Remember Me

Twenty years ago I came across a book called
The Narrow Land
by Elizabeth Reynard. The myths and legends and folk chronicles I found in there are the reason this book exists. My gratitude for background material also belongs to these writers of the past: Henry C. Kittredge for his
Cape Codders: People and Their History
and
Mooncussers of Cape Cod;
Doris Doane for
A Book of Cape Cod Houses
with drawings by Howard L. Rich; Frederick Freeman for
The History of Cape Cod;
and William C. Smith for his
History of Chatham.

Profound and heartfelt thanks to Michael V. Korda, my longtime editor, and his associate, senior editor Chuck Adams. As always, guys, sine qua non.

Garlands to Frank and Eve Metz for consistently terrific jacket design and interior design. Sainthood to Gypsy da Silva for her magnificent copy supervision.

Blessings on Eugene H. Winick, my agent, and Lisl Cade, my publicist, valued companions of this journey called writing a book.

Kudos to Ina Winick for the professional guidance
to understanding post-traumatic stress disorder. Special thanks to the Eldredge Library, Sam Pinkus, Dr. Marina Stajic, the Coast Guard Group at Woods Hole, the Chatham Police Department, the Barnstable County District Attorney's office, Ron Aires of Aires Jewelers. If I didn't get any of the technicalities straight, it certainly wasn't your fault.

A tip of the hat to my daughter Carol Higgins Clark for her insight and suggestions.

And now, dear family and friends. If you Remember Me, give me a call. I'm available for dinner.

I
N JOYFUL MEMORY OF
M
AUREEN
H
IGGINS
D
OWLING
, “M
O
,”
S
ISTER-IN-LAW AND FRIEND
W
ITH LOVE

August 17th

B
y 9
P.M
. the storm had broken with full force, and a stiff wind was sending powerful waves crashing against the eastern shore of Cape Cod. We're going to get more than a touch of the nor'easter, Menley thought as she reached over the sink to close the window. It might actually be fun, she thought, in an effort to reassure herself. The Cape airports were closed, so Adam had rented a car to drive from Boston. He should be home soon. There was plenty of food on hand. She had stocked up on candles, just in case the electricity went out, although if she was right about what she was beginning to suspect, the thought of being in this house with only candlelight was frightening.

She switched on the radio, twisted the dial and found the Chatham station that played forties music. She raised an eyebrow in surprise as the Benny Goodman orchestra went into the opening notