Through an open window, p.16
Through an Open Window, page 16
It was only four-thirty. She should’ve checked in with the office hours ago. Yet here she lay, her fingertips all pruney from being in hot water for over an hour. Every now and then, the wind would blow through the maple tree outside and one of those ruby-robed branches would scratch at the window as though trying to get her attention. But she stayed where she was, laid out like a trout in the water, staring straight up at the ceiling. It had been such a strange day. And this coming Saturday promised to be even stranger. She and her mother had an appointment with a private detective. Good Lord.
Nathan Culpepper had answered his phone on the first ring. Mouse was surprised that he sounded so normal, though really, she thought now, turning the tap back off with her toe, what exactly had she expected? Private detectives had heretofore existed only in her imagination. Holmes and Watson. Hercule Poirot. To think that someone like that could have an office on Wesleyan Square made her want to laugh. It seemed so completely absurd.
When she heard a key turn in the front door downstairs, Mouse felt her stomach flip so wildly she was surprised she didn’t actually see it. “Mouse?” Nick called out. She could hear him taking the stairs two at a time. She pulled up the stopper and hauled herself out of the tub, wrapping up tight in her terry-cloth bathrobe before Nick opened the door. He was grinning.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he said, reaching out for Mouse, folding her into a hug, and twirling her around. “I’ve been calling you for the past hour. We’ve got reservations at Pirogue tonight! A gift from Bogey Crawford for me taking his calls on Saturday. Apparently, his daughter didn’t do too well in her cheerleading competition, zigged when she should’ve zagged, or something—collapsed the whole pyramid—and they lost. He’d made this reservation thinking it would be celebratory, but Ellen told him nobody felt like celebrating now. So, he’s given it to us. Between you and me, he looked pretty pissed.” He bent to kiss Mouse’s forehead. “Hurry up, we’ve got to be there at six. We don’t want them to give our table away; it takes months to get into that place. I’m gonna take a quick shower. You think it’s cold enough yet for my new tweed sport coat?”
Mouse stood in the middle of the bathroom floor, her robe wicking up the water still clinging to her bare flesh. Nick’s enthusiasm hovered around her in the freesia-scented air and Mouse unexpectedly caught it. Suddenly it seemed like the best idea in the world to put on a pretty dress, sit in a fancy restaurant, and tell him everything she’d learned at her mother’s not two hours before.
* * *
—
Pirogue was bubbling over with people, most of them young, and all of them looking like they were on their way to a football game. Glancing down at her elegant dress and high heels, Mouse realized this outfit marked her as part of a different, and older, generation, one that still dressed up to go out, but she didn’t mind. Sitting here at this table by the window, she felt better than she had in six months.
On the way over, she’d told Nick everything Margaret had told her and her brothers, the words tumbling over one another like running water, and now Nick had run out of questions. “Well,” he said, “if Margaret is up for it, I don’t think it’s a bad idea at all to go see this man—what’d you say his name was again?—just to see what he can find out.”
“Nathan Culpepper,” said Mouse. “I’m glad you think so, ’cause Mother and I have got an appointment with him this Saturday at noon. I still can’t quite believe I called him. I wonder what he’ll look like.”
“You mean will he be wearing a deerstalker hat?”
Mouse shrugged, smiling. “No…it’s just, well I didn’t know private detectives even existed outside of books and TV. You didn’t either, admit it.”
“Never had much use to think about it,” Nick said, buttering his bread.
“I don’t really believe all that much can come from it,” said Mouse. “I talked to Lawrie out in the driveway before I left, and he agrees. But still, it’s sort of a mystery, don’t you think? And Daddy obviously knew something about it. Mother swears up and down it’s his handwriting on that envelope. Though frankly, it didn’t look like it to me.”
Nick leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly at her.
