Arcadia Falls

by Carol Goodman

  The smile vanishes from his face. “I left a message and called the school. Shelley Drake just left with Chloe Dawson, but I presumed you’d want to come and take your daughter home yourself.”

  “Oh,” I say, realizing that he’s done exactly the right thing—giving me a chance to talk to Sally alone. “Are there … will there be …”

  “No charges,” he says, and then adds, lowering his voice an octave, “this time. Although, as I have explained to Sally, using a false I.D. is a class A misdemeanor. And we’ve had a long talk on the evils of Demon Rum and the risks of hepatitis B infection.”

  I look at Sally and she shudders. “He showed me pictures of drunk-driving accidents. Honest, I didn’t even want a drink. I just wanted to get out of the fracking nineteenth century and into the modern world for five minutes.”

  “Next time have your mom take you to the mall in Kingston,” Callum says, and then to me, “Could I have a word with you, Ms. Rosenthal?”

  I nod and turn back to Sally. She’s pulled the hood up on her sweatshirt and sunk deeper into its voluminous folds. I notice that it has NYPD written in faded, peeling letters on it and realize that it must belong to Callum. I squeeze Sally’s shoulder and tell her I’ll be right back.

  Callum is in his office, leaning against the front of his desk. He motions for me to close the door and then uses his foot to push a chair in my direction. I ignore it and remain standing. “I’m grateful that you found Sally and that you’re not pressing charges—”

  He waves my thanks away. “She’s a good enough kid,” he says, “just pissed at the world for taking her dad away. I don’t blame her. The one I’m really worried about is Chloe. When I got to Fatz Tatz, she was telling Fatz how she could make anyone do whatever she wanted with black magic. She wanted Fatz to give her a tattoo of a figure falling off a cliff because she’d made a girl jump off a cliff just by picturing it in her head.”

  “She thinks she made Isabel jump off the ridge?”

  Callum nods and runs his hand through his hair, now looking very tired. “I’ve never been one of those locals who bad-mouth the school. Live and let live is my motto. But something weird is going on there this year. When that girl threw herself at me on the ridge, I thought she was going to take us both over the edge. It wasn’t just that she was angry, it was that she was crazy-angry. I felt like she wanted to kill us both. If I were you, I’d keep my kid away from Chloe and her little circle.”

  Sally sulks all the way back home. When I glance over at her, I can’t even see her face because she’s pulled the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt down so low it shadows her face. As we pass the rusty old sign advertising the long-gone White Witch speakeasy, I recall the first morning we drove here. I remember the fleeting enthusiasm she’d shown when she recognized her old favorite fairy tale in the landscape and the short-lived hope I had that coming here would somehow heal us. I wish now that I had a story to capture her attention. And then, as I turn up the sycamore drive, I realize I do.

  “It’s true that I dropped out of art school when I got pregnant with you,” I say. “I thought it was what I was supposed to do. What it took to be a good parent.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but at least she’s not yelling at me, so I go on.

  “I thought I’d go back when you were older—and I could have. Your dad would have been happy to pay the tuition and get me the childcare I would have needed. He used to pick up catalogs from Pratt and Parsons and the School of Visual Arts and leave them around the house.”

  “Why didn’t you go, then?” a small voice comes from the depth of the hooded sweatshirt.

  “I think I was afraid that I wouldn’t be any good—that too much time had passed and I had lost my edge—”

  “You mean because being a mother ruined you?”

  Although I’m tempted to lie, I don’t. “Yes. Being a mother does change you. Before I had you I would lose myself drawing and painting, the way you do now. Hours would fly by—”

  “Like minutes,” Sally finishes for me.

  “Exactly,” I say. “I was afraid to lose myself like that when you were little. What if I wasn’t there when you needed me? Then later, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. Your dad still encouraged me to go back to school, so I did, when you were older, but to study literature and fairy tales. But I never regretted having you for an instant.”

  “And what about Dad? Did he give up his big dreams because of me?”

  I sigh. I’d hoped to avoid this part. “He quit Pratt and went to work at Morgan Stanley where Grandpa Max worked. He wanted to make sure there was enough money.”

