Yesternight (15 page)

“I'm doing fine here.”

“Are you certain about that?”

My mouth filled with a sour taste. “Why do you ask?”

“That last telegram of yours got me worried. It got me thinking a little harder about your original telegram.”

I leaned my left hip against the front desk and deepened my voice, striving to infuse it with confidence. “A student with whom I'm working spoke of someone named Nel, and it merely made me curious about my own name.”

“You said ‘urgent question' in your telegram, Alice. Why did you say that?”

“I needed a swift reply, that's all. I would like to report the answer back to the student before I move on to the next town. Why . . .” My chin quivered; my voice acquired an unnatural chirp. “Why have you always called me Nell, Bea?”

She sighed. “You told us to call you that, Alice. You were quite insistent upon it when you were younger. I don't know why. Perhaps it came from the Christmas carol with the stocking for ‘Little Nell.'”

My eyes watered. I tried to sputter up a laugh, but the sound burst from my lips as a sob.

“Nell?” she asked, slipping straight back into that old nickname out of habit. “Are you crying?”

I wiped my eyes with my fingers. “Did . . . did I ask to be called Nell when I was . . .” I grimaced. “When I was beating those poor children in the head?”

“Oh . . . no . . . don't bring up that bit of history, sweetie.” She sounded so quiet now—so far away. “Don't dwell on an early-childhood incident that everyone else has forgotten.”

“What was wrong with me, Bea? Please, tell me. You're four years older—you were eight at the time. Why did I hit them? What happened to make me lust for the sight of blood?”

It took a while for my sister to respond, and when she did, her voice sounded odd and uneven, as though she were being jostled about in a truck on a dirt road.

“I don't know. Perhaps . . . perhaps we read too many frightening stories at too young of an age. You always had a bit of a temper when you were little. Such stories might have put some naughty ideas into your head when you got mad.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out a nervous bark.

I sniffed. “I have to ask you a question, one that involves a subject I don't think I've ever discussed with you before. I know our parents certainly never discussed this sort of thing.”

“What subject?”

“Did I ever speak as though I lived a past life? A past life as someone else?”

Bea laughed in earnest that time, and even though I couldn't see her, I knew she had rolled her eyes.

“Don't laugh, Bea. I'm serious. When I insisted upon being called Nell, did I sound as though I had once lived as a person with that name?”

“I was so young, too, Alice. I honestly don't remember.”

“Margery wouldn't remember, would she?”

“Don't ask Margery about any of this. She doesn't care to discuss difficult moments.”

“Because she was one of the children I hurt, wasn't she?” I asked, and I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. Down the center of our other sister's braided brown hair, a little white part line had lay exposed, and across that line I had brought down my weapon—my battering stick. Margery was two years older than I. She had been sitting in the shade of the old maple in our front yard, playing marbles with two other girls from the neighborhood, Ethel Pennington and Daisy West. The white line on her head had pooled with blood that turned to black in her hair, and she had screamed and clutched her head. All of the children screamed.

    
Alice Lind,

    
Alice Lind,

    
Took a stick and beat her friend.

    
Should she die?

    
Should she live?

    
How many beatings did she give?

“Don't fret so much about all of that,” said Bea. “You never hit anyone that way ever again. It was only one troubling episode.”

“I hit that boy Stuart—Stu—the one from graduate school. I bashed him in the head with a shoe after I told him . . .” I brought
my lips closer to the mouthpiece. “After I told him about the baby. I hit him so terribly hard.”

“Oh, Alice. Don't fret over that either. You said he responded to the news like an ass.”

“The child—the girl I'm helping—she claims to have lived a past life as a young woman who drowned mysteriously, sometime in the past century. She claims a man named Nel was involved in her death.
Nel
, Bea!”

“Alice, no. You're exerting yourself with your work—I can tell. Come home. Take a rest.”

“I can't.”

“You're better than this job. You're too smart for it. It'll drive you crazy.”

“I wonder if it already has.” I wiped my left cheek using the back of my sleeve.

A pause ensued, during which I panted into the mouthpiece, my fingers strangling the telephone's black base. My fingernails pierced the fleshy heel of my left hand.

“You're not a murderer from the past century, for heaven's sake,” said Bea. “Think about what you're saying—you, the woman who snickered all the way through the Winchester house!”

“I know.” I nodded. “I know.”

“I'm aware how much the situation with the baby hurt you.”

I didn't respond. My eyes again watered. The air grew impossibly thick.

