Arcadia Falls (33 page)

I pull into the parking lot of the Hitchin’ Post, spewing gravel and raking the lot with my high beams. I surprise a family of raccoons raiding the Dumpster, but no Sally. I park crookedly, next to a 4 × 4 with souped-up snow tires and a bumper sticker for the NRA. Great. Sally could have fallen in with redneck survivalists by this time. When I swing open the front door with all the force of a gunslinger entering a Western saloon, I find two old guys nursing beers at the bar and a meeting of the town’s knitting circle. No sign of Sally. The bartender, a woman in her twenties with a short buzzcut and nose ring, looks up from the glass she’s polishing.

“Let me guess,” she says. “You’re looking for two underage girls wearing too much mascara. I never can figure out why these girls think painting their faces like raccoons will make them look older.”

“Were they here? Do you know where they’ve gone? Did they leave with anyone? How much did they have to drink?”

“Whoa—twenty questions! Yes, yes, no, and nothing but ginger ale and grenadine. I made them for underage right away despite their rather artfully forged IDs, gave them two Shirley Temples, and called Sheriff Reade. They left before he could get here, but they were going right next door so I imagine Callum’s caught up with them and brought them to the station.”

“Next door? You mean to Seasons?”

“’Fraid not, honey. They were heading to Fatz Tatz. I think they just stopped here for some liquid courage. The tall girl looked pretty nervous. The little one was telling her it didn’t hurt a bit.”

“The tall one’s my daughter…. you told Callum where they went?”

The bartender narrows her eyes at my use of the sheriff’s first name. “Yep. As soon as he got here. He was out on Fog Hollow Road when he got the call, though, so it took him half an hour. I don’t know as he was able to get next door before Fatz did his thing.”

“You know it’s illegal to tattoo a minor in this state—” I start, but then seeing the bartender’s eyes cool I stop. It’s not her fault that my daughter is out of control. “Thank you for calling the police. And for serving them nonalcoholic drinks. Did they at least pay?”

“Yep. The tall one even remembered to give me a tip,” she says, smiling. “You must’ve raised her right.”

Great, I think, leaving the bar and heading down the street. So Sally will no doubt remember to also tip the tattooist after he gives her hepatitis B. I pass Fatz Tatz but it’s closed now, so I go on to the police station. When I open the door, the scene is as solemn as I feared. Sally is huddled on a bench along the wall, her knees drawn up and tucked under an oversized sweatshirt. She looks up and I see that her face is swollen and tearstained.

“Finally!” she cries, jumping to her feet. “I thought I was going to have to spend the night in jail. Where were you?”

“Where was
I
?” I begin, my voice climbing into the registers of disbelief and outrage as quickly as if a switch had been turned on. “I was looking for you, young lady—” I stop myself because I’ve just heard my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth. I can feel, too, the force of
someone’s gaze. I turn and find Callum Reade leaning in the doorway to what I presume is his office, smiling at me. No doubt because I sound like every hysterical mother come to collect her reprobate offspring.

“I would have appreciated a call to let me know you had my daughter,” I say.

The smile vanishes from his face. “I left a message and called the school. Shelley Drake just left with Chloe Dawson, but I presumed you’d want to come and take your daughter home yourself.”

“Oh,” I say, realizing that he’s done exactly the right thing—giving me a chance to talk to Sally alone. “Are there … will there be …”

“No charges,” he says, and then adds, lowering his voice an octave,
“this time
. Although, as I have explained to Sally, using a false I.D. is a class A misdemeanor. And we’ve had a long talk on the evils of Demon Rum and the risks of hepatitis B infection.”

I look at Sally and she shudders. “He showed me pictures of drunk-driving accidents. Honest, I didn’t even want a drink. I just wanted to get out of the fracking nineteenth century and into the modern world for five minutes.”

“Next time have your mom take you to the mall in Kingston,” Callum says, and then to me, “Could I have a word with you, Ms. Rosenthal?”

I nod and turn back to Sally. She’s pulled the hood up on her sweatshirt and sunk deeper into its voluminous folds. I notice that it has
NYPD
written in faded, peeling letters on it and realize that it must belong to Callum. I squeeze Sally’s shoulder and tell her I’ll be right back.

Callum is in his office, leaning against the front of his desk. He motions for me to close the door and then uses his foot to push a chair in my direction. I ignore it and remain standing. “I’m grateful that you found Sally and that you’re not pressing charges—”

He waves my thanks away. “She’s a good enough kid,” he says, “just pissed at the world for taking her dad away. I don’t blame her. The one I’m really worried about is Chloe. When I got to Fatz Tatz, she was telling Fatz how she could make anyone do whatever she wanted with black magic. She wanted Fatz to give her a tattoo of a figure falling off a
cliff because she’d made a girl jump off a cliff just by picturing it in her head.”

“She thinks she made Isabel jump off the ridge?”

Callum nods and runs his hand through his hair, now looking very tired. “I’ve never been one of those locals who bad-mouth the school. Live and let live is my motto. But something weird is going on there this year. When that girl threw herself at me on the ridge, I thought she was going to take us both over the edge. It wasn’t just that she was angry, it was that she was crazy-angry. I felt like she wanted to kill us both. If I were you, I’d keep my kid away from Chloe and her little circle.”

Sally sulks all the way back home. When I glance over at her, I can’t even see her face because she’s pulled the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt down so low it shadows her face. As we pass the rusty old sign advertising the long-gone White Witch speakeasy, I recall the first morning we drove here. I remember the fleeting enthusiasm she’d shown when she recognized her old favorite fairy tale in the landscape and the short-lived hope I had that coming here would somehow heal us. I wish now that I had a story to capture her attention. And then, as I turn up the sycamore drive, I realize I do.

