The Probable Future (6 page)

“Oh, great. A slap. Terrific.” No wonder Stella’s head had felt fizzy and why her stomach ached. No wonder she was in such a terrible mood. “Welcome to the world of pain.”

Stella had changed her clothes, folding the stained skirt and panties into her backpack, slipping the blue blazer over the new black dress. She realized that the fabric was practically see-through. You had to have courage to wear something like this, even when it was half covered up. You had to have faith that you could pull it off and not look like a total fool. Stella smoothed down the skirt and buttoned her blazer, then went to wash her hands. So far, this business of being a woman had been exhausting.

“I hate my mother,” Stella said idly as she dried her hands and dashed on more lipstick. In the flickering light of the washroom she looked especially pale without lipstick and extraordinarily trashy with it. “She watches over me like I’m some sort of wilting flower.”

“You think your mother’s bad? At least she’s never killed anyone.”

“Only emotionally.”

They laughed as they rushed to Miss Hewitt’s class.

“If anyone bothers you about not wearing your full uniform,” Juliet whispered, “tell them you’re bleeding to death. That ought to shut them up.”

“Right.” Stella was self-conscious in the black dress. She wondered if she had put on too much lipstick.

“And let me deal with the authority figure. You know how sincere I can pretend to be.”

Once inside the classroom, Stella scuttled to her desk while Juliet
apologized to Miss Hewitt for their lateness. Juliet explained they’d had female problems, the sort of thing her mother had never had time to explain to her since, Juliet reminded Miss Hewitt, Mrs. Aronson was in the state prison at Framingham and was a vile murderess who had left Juliet to fend for herself in the cruel world. How could Miss Hewitt debate that? How could she dock them points for tardiness? Stella was impressed by Juliet yet again. A loyal friend was so comforting, even on a day as horrible as this. Quickly, Stella set to work on her exam. She had actually studied, hoping to raise her faltering grade out of the realm of the C’s, and she might have done exactly that if she hadn’t happened to look up after writing her name. Her gaze settled on Miss Hewitt and once it did, she couldn’t look away. There, plain as day, was a fish bone, right in the middle of the math teacher’s throat.

Stella blinked. She’d been dizzy after all; she probably wasn’t seeing straight. But when she looked again, the bone remained exactly where it had been, wedged in tightly. It was a delicate object, white and narrow, a trout bone, perhaps. From its form and shape anyone could tell it would be impossible to cough up once it had caught in the trachea.

Stella’s pulse was pounding and her mouth had gone completely dry. Right away, she understood that she had somehow managed to see Miss Hewitt’s future, the physical manifestation of the math teacher’s fate. Sitting at her desk, ignoring the exam for which she had dutifully studied, helpless against the forces of destiny, Stella’s complexion turned ashen. Her heart bumped against her ribs and her head spun. When she fainted, the other girls in the classroom gasped and left their desks so they could gather round. Someone pulled down Stella’s sheer skirt, for modesty’s sake; another student rolled up her blazer, in order to cushion Stella’s head on the hard, tile floor.

Naturally everyone understood the situation once Juliet announced that Stella had gotten her period for the first time and that
her cramps had indeed been wicked. The school nurse was called in to assist with smelling salts and a cold compress. At last, Stella came to consciousness, sitting up slowly, hands clutching her aching head. For an instant she didn’t know where she was, not until she saw Juliet Aronson’s worried face.

“Happy birthday,” Juliet said.

It was Juliet who convinced the math teacher to allow Stella to leave early. Poor Miss Hewitt, as unaware of her own dire future as she was blind to Juliet Aronson’s manipulations, assured Stella that she could make up the test after the weekend. A taxi was called, her coat was retrieved from her locker, and that should have been the end of Stella’s troubles. But on the way home, Stella spied a pea-shaped object inside the taxi driver’s skull. She nearly fainted again, but she held herself together with sheer will. She would not act like a baby. She would not let this get the best of her, whatever it might be, a curse or an omen or a crossed wire somewhere inside her head. She opened the taxi’s window and forced herself to breathe deeply; just in case there was more to see, she kept her eyes closed all the rest of the way down Beacon Street.

