Jane Goes Batty

by Michael Thomas Ford

  She imagined Miriam getting ready for bed. Washing her face. Brushing her teeth. Putting on her favorite nightgown. Now she would go to bed in her son’s house, a reversal of the years when she had tucked him into his bed in her house.

  Jane thought of her own mother, and suddenly she was overcome with stirrings of affection for Miriam. Yes, they had gotten off to a bad start. But they could start again. Jane would just have to be a little more patient and understanding. I can do that, she told herself.

  As she gazed up at Miriam’s window the curtains parted unexpectedly. Miriam stood there, holding Lilith in her arms as she looked out at the night. The moon, nearly full, cast its light over the lawn. Jane’s car was sitting in a pool of light, right in Miriam’s line of vision.

  Jane ducked down, her heart pounding. Then she remembered: Miriam hadn’t seen her car. She would have no idea that it was Jane sitting there. Slowly Jane raised her head and peered over the edge of the window.

  Miriam was staring at her. For a moment their eyes seemed to lock. Then Miriam closed the curtains. Her shadow remained visible for another minute. Then the light went out and Jane was left looking at a black space.

  She started the car and drove away, feeling Miriam’s eyes on the back of her head. Or maybe I’ll just stay out of her way, she thought. Just until she warms up to me a little. Or until she dies.

  “HERE YOU ARE.”

  Sherman Applebaum slid into the booth, sitting opposite Jane, who was holding a cup of coffee in her hands and staring at a half-eaten jelly donut sitting on a plate in front of her.

  At seven o’clock in the morning the Rise-N-Shine coffee shop was not particularly crowded. The handful of customers were mostly delivery truck drivers, people getting off late shifts, and retired men who dreaded the long days of having nothing to do and came to spend an hour or two among people who would gladly trade places with them. Tired and preoccupied with their own lives, none of them paid any attention to Jane, which is precisely why she had chosen to come there.

  Jane looked at Sherman, who even at this early hour was dressed in a gray flannel suit complete with waistcoat, pocket watch, and a perfectly knotted tie in a lovely lavender and black pattern that complemented his alert blue eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed, and the faint scent of bay rum surrounded him. He looked as if he was on his way to a garden party instead of sitting in a greasy spoon. And yet at the same time he seemed to fit in perfectly.

  “What are you doing here?” Jane asked him.

  “I might ask you the same question,” said Sherman.

  A waitress approached the table before Jane could answer. “Morning, Sherm,” she said. “The usual?”

  “Thank you, Rhonda,” said Sherman. “That would be lovely. And how did little Britney’s recital go last week?”

  The waitress beamed. “Great,” she said. “I’ve got some pictures if you want to see them.”

  “I would be delighted,” Sherman assured her.

  As Rhonda walked away Jane said, “Little Britney’s recital?”

  “Rhonda’s daughter,” Sherman explained. “She’s five. Her ballet class had a recital. If I’m not mistaken, Britney played the role of a daffodil.”

  Jane took a sip of coffee. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

  Sherman’s eyes twinkled. “My dear, when you’re the editor of the town’s second-largest newspaper, it’s your job to know everything. Why do you think I’m here?”

  “I believe I already asked that question,” Jane reminded him.

  Sherman nodded. “So you did,” he said. “I’ll tell you why. The people in this room know more about what happens in this town than the mayor, the council, and the police department combined. If you want to know what a place is really like, talk to the people who keep it running.”

  Rhonda reappeared with a plate of scrambled eggs and two pieces of bacon, which she set in front of Sherman. “There you are, hon.” She fished several photographs out of her apron pocket and handed them to him. “Isn’t she a doll?” she said.

  Sherman looked at the photos, murmuring his approval. “A doll she is,” he told Rhonda. “Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

  “Danny got it all on video,” said Rhonda. “I can make you a copy if you want.”

  “Please do,” Sherman said brightly. “That’s very kind.”

