We drove by home after home set back on long, manicured lawns. Many stood behind scrolling gates like those from a Medici painting. I rolled down the car window and breathed in the salty smell of the ocean. The driver slowed the car in front of a huge estate behind a pair of gates across from the pounding waves. As they opened, I saw men and women dressed in white, walking up a long hill. I looked at Evelyn and smiled. I had no idea what occasion this was, but I knew I was happy to be there. Evelyn had said, “Just a party, dear. Just a party with music.”
Even if it lasted for only a minute or two or three. Maybe Evelyn was right. I was ready.
For what? A slip into joy. Dare I allow such a thought? I reached up and touched the silken bloom around my ear. For a moment, I liked who I was. Someone dressed in a flowing skirt. Someone who painted during the day.
Stanley walked arm in arm with Evelyn, aware of her slower steps. At times like this, he reminded me of my father: holding back from quickening his pace, avoiding any subject destined to bring up pain, and simply following the path ahead of him without questioning it. I walked behind them, admiring the multicolored gardens in the distance, to the right of the hill. One section displayed hundreds of dozens of purple-and-white irises in full bloom.
I heard music coming from over the hill. As we reached the top, I saw a huge white tent set with row upon row of white chairs arranged in a semicircle. Outside the tent, an eight-piece string ensemble played. I thought of my mother and her violin-playing days and wondered if she would have fared better had she become a violinist, instead of marrying my father.
Would it have been better for the three of us if two of us had been invisible?
EVELYN NODDED IN recognition to many of the people inside the tent. A gentle buzzing sound of quiet conversation—not somber but anticipatory—filled the air. People embraced. Dozens of music stands stood in front of black chairs, waiting for a full orchestra to appear. Musicians warmed up their instruments, providing a welcome, unscripted score. A breeze touched my cheeks.
Without introduction, the concert began. I sat back in my chair and realized how little I had spoken since we had left the apartment. I slipped off my white sandals and let my feet rest on the moist grass underneath. A June breeze cooled my bare toes. A mixture of honeysuckle and lavender was in the air. I planned to walk around the grounds before we headed home. I checked the program. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. A fitting opening to the summer. At times, the music reminded me of a wail—a long cry with dissonant screechings.
In the middle of the concert, Evelyn tilted her head to the left and looked over to me. She shifted her gaze to the side of the tent, where a small slit of light appeared between the seam of the fabric where it looked like it had been stretched too tight. This gap was not the only light. The white clothes, the tent without walls—the music’s embrace. Light surrounded me on all sides.
As the concert moved to the end—the “Ode to Joy” chorus singers stood. Women in sleeveless gowns of pale gold and citron green with sequined bodices opened their mouths and sang notes rounder and wilder than I had ever heard. “Joy . . . joy . . . joy” rang in my ears. Stanley held Evelyn’s hand, and Evelyn reached for mine. The air smelled sweeter than in the city. I dared to feel the twinge of feet-dragging happiness. Was this the intricacies of the heart? Or was I slipping into that delusional state from shades of loss?
“Joy . . . joy . . . joy.” The chorus spread the word across the audience as swiftly as the speed of light. It stuck in my head and rang out amid the darker phrases that Steve and Kay, and even John D’Orfini, dared speak. I knew they were trying to help me accept the real possibility that Vinni was gone forever. Dead, even. But that’s just it. It was their theory. Not mine.
“I’m going to walk around a bit,” I said. “It’s so beautiful.”
Music sweetened the air as I meandered alone on the grounds of the lush estate.
Stanley took Evelyn for lemonade and macaroons offered in another tent. As I walked, I discovered sculptures in surprise places behind lilac hydrangea bushes as large as trees. Life-size figures of men and women picnicking along a dirt road sat frozen in stone. In the distance, I saw an older man sitting on a bench outside a large, fenced-in pool. He appeared not to notice me as I grew closer. Finally, he looked up and I stopped. Hannah’s husband, George, was the man on the bench. His white slacks and short-sleeved white shirt made him nearly unrecognizable. Gone were his baker’s apron and preoccupied expression. In the bakery, he moved from kitchen to display case. But here, his face had a present serenity that stunned me.
