City of Liars and Thieves (12 page)

I went to the bedroom and looked in on the children. Patience's dark curls surrounded her pale face, and her tiny fists clutched the blanket. Not for the first time, I marveled at her resemblance to Elma. The sight should have warmed me; instead, an icy cold crept from my fingertips to my toes. I tried to picture Elma reciting her wedding vows, but the image was shrouded in haze. Where was this minister's house? She had neglected to tell me. I had failed to ask.

It was past ten when Levi returned. He was alone.

He took a seat at the table and rested his head upon his hands. His cheeks were red from the cold, but his hands were as white as if the blood had stopped circulating. When he saw me standing in the kitchen doorway, he started.

“Has Elma gone to bed?” he asked.

I looked from Levi to the front door and back again, wondering what game he was playing. He put his head back down. Moments passed, but Levi remained disturbingly still. It occurred to me that Elma had gone to return Elizabeth's muff. I sat down across from Levi to wait for her to glide in and share the good news. I even planned my look of surprise and how I would wake Elias and the children to celebrate. But seconds passed, then minutes, and Elma did not appear.

“Elma's gone out,” I told Levi. I spoke slowly, as if he were confused. “At least, I saw her get ready to go, and I have good reason to think she went.”

Levi's head sank farther into his hands. “I'm surprised she should be out so late at night and alone.”

His words were clear enough, but I could not grasp their meaning. Elma had said they were going to be married. I had seen her dress. I was certain she had left with him, but I had not actually seen them together.

“I have no reason to think she went alone,” I said, but even then I was beginning to doubt myself. Levi's cold stare made me shudder. His voice was steady, but I could hardly contain myself. “To tell the truth, Levi, I thought she went out with thee. She told me that she was going to, and I believe she did.”

Levi sat watching the fire. “If she had gone with me,” he said, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames, “she would have returned with me.”

He stood and left. I sat too shocked to respond. I was as cold as I had ever been, shivering and weak. Waking Elias would mean admitting my fear, and I was not prepared to do that. I stirred the fire, swept the kitchen, and rearranged the chairs. The silence was oppressive. I turned the lamp low and resumed my seat near the hearth, jumping as the logs burned and buckled. The hives on my neck had grown into welts, and I scratched them until they bled.

Midnight struck. I took a candle and searched the house, praying Elma had come in unseen or somehow hadn't left with Levi and was reading or sewing in some little-visited corner of the house. My pace increased as I went from room to room. With each of my steps, the floorboards emitted a mournful creak. I approached Levi's door twice but did not knock. Desperate, I went to the window and looked out onto the street. Snow shrouded the city, making it look as peaceful as a graveyard.

The winter dawn broke slowly, as if it too were reluctant to face the day. I watched with glazed eyes as shadows lengthened along our bedroom wall: contorted figures, an elongated skull, a torso with a heart-shaped gap. The snow did not bring tranquility to the city; it crippled it. Greenwich Street was without activity or noise, except for a sharp wind that wrapped itself around our home and howled, making the shutters bang and windows rattle. I waited for the children to wake and call for me, need me, make me useful. I sat upright in bed, ears primed, eager for an excuse to take them in my arms and tell them that wind could not harm them and fear was the enemy of faith.

“Elias,” I whispered. The sound of my voice confirmed this was no dream. A night so blustery and mean that every living creature had sought cover had come and gone, and Elma had not returned home.

Elias pulled the quilt over his head and groaned.

“Elias.” I shook his shoulder. “Elma didn't come home last night.”

He yanked the covers down and drew a deep breath, his eyes fixed on a point above my head.

“She and Levi left here together.”

Elias was silent.

“But,” I continued, though it was almost unbearable to say out loud, “Levi returned without her, and when I asked about Elma, he denied having seen her. He said that they hadn't gone out together at all.”

“Perhaps thou misunderst
ood.”

“He was very clear.”

“Not Levi,” Elias said, as if there were little doubt that Levi would speak clearly. “Perhaps thou misunderstood
Elma
.”

Frustration coursed through me. “Speak with Levi,” I said. “His behavior is odd. He's acting as if he knows nothing about where she is.”

“What if he doesn't?”

“Elias, they left together. They were going to be wed.”

“According to
her,
” he spat, with an edge that seemed deeply wrong in the face of my clear and increasing distress.

“Elma told me they were going to be married, and I have every reason to believe her.”

“That's what she said. I've never heard him say so.”

“But I saw—” I stopped short. I had heard whispers on the stairs. The front door had closed. I had held a candle and looked out onto the dark street, but they had already vanished. “I'm certain they went out together,” I said. I could hear the weakness of my argument and felt suddenly drained.

Elias turned back toward me, and now his voice was tinged with sorrow. He reached for my hand. “The only thing I saw was her clothing in a heap on the floor.”

I pulled away, resenting him for dredging up such an ugly memory. The past was irrelevant. My sweet cousin was missing and it was my responsibility to find her. “That was laundry.”

Elias tossed the covers away and sat up, fully awake. “Don't be naïve. Of course she would say that.”

“Would thou punish Elma for her imprudence?” I asked.

“We should never have taken a girl like that into our home. Caty…” He clasped my hand again. I might have appreciated the gesture—it was so rare of Elias to show any sort of affection—
except that his hands were as cold as his voice. “I'm sorry, but her behavior speaks for itself.”

I was exhausted and bitter, but I felt a mother's urge to search every corner of the city until I found Elma and brought her home. I went to the bureau and hastily began to dress.

“It's a misunderst
anding,” Elias said again, as if that explained anything. “She probably went out visiting and the weather detained her.”