“What?” said Mouse, expertly twirling a forkful of linguine. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”
“I don’t know, honey. Spending some time with your family today was obviously good for you. You all so rarely get together, and when you do, it seems to always disintegrate into some kind of argument, like it did last Saturday night. It’s just good to see you get out of yourself for a change.”
“Out of myself?” said Mouse, eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
Nick shook his head, sighing deeply. “I mean,” he said, hesitating, “that it’s good…good to see you…oh, I don’t know…brighter again.” He turned to look out the window, but it was now so dark outside all he could see was his own reflection. “Darlin’, I don’t know how to say this but just to say it. I’ve never seen anybody as depressed as you’ve been this past…Well, I guess it started with Lawrence’s death. I’ve tried to talk to you about it so many times, but you just wave me off like it’s nothing. You change the subject, then close up tighter than you’d been before.”
Mouse felt like a fire ant under a magnifying glass. She lifted her chin. “That’s…not true,” she said.
“See,” said Nick, leaning closer. “Right there. That’s just what I mean. That’s what you do. You won’t talk to me, Mouse. And as far as I can tell, you don’t talk to anyone. Not the girls at the office. Not your family. Do you remember last summer when I suggested you go on some kind of antidepressant? Just for a while, I said, just to see if it helped? You bit my fool head off. You’ve lost weight, you work all the time. I can’t remember the last time you laughed. You haven’t been getting better, and I haven’t known what to do.”
“I’m…sorry,” Mouse said, taken aback, her face growing hot. “I mean, I don’t…I’m not…Nicky, really, I’m fine.” She looked him dead in the eyes, determined to erase the worry she saw there. “Haven’t I been handling things just like I always do? The company is booked solid into next year. I got both Ben and Carly settled at school without even one hiccup. I’m fine!” Her smile was so wide even she could tell it looked fake. “If…well, if I’m still, occasionally, a little depressed since Daddy died, well, you’re the doctor. Tell me that isn’t a normal reaction. Seriously, Nicky, I’m fine.”
“For God’s sake, don’t apologize, Mouse. I’m not accusing you of anything. But do you realize you’ve just said you’re fine three times? Enough to make me not believe you.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I know you think you’ve kept it all hidden from me. From everyone, I suppose. That’s what you do. But I also know you. You’re not just depressed, Mouse. You’re grieving. Do you realize you never cried during those awful days after Lawrence died? Not once. You just kept it all tamped down. If you don’t give grief an outlet, it’ll find one.”
A waiter walked by just then carrying a hot apple tart right at nose level. It smelled like Halloween. Cinnamon and candy corn, her father dressed up like a pirate to take them all trick-or-treating. He’d made her costume every year. A princess, a ghost, and one year—her favorite—Julia Child. There were pictures somewhere, weren’t there? Mouse in a sweater set, dark wig, and pearls.
“Well, you can’t blame me for that,” she said, raising her napkin to her mouth to settle her trembling lip. “I just…I still can’t believe, even now, that he’s really gone. And it seems sometimes like I’m the only one who misses him, the only one who wasn’t ready to lose him. And nothing can change it. There’s no pill I can take. No book I can read. I just have to wait till it passes.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “And it will. That’s what everyone says.”
“I’m not sure it works that way,” said Nick, slowly shaking his head and smiling gently. “Honey, I’ve stood on the edge of that chasm that can open up between what you know and what you feel, and not be able to close it.” He paused for a second, running his forefinger around the rim of his wineglass, as though trying to decide whether to ask the next question. After a second, he looked up at her. “Do you remember that priest Dinky clawed in the face the day Carly made us take him to the Blessing of the Animals at St. Cyprian’s? Must be, what? Seven years ago now.”
