Where is the Baby? (14 page)

She tried to maintain a decent distance from the car ahead of her but other drivers kept zipping into whatever space she allowed. It was like a demented game and she wasn't enjoying being a participant. She had to hike up the air conditioning to compensate for her body's heat, and turn down the volume on the radio in order not to get distracted.

Then, just past the Danbury exits, her lane of traffic began peeling off at a left-hand exit and, unable to get out of the lane, she had to follow the line of cars onto what a roadside sign identified as Route 7 northbound. A quick look in the rearview mirror showed the car that had been tailgating her swerving out of the lane, barely missing the front fender of a vehicle that had to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision.

In the now considerably calmer flow of traffic, she debated taking the next exit and circling back to the interstate. But considering the lunacy she'd just left behind, she decided to keep going. It was early evening, and she was tired after seven hours of driving. Besides, the trees were old and lushly leaved, arching protectively over the road in spots; the grass looked thick and rich, and flowers adorned the gardens of most of the white clapboard houses she passed. They were old dwellings, with deep porches, multipaned windows and red-brick chimneys; houses she'd only ever seen and admired in books.

And all at once, just like that, she wanted to have one of them. They were the antithesis of the San Francisco houses where her childhood friends had lived – those narrow, improbable dwellings that clung like limpets to steeply pitched streets. Her parents' house had, from very early on, been a source of embarrassment to Tally. Once upon a time it had been some important family's home, set in imposing grandeur at the apex of a hill and commanding an extraordinary view. It had architectural niceties, like gingerbread trim and fine wood paneling, panes of stained-glass flanking the front door. But that was once upon a very long time ago.

Aside from it being far too large for a family of three, the house had been hideously fitted out by an interior decorator more anxious for her huge fee than for any cohesiveness in the design. The woman had taken Ivory's measure and run wild, knowing full well that Ivory would accept the word of a so-called expert and not question the style or the acquisitions required to accomplish what Tally came to think of as Gothic Noir.

The foyer was so crowded with Victorian pieces that the area looked half its actual size. There was a mirrored oak coat rack with pegs and a lift-up seat, an oriental rug completely at odds with the furniture, several murky pastoral oils on the walls and, to compound the horror, flocked wallpaper and swagged velvet draperies over the double doorway to the living room. All the downstairs rooms were similarly dark and crowded. But the library, created especially for her father, was the
pièce de résistance
, complete with hunting scenes in heavy frames, creaky leather armchairs, a vast Persian carpet, potted aspidistras, and more velvet draperies.

Ivory had adored it. Tally had pitied her, wishing there were some way she could tell her mother how truly awful it all was. But Tally couldn't tell her mother a thing; her opinions were of no consequence. ‘What would
you
know?' was Ivory's inevitable scathing response to any comment Tally might make, about anything.

The house, like Ivory herself, was beautiful outside. And, inside, it was dark and chaotic, crowded with too many things all at odds with each other: bedlam.

So, Tally thought now, no matter how unfriendly the people might be here in the east, this was what she wanted to see every day: towering old trees and clapboard houses that had long-since finished settling and weren't entirely square but had innate charm. Perhaps, quite by accident, she was on the right road after all.

The traffic thinned and she drove on, with no idea where she was headed. She'd buy a local map when she next stopped to gas up the car.

A river appeared on the left-hand side of the road, dappled gold with the waning sun, and deep green fields were on her right. The scenery was enchanting, so lavishly beautiful that she was quite overwhelmed, with a feeling akin to happiness – something she hadn't felt in many, many years. The wealth of the landscape filled her senses, gave her an odd sense of privilege. It reminded her of the final scenes in
Soylent Green
, a film she'd watched back in the mid-seventies in the prison common area. Everyone had been stricken by the film. There'd been none of the usual asinine comments or inchoate shouting at the screen. In fact, there'd been no talking at all, not even when it was over and the screen went white. Everyone dispersed in rare, thoughtful silence. It wasn't a particularly good film, but Edward G. Robinson had given great depth to his final screen performance. And each woman watching understood his character's longing to see the verdant world of the past. Even if the inmates had lived their entire lives within the state of Nevada, that view of the wider world struck a powerful chord and set every one of them longing for an earthly beauty beyond their reach.