  “But Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia were pretty well off. Wouldn’t they have helped him?”

  I shake my head. “They were of that generation who lived through the Depression—like my grandmother. Grandma Miriam saved everything. She even washed and reused wax paper! So even though Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia had money, they were always afraid that they could lose it all. They wanted your father to work in business. When he went to art school instead, they cut off his allowance.”

  “That’s awful! You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to make a living in the arts. I want you to do something you really love. But don’t blame Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia for doing what they thought was best for your father, and for you when you came along. When we knew we were having you, Grandpa Max offered to help us get the house in Great Neck if your dad would go to work with him at Morgan Stanley.”

  “So he gave up art school because of me, too?”

  “He just wanted to be the best father he could be. And I know he never regretted it either.”

  I say the last part firmly, telling myself that it’s not technically a lie. Jude never did regret his choice to give up art school for Sally. He thought he’d done the right thing. “And,” he’d say whenever the subject came up, “there’ll be plenty of time for me to take up painting again when I retire.” So it’s not a lie. He just didn’t know that he was wrong about how much time he had.

  We’ve arrived at the cottage. Luckily, I left the lights on, so it doesn’t look too desolate. It looks almost cheerful. I’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches and a pot of tea. We’ll dig through the boxes of DVDs and watch an old movie. One of Sally’s favorites: Casablanca or Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, which always makes her cry when Jimmy Stewart briefly gives up hope in the American Dream.

  I’m about to turn to Sally to ask if she’d like to stay when I see a black silhouette appear at the lit living room window. The reason the cottage doesn’t look desolate is because it’s not empty. There’s someone in the house.

  “You stay here,” I say, trying to make my voice sound firm and confident. I squeeze Sally’s hand and then reach across her to open the glove compartment before remembering that the flashlight isn’t there anymore. “I’ll check it out.”

  “But Mom, what if it’s a burglar?”

  “It’s probably one of the housemaids that Dymphna’s sent over.”

  I don’t really think Dymphna’s sent anyone at this time of night, but I don’t want Sally to be too scared—or to follow me into the house. I get out of the car, checking to make sure both doors are locked, and approach the house, wishing I at least had the flashlight to wield as a weapon. Even without a weapon though, if there’s an intruder inside, I’ll do whatever I have to to keep him or her from getting to Sally. I slide the key into the lock, but before I can turn it the door swings open to reveal Ivy St. Clare, wrapped dramatically in a dark shawl.

  “There you are at last! We’ve been waiting for you to return. Is your daughter with you? Sheriff Reade said you had collected her.”

  I’m so taken aback by the sight of Dean St. Clare in my house that I don’t answer. I peer past her into the living room and see Shelley Drake and Chloe Dawson sitting across from each other in the lettuce green chairs. Chloe looks as wilted as the leaves in the upholstery
.

  “How did you get into my house?” I ask the dean. “And what are you doing here?”

  She adjusts the wrap over her shoulders and sniffs. “I still have my key from when I used to do little errands for Vera. As for what we’re doing here—Sally and Chloe have broken school rules by going into the village at night and going into a drinking establishment. It’s my policy to address miscreants of joint crimes together and in the same manner, but since that man wouldn’t release Sally into Miss Drake’s custody we’ve had to wait for you to get back with her. You wouldn’t want your daughter to receive special treatment, would you?” St. Clare’s glance shifts from my face to something over my right shoulder. I turn and see that Sally’s come to the doorway. She’s not looking at me, though; she’s looking at Chloe who’s mouthing some silent message.

  “I don’t expect her to receive special treatment, but I’ve already talked to her and I think I can handle it from here.”

  “That’s all very well and good, but our rules state that there are consequences for misbehavior. Vera always insisted that the students perform some work for the communal good of the school. Miss Drake and I thought that it would be appropriate for the girls to clean up from dinner tonight and for each night this week.”

  “Now?” I ask. “You want them to start”—I look down at my watch—“at ten o’clock at night?”