  Rhonda left to attend to another customer, and Sherman turned his attention back to Jane. “I was wrong,” he said as he sprinkled pepper on his eggs. “She was not a daffodil, she was a daisy.”

  Jane laughed. “They really like you, don’t they?” she said.

  Sherman set the pepper shaker down. “Who does?” he asked.

  “Them,” said Jane, nodding at the people around them. “Everybody, really.”

  Sherman picked up a piece of bacon, bit the end neatly off, and chewed. “I listen to them,” he said once he’d swallowed. “It’s amazing how much people like you when you listen. It’s also amazing the things they’ll tell you.”

  “Now we’re getting to the reason you’re here,” said Jane.

  Sherman took a bite of eggs, leaving Jane waiting until he’d eaten it. “I understand that Hollywood has invaded our little corner of the world.”

  Jane sighed. “It would appear so,” she said.

  “And am I right in guessing that the reason you’re here instead of at home or at your wonderful bookshop is because you’ve already tired of fame?” Sherman asked.

  “You have no idea,” Jane told him. “I can’t get away from these people. They film everything. Well, one of them does. The girl—his sister—I quite like.”

  “Shelby,” said Sherman. “Yes.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, all sorts of things,” said Sherman, wiping his fingertips on a napkin. “Brian George’s real identity, for instance.”

  Jane, who was about to take another sip of coffee, paused with the cup just short of her lips. “Real identity?” she said, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes,” Sherman replied. “It’s the oddest thing. For some time now I’ve wanted to do a series of profiles on Brakeston personalities. Of course you are on my list, but I know how busy you are at the moment, so I thought I would begin with Mr. George.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” said Jane.

  “I know about his books, of course,” Sherman said.

  “Book,” Jane said, correcting him. “There’s just the one.”

  Sherman smiled. “Of course,” he agreed. “Under that name. But then there are the Penelope Wentz novels, which I understand are quite successful.”

  “They are,” said Jane.

  “Yet supposedly the writer of those books is a man named Tavish Osborn,” Sherman continued.

  He opened a briefcase that had heretofore gone unnoticed by Jane and removed from it a magazine, which he opened and placed on the table. Looking at it, Jane saw a photograph taken at the previous year’s Romance Writers’ Guild conference. In it a beaming Byron stood between novelist Chiara Carrington and Rebecca Little, the editor of Romance magazine. A tiny bit of Jane’s left arm was visible to Rebecca’s right, but the rest of her had been cropped out.

  “Brian George is Tavish Osborn,” Jane explained. “Rather, Tavish Osborn is Brian George. Tavish—Mr. Osborn—adopted the name Brian George when he wrote Winter Comes Slowly, as he didn’t think a work of serious poetry would be well received by someone known for writing romances.”

  “But he wasn’t known,” Sherman said. “That’s the point. Nobody knew Penelope Wentz was a man, so Tavish Osborn could have gone right on hiding in plain sight. So why the nom de plume de plume, so to speak?”

  “I don’t know, really,” said Jane. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I will,” Sherman said, putting the magazine away. “Sometimes, however, it’s better not to go to the source first.”

  “What made you think I might know anything?” Jane asked.

&nb
sp; Sherman poked at the remaining eggs with his fork. “It’s no secret that you’re friends,” he said. “I thought that perhaps you might be able to shed some light on the subject.” He hesitated. “I just find it peculiar that trying to find out anything about either Brian George or Tavish Osborn leads to nothing but dead ends.”

  “Dead ends?” Jane repeated.

  Sherman nodded. “It’s as if neither of them existed prior to the publication of Mr. George’s novel.”

  Jane felt that she might be sick. What was Sherman suggesting? She’d never known him to be anything but amiable. Now, though, she almost felt as if she—or at any rate Byron—were being threatened in some manner.

  “Well, as I said, I know very little about his past,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But I hardly think there’s anything sinister hidden there.” She drank some coffee and laughed, managing to choke instead.