The farther north she got, the more splendid the scenery became. She passed through Gaylordsville, then little communities that were scarcely more than clusters of houses, yet the past seemed to come to life in the details glimpsed in passing: a weathered barn atilt in a field, lace curtains on a narrow window, hanging plants suspended from the beams of a porch, a low white-painted picket fence defining the perimeter of a house front. Tally stopped at last at a gas station at a place near Bull's Bridge, where she fueled the car and bought a regional map. Standing outside in the cooling end of the day breeze, she studied the map, trying to fix her position. She was in Litchfield County. The river that appeared intermittently was the Housatonic. And ahead on Route 7, according to the map's legend, there was a covered bridge. Beyond that was the town of Kent. And provided there was accommodation to be had, that's where she'd stop for the night. Finding it highly significant, she noted in the map's legend that the state motto was ‘He who transplanted still sustains.' This did seem to be a nourishing area, where things grew with abandon.

Back inside the station, she asked the pleasant middle-aged attendant, ‘Are there motels in Kent?'

‘Nope. There's a couple over west t'wards Salisbury or north up to Canaan, if you want to go that far. But Mae Duffy's just opened some rooms she's renting, in that big old house of hers. Made it kind of like an inn. You might try there. Just stay on seven here and it's on your right as you're heading outta Kent, about eight miles ahead. You want, I could give 'er a call, see if she's got a room.'

‘Yes, please. That would be wonderful.'

‘Sure thing. Lemme just check the number.' The fellow reached for a slim telephone book while Tally revised her opinion of easterners.

‘You're in luck,' he told her a couple of minutes later. ‘One room left. What's your name?' She told him. He spoke into the telephone again, then hung up. ‘She'll hold it for you. Check in at her restaurant in town. Chez Mae, it's called. Can't miss it, on the right side as you're headin' north, smack in the middle of town. They'll get you squared away. Food's real good, too. Kind of on the pricey side, but worth the money. Don't know what they're askin' for the rooms but one thing for sure, it'll be nice. Mae's a stylish gal. New Yorker originally.'

‘Thank you so much,' Tally said, offering the man a twenty-dollar bill.

‘Oh, no!' Color rose into his face as he smiled sheepishly and held up his hands palms outward. ‘Happy to help.'

‘Please take it,' she said quietly. ‘You didn't have to go to so much trouble.' Leaving the bill on the counter, she again said, ‘Thank you,' and made her way back to the car. As she pulled away from the pump, she realized the attendant was in the doorway, watching her go. She waved. He waved back. Then she accelerated back onto Route 7.

She was foolishly disappointed to find that the covered bridge was not, as indicated by the map, actually on Route 7. It was very near to where she'd stopped and she slowed the car, trying to see the structure as she passed the sign for the turnoff, but it wasn't possible. Then, too soon, she was past it. She promised herself she'd return to have a look at the bridge up close. There was something immensely appealing about the very idea of a covered bridge; it typified what she expected of this part of the world.

Kent was a charming little town with a church at the crossroads and a scattering of shops on either side of the street. And, as the fellow at the gas station had told her, in the middle of the shops on the right was Chez Mae. She pulled into the first available parking spot, then got out and looked around. To the north, Route 7 continued on into the countryside, heading up to Massachusetts and then Vermont.

The restaurant was busy and she had to wait a few minutes before the hostess could get to her. Tally didn't mind. There was low classical piano music emanating discreetly from hidden speakers and the volume of conversation among the diners was also low.

‘How long will you be staying?' the hostess asked, as Tally signed the guest register.

‘I'm not sure. Maybe a few weeks.'

‘Mae'll have to let you know if that's do-able. I don't have time now to check the reservations. But it should be okay. The rooms've just opened so we don't have all that many advance bookings. Will you be having dinner?'