The thought of Elma forging through icy streets or trapped somewhere unfamiliar did not alleviate my fear. Despite her brave face, she had always been fragile, and now, I believed, she was carrying Levi's child. The suggestion that she was out socializing was absurd.

“Who would she visit?” Elma had few friends, none—besides Levi—for whom she would risk going out on such an inhospitable night.

“What about Elizabeth Watkins? I believe she spent a night there last summer.”

“Thou
believe,
Elias? Either she did or she didn't,” I said. When I was away, Elias had been Elma's guardian, and his lack of attention to her whereabouts appalled me. Then again, I had left the city without any thought of Elma. Guilt lay heavy on my shoulders.

“She did,” he said. “She and Elizabeth were constantly gossiping about something.” Elias had always spoken highly of the Watkinses, so I was surprised to hear disapproval in his voice.

“Elma never said anything about it.”

“Thou were away for six weeks,” he said coolly.

“I wish thou were right, Elias, but it's ridiculous.” I shook my head. “Elma would never want me to worry like this.”

“Did thou have words?” Elias asked accusingly, as if he already knew the answer.

“Even so,” I said, unable to deny the tension between Elma and me that had come to a head the previous day, “she wouldn't stay away this long.”

“What now?” he asked.

“Well, Elias, that's quite obvious. I have to find Elma.”

“It's going to have to wait,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We have a household full of paying tenants who expect breakfast.”

Breakfast was a sad affair.

Elma usually scrambled eggs, and I was reluctant to carry out her chores, offering only a stack of burned toast and strawberry preserve that was beginning to turn. She was conspicuously absent, yet no one referred to her. Levi chewed slowly and swallowed as if his throat were sore, pushing aside a tankard of beer as if it were poison. He was unshaven, and his dark-blue eyes sank into the contours of his face.

“Feelin' all right, Weeks?” Croucher asked eagerly.

Levi stalked out.

Croucher turned to Will. “Your master looks like 'e 'asn't slept.”

Will sat forward as if he might speak, then seemed to think better of it and took another serving.

Charles ripped the crust off his toast, then tore it in half and half again until black crumbs sprinkled the table, chair, and floor. Patience began to fuss. Elias had ignored me, but the children sensed my anxiety. Charles would worry if I told him Elma was missing, further validating my own fear. I did not have the strength to comfort any of them. How could I explain Elma's absence when I didn't understand it myself? I just had to stay quiet until I found her, and then she could tell Charles herself about the adventure she had on such a snowy night.

I was preparing to go to the Watkinses' when the street door opened and a set of boots trod lightly up the stairs. I rushed out into the entranceway and was on the first step when Levi intercepted me. His broad shoulders spanned the width of the stairwell, blocking my way.

“Has Elma come home?” he asked.

It was no small effort to steady my voice. “I haven't seen her.”

“I'm surprised. Where could she be?” He was twitchy, his eyes without their usual sparkle.

I tried to push past him. “She's upstairs. I'm sure I just heard her go up.”

“That was me you heard.”

I didn't understand how he could answer with such certainty. “Then thou moved more lightly than ever before.”

Before the words were out of me, Levi was up the stairs. I followed on his heels. As we approached Elma's door, he stepped aside. I knocked politely, then harder. Levi reached past me and flung open the door. We stood together on the threshold, surveying the empty room. The bed was made and the room was in its usual order, except for a discarded shawl, which hung lifelessly over the back of a chair, and an overturned hairbrush on the dressing table.

Levi sighed, though whether from distress or relief, I couldn't say. “She's not here,” he said, confirming the obvious.

I looked at the brush. Morning light bounced off snowy rooftops and shone through the window, highlighting a few stray hairs, tangible proof of Elma's existence as well as of her absence.

“Levi,” I said, “this is too serious for me to keep quiet any longer. Elma told me she was going out with thee last night.” His eyes flashed dark and furious, so I stopped short of mentioning their wedding plans. “Tell me where she is.”

“Caty.” His voice was as vacant as the room, and he looked through me with icy detachment. “I would not keep you in suspense if I knew.”

We stood side by side in Elma's room, just as we had the night she was ill, except the bed was empty and Elma was gone.

“Levi,” I pleaded. “Tell me something, anything at all. I no longer care what has passed between thee. Tell me where Elma is. Did she flee from fear or”—I lowered my voice—“shame?”

Levi paced Elma's small room as if he were eager to leave but reluctant to go. I wanted to shake him until he confessed the truth, but he was imposing and brooding, and I was frightened.

“Caty,” he said, “I fear you are no longer my friend.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I shudder to think that I ever indulged a favorable thought of thee.”

“Mama?” Charles raced into the room, positioning himself between Levi and me.

I was touched by his protectiveness and concerned that he felt I was threatened. Charles, who had always admired Levi, glared at him as if he were an intruder in our home.

“Where's Elma?” he cried shrilly, his voice filled with the panic I had been trying to suppress.

A gust of wind nearly toppled me the moment I stepped outside. The snow was as high as my shins, and the frozen ground sank and swelled, forming a treacherous path. The Watkinses lived next door, yet their house seemed hopelessly far. With each step, I prayed I would find Elma safe and sound. As my warm breath vanished and my chest began to ache from the cold, I made a thousand promises and bargains. I would be a more understanding wife, a compassionate mother, attend more meetings, and truly practice my faith. Most important, I vowed I would not scold Elma. She had used poor judgment. If she was safe, that was all that mattered. We would talk once tempers cooled. And if she was with child, we would handle that as well. No problem was insurmount
able. I would forgive her. I already had.