  “Oh, I don’t suspect there is,” said Sherman, handing her a napkin. “The old newshound in me can’t help but wonder, though. People keep the strangest secrets. You weren’t living here then, so you wouldn’t know, but in ’83 a fellow by the name of Clyde Dibble dropped dead from a heart attack while shoveling his driveway. A real nice guy, Clyde was. Ran a little grocery store, coached Little League for a bunch of years, was a deacon at the Presbyterian church. When his kids came to clean out the house they found a locked trunk in the attic. When they got it open they found it was full of pictures of a whole lot of the lady neighbors in their underpants. Turns out Clyde liked to roam around at night looking in windows and taking snapshots of what he saw.”

  “Oh my,” Jane said. “Not very neighborly of him, was it?”

  “Not very, no,” said Sherman. “Anyway, you can see what I mean about never knowing what people are really like. I guess it’s become an occupational hazard with me.”

  “And just what secrets are in your attic?” Jane asked, leaning forward.

  Sherman grinned. “Oh, terrible things,” he said. “Just terrible.”

  They both laughed, although Jane couldn’t help but sense a little uneasiness in both their voices. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?” she said. She had a feeling it wasn’t.

  “Well, I did want to ask a favor of you,” Sherman said. “I was wondering if you might help me get an interview with Julia Baxter.”

  “The director?” said Jane. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t met her myself. But I can certainly try.”

  “I would very much appreciate that,” Sherman said. “I’m a big fan. Unfortunately, it won’t be any mean feat. She abhors the press.”

  “All we can do is try,” said Jane. “I have no idea when any of them are arriving.”

  “Oh, a number of them are already here,” Sherman informed her. “They arrived last night.”

  “And Julia Baxter?” asked Jane.

  “Tomorrow,” Sherman said. He took a wallet from his pocket and removed several bills, laying them on the table beside his plate. “Now, alas, I have to go and pen a stimulating article about the garden club’s zinnia festival. If the excitement doesn’t kill me, I’ll see you anon.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Jane. “And I’ll let you know if I can get a word with Julia Baxter.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I appreciate anything you can do on my behalf.” Sherman walked a few steps, then turned back and approached the table. “By the way,” he said in a low voice. “I meant to tell you. Do you remember our friend Miranda Fleck?”

  “Of course,” Jane said, grimacing. How could anyone forget the overbearing assistant professor of English at Meade College? Not only was Miranda rude, she was a Brontëite. She and Jane had butted heads at Walter’s most recent New Year’s Eve party, a confrontation that had ended with Jane giving Miranda the tiniest of bites and secreting her beneath a pile of coats. She hadn’t seen her since.

  “Well,” said Sherman, his voice taking on an excited tone, “you may be interested to know that she won’t be returning to the college in the fall. It seems she was giving certain students superior grades in exchange for, shall we say, extra-credit assignments. And she preserved it all on film. Well, digital video. Apparently the footage was discovered when she took her laptop to the college’s IT department to have it upgraded.”

  “Really?” Jane said. “I would never have believed her capable.”

  “Yes,” Sherman said. “I understand she’s a very emotive actress. At any rate, she’s been let go.”

  “I’m terribly sad to hear that,” Jane said. “Miranda added so much to the department.”

  “Didn’t she though,” said Sherman. “I’m sure she’ll be missed by … someone.”

  He turned and once more headed for the door, leaving Jane to finish her donut and coffee and marvel at the never-ending surprises of which human beings were capable. Imagine, Miranda Fleck a seductress.

  “She certainly didn’t learn that from any Brontë novel,” Jane assured the donut as she popped the last bite in her mouth.

  A sharp pain in her side caused her to flinch. For a moment she wondered if some foreign object in the donut had pricked her insides. Then the pain—now more of a cramp—came again, and she recognized it as a sign of hunger. Not for more food, but for blood.

  Jane groaned. Wonderful, she thought with no small amount of irritation. Now I’m going to have to bite somebody.