“It’s true that I dropped out of art school when I got pregnant with you,” I say. “I thought it was what I was supposed to do. What it took to be a good parent.”

She doesn’t say anything, but at least she’s not yelling at me, so I go on.

“I thought I’d go back when you were older—and I could have. Your dad would have been happy to pay the tuition and get me the childcare I would have needed. He used to pick up catalogs from Pratt and Parsons and the School of Visual Arts and leave them around the house.”

“Why didn’t you go, then?” a small voice comes from the depth of the hooded sweatshirt.

“I think I was afraid that I wouldn’t be any good—that too much time had passed and I had lost my edge—”

“You mean because being a mother ruined you?”

Although I’m tempted to lie, I don’t. “Yes. Being a mother does change
you. Before I had you I would lose myself drawing and painting, the way you do now. Hours would fly by—”

“Like minutes,” Sally finishes for me.

“Exactly,” I say. “I was afraid to lose myself like that when you were little. What if I wasn’t there when you needed me? Then later, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. Your dad still encouraged me to go back to school, so I did, when you were older, but to study literature and fairy tales. But I never regretted having you for an instant.”

“And what about Dad? Did he give up his big dreams because of me?”

I sigh. I’d hoped to avoid this part. “He quit Pratt and went to work at Morgan Stanley where Grandpa Max worked. He wanted to make sure there was enough money.”

“But Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia were pretty well off. Wouldn’t they have helped him?”

I shake my head. “They were of that generation who lived through the Depression—like my grandmother. Grandma Miriam saved
everything
. She even washed and reused wax paper! So even though Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia had money, they were always afraid that they could lose it all. They wanted your father to work in business. When he went to art school instead, they cut off his allowance.”

“That’s awful! You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to make a living in the arts. I want you to do something you really love. But don’t blame Grandpa Max and Nana Sylvia for doing what they thought was best for your father, and for you when you came along. When we knew we were having you, Grandpa Max offered to help us get the house in Great Neck if your dad would go to work with him at Morgan Stanley.”

“So he gave up art school because of me, too?”

“He just wanted to be the best father he could be. And I know he never regretted it either.”

I say the last part firmly, telling myself that it’s not technically a lie. Jude never did regret his choice to give up art school for Sally. He thought he’d done the right thing. “And,” he’d say whenever the subject came up, “there’ll be plenty of time for me to take up painting again
when I retire.” So it’s not a lie. He just didn’t know that he was wrong about how much time he had.

We’ve arrived at the cottage. Luckily, I left the lights on, so it doesn’t look too desolate. It looks almost cheerful. I’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches and a pot of tea. We’ll dig through the boxes of DVDs and watch an old movie. One of Sally’s favorites:
Casablanca
or
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
, which always makes her cry when Jimmy Stewart briefly gives up hope in the American Dream.

I’m about to turn to Sally to ask if she’d like to stay when I see a black silhouette appear at the lit living room window. The reason the cottage doesn’t look desolate is because it’s not empty. There’s someone in the house.

“Y
ou stay here,” I say, trying to make my voice sound firm and confident. I squeeze Sally’s hand and then reach across her to open the glove compartment before remembering that the flashlight isn’t there anymore. “I’ll check it out.”

“But Mom, what if it’s a burglar?”

“It’s probably one of the housemaids that Dymphna’s sent over.”

I don’t really think Dymphna’s sent anyone at this time of night, but I don’t want Sally to be too scared—or to follow me into the house. I get out of the car, checking to make sure both doors are locked, and approach the house, wishing
I at least had the flashlight to wield as a weapon. Even without a weapon though, if there’s an intruder inside, I’ll do whatever I have to to keep him or her from getting to Sally. I slide the key into the lock, but before I can turn it the door swings open to reveal Ivy St. Clare, wrapped dramatically in a dark shawl.

“There you are at last! We’ve been waiting for you to return. Is your daughter with you? Sheriff Reade said you had collected her.”

I’m so taken aback by the sight of Dean St. Clare in my house that I don’t answer. I peer past her into the living room and see Shelley Drake and Chloe Dawson sitting across from each other in the lettuce green chairs. Chloe looks as wilted as the leaves in the upholstery.

“How did you get into my house?” I ask the dean. “And what are you doing here?”

She adjusts the wrap over her shoulders and sniffs. “I still have my key from when I used to do little errands for Vera. As for what we’re doing here—Sally and Chloe have broken school rules by going into the village at night
and
going into a drinking establishment. It’s my policy to address miscreants of joint crimes together and in the same manner, but since that man wouldn’t release Sally into Miss Drake’s custody we’ve had to wait for you to get back with her. You wouldn’t want your daughter to receive special treatment, would you?” St. Clare’s glance shifts from my face to something over my right shoulder. I turn and see that Sally’s come to the doorway. She’s not looking at me, though; she’s looking at Chloe who’s mouthing some silent message.

“I don’t expect her to receive special treatment, but I’ve already talked to her and I think I can handle it from here.”

“That’s all very well and good, but our rules state that there are consequences for misbehavior. Vera always insisted that the students perform some work for the communal good of the school. Miss Drake and I thought that it would be appropriate for the girls to clean up from dinner tonight and for each night this week.”

“Now?” I ask. “You want them to start”—I look down at my watch—“at ten o’clock at night?”

“Yes, well, if we’d been able to collect Sally earlier they would have already
been done. Still, there’s plenty of time for them to finish and I did expressly tell Dymphna to leave the cleaning.”

“But I wanted to talk some more to Sally—” I begin, turning to her. If I expect her to look grateful for my intervention I’d be disappointed. She’s staring at a spot on the ceiling, ignoring me. Any connection we began to make on the drive back from town has vanished.