Face on the Wall (5 page)

One of the stars fell, making a long fiery trail across the sky. “Now someone is dying,” said the little girl, for her old dead grandmother … had told her that when a star falls, a soul goes up to God.

Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”

H
omer Kelly had been Mary's husband for a long time. He was a big man with a coarse gray beard and a rough head of hair like the thick fur of a dog. His impulsive enthusiasms had often led him into absurdities in the past, but half a lifetime with a sensible wife had mellowed him a little. So had his experience with violent criminals. At one time or another Homer had been half drowned, knocked senseless, threatened with edge tools, firearms, oncoming trucks, burning buildings, and explosive devices. Did danger build character? Who could tell? In middle age Homer Kelly was a more rational and sympathetic human being than he had been in his youth. One thing, however, was still an unchanging part of his makeup. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), his chromosomes still sported a mutant gene prompting unpredictable behavior, occasional silliness, and sometimes—rarely, erratically—a stroke of genius.

Today Homer's genius was out to lunch. “You must be out of your mind,” he said, staring at the dim photograph of Mary's former student, the missing princess with the long golden hair. “She just walked out on her husband, I'll bet, that's all. High time, if he's been beating her up. What's this about a parcel? ‘It is rumored that a large parcel'—of what? A leg of lamb? A side of beef?”

“No, no, Homer. It's only the British who use the word ‘parcel' like that. In this country it means a piece of land.”

Homer held the scrap of newspaper to the light. “Look, if this isn't the
Boston Globe
it must be one of those sensationalist rags they sell in supermarkets. You can't believe a word they say. The editors, they sit around smoking cigars and making up headlines about aliens seducing rock stars. They're fairy stories.”

“But Pearl is real. She's not a fairy story. And something's happened to her.” Mary fixed Homer with a fierce blue eye. “Look, Homer, you're not doing anything in particular right now except teaching a couple of graduate seminars and a freshman course and writing a couple of books. Couldn't you just take the time to find out where she lives? I mean, where she disappeared from?”

“I'm not doing anything in particular!” Homer groaned and thrust his hands into his hair. “That's a joke, right? My light schedule? Which also includes, I might add, counseling inmates in the Concord prison once a week.”

“Good heavens, Homer, when did that happen?”

“This morning. They called me up.” Homer grinned at his wife. “What about you? You're free as air. Why don't you look into your old pal's disappearance yourself? She's your friend, not mine. You're not doing one single thing beyond running the extension school and writing a history of women poets through the ages and grading a few hundred freshman papers and cooking a thousand meals.”

“Oh, Homer, that's not all. I've just been appointed Historian in Residence at a private school, Weston Country Day. I'll be teaching fifth-graders about history.”

“My God, how did that happen?”

“They wrote me a letter. I was flattered. They said Judge Aufsesser's daughter is in the class. I guess I was attracted by his fame.”

“Judge Aufsesser won't be in your class, you nitwit, just his daughter.”

“I know, but maybe he'll come to parents' night or something.” Mary grinned foolishly.

Homer sighed. “The truth is, we're both doing too much. Neither of us has time to look for missing princesses with golden hair. Anyway, she's probably been turned into a frog by now. It's a job for a magician, not a couple of overworked scholars.” He glanced again at the picture of Pearl Small. “This isn't from the
Boston Globe,
but the
Globe
might have run a story at the same time. Why don't you call them? See if they have any record of her so-called disappearance. If they ever did a story on her, it would be in their file. Tell them to look under Frog.”

Mary tried. She called the
Globe.
After a couple of misdirected tries she was connected to a librarian in the archives department.

“Nope,” said the librarian, staring at her monitor and scrolling through the alphabet. “The name Pearl Small has never appeared in the
Boston Globe
.”

“Try Frog,” murmured Mary, disappointed. “Try Princess. No, no, that's fine. Well, thank you very much.”

Mary put down the phone. She had an appointment with the heads of all the departments in the Harvard Extension School, and if she didn't get going, she'd be late. She ran down the porch steps, jumped into her car, revved the engine, and charged up the hill.

Homer had been right. The lurid story about the disappearance of Pearl Small had the melodramatic flair of the headlines in the supermarket rags, those sleazy periodicals that rejoiced in the torrid affairs, the aborted pregnancies, and the drunken brawls of film stars, sports stars, TV stars, hunks, and sex kittens. How did one get in touch with those editorial boards?

The woods fled past, the dirt track gave way to a paved road. Mary told herself to stop at the supermarket on the way home—for oranges, broccoli, a roasting chicken, and a copy of every flamboyant journal in the store.