  She added some bills to the ones Sherman had left, made sure Rhonda saw them so that she could collect them, then hurriedly left the Rise-N-Shine. Her stomach had begun to make very unladylike sounds, and the cramps were growing stronger.

  She got into her car and sat for a moment, thinking. She hated having to feed during the day. Not only did it involve greater risk, it interrupted her schedule. Not that you have anywhere to be, she reminded herself. You’re trying to avoid people, remember?

  A tap on the glass startled her, and she gave a little shriek. Looking to her left, she saw Walter’s smiling face peering in at her. Behind him stood his mother, holding Lilith. Jane rolled the window down.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Walter said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Jane.

  “Mother wanted pancakes,” Walter explained. “This is the best place for them.”

  Jane glanced at Miriam, who met her gaze and smiled grimly. “I adore pancakes,” said Miriam.

  “How nice,” Jane replied. Then she realized she would shortly be expected to explain her presence at the Rise-N-Shine. “I came for donuts,” she blurted, hoping he wouldn’t notice that there were none in the car. “For the film crew. I thought it would be a nice gesture.” She was speaking too quickly, but found she couldn’t stop. “Well, I should be going.”

  “Hold on,” said Walter. “We were hoping you would spend the day with us.”

  Jane hesitated. “The day?” she said. “As in all of it?”

  Walter laughed. “That’s the idea.”

  “Of course, if you have something better to do,” Miriam said, “we don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  Hearing the tone in the woman’s voice, Jane knew she was being tested. She also sensed that Miriam wanted her to fail.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’d love to spend the day with you.”

  Her stomach knotted and she gasped slightly.

  “Are you all right?” Walter asked her.

  “Fine,” Jane said as the hunger pains returned. “Just a little cramp.”

  “I always found that hot compresses helped with my monthly troubles,” Miriam announced.

  Jane began to inform Miriam that she had quite the wrong idea, but then thought better of it. “What a charming suggestion,” she said instead. Then, to Walter, she said, “I’ll just take the donuts over to the shop and meet up with you after you’ve had breakfast. Where shall we meet?”

  “I want to show you both the Carlyle House,” said Walter.

  “A wonderful idea,” Jane replied.

/>   The Carlyle House was one of Walter’s restoration projects. He’d purchased the property when the last of the seven Carlyle sisters—none of whom had married—died the previous year, just three days shy of the century mark. Had it not been for an ill-timed tumble down one of the house’s several staircases (thought to have occurred when one of the eighteen cats that lived in the house tangled itself in its mistress’s feet), Mehitabel Carlyle would have been the guest of honor at a surprise one hundredth birthday party thrown for her by her friends at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church. Instead, on the day of her birth she was lowered into the ground of Resurrection Cemetery.

  Mehitabel’s misfortune was Walter’s gain. The house, long in disrepair, was sold for a pittance. He had spent the past year working on it, and now it was almost completed. Although anyone passing by could see the dramatic change in the house’s exterior, Jane had been banned from setting foot inside until the project was done. She thought this very silly, but it had seemed an inconsequential matter over which to quarrel and so she had not objected. She was, however, enormously curious to see what the house looked like.

  “All right, then,” said Walter. “You know where it is. Meet us there at ten?”

  “Perfect,” Jane said. She looked past Walter to Miriam. “See you then!” she chirped.

  Miriam smiled weakly and turned away, walking toward the restaurant. “She’s really looking forward to getting to know you,” Walter told Jane.

  “I can tell,” Jane said.

  Walter followed his mother, and Jane pulled out of the parking lot. Her stomach was growling audibly, and the cramps were closer together. There was no way she could spend the morning—let alone the entire day—with Walter and his mother unless she fed first.

  “If only there were a drive-through for this sort of thing,” she mused, looking longingly at the line of cars queued alongside a fast-food restaurant’s take-out window.

  But there wasn’t, so she was going to have to come up with another solution to her hunger. And she was going to have to do it soon.