“Alice?”

“That was two and a half years ago, Bea.”

“But it was traumatic for you. I know you want to pretend it didn't affect you in any way, but I was there in the hospital with
you. I remember your pain and your grief, and I'm sure it's affected your desire to become intimate with men, as well as other aspects of your life.”

I fussed with the wood on one of the corners of Mr. O'Daire's desk. “I'm a spinster, Bea. I'm not supposed to desire men in that capacity, remember?”

“Pfft. I'm not Margery. Single girls need that sort of thing now and then, no matter what the prudes say. You're a perfectly normal woman, Alice. A normal woman who shouldn't ever feel ashamed.”

I bit down hard on my back molars to stave off more tears. “Thank you, Bea. You've made me feel much better.”

“You're not being sarcastic, are you?”

“No, you truly are. Just hearing you say, ‘You're not a murderer from the past century,' is a much-needed slap across the face, to wake me up; to make me realize how foolish I'm being.” I chewed the nail of my right pinkie. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“And you're coming home for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Of course.”

“You had better be there to help protect me against Mother and Margery.”

I laughed. “Oh, I'm sure they'll be bringing respectable, middle-aged bachelors for the both of us.”

“Those ‘bachelors' of theirs are almost always queers. Or ex-husbands whom other women tossed out like last week's garbage.”

I drew my hand away from Mr. O'Daire's desk.

Bea made a kissing sound through the receiver. “Take care of yourself, Nell. I . . . I mean
Alice
.”

“You, too, Bea. I'll see you Thanksgiving.”

“I love you, funny face.”

I smiled. “I love you, too.”

She hung up with a
click
that sounded like a door closing deep within the recesses of my head.

November 25, 1925

O
n the evening before Thanksgiving, I boarded a train in Salem, Oregon, elbow-to-elbow with political men and lawyers who, like me, journeyed from the state capitol to northbound relatives. The gentleman next to me repeatedly told me he was traveling to his “ancestral home” in Portland's West Hills for “feasting,” as though he were a British lord returning to his manor. I simply smiled and closed my eyes, exhausted from the final days of testing in Gordon Bay and an ensuing trip to complete paperwork at the Department of Education. The intermingling aromas of colognes and newspapers and cigars made me feel I was traveling in a boardroom on wheels.

At my own “ancestral home” on the east side of the city—a gray and maroon Victorian, sandwiched between newer bungalows from the present century—I lugged my suitcases through the front doorway and inhaled the divine fragrance of pumpkin pie. Murmurs of parental excitement twittered from the back sitting room, and before long, both my mother and father bustled my way
with broad smiles and shimmering eyes, their hair dusted with more gray than I remembered from my last stop at the house. Pop always seemed to be getting thinner; Mother, plumper, and broader in the hips.

“The first one's here!” said my mother in her little singsong voice she always used around us girls when excited. She clasped me to her chest, and her glasses bumped the top of my right ear. My father embraced me, too, although he stood taller, so his spectacles inflicted no harm.

Pop picked up my bags and hoisted them up the staircase while my mother brushed her fingers through my bangs as if I were two years old. She asked how I was eating and keeping my health with “that nomadic job of mine.”

“I'm well into my twenties, Mother,” I said. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“When we encouraged all three of you girls to attend college, I didn't realize it would mean so many years of worrying about two of you running about on your own. And so few grandchildren.”

I ducked away from her hand. “Margery gave you four grandchildren, don't forget. Much more than that, and you'll start forgetting everyone's birthdays.”

“At least consider settling down in another year or so, like I did. A few years spent working is good for a woman, but husbands and babies are wonderful, too.”

I moved down to the narrow side table where my parents collected my mail in a tidy pile. “Did a letter from Kansas arrive, by chance?”

“Are you expecting Dorothy to write you, like when you were little?” asked my father with a winded chuckle. He plodded down
the staircase, his cheeks red from lugging my bags, his nose whistling. “Or the Tin Man?”

“No . . .” I smiled and sifted through letters from old friends and my newest issue of the
American Journal of Psychology
. “I wrote a letter on behalf of a student I was testing. If correspondence arrives from a town called Friendly, will you please immediately send me a telegram? I'll leave a list of all the schools where I'll be working over the next few weeks, and you can send the telegram there. Or, if the letter arrives at the beginning of my assignment, simply mail it to me. I'll pay for any postage or telegram fees required.”

“Yes, of course,” said my mother, “if it's that important . . .”