Chapter 8

“Why,” said he, “greed is the best, for if it were otherwise … I should never be jogging along through the world with six servants behind me.”

Howard Pyle, “The Wonder Clock”

J
ack was a bigger presence than Annie remembered. He had gained weight, but he was still horribly good-looking. He had the kind of striking face that tells across a room.

Annie let him gather her in a fond embrace. He tried to kiss her in the old way, but she had enough dignity to turn her head away. “No, Jack, don't.”

He let her go, and looked up at the house. “So this is your castle? Little Annie made it with her widdoo paintbwush, all by her widdoo self?”

“Oh, shut up, Jack.”

He was impressed, she could see that. Indoors he gaped around at her library, staring up at the windows, the high shelves of books. For an instant his cocksureness was shaken when he caught sight of the painted columns on her wall, but at once he dismissed them as Annie's sort of thing, and sank into a chair. “Your dream house, is that it? Some dream. Must have cost you a bundle.” He turned and stared at her. “You're famous. Best-selling kiddie books. I saw you on TV.”

She shrugged. “You want a beer? I made sandwiches.”

They sat at her table, and Jack poured out his resentment against his now ex-girlfriend, Gloria. “God, her high-flown nobility. Homelessness, Christ, she kept bringing people in off the street.”

“Well, good for her,” murmured Annie.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Are you still an art director?” she said, changing the subject, although as a rejected lover she couldn't help rejoicing in the downfall of Gloria. “Where is it? Oh, I remember. It's that big publishing house in Charlestown.”

“Art director, God.” Jack drained his beer, heaved himself up from the chair, walked heavily to the refrigerator, and helped himself to another bottle. “Whole department closed down. Bunch of shitheads anyhow. Matter of fact, I'm doing something else now. Insurance. I'm with Paul Revere.”

“No kidding? Well, congratulations.”

Jack sat down with his beer and looked at her slyly. It was at once apparent why he was there. “How's
your
portfolio, by the way? Have you got a policy for personal injury? Suppose somebody slips and falls on that big stone in front of your door, they could take everything, every cent. And listen, Annie, how much fire insurance have you got on this place? Oh my God, is that all? Jesus, Annie.”

Partly because she was persuaded by his dire predictions and partly to get rid of him, Annie signed up for a huge personal-injury policy and a hefty increase in fire insurance.

She stood up, hoping he would take the hint and go away. Jack got to his feet, but instead of leaving he threw his arms around her in their old movie embrace. It was a private joke. He bent her backward and bowed over her like Rudolph Valentino.

“No, Jack,” she said, pushing him back and struggling to stand up.

“Annie, Annie, I made a mistake.” He clutched her. “I was a fool. Come back to me, Annie. I want you, I need you.”

“No, no.” But she was weakening. Triumphantly Jack heaved her off the floor. Her big feet dangled. She swore, “Oh, goddamnit, Jack,” but her fingers stopped pushing at him and her head lolled back. The doorbell rang.

The spell was broken. Annie burst out of Jack's arms and ran to the door. “Shit,” said Jack.

It was Flimnap O'Dougherty. His cheery face looked at Annie, not seeming to notice the glowering presence of Jack behind her. “Sorry, I forgot my wrench. It's in the bathroom.”

“Well, come on in,” said Annie, trying to catch her breath.

He glided past her, dodged into the bathroom, and came out again, flourishing the wrench. “Thanks,” he said, and was gone.

“Okay, Jack,” said Annie, “out with you. Come on. I mean it.”

Jack's voice deepened. “You don't mean it, Annie. You know you don't.” He came closer and reached out.

She backed away. “No, Jack, stop.”

The doorbell rang again. Once more it was O'Dougherty, apologizing. “I forgot to tell you I can't come Monday after all. But I could come tomorrow afternoon, how about that?”

Annie laughed. If Jack was Rudolph Valentino, Flimnap was Stan Laurel, the earnest simpleton. “Fine. Bring along your derby hat.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She closed the door, but when she opened it again for Jack, O'Dougherty was still there in the driveway, tinkering with his truck.

Jack hurled himself into his car and drove violently forward, narrowly missing O'Dougherty, who skipped out of the way. Jack's horn blared, and he lunged down the driveway.

Flimnap too was leaving. He slapped down the hood of his truck, climbed into the cab, nodded mildly at Annie, and drove away.

She went indoors to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was frowsy, her eyes were wild.

Had there been a wrench in here this morning? No, surely not, or she would have noticed it. The wrench was an excuse to come back. Flimnap had brought it in just now, and then pretended to find it.

Unless of course it was an enchanted wrench. Flimnap the prestidigitator had simply plucked it out of the air.

Chapter 9