‘Yes, please.'

The hostess looked around the room, then turned back. ‘I'll have a table clear in about half an hour. We're short-staffed tonight, so if you don't mind I'll run your credit card when you come back. Okay?'

‘Sure. Thank you.'

The woman handed her a ring with two keys and told her how to gain access to the house up the road. ‘You'll want to park at the far end of the driveway, because you get to the rooms through the back door. It's the top-floor room on the right. By the time you get your bags in and come back, I'll have a table ready for you,' she told Tally, before hurrying off.

She found the house without difficulty and let herself in. The room was spacious and charming with a steeply vaulted, timbered ceiling from which a fan was suspended. The walls were covered in blue-and-white-patterned wallpaper. And there was actual furniture, constructed of actual wood – not a veneer in sight. A dozen or so books stood in a small bookcase to the left of the windows on the near wall; a TV set sat atop an old, well cared-for chest of drawers with a wall-hung mirror above it. By the windows on the wall facing the door a small wing chair was partnered with a side table upon which stood a ginger jar lamp. A canopied four-poster double bed with pretty linens was centered against the right-hand wall with night tables on either side, each bearing lamps with pleated shades. There was also, she noted with pleasure, a coffee maker, tea bags, packets of biscuits, and a bottle of sparkling water. The bathroom was big. It had an old-fashioned claw foot tub to which a shower extension had been added. There was a stack of fluffy towels on a stand next to the tub, and flowered curtains hung over the window.

It was the first place she'd stayed in that didn't feel like hastily constructed, inferior accommodation for transients who didn't care about their surroundings as long as there was a TV set and a bed. She opened a window, taking a deep breath of the grass-scented air, then went down to the car to bring in her bags. After a quick wash, she added the now-finished Vonnegut novel to the collection in the bookcase. She grabbed
White Mischief
to read over dinner, pocketed the room keys, and made her way back to the restaurant where red-headed Mae dropped by Tally's table to say hello. She was high-fashion model: tall and slim, an arresting woman who looked to be in her mid- to late forties, with a pale, flawless complexion, startling green eyes that glowed with intelligence and good humor, and a lovely smile. ‘We'll get acquainted tomorrow at breakfast,' she promised. ‘But be warned. My conversation consists mainly of little grunts and head-nods. I am not one of those sunny, morning people. Now, if you're not dieting and you're up for a fabulous meal, order the Lobster Newberg. The town council's talking about making it illegal.' And with a big laugh, she moved on.

A woman prone to frequent gusting laughter and stops at each table to chat for a moment with the guests as she traveled through her restaurant, Tally liked her at once and knew she'd landed in a good place.

That night she dreamed of Annalise. Her sleeping self knew it was a dream but it had such authenticity, contained such a wealth of emotion and such remarkable clarity of detail that she was desperate to know how it played out.

In the dream it was full night, and Tally and her grandmother sat side by side on the long bench on the veranda. Annalise was smoking one of the Gauloise cigarettes she had every evening after dinner. The pungent smell of the foreign tobacco hovered in the cooling night air, mingling with the fragrance of Blue Grass. The sky in the distance was dark as an inkwell, massed clouds moving in to block the starlight.

Tally gazed at her grandmother's face, fascinated as always by her features: the blue eyes clear in her darkly tanned face. She wanted, for a few moments, to
be
her grandmother: grown-up, competent and completely her own person.

‘You're staring,' Annalise said, without turning her gaze from the horizon.

‘Sorry. I was just thinking.'

Her grandmother turned and smiled. ‘And what were you “just thinking?”'

A bit embarrassed, Tally confessed, ‘That I want to be like you when I grow up.'

‘I hope you'll be smarter than me and make wiser choices.' Annalise drew on her cigarette, then turned aside slightly to exhale the smoke away from Tally.

‘Wiser how?

‘In how you choose to give your heart. Don't mistake attraction for love.'

‘Sex, you mean?