Once home, Stella ran upstairs to the third floor and double-locked the door. She fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, then went to the hallway. She pulled a chair over to the model house sent by her grandmother and attempted to block out the day’s events. There was something calming about concentrating on the little house, paying attention to the details, the perfect miniature rugs, the brown and white Spode china, the tiny fireplaces—one red brick, one gray brick, one made out of stone—the glass case in the corner of the parlor, covered with a scrap of embroidered cloth.

Stella was soon lost in the rooms of Cake House, a place she’d never been allowed to visit. She tried her best to forget what an awful birthday this had been. Yesterday, when she’d spoken to her grandmother, Elinor Sparrow had advised her to expect the unexpected. Maybe this was what her grandmother had meant. The
fizzing in her brain, the visions, the fish bone, the black dress that was far too grown-up, the way she’d fallen onto the floor of the classroom, wobbly and disoriented in the face of the death.

At least her mother was still at work. Stella had a shred of privacy. She went to her room, where she hid the black dress under her bed, then threw on an old pair of jeans and a favorite white blouse. So often, Stella’s birthday began with sunshine only to end with snow flurries, or it started with high winds only to shift into fresh, mild air. You never could tell when it came to the equinox. The weather was already changing. When Stella opened the window, there was a damp scent in the air, one reminiscent of lake water, dark and muddy and sweet. Stella thought about hooks and bones, she thought about tumors that resembled garden peas, about birthdays and blood. She considered it all, and then she went back to the hall to phone her father at the music school.

“Daddy,” she said, relieved as soon as she heard his voice. Love was like that, it could give you comfort and solace when it was most needed. It could give you hope when you thought there was none. “Come and get me now.”

III.

W
ILL
A
VERY
was forty minutes late, which, for him, was almost like being on time. When he turned onto Marlborough Street and saw his daughter waiting for him, perched on the concrete steps, he felt a rush of joy. Stella still expected something from him, despite the disappointment he’d been to everyone else. Stella, at least, believed in him, and because of this he tried his best to come through for her—when he could, of course, which wasn’t as often as he liked. Better than anyone, Will knew he was careless and self-centered, traits that were as much a part of him as his good looks.

He’d never given these failings much thought, not any more than he’d questioned his blood type or his bone structure, but lately something inside him had begun to shift. In recent months he’d found himself overwhelmed by some emotion he couldn’t place. He got teary for no reason. He felt the black, uneven edge of regret whenever he was alone, which, frankly, was most of the time. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon become one of those poor souls who start to cry after two strong drinks, willing to confide in any stranger who happened to be close by, bemoaning the mess he’d made of his life.

“Hey, baby,” he called when Stella came running to meet him.

Stella’s hair was pulled back; she wore an old navy coat over a white shirt and jeans. Not exactly festive. Indeed, her face was drawn with worry and exhaustion.

“Are you all right? Let me get a good look at you.” Will stared at his daughter. He knew how to cheer a woman up. It was the one thing he was good at, other than music. “Gorgeous as usual.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” All the same, Stella smiled, pleased in spite of herself.

“Where’s your mother? Wasn’t the plan for us all to go out for a birthday dinner?”

Stella grabbed her father’s hand. “Actually, I want to go before Mom gets home. I want to celebrate my birthday with you. She wouldn’t understand.”

“Ah. Ditching Mom.” Will was certainly agreeable to a maneuver such as this. It was a course of action he understood quite well. Every time he’d strayed, every time he’d had too much to drink or disappointed Jenny in some way, he’d done the exact same thing. And when it came right down to it, didn’t Jenny Sparrow Avery deserve to be disappointed? She was always so damned hurt. She simply refused to learn from experience. Was it Will’s fault that Jenny was naive? Was it his responsibility? Maybe he had done her a favor: waking her out of her dream world, letting her know there was a real
universe that was filled with liars and cheaters—people like him who had just as much a right to walk this earth as she did.