“It's highly important, Mother.”

“All right, then. No need to snap.”

“I'm not . . .” I drew a deep breath and put a hand on my hip. “I'm not snapping. I've been working quite hard these past few weeks and would like to finish up with a case that's been perplexing me.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked my father, tucking his hands into his pockets, a twinkle in his eyes.

“The father of one of his students is a minister,” said my mother, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, all traces of offense now vanished. “He snuck your father a bottle of sacramental wine. He told him he deserved it for dealing with all of those high school hooligans.”

“A glass would be nice.” I unwound my woolen scarf from my neck. “But first I think I'll take a bath. That train this evening smelled like a pool hall, and now
I
smell like a pool hall.”

“Yes, I was wondering if you'd taken up cigars.” Mother fussed with a string on the left shoulder of my sweater. “I wouldn't be sur
prised if your oldest sister smokes them. She's wearing trousers this fall. That's her latest thing.”

I shrugged. “If it makes her happy . . .”

“But . . .
trousers
, Alice. And her hair's cropped as short as a man's.”

“Life's far too short to try to conform to everyone else's idea of fashion, Mother. Or, at least”—I sifted through the letters one more time—“I believe it may be short. And final.”

Mother proceeded to complain about Bea, and in the mirror above the side table, I caught sight of the reflection of a framed photograph of my sisters and me from about 1903, when I was four, Margery six, and Bea eight. The image hung from a picture rail on the chestnut-colored wall behind me, just next to where Pop was standing, brushing lint from his sweater vest. All three pairs of eyes on our round childish faces peered across the hallway at me. Mother had put me in a dark dress with a sailor collar, and I wore a bow on one side of my long brown hair, which Mother parted on my right. Margery and Bea wore white dresses and ringlets, and they smiled for the camera, their teeth showing, little dimples like Mr. O'Daire's on prominent display.

I didn't smile. In fact, my expression carried an unnatural severity to it. A brutality. A coldness. Such a piercing stare—such hardened lips—did not belong on the face of a four-year-old child.

“I said, ‘What's wrong, Alice?'” asked Mother, her voice suddenly loud. “Can't you hear me?”

I blinked. “Yes, of course. You're barking in my ear.”

“Then why weren't you answering me?”

“I told you, it was a tiring journey. A tiring few weeks.” I grabbed
the handle of my briefcase, which hadn't yet made it upstairs. “I'll take a rain check for that glass of wine, if you don't mind, Pop.”

“Did you even eat any supper?” asked Mother.

“I ate a sandwich before I boarded the train. I'm fine. I just need to bathe and get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll be fit and fresh for Thanksgiving, I promise you.”

I lowered my eyes and hurried past the photograph.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT,
tucked under all my familiar bedding, including my beloved red and turquoise Pendleton wool blanket, I thought back to my parting conversation with Michael O'Daire.

“I'll let you know as soon as I receive any new information related to my investigation,” I had said on the platform of the little log depot. The train bound for the inland cities breathed plumes of steam against the backs of my legs, and the air smelled of grease and machinery, of travel and promises.

“Now you sound like a police detective,” Mr. O'Daire had replied with a half-smile.

“No . . . as I mentioned before, I'm trying an experiment, and if anything comes of it, I'll telephone immediately.”

He wiggled his tweed cap farther down over his head. “And . . . if nothing comes of it?”

“I'll still help Janie.”

“How?”

“I'll speak with one of my former professors, a clinical child psychologist . . .”

“Do you think this is a form of insanity?” He tilted his head to his right. “Is that what you honestly believe?”

“I've been trained to investigate disturbances of the mind, Mr. O'Daire. That's why you were so keen on having me speak to Janie in the first place.”

“I was keen on having you speak to her because I was curious if you would rule out all possible psychological explanations—which I believe you have. I believe you know in your heart what's happening with my daughter.”

Down the way, the conductor called out, “All aboard!”

I shifted my head in the man's direction and observed, out of the corner of my eye, Mr. O'Daire lowering his face and clasping his hands around the back of his neck.

“I'm not a parapsychologist, Michael,” I said, my gaze still averted from his. “I can only help her if there's something within her mind that's reachable by therapy.”

He lifted his head. “Why did you just call me ‘Michael'?”

“Because I'm worried there won't be anything else I can do for Janie.” I swallowed and met his eyes. “If you're not willing to receive help from a person who possesses more experience in child psychology than I . . . if reincarnation is your only hope . . . then I'm afraid there's nothing more I can accomplish with this case.” I offered my hand. “This may need to be good-bye.”