“I know you,” he said in a low voice. He uncrossed his legs, and I saw the worn soles of both shoes. “Come and sit.”
“Did you enjoy the concert?” he asked.
“Yes, everything is beautiful here.” I said. George nodded and looked around, but then he turned to face me. “My Hannah is a fine woman. Leave her be. Hannah is my wife, and I must protect her above everything and everyone else.”
“Protect her from what?” I asked. The sun beat down on my head without mercy. Thin streams of sweat slid along the sides of my rib cage.
George slipped more deeply into his European accent. For the first time, I noticed it was slightly different than Hannah’s.
“Protect her from what?” I repeated.
From betrayal? The words stuck in my throat. He stood and bowed his head, signaling our meeting had ended. I wasn’t ready to let him go.
“I have a child out there who needs me. You and Hannah helped your friend Hilda take her and leave the country, didn’t you? A German woman. Don’t you understand that you and Hannah could both go to prison for the rest of your life!”
George’s face retrieved the preoccupied look I had seen at the bakery. I knew I had confirmed the truth. His shoulders tightened. His eyes narrowed into slits of compassion. He stood and turned to me as if he wanted to tell me something.
“Secrets—they bind us,” he said.
“Whose secrets?”
“Have you never given your word, child? Made a promise to someone you loved?”
“What kind of promise?”
George shook his head. His eyes focused on the dirt beneath his feet. He walked away on the same road that had carried me earlier into an ocean of unexplainable happiness. I sat on the bench, aware of the wreckage of the day thrust upon me by George’s words.
I hadn’t been sitting for more than five minutes when in the distance I saw a man running toward me. I recognized him as a greeter who handed us a program as we entered the large tent. I stood up and walked quickly in his direction, opposite from where George had left me at the bench.
“I’m afraid your friend has fainted,” he said
Evelyn had been taken to the main house on the estate, where the public was not allowed. The young man with a lithe physique led me into a sumptuous drawing room. Golds reflected off one another. Heavy drapes cinched at their waists, created a shimmer throughout the room. Chandeliers—three, I think— danced in place. I was sweaty and out of breath after racing up the mammoth outdoor staircase to reach Evelyn. Stanley, who had happened to be standing by Evelyn when she reached for a lemonade and fell to the ground, was bent over her.
“What’s wrong?” I said. I brushed past a few onlookers, who at first attempted to stop me from getting too close. I knelt down by Evelyn’s side. She was lying on a rolled-arm chaise covered in gold damask. The buttons of her white top were open. I could see a woman’s slip covering teardropped breasts like loose grapes. I was sure Evelyn’s embarrassed expression had nothing to do with the open blouse but rather with the uninvited attention.
Evelyn sipped water through a straw. A woman dressed in a flowing, floor-length, white shawl stood by Stanley.
“Is someone watching for the ambulance?” she asked in a controlled voice.
I moved in closer to hear Stanley say, “It’s taken care of, Tuba. Thank you.”
“Good,” the woman answered, without looking at
me as she addressed Evelyn’s former husband. “Let her stay and rest here until the ambulance comes. Don’t move her.”
Was that a slight smile I saw behind Stanley’s face?
“Stanley, my hip?” Evelyn asked in a drawn voice.
He had been gently probing around both her hips, as if looking for a protruding bone. “You’re not saying ouch,” he said. “Always a good sign.”
Evelyn caught my eye and sighed. “It’s nice to have a doctor in the family, isn’t it?” she said.
“You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head when you fainted,” Stanley said.
I looked beyond the top of Evelyn’s head, and for the first time I noticed a collection of hanging black-and-white lithographs. I recognized the work. Two sets of paired images hung side by side. I looked into Evelyn’s eyes and read into them what I was thinking. A silent message passed between us. She knew I belonged here.
“Stop fussing, everyone. Stanley, I’m fine,” said Evelyn. A pink color blushed her cheeks.