Will and Stella hightailed it over to Beacon Street before Jenny was the wiser, laughing as they raced several blocks to their favorite restaurant, the Hornets’ Nest, famed for its strong drinks and its heavenly Boston cream pie. It was a happy occasion, just cause for celebration, and for once Will had remembered to get a present— reminded, of course, by a message from Jenny on his phone machine. He’d chosen a bracelet with a gold bell that Stella seemed to love. But before long, Will felt a wash of unease. Stella was chattering, which was very unlike her, and her cheerful manner seemed forced. She had always resembled him physically, with the same fine features and golden coloring. Now Will fervently hoped she hadn’t inherited anything of his character. Why, he’d been a liar since the day he learned to talk. Dishonesty had come to him as easily as music had; he had a natural talent, it seemed. A good thing, for he’d never worked at anything. He’d never even considered such a possibility. He’d simply opened his hands and fortune had found him, or at least that had been the case until now.

In all this time, there had been only one person who had managed to see through him. Not Jenny. It had taken her thirty years to realize he couldn’t be trusted. No, it was Jenny’s mother who immediately knew him for what he was. Elinor Sparrow could tell that he was a liar when she first spied him in the parlor of her house. Will had been reckless in those days, he hadn’t been spooked by the dusty rooms in Cake House, but of course he hadn’t expected Elinor Sparrow to swoop down on them as they evaluated the belongings of Rebecca Sparrow, kept under lock and key.

Don’t move
, Jenny had whispered that day when she heard her mother in the hallway. But of course he didn’t comply. Will being Will, he found it impossible to obey. As soon as Jenny ran out to the hall to try and divert her mother, Will reached for the key hanging from a hook on the wall. Without thinking twice, he opened the
glass case for a closer look. Unfortunately, Elinor Sparrow could not be diverted. Not when she heard the creak of the memento case as it was unlocked and opened. Standing in the hall, she had picked up a sweet, cloying odor, the unmistakable scent of a liar and a thief. And there he was: a foolish boy in her parlor, studying the family archives as though he were a rightful guest, searching through that old and bloody case of pain.

Elinor Sparrow was a strong woman and quite large, more than six feet tall; when she grabbed Will by the shoulder he could feel her fingernails pinching his flesh.

What have you taken?
She shook him as though she could shake the truth right out of him. She treated him as though he were a mole in the garden, a rat in the cellar, nothing more than a household pest caught in a trap.
What did you steal?

Nothing
. It was the hot response of a liar, syrupy and much too easily spoken.
You’ve got it all wrong. I’m just visiting
.

Elinor had jeered at that notion. She had taken note of the way he licked his lips, how his eyes darted to the left; she was unmoved by the satiny tone of his voice. He was marked by the distinctive scent of his lies, a leathery, acrid smell. Elinor would have been able to find him even if he’d been hiding in a bale of straw. That’s how this boy stank, like old shoes, like dashed hopes, like someone who might steal a person’s daughter if she wasn’t careful.

Elinor shook Will harder; she could have easily snapped one of the bones in his shoulder if Matt Avery hadn’t heard the ruckus and come running. Matt threw open the French doors, shattering several panes of glass, wielding a shovel he’d found beside the porch. Matt was exceedingly shy and rarely opened his mouth until he’d been spoken to, but now he faced off with Elinor Sparrow, shovel in hand, expression set.

Let him go. Do it now!

Elinor laughed at the sheer nerve of this trespasser. He was all of eleven. Twelve at the most.

What are you planning to do about it?
she said scornfully. When Matt paused to think over his answer, Elinor laughed again.
I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Nothing
.

Matt would never have used the shovel as anything more than a shield, but when Elinor laughed at him, when she began to shake Will once more, Matt leaped forward, accepting the challenge. Not knowing any other way to free his brother, he stomped on Elinor Sparrow’s foot. She howled and let go of Will.

I want what he stole
, Elinor cried.

But Matt had grabbed Will by the shirtsleeve and waved the shovel in the air to keep Elinor at bay.
My brother wouldn’t take anything. He wouldn’t want anything that belonged to you
.

Although a bruise was surfacing on the mount of Elinor’s foot Matt’s certainty had caused her to lose her edge. For a moment at least, she seemed to forget she was the wronged party. The brothers hadn’t waited for Elinor to regain her wits. They ran off through the French doors so fast they thought their lungs would explode. They fled past the forsythia and the laurel, not stopping until they reached the end of the driveway. By then they could barely breathe. Matt for one was shaking. But Will threw himself down on the grass, laughing so hard, he nearly choked.