Dark Companion (15 page)

“I stood here, and saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty deep stretch dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.”

Arthur Machen,
The Great God Pan
(1890)

Chapter 13

I became accustomed to my new school and my new home. Sometimes I glimpsed the beam of a flashlight in the grove at night, or heard faint voices carried by the wind, but I no longer pushed my sofa against the door at night. Catalina ignored me in Latin class, and I stopped paying any attention to her, too. My most difficult class was Mrs. Radcliffe’s seminar. I struggled with my essay on “Wake Not the Dead.” The day after I handed it in, Mrs. Radcliffe stopped me as I was leaving class.

“Jane, I read your paper last night.” She came from behind her desk and smoothed her skirt. “It was quite businesslike. I’d hoped for a more personal analysis.”

“I thought the assignment was about story comprehension,” I said, hiding my irritation.

“Comprehending literature requires more than grasping the plot. Fiction offers insights to the human condition. Don’t tell me what happened in the story, but how you
feel
about what happened and the characters.” She handed me my ungraded paper. “I know you can do better, and I’d like you to try again.”

That night, I started the essay three times, getting more aggravated with each effort. Why should I be graded on my
feelings
for an assignment? Finally, in my clumsy cursive hand, I scrawled, “‘Wake Not the Dead’ is not a story about love. It is about one man’s thoughtless and cruel selfishness. He believes his position and wealth entitle him to do whatever he desires, irregardless of the consequences for everyone else.” I read the paragraph over and changed “irregardless” to “regardless.” The rest of the essay came rushing out as I thought about love and desire, and the way I wanted Lucian Radcliffe and the things that I would be willing to do if I thought that I could have him.

*   *   *

Mary Violet invited me to stay over on Friday night, and we set up cots on a second-floor balcony. I stared up into the sky, the stars hidden by a layer of clouds.

“JW, I’m jealous you get to tutor Lucky. I’ve got dibs on marrying him, though.”

“He might want to marry someone he hasn’t even met yet.”

“He doesn’t have much choice. Radcliffe men only marry Birch Grove girls, and Radcliffe girls only marry Evergreen boys. At some point, the inbreeding is going to show up in rare blood disorders or prehensile toes. Maybe even a tail.”

“Why are you obsessed with genetic mutations?”

She pointed upward. “I always wonder what’s out there and what’s
here
on Earth that we don’t know about. I saw a documentary with a scientist explaining the theory of multiverses. He said that an infinite number of universes can exist, and that they can each have their own rules of physics. Maybe in one universe, E
doesn’t
equal MC squared, and maybe in one there’s magic, and maybe in one, time moves backwards or in circles.”

“So that realities that seem mutually exclusive could coexist?”

“Yes.” She sighed contentedly. “Maybe there are alien girls talking right now about the possibility that girls as fabulous as us exist somewhere.”

I thought about how Hosea would have loved that theory.

“Jane?”

“Yes, Mary Violet?”

“Do you mind sleeping outside? When you lived in the hood did you ever go camping?”

I vaguely remembered nights sleeping outside and the scent of fires. “Sort of, but it wasn’t anything fancy.”

“Camping isn’t supposed to be fancy. Whenever we go camping, the days last forever, but summer vacation seems really short. Someone should do a study on the theory of relativity and holidays.” She was quiet for so long that I thought she’d gone to sleep. “We always go to my parents’ alumni camps and see the same people every year. Did you camp at a state park?”

“It was a long time ago,” I said. “There’s another thing. When I had my accident, I didn’t just lose my memory. I might have had brain damage. I had to go through testing. The doctors said I’m fine, but sometimes I wonder.”

“Maybe you
are
fine.” I heard MV’s long exhalation of breath. “It’s probably easier to remember things when parents remind you about them, always saying ‘remember when you did this’ and ‘remember when you did that.’ You’re such an enigma.”