I moved toward the art on the wall. My heart leaped into my throat. All the art was by the German artist Käthe Kollwitz. By now, her subject matter spoke to me whenever I studied her work. Once again, a master hand had plucked me from my turmoil and positioned me where I could hope. Or had the master hand been Evelyn?
Earlier in the day, Evelyn had pointed out Tuba Schwimmer, the elegant woman in the flowing shawl who was the owner of the estate. Tuba walked over to where I stood as my back was to Evelyn.
“Maddy?” The owner spoke in a delicate voice. Her silver hair was swept into a classic chignon at the nape of her neck.
I turned, surprised she knew my name.
“I’m Tuba Schwimmer. Evelyn has told me about your loss.”
Something curdled inside my stomach as I corrected this regal-looking woman. “The loss is temporary. Living wouldn’t make sense if I believed otherwise.” I felt awkward speaking to this elegant stranger, but I was three years beyond the rules of etiquette. “You have guests here who know where my daughter is. I don’t know why they’re involved in this, but they’re hiding a terrible secret.”
“Who are these guests?” Tuba hugged her shawl closer to her chest.
“Hannah and George—”
“Ah,” Tuba interrupted. “The German bakers. I met them years ago. We were standing in line at the Botanic Garden in Brooklyn.”
She moved closer. “I invite them to come each summer to hear the music and sit in my gardens.”
“But what do you know about them?”
“Know?” Tuba looked puzzled. “I know they love Mozart and the fragrance of a rose! My dear, sometimes grief clouds the mind.”
Tuba gently touched my shoulders and spoke. “Put your pain next to Kollwitz’s. Paint and you shall see that your work hangs in the house for others to study.”
“How do you know I’m an artist?” I asked. To say the words left a lump in my throat.
“Evelyn is quite taken with your work. She’s asked me to help you, and so I will. I help many artists.”
“Did you help Evelyn?”
Tuba’s shawl shifted off one shoulder, leaving it bare and bony. She focused on the painting on the wall as she seemed to contemplate her answer. “In the beginning, it was Evelyn who helped me, but that was a long time ago. I only returned the favor.”
It was Stanley who filled me in later on how chance had sat Tuba next to Evelyn on a plane ride from Munich to New York. Two women. All those miles in the sky. By the time they reached New York, confidences had been exchanged. Tuba’s husband was wheelchair bound because of a stroke that had also taken away his speech. It had given her a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt since she was a young woman.
Evelyn’s paintings were on the cusp of gaining international attention.
They promised to stay in touch.
TWENTY-TWO
EVELYN’S CONDITION WASN’T SERIOUS, BUT IF SHE Forgot to take her heart medication, she ran the risk of ending up in a heap. Stanley rode in the ambulance with Evelyn as Tuba arranged for her driver to bring me to the hospital. Once the doctors in the ER were satisfied that Evelyn could leave, we were on our way up the Parkway. Evelyn dozed next to Stanley, resting her head on his shoulder.
When we arrived home, it was too late to call John D’Orfini. We had spent half the night in the emergency room. Three years ago, I had stepped inside the same hospital where Rudy had been taken, without any idea of the pain to follow, and had asked, “Where’s my daughter?” This night had catapulted me back to the beginning of the nightmare.
Stanley took over at Evelyn’s apartment. “I’ll stay here tonight, Maddy. You go on up and sleep in your own place. I’ll call you in the morning to let you know how she’s doing.”
The dim light from the sconces in the corridor of the apartment building threw shadows of fleur-de-lis on the walls, although their shapes reminded me of curled legs cut off at the knees. Their soft light dulled the green of the hallway carpet. A hint of garlic from someone’s evening meal floated down the staircase as I walked up the flight to my apartment.
IN THE MORNING, I let myself in to Evelyn’s with the key she had given me three years earlier. I found her reading the New York Times Magazine by the window in the tea corner.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, as I kissed her on the cheek and sat down on the floor next to the tea chair.
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine. I shouldn’t have gone to the emergency room yesterday. That’s what exhausted me.”
Stanley walked out of the bedroom, dressed in his usual city attire: dark trousers with a button-down dress shirt. I wondered if he woke up looking this crisp every day. After a while, Evelyn withdrew for a nap. Stanley and I ate the muffins I had brought earlier.
