and be composed. She undid her necktie, splashed water on her face and neck, and sat on the bed, unbuttoning her shirt and trousers and unwrapping the bandage from her chest. She took deep breaths, reminding herself that she was strong enough to reject all judgments save the final one and praying that God who had made her would support her now. She set her jaw against sobs, splashed water on her face again, and took up her corset. She didn’t always wear one, but this was not a time for comfort, and if she didn’t wear it she risked having her father think she was making a defiant statement of some kind. A light knock sounded on the door.
“Yes,” Isabel said.
“He’s waiting for you in the parlor, Ma’am,” Meg said, coming to her side to help her finish dressing.
Isabel nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
She climbed the stairs slowly. The corset was worse than the bandage. At the landing on the first floor she heard her shoes click on the wood floor. She entered the parlor and at first thought no one was there; the curtains were drawn and the room was dark save for a small fire glowing in the fireplace.
“Daddy,” Isabel said, seeing her father in a high-backed armchair. She took a step toward him, faltered, and took two more.
The dim light of the fire spread like cream on the wood, brass, and silver of the room. Her father’s face, fringed with disordered gray hair, rested on a stiff collar. A blanket covered his knees.
“Daddy,” Isabel said again. She wanted to prostrate herself.
He looked at her from yellow eyes with gray centers. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, thank you,” Isabel said.
“Your mother is quite worried,” he said. “You will be so kind as to go to her next.”
“Yes, of course,” Isabel whispered.
The only color in his face was that of the fire. “I have sat here these hours, Isabel, thinking of your childhood. Indeed, of your life up to this point,” he said, his voice struggling to stay above a whisper. “I see no point in recriminations with you on—on this subject. You have never been like other girls, Isabel, and I pray God in His wisdom will have mercy on you for what you have done.”
“Father,” Isabel said.
He turned away from her, to the fire. “Indeed,” he said. “The recriminations lie most properly with me, I am certain. I have not—I have always taken a certain idea of how to treat my children, and I daresay, in that respect, I have failed.”
“Daddy,” Isabel said, taking another step toward him.
He stopped her by facing her again, though his eyes focused on her for only a moment.
“You will please visit your mother now,” he said. “She is quite worried.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Isabel said, bowing her head. “Thank you.”
He nodded faintly in the yellow light that played on the dark, still furniture.
Isabel pulled her veil down. The carriage turned into the cemetery and proceeded slowly along a tree-lined drive. It stopped and the door was pulled open; a tall man she recognized as a business associate of her father’s offered her his arm.
The cemetery was green and hilly, with tall trees. Isabel held the man’s arm as she walked to the gravesite, where she sat next to her mother. Charles walked past with his wife, who was carrying their baby daughter; Isabel did not look to see where they sat. She held her neck stiff and listened to the prayers and watched the workmen lower her father’s coffin into the ground. The sun was on her.
Forgive me, she thought.
A breeze touched the branches of the trees and chilled her slightly through her dress.
Chapter Nine
An Office Visit
Sam was at his office, in a hallway, thinking how just the day before he’d sat at the edge of the river in the peaceful woods under red and yellow leaves thinking about how soon he’d be back at work. A door opened and one of the secretaries entered the hallway.
“Hi,” she said, smiling as she passed him.
“Hello,” he answered, nodding.
He remembered her name: Audrey. She was young and her face clear and narrow, her eyes blue. He turned to glance at her as she passed around a corner. Sam had chatted with her once in the break room, wondering if she was worried she’d turn into one of the cigarette-wrinkled lifers at the firm. It was interesting to him that male lifers tended to get soft and heavy, while the women seemed to dry out and cackle more.
Sam went into the men’s room, his heels clicking on the tile floor. He stood at a urinal, thinking of the work he needed to get done that morning: papers typed, stamped, copied, filed.
His office was small, just room for a desk along one wall, a bookcase along the other, and, between the bookcase and the window, an extra chair. The window had a nice view of the harbor. It was a cloudy day.