A mockingbird sang somewhere in the distance, and I wondered why the species evolved to mimic other birds’ songs. “MV, you asked me if I had a nickname and I said no. But back home they called me Mousie or Mousie Girl, because I’m mousy and plain.”

“But you’re not plain! You have lovely colors, like an old sepia photo, and mice are so petite and exquisite, like you.”

“MV, I may be brain damaged, but sometimes I worry that you’re clinically insane. Don’t tell anyone about the accident or my nickname, okay?”

She sighed again. “Okay.”

*   *   *

At breakfast with Mary Violet’s family, the kids fought over the last pieces of bacon while Mr. Holiday tried to devise a plan to share equally based on prior consumption. Mary Violet leaned over to me. “He’s
such
an alpha nerd. We love that about him.”

He was so different—smart, involved, and reasonable—from the other fathers I’d known that I was studying him like he was an exotic animal.

Mrs. Holiday asked me to come into her studio. She handed me a large package covered in brown paper. “It’s one of my Lady of the Wood paintings, Jane.”

I was speechless for a moment. “You’re really giving this to me?”

“Art isn’t alive unless it’s seen and loved.” She ruffled her short locks. “I hope it will bring some joy to you, Jane. Make sure to take the time to explore your inner self and learn who you are.”

She looked at me with her smoky gray eyes and I thought that perhaps she did know things I couldn’t yet understand. “I’ll try. Thank you for the painting.”

As I was leaving, Mary Violet shoved a glossy black bag into my tote. “I get all these gifts-with-purchase when I buy makeup and perfume. I put things in there for your coloring. What are you doing tonight?”

“Thanks, MV! I’m not doing anything except studying.”

“I have to go to my grandmother’s for a family birthday. Grand-mère calls me Marie-Violette and she’s always asking me about my beaux, which is French for players with trust funds.”

“Have fun. I’ll see you Monday.” Although the painting was big, it was light, and I carried it back to my cottage and propped it on the mantel. Mary Violet’s gift bag contained samples of makeup, lotions, and hair and bath products. I was so thrilled by them that I lined them up on the bathroom vanity so I could play with them later.

Then I walked down the hill to Greenwood Grocery.

The manager was near the front door and he watched me as I came in. “Good afternoon, miss.”

“Hi,” I said, but not in a friendly way. I scanned the registers, but didn’t see Ornery. As I went to get milk, cereal, and fruit, I peeked to the mirrors mounted on the market’s ceilings. Each time, I was able to see the manager. Which meant that he was standing so that he was always able to see me.

I went to a register, chose a handful of candy bars, and paid. The manager had once again moved to the doors at the store’s entrance. I went up to him, set down my grocery bag, and opened up my tote. “Go ahead and search it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t get your meaning.”

“You’ve been surveilling me the whole time. I
didn’t
steal anything from your store. I don’t need to steal. I have money to pay for things now.”

He waved his hand palm outward toward my tote. “Oh, good heavens, no, I didn’t think you were taking anything, miss! I recognized you as the new Birch Grove girl. You’re a friend of Orneta’s, aren’t you?”

“We’ve met,” I said, suspicious of his interest. “I didn’t see her here today.”

His lips moved up and down, from a smile to a frown to a smile again. “She quit rather abruptly a few days ago. She didn’t happen to tell you anything about why she was leaving, or any problems she had with the store? She seemed very happy here.”

I shook my head. “We weren’t that close.” Ornery must have been thrilled to get away from this creep.

“Well, I hope you won’t stop shopping with us! Enjoy your afternoon.”

I was thinking about my conversation with Ornery when I went to the library and did a search for any Birch Grove suicides. There was one newspaper story dated last March.

Claire Dana Mason, 43, of Greenwood, Calif., was presumed dead when her car was abandoned on the highway shoulder at Devil’s Slide. After drivers reported the vehicle as a road hazard, CHP officers found a note addressed to Mrs. Mason’s husband, Albert Mason. The contents of the note have not been disclosed. An acquaintance believed that Mrs. Mason had been depressed after a miscarriage.