His jaw tightened. He kept his hands on his neck.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I want to help her, desperately, but I'm not sure how.”

“Well . . . at least you're being honest.”

“I don't want to offer any promises I can't keep.”

He gritted his teeth and gave a short nod, while my hand remained outstretched.

“Will you at least shake my hand?” I asked. “I'd hate to part in anger.”

He reached out and wrapped his warm fingers around mine, giving them a firm squeeze. “You're breaking my heart, Alice.”

“Don't say that.”

“I had so much hope when you first arrived.”

“Please, don't give up hope.” I squeezed his hand in return, noting the smoothness of his fingers, the thickness of his high school ring. “You have a brilliant daughter with a remarkable future ahead of her.” I withdrew my hand from his. “Allow her to receive as much education as possible, and she'll likely end up all right in the end. As a child, I myself experienced”—I cleared my throat—“
quirks
. And terrible nightmares, as a matter of fact. Both of my parents fully supported my education, however, and here I am today, a successful modern woman.”

He nodded with his lips pressed together, his eyes damp.

I glanced over my shoulder at the awaiting locomotive. Wind shook through my skirt and my hair. “I had better get going.”

“I wish you a safe journey.”

“Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. O'Daire.”

“Good-bye, Miss Lind.”

I turned and left him behind on the platform.

M
ARGERY AND
B
EA
planned to arrive late in the morning on Thanksgiving Day, which meant Mother and I were to be the sole cooks in the kitchen bright and early that Thursday. I strapped a ruffled apron around my waist and threw myself into stuffing, basting, stirring, seasoning, and baking. Mother gave her usual reports
on all of the neighbors' latest health problems, and I did my best to use her gossip as a distraction to that unfinished business in Gordon Bay. Every once in a while I caught myself wondering what all of the O'Daires were doing at the moment—whether Janie spent any time with Michael on Thanksgiving or if she stayed with her mother and aunt. My own mother's voice would promptly startle me out of my ponderings, however, and send me straight back into tales of goiter and croup.

Margery and her brood arrived first.

“We brought vegetables,” said my sister as she hugged me in front of the doorway. Beneath her right arm dangled both a sack of groceries and Baby Warren. “Prepare to be frightened, Alice.”

“Why is Auntie Alice frightened by vegetables?” asked her round-eyed five-year-old, Bernie.

“Because she's a silly goose. She doesn't know what's good for her.” Margery smiled with a show of her teeth, which were always a tad too large for her mouth, but not enough to detract from her pretty dark eyes and hair. She then leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Are you behaving yourself, Alice?”

“Please don't always ask me that,” I said under my breath.

“I worry about you.”

“You're ashamed of me.”

“That's not true. I just wish you would track down a husband and settle down.”

“Husband hunting season hasn't yet gone into effect this year, Margie. I've checked with the Oregon State Game Commission.”

She rolled her eyes and handed to me Baby Warren, who smelled of strained carrots and soiled diapers. A bright-orange stain on the child's upper lip set off my gag reflex, so I swiftly swooped
the child over to his father, Dr. Donald Osterman, a gangly fellow with squinty gray eyes and a thin mustache. Donald could never quite look me in the face after Margery asked if he would fit me for a diaphragm two years earlier—a request he vehemently denied due to my status as an unmarried woman.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Alice,” he told me, speaking in the direction of Warren's bald head. “Work going well?”

“Quite.”

“How nice.”

“Yes.”

I ducked back into the kitchen until Margery's oldest, Geraldine, shouted from the parlor, “Auntie Bea is here! And she's dressed like a man again!”

I sprinted back out to the front hall in time to see my oldest sister traipsing up the front path in a tan blazer, a bowtie, and loud checkered trousers. She wore her dark curls cropped so short and so slicked against her head, I would have, indeed, mistaken her for a man if I'd first seen her from behind. She carried a round cookie tin, as well as the large wicker handbag she used for toting around her wallet and books.

I scooted myself past Geraldine to be the first to greet Bea, who threw out her arms when she saw me and said, “There's the kid!”

“Hello, Bea.” I wrapped her up in a hug, smelling perfume that wasn't hers, and pulled her toward the house by her elbow. “No potential suitors today,” I whispered, “but I've received no less than two jabs at my lack of a husband since I first walked through the door.”

“Are you feeling better than when I last talked to you?”