Of course, Mouse remembered. It had been the only time they’d gone to church as a family, the implausibility of religion being one of the first things she and Nick had agreed on all those years ago. But twelve-year-old Carly had been impossible to shift once she got hold of an idea, and when she’d seen the sign out in front of that big Gothic church, off they’d all gone to get Dinky blessed. Mouse had known how much the imperious cat would hate it, but she’d kept quiet, and Reverend Allison Whipple had paid for that silence. When the first drop of holy water hit the top of Dinky’s head, he’d unsheathed his claws, stretched out his paw, and raked the woman across the chin, drawing blood along with a host of horrified stares. “Well, Dinky is going to hell,” Nick had singsonged to Mouse as they’d hurried back to the car, the unrepentant cat tucked under a tearful Carly’s arm, and Nicky and Mouse trying hard not to laugh.
They had liked her. Reverend Whipple had taken Dinky’s assault with a good-natured grin that appeared to absolve the whole family, even as blood poured from her chin, down onto her vestments. The unfortunate event had long ago become one of Mouse and Nick’s favorite dinner party stories. It was part of Moretti family lore.
Mouse laughed now in spite of herself. “I remember Reverend Whipple,” she said.
“Well, I went to talk to her recently to see if she had any idea what I could do to help you with what you’ve been going through, and that’s when she told me what you were experiencing sounded like grief.”
“Oh, Nicky,” said Mouse, horrified. “You didn’t.”
He reached for her hand and held on to it tight. “When you don’t talk to me, Minnie, I find it hard to talk to you. And I love you. I hate to see you so miserable, especially when I don’t know what to do to fix it.”
Mouse had started to protest but softened at the sound of his nickname for her.
“Do you think I don’t know how you idolized your father?” Nick continued, still holding on to her hand. “Hell, he’s the reason we moved back to Wesleyan, and I took the position at Elberta General instead of the one at New Haven. My dad had been gone a long time, and I knew how much you wanted to be close to yours. I just wanted to be with you. I didn’t care where we lived. And I’ve never regretted that decision. Don’t go and think that I have. But as long as Lawrence was around, that’s where you went with your troubles. Now with him gone, I thought you’d turn to me, and when you didn’t, I realized I didn’t really know how to help you, and that scared me.”
“So, you asked Reverend Whipple.”
“So, I asked Reverend Whipple.”
“Did she serve you crackers and wine?” asked Mouse, sardonically, pouring more wine into her glass. “Pour oil on your head? Make you confess all your sins?”
“Nope. Not once. She took me to some vegetarian restaurant called Flat Belly and neither one of us could find anything on the menu we wanted to eat. Then, she gave me the name of a grief counseling group that meets every Thursday at lunchtime. You’d like her, Mouse.”
“I doubt it,” said Mouse. Folding her hands on the table, she said, “I’ve been trying, Nicky, really, I have. To feel better, I mean. To act more like myself. I can’t tell you how hard I’ve been trying. Don’t give up on me.”
“Like I ever would.” Then, seeing the fear in her eyes, Nick leaned in and whispered, “What? You think I’m going to lock you up in the attic like poor Mrs. Rochester? Go off and find me somebody else? You underestimate me greatly, Minnie.” He put both hands over hers.
Mouse grinned. “I didn’t know you’d ever read Jane Eyre.”
“See? Just like I said. Underestimated again.”
Unnoticed by either of them, a group of waiters dressed all in black had circled the table behind them, and now, as they launched into “Happy Birthday” at a thunderous volume, both Mouse and Nick jumped. Mouse turned to see an oversize hot fudge sundae descending in front of a grinning girl who was wearing a hat with a big number sixteen written across it in glitter. She looked back at Nick, shrugged her shoulders, and started to sing along with everyone else.
* * *
—
Downstairs, Dinky was howling, as was the cat’s habit when he wanted to go out for his nightly prowl. Angry and shrill, the sound rose an octave with each passing minute, yet Mouse remained where she was, curled up beside Nick, her head on his chest, staring into the corner at an overturned dead cricket Dinky had brought in as a gift during the previous night. She felt as though chains were falling off her body, allowing her to float far above the bed, far above the maple trees, far above Wesleyan, far above herself. As Nick bent to kiss her again, Mouse heard Dinky howl one more time, desperation added to fury. But the sound was like a siren on a faraway street; nothing to do with her.