Sam hunched over the desk, typing memos and making phone calls. The whole key was momentum; he knew that if he leaned back in his chair and stared at the city a whole hour could pass before he got anything done. Or if he stayed hunched over the desk but let his eyes drift to the hallway he could watch his co-workers pass his doorway—how they walked, dressed, greeted each other. He was fascinated by strides, smiles, minute adjustments of pant leg or shirt collar. If you watched you could see that all of life was confidence and that very few people had it naturally. And today he hoped Audrey would pass by. Maybe he’d try to say something to her if she did.
He pulled the bottom right drawer of his desk open, took out an unopened pack of cigarettes, and fingered the cellophane, staring at the red-circle design. He’d bought them that morning for Mrs. Atlee, but wasn’t sure he’d take them to her. Was she really dying—well, yes, so if she wanted a cigarette, what harm was there, really? What would another cigarette do? It was her choice. Her choice with his help. He put the cigarettes in his jacket pocket, leaned back in his chair, and stared out at the city.
No, no, got to work, he thought. He stood up. He would go to the break room for a cup of coffee and maybe a candy bar and then back to work—a good, long afternoon of work.
The break room had a linoleum floor, a coffee machine, a few tables, and two vending machines, one for soda and one for candy. Sam made a cup of coffee and sat down. He read the announcements pinned to a cork bulletin board. Someone was selling a car, someone else was doing a charity walk and wanted people to pledge money.
“Hello, Mr. Morgan,” a small voice offered from the corner.
“Hello,” Sam answered, startled, turning. “Oh, Audrey. I didn’t see you back there.”
“Are you feeling better?” Audrey asked, holding a cigarette to her lips and flicking the turn wheel on a plastic lighter once, twice, three times before it caught and the cigarette glowed red.
“Better? Yes, I am, thanks,” Sam said.
“Debbie was out sick, too, so we had to switch around some yesterday. I was covering for her.”
“Oh—I hope it wasn’t too bad. To switch around, I mean.”
Audrey frowned playfully. “It’s all the same,” she said. “Only you guys have jobs that change around here.”
“U
s guys?”
“Yeah, lawyers.”
“Right.” Sam nodded. He noticed how small her hand was, holding the cigarette. He wanted to join her at her table and ask her not to call him “Mr. Morgan.” He took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, opened it, and tapped one of the cigarettes free. “Can I borrow your lighter?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, holding it out, dropping it into his palm.
“Thanks,” he said. He hadn’t tried a cigarette since, when, high school. Fifteen years. What was the chance he’d pull it off without coughing?
“You smoke filterless,” Audrey said.
“Yes, I guess so,” Sam said. Her blouse was open one button at the top. He puffed tenderly on the cigarette but coughed anyway. His face red, a hand held to his mouth, he looked up at Audrey, who was smiling. Fifteen years later and he was still trying to impress a girl.
“You shouldn’t start with the filterless, they’ll kill you,” she said.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam said. Why did Mrs. Atlee want one of those, he wondered. Was she trying to die more quickly? But who would be in a hurry for that? He noticed that Audrey was smiling at him. Now was the moment to say something.
“So, do you take the train in every morning?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Commuter rail. I live with my parents for now, and the stop is like ten minutes from their house. I’m saving money to buy my own place.”
“That’s impressive,” Sam said.
“Yeah, then all I’ll need is a husband and a few kids,” she said, laughing.
“Well, there must be plenty of willing guys,” Sam said. If there was a worse flirt in the entire world, he wanted to know who it was.
Audrey smiled. “That’s sweet, Mr. Morgan. I guess there are a few.”
Sam realized that he was older than she, that as you get older you become a different category to those younger than you.
A group of secretaries came in, talking loudly, cigarettes held to their lips to be lit as soon as they passed the threshold of the break room.
Sam stood up reflexively and put out his cigarette.
“Nice talking to you, Audrey,” he said quietly.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 9