The Coast Guard is conducting searches on nearby beaches, but an unnamed officer stated that a fall from the Devil’s Slide promontory “has a zero percent chance of survival.”

Mrs. Mason was a nurse at the exclusive Birch Grove Academy for Girls in Greenwood. She was also an alumna of the school. Birch Grove Academy’s representative said, “Our prayers and thoughts are with Mr. Mason at this difficult time.” Mrs. Mason had no other living relatives or children.

I wanted to find out more, but an older woman was impatiently waiting for the computer, so I picked up my groceries and took the shuttle back to Birch Grove. As I walked by the main building, I stopped to consider what would happen if someone jumped from the building. A fall from the third floor or the roof would certainly be fatal.

I knew nothing about Claire Mason except that she was a nurse, married to a science teacher. In other words, she was practical. Would a practical person take a long and treacherous drive to throw herself off Devil’s Slide when she could have jumped off the building here or overdosed on meds from the nurse’s office? The official story was possible, but seemed improbable.

I didn’t know why or how, but I had a sudden gut feeling that Claire Mason had run away from Birch Grove.

Why did they bring me here to make me

Not quite bad and not quite good,

Why, unless They’re wicked, do They want, in spite, to take me

Back to Their wet, wild wood?

Charlotte Mew, “The Changeling” (1916)

Chapter 14

By late afternoon, the cottage was gloomy and I felt cramped. I turned on a few lamps and went outside to stretch. Then I heard someone calling my name.

“Jane! You home?” Lucky was coming down the path.

“Hi!” My heart leaped, and I pulled the rubber band from my hair and shook it out. “Did you want to change our lesson? Or cancel? You could have called.” Anxiety ran through me.

Lucky stepped onto the porch and his height made me feel much smaller. “I was just coming by to say hi, but if I’m bothering you…”

“No, I thought…”

“I had to get out of the house.” He pushed back his thick honey-colored hair.

“Come on in.”

We went inside and Lucky sat on the sofa and patted the space beside him. I sat close, but not too close to him, noticing the way he spread his legs, in the way boys do, taking up space. Then he pivoted toward me. “Do you want to know something about me, Jane? I don’t have any friends.”

At first, I thought he was joking, but his expression was serious. “Lucky, you talked about all the friends you supposedly don’t have when I went to your house for dinner.”

“Okay, I have lots of casual friends, but not anyone close to me, someone I can really talk to.”

“You have your brother.”

“Brothers don’t count. They have to talk to you.”

“Are you seriously trying to get
me
to feel sorry for
you
?”

“No, but…” He rubbed the stubble on his cheek and I couldn’t help staring at his long, strong fingers. “What I mean is, I’d like to talk to someone who likes me for me, not because I’m a Radcliffe or because my mother’s the headmistress. Money doesn’t solve loneliness, Jane. It makes it harder for me to figure out who my real friends are. People here assume they know exactly who I am, already. I want a friend who doesn’t come with any ideas of how I’m supposed to act, or be.”

So he had come here wanting to talk to Jane, the friend. I sighed. “I like you for you, Lucky.”

“Maybe once you really know me, you won’t like me. Would you like me no matter what?”

In the soft light of the lamps, I could see the angles of his perfect face. I imagined what it would be like to slip my hands under his shirt and feel the skin and muscles beneath. “I wouldn’t like you if you were stupid or mean, and I know you aren’t stupid, and you’ve been nice to me.”

He edged closer to me until our knees touched and I felt that slight contact run all the way up my leg and thigh. “Jack says I’m selfish. Yeah, maybe he’s right. Maybe I do use people sometimes. Maybe they’re okay with that. Would you mind?”

Pretty girls got used for sex and rich girls got used for money, and I was neither pretty nor rich. “You’re not using me, Lucky. I’m getting paid a lot to tutor you.”