16
Margaret
A Southern fall is notoriously fickle. The cold rains of Monday had been ushered out by weather that was much more suited for summer, and people who’d worn sweaters and scarves just a few days before were back in their short sleeves today. A line was already forming outside Rocky’s Road Ice Cream Shop on the corner, even though Rocky Hunter wouldn’t unlock the door until noon. Thermometers were supposed to hit eighty by then.
Margaret and Mouse were early. Margaret had parked the car in front of Epiphanies Bookshop, and now they were both looking up through the windshield in confusion. “This can’t be it,” said Margaret. She picked up Mouse’s phone and squinted at the screen. “It says we’re sitting right in front of the place, but Epiphanies is 1555 and the florist is 1559. There just isn’t any 1557. Not unless it’s that old green door right there, but that’s got to be some kind of delivery access, don’t you think? There’s no room for anything else.” She turned the phone toward Mouse, who frowned. Margaret sat back in her seat. “I told you there wasn’t any sort of detective on the square. I’d’ve known if there was.”
“Let’s just give it a minute,” said Mouse. “He doesn’t expect us till noon. Maybe we’ll see him coming.” She looked up and down the sidewalk, already starting to fill with shoppers. “Even though we don’t have any idea what he looks like.” She said this last sentence almost to herself, then bit her bottom lip.
Margaret sighed, swallowing her nervousness. A private detective. Good Lord. Should they really be doing this? She stole a tense glance at Mouse, who returned it with one of her own.
“So, how was Tommy this morning?” asked Mouse, changing the subject. She unbuckled her seatbelt and crossed her legs, getting comfortable.
The mention of Tom sent adrenaline whisking through Margaret’s body. Uncontrolled and unbidden, it rushed down her arms, making the tips of her fingers tingle. Since the appearance at Tom’s bedside the night he’d come home so sick, she’d prayed that Aunt Edith, somehow cognizant of her wishes, would choose to remain in whichever part of the hereafter she now called home for the duration of his stay. But apparently her son’s presence hadn’t been the impediment she’d hoped for. Just this morning, as darkness was melting from the corners of her bedroom, she’d once again been awakened by the faint, lyrical notes of “Love Lifted Me.” This time, she didn’t bother going downstairs. Even as the music swirled round her, as soft and finespun as an audible mist, she knew no one sat at Aunt Edith’s piano, no one was touching the keys.
Margaret had left Jubal snuggled down in her bed and tiptoed out into the hall, the music never receding as she padded to Tom’s bedroom to listen at his door. His snores had continued unabated, thank God.
But later, as she’d been doing the breakfast dishes, she’d heard Tom in the hallway, humming as he leashed Jubal for a walk. At first, the tune had seemed random, as improvised as a mockingbird’s song, but soon Margaret found herself humming along, unconsciously following notes she herself had once forgotten but now knew only too well. She’d frozen right where she was. It couldn’t be “Love Lifted Me.”
“What’s that you’re humming?” she’d called out, trying to keep her voice casual.
“Huh?” Tom looked into the kitchen, Jubal by his side. “I don’t know. Is it anything?”
Margaret had kept her face turned away from her son. “I thought it sounded familiar,” she said. “Where’d you hear it?”
His voice muted by the T-shirt he was pulling over his head, Tom said, “Couldn’t tell you. It was just swinging through my brain when I woke up. Probably some jingle I heard on TV before I went to bed.”
Margaret had managed to convince Tom the old woman he’d seen by his bed that first night was nothing more than a dream conjured up by his fever, but what would she say if he saw Aunt Edith again?
“So, are you ready to kick him out, or what?” said Mouse, and Margaret looked at her, barely registering the question.
“Tommy?” said Mouse, raising her eyebrows.
