could hear Shelly’s feet padding softly down the hallway. I didn’t have to turn around to know she was standing in the doorway.
Marguerite pulled the sheets around herself as if suddenly embarrassed, and nodded quickly. “I’m fine. The thunder scared me.”
“Okay,” I said, deciding not to argue. There was no thunder. No lightning. Only the softest rain outside. “Let me know if you need anything.”
As I left the room, I put my arm around Shelly’s shoulders and steered her back to her own room. She climbed up into her bed and pulled the covers under her chin; she would likely not even remember all of this in the morning.
“Love you to the bottom of the ocean,” she whispered, our ritual.
“And back to the top,” I whispered, kissing her head.
For the rest of the night, I sat up reading in the living room, waiting. But there was only the tapping of rain, the ticking of the clock, and the sound of my own exasperated breaths when sleep would not come.
The next morning the rain had stopped, and the air was cooler. It was Saturday, so I went to the bakery for doughnuts and then to the drugstore to pick up a copy of the Free Press . The train wreck was on the front page. TRAIN DERAILS : 29 DEAD , 11 MISSING , PRESUMED DEAD . I read the paper as I walked back to my building, narrowly missing the fire hydrant, the broken sidewalk, and another pedestrian. The roster read like those published in the paper during the war. I pored over the names, searching for some sort of clue. And finally, I found among the missing, now presumed dead, Margaret Jones, 15, of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. A single ticket. No Mrs. Jones anywhere.
Inside my house, Marguerite, aka Maggie, née Margaret, was making pancakes. She was wearing a dress that was too young for her, and with her swollen belly looked even more so. The collar looked like a little girl’s dress. Her knees were exposed and bony.
Shelly was standing at the stove with a spatula, helping Marguerite flip the pancakes.
“I don’t like her playing with the stove,” I said, angry at the girl, whatever her name was.
“We’re cooking , Daddy. I’m not a little kid.”
“Do what your daddy says,” she said, swatting Shelly’s behind, and Shelly backed away from the stove obediently.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said, smiling. “Just as soon as I flip this here flapjack. I don’t need no burned hot cakes.”
“In the other room, please,” I said, rolling my eyes toward Shelly, who was pretending to be absorbed in a hangnail.
In the living room, the girl sat down on the couch and looked up at me, those disconcerting eyes wide and attentive.
“Listen, Margaret Jones , or whatever the hell your real name is. I don’t know who you are, but I do know you didn’t get on that train in Louisiana. And your mother wasn’t on the train either. And now everybody in the world thinks you’re dead.” I had no idea where I was headed; I only knew that I was pissed that she’d lied to me.
She reached up then, desperate, and grabbed my hands. I was surprised by how warm they were, like two small birds, shuddering. Even though her eyes disturbed me, I couldn’t look away.
“Please,” she said. “I never said I got on the train in Louisiana. I come from Tuscaloosa. And I just lied about my name because I was scared. Marguerite is my cousin’s name.”
“You told me your mother was dead. That she was on the train. You lied to me.”
“She is dead. I ain’t got no mama. That’s the damned truth.” Her lip was trembling but her gaze was steady.
“And what about this aunt of yours? The one in Canada?”
“Daddy sent me away,” she said; she was crying now. I glanced quickly to the doorway to make sure that Shelly wasn’t eavesdropping.
“To your aunt?”
“He wants me to take care of this,” she said. “But I ain’t giving this baby to no stranger.”
“Your aunt is arranging for an adoption?”
She was silent.
“Your father will be looking for you. I’m sure he’s heard about the accident by now. I’m sure they’re both worried sick.”
“I promise, ain’t nobody looking for me. And I ain’t going back there,” she said angrily. Then she took a deep breath and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Please. Just let me stay until I figure out where else I can go. I’ll help you with Shelly. You don’t have to pay me or nothin’. I’ll keep your house. I’ll do the wash….” She squeezed my hands tightly as she spoke, and I thought then about her fighting ghosts with these tiny fists. I thought about the sound of her screams. About the cool green of that room and the terror in her eyes. There were a whole lot of things she wasn’t telling me, but there was one thing I knew for certain. She was terrified of something, and for some reason, she was trusting me to keep her safe.
“Maggie,” I said, shaking my head.
And she muttered, like a prayer, “Please, please, please.”
1968: Fall
H eadlights flick on and then off, fireflies signaling each other in the darkness. The dirt parking lot is empty, except for the carnies’ trailers and these two vehicles, speaking to each other in flashes of light. Beyond this, the electric glow of the midway has been extinguished for the night; the only light now comes from a harvest moon. When the man opens his trailer door and peers outside, his face is illuminated by this eerie orange glow. It is quiet. He has no idea that they are waiting for him.
The air still smells of the midway: sweet fried dough, greasy French fries, lemon ice. This is the smell of childhood. Of sweetness. Of everything good in the world. But tonight, as Harper waits for this man whose name he doesn’t even know, as his own childhood becomes more distant than God, Harper feels nothing but rage.
When the man ducks back into the tiny trailer, Harper feels his pulse quicken. He looks through the windshield at the truck across the lot. Soon, the truck door opens, and Brooder’s hulking figure emerges. His stride is fast and certain as he makes his way to the trailer. Ray, who has been silent until now, looks at Harper then, asking the question whose answer will change Harper’s life forever.
“You sure?”
And because everything is gone, leaving only this perfect rage, there is only one answer. He nods, and Ray puts the key in the ignition.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