“Thank you for taking such good care of Evelyn. You know how she likes her independence but I worry about her. Anyway, she loves you like a daughter.”
His kind words filled me.
The good doctor waited a few beats and then asked, “How are you?” He drank his coffee from a white cup on a saucer with a baby-rose design. He was not a tea drinker like Evelyn.
“I met someone yesterday who knows where Vinni is.” I scooted over to the edge of my seat and folded my hands on my lap like a child at the knee of a storyteller. Amid everyone’s concern over Evelyn, I hadn’t told a soul about my conversation with George.
“Who?” Stanley tilted his head to the side, as if he could hear better with one ear.
“The baker from Mueller’s in Brooklyn. He and his wife, Hannah, helped Hilda steal Vinni. I’m sure of it.” Saying it aloud scared me.
“I’m not a detective. I’m a doctor.” He crossed his legs, and I saw a tiny bit of skin exposed where his black socks withdrew from the end of his navy trousers.
“Yesterday, I saw George at the concert. He told me to leave Hannah alone. Why would he say that if he didn’t have something to hide? Why?”
“I don’t know. But as your doctor, I’m concerned about your health.”
I interrupted because I couldn’t stop myself. I took a deep breath.
“I’ve rented a room in Brooklyn across from Mueller’s Bakery. I saw something. I think it might be connected to Vinni. But . . .”
“But?”
I stopped myself. If I were to tell Stanley about the girls disappearing down the alleyway, wasn’t there the chance he’d go to John D’Orfini? Even if he thought he was helping me, I couldn’t take the risk. I had come close to confessing it all to Kay one night when she was talking about the amount of files piled on her desk. Maybe by not telling what I had seen across the street—what I suspected—I believed I was playing a part in my girl’s life. Not directly. But somewhere, the mothers of the girls who disappeared down the alleyway had to be asking themselves the same question. Where’s my daughter?
“I can’t abandon the idea of finding Vinni alive. I know she’s out there somewhere, even if no one else does.”
Dr. Stanley Goodman was
the one who listened to my heart and took my blood pressure. He had no office staff. He did everything himself: copied insurance cards, scheduled appointments, and wrote prescriptions. He reminded me of my mother’s doctor, a friend of my father’s who came to the house and whispered something in his ear before my mother was carried out of the house on a stretcher. “Short term,” my father said.
“I want you to take care of yourself. I’m insisting. Broken hearts take a long time to heal,” Stanley said.
My own silence startled me. Stanley broke it up with his fatherly advice.
“Keep painting. Eat. If you don’t do these things, you’ll starve to death.” He lowered his voice. “If Vinni is out there, you must take care of yourself while you’re waiting for her to return.”
TWENTY-THREE
SOMETIMES I AWOKE WITH AN URGENCY TO DRIVE TO Spring Haven. I needed to feel the sand between my toes to take me back to the last day I had shared with Vinni. When I sat in the sand and closed my eyes, the taste of salt in the air found its way onto my tongue. I imagined a woman with a mouth shaped into a small circle screaming over me. I covered my ears, but the screaming woman’s cry pierced the air. As loud as she was, no one came running to save me from the noise. No one pushed the woman back into the ocean.
I called John D’Orfini on Monday and told him I was coming down for the weekend and would arrive later Friday afternoon. After I hung up, I booked room 2 at a Spring Haven bed-and-breakfast called the Elizabethan. It faced the ocean and had two large windows, a small private bathroom, one dresser, and a reading light over the left side of the bed.
As I drove down the highway with the other weekenders, I thought of Detective D’Orfini. I hungered for talk about the investigation. Letting go of the pain was not something I wanted to do. The pain embedded inside the bone told me I was alive. I sucked on it like a newborn greedy for her mother’s tit.
The last time we had spoken, he had talked about wanting to try a new recipe for tilapia baked in a coconut crust. I think this was his way of trying to settle me—to talk about something other than the lack of anything to report—as he had to know that I didn’t give a shit about tilapia.
A Matter of Chance Page 14