  “Yes, well, if we’d been able to collect Sally earlier they would have already been done. Still, there’s plenty of time for them to finish and I did expressly tell Dymphna to leave the cleaning.”

  “But I wanted to talk some more to Sally—” I begin, turning to her. If I expect her to look grateful for my intervention I’d be disappointed. She’s staring at a spot on the ceiling, ignoring me. Any connection we began to make on the drive back from town has vanished.

  “Do you want Miss Dawson to do all the work herself, then?” the dean asks.

  “Mom, that wouldn’t be fair. Let me go with Chloe. I’m perfectly ready to scrub some dishes.”

  “I’ll make sure they get back to the dorm all right,” Shelley says, speaking for the first time. She gives me a small smile, glancing nervously at the dean to see if she’s looking, but Ivy’s attention is fixed on the mantel above the fireplace. I feel a guilty flush steal over me as I recall what’s hidden there, and I have to forcibly remind myself that Ivy St. Clare doesn’t know about the hiding place behind the carved panel. I turn back to Sally, catching Shelley’s eye as I do.

  “Is that what you want, Sally?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I guess it’s what I have to do. Can I change, though? Someone spilled beer on my jeans in that skanky bar.”

  Dean St. Clare nods and then, when Sally’s gone upstairs, turns to me. “I hope you understand why this is necessary. If Sally learns that she can hide behind you she’ll have a very hard time here. And, if you don’t mind me saying, Sally is a very troubled young girl.”

  “She lost her father a year ago,” I respond, the blood rushing to my face.

  St. Clare gives me a pitying look. “I grew up an orphan. My mother abandoned me at birth and God knows if my father even knew I existed. The first family who adopted me returned me. I could have spent my life making excuses for bad behavior, but instead I determined to make something of myself. You’ve got to let Sally realize that for herself.”

  “Of course I understand that, and I admire what you’ve been able to accomplish. But you did have help. Lily Eberhardt and Vera Beecher gave you a second chance when they gave you the scholarship to study here.”

  “That’s true, but it was never a free ride. I knew from the minute I stepped foot on the grounds that I’d have to work to earn a place here. And I have worked every day of my life to maintain that place. You have no idea what I’ve had to do.” She’s holding herself so rigid the skin seems stretched taut over the bones of her face. Her hands are coiled into fists and her collarbones stand out as sharp as stone ledges. It’s as if something inside her were struggling to be free of the thin layer of flesh and blood. Something sharp cracks and for a second I think it’s Ivy herself, held so taut that she’s snapped like a branch in the wind, but it’s only Shelley fiddling with one of the pokers by the fireplace.

  “Sorry,” she says. “It looked like it was about to fall.”

  I glance nervously at the mantel, afraid that the secret compartment has sprung open and disgorged Lily’s journal and all its secrets of Ivy’s orphaned past, but it’s securely closed. I turn to find Sally coming down the stairs in sweatpants and Jude’s Pratt sweatshirt (she must have been dying to get out of Callum Reade’s), tying her hair back in a workmanlike ponytail. As she lowers her arm I catch a glimpse of red and green on her right wrist. I assumed that Callum had gotten to Fatz Katz before Sally could get a tattoo, but stepping forward and grabbing her wrist I see I assumed wrong.

  “It’s no big deal, Mom. And don’t start in about hepatitis. Fatz uses sterile needles.”

  It’s a tiny rosebud—about the most innocent image she could have chosen—but still I feel just as I did when I saw the scars left over from the chicken pox she had when she was three, like life was leaving its mark on her all too soon.

  After they leave I prowl around the cottage like a mother cat who’s had her kittens taken from her. I walk from room to room, unable to rid myself of the idea that Sally’s in danger. I try to reassure myself that Shelley Drake will keep an eye on the girls, but Shelley, although well-intentioned, is a bit of a flake. In Sally’s room, I pick up Callum Reade’s discarded sweatshirt and clutch it to my chest as if I could fill it with Sally again. Instead I inhale the scent of wood shavings and lemon oil, the same scent I’d caught on him the day at the barn. Shivering, I pull the sweatshirt on and go back downstairs.

  I head straight to the fireplace and open the secret compartment. Lily’s journal is right where I left it. It was ridiculous to think that after going undetected for forty years Ivy would stumble upon it now. Still, I didn’t like having her so close to the hiding place. It makes me realize how disappointed I’d be if the journal was taken from me before I got a chance to finish it. I take the journal out, curl up on the living room couch, bundled in Callum’s sweatshirt and one of my grandmother’s old afghans, and settle in to read, determined to get to the end of Lily’s story at last.

  Our lives in Fleur-de-Lis were full of little surprises. Vera delighted in giving me small presents and in finding ways to make me happy. She had made good on her promise to buy a printing press and that fall she invited a printer from the city, Bill Adams, to teach us how to print our own books. Anita Day from the Guild of Book Workers came for the next three summers to teach us bookbinding. In the fall of 1930 we published our first book, The Changeling Girl, in an edition of one hundred copies. We were still new to the process and made so many mistakes that only seventy were worth keeping. We sent them out that year to friends for Christmas presents. Vera thought the story was appropriate to the times and to the economic hardships that so many were experiencing. In our Christmas card (also printed on our new press) Vera wrote, “I hope you will enjoy this little story about a poor girl who helps her family through hard times and finds happiness in good, honest work.” I was glad that was all Vera saw in the story.

  In the card we sent to Mimi Green, who had married Johnnie and moved back to Brooklyn, I wrote an extra note. “You’ll perhaps see something else in this story.”

  We didn’t hear back from Mimi—not even a thank-you note—which annoyed Vera, who, for all her championing of the unconventional artistic life, was a stickler for the conventions of good manners. “You see what happens when women marry and have children,” Vera said, striking Mimi off our Christmas list. “They abandon all their old friends.”

  “Gertrude hasn’t abandoned us,” I pointed out mischievously.

  “If only she would,” Vera groaned. Having a healthy baby girl in the spring of 1929 had done nothing to make Gertrude Sheldon more maternal or stable. When s
he came back from Europe, she’d retreated with the child to the Sheldon’s country estate on an island in Maine, telling everyone that her daughter’s constitution was delicate and couldn’t risk the contagion and heat of New York City. Later there were rumors that Gertrude had actually spent the summer in a sanatorium and that she was suffering from nervous exhaustion following her confinement. She was still in seclusion the following summer, which also annoyed Vera—not because she missed Gertrude’s presence, but because Gertrude had lured Virgil Nash to her home in Maine. We heard she had promised him her patronage, and Nash did indeed become wealthy from painting portraits of the Sheldon family and their circle.

  I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to face Nash. Even when Gertrude returned to Arcadia a few years later, Nash stayed away. Perhaps he was avoiding me, or perhaps he was embarrassed by the paintings he was doing. His society portraits had made him rich, but they were facile and flattering. He must have felt the gap between him and his fellow artists widen as many of our friends’ fortunes declined in the coming years.

  Vera told me in the beginning of 1930 that she’d lost a great many of her holdings in the stock market and that she would have to give up the New York town house, but that if I was willing to practice some basic economies, we could still afford to live simply at Arcadia all the year round. I told her that nothing would make me happier than to spend the whole year at Arcadia. In truth, I enjoyed the economies forced upon us. At last I could be useful to her! I knew how to cook and clean and grow vegetables. I even convinced her to get a cow and some hens so that we could produce our own milk and eggs.

  Many of our artist friends were not as fortunate as we were, and so we gave them a home in the summer, a place that would relieve them of the day-to-day struggle to survive, where they could still draw and paint and make pottery and books and furniture. There were many who survived off the goods they produced at Arcadia during those summers.

  And so, although I was not ignorant of the need around us, I have to admit that the decade of the thirties was the happiest time of my life. We had enough while many did not, we had the means to help our friends a little, we had our work, and, most of all, Vera and I had each other. It was Vera now who received commissions for important murals—for post offices and banks, colleges, and even one state capitol. I was her assistant and her model, but after the chapel of St. Lucy’s I never again wanted to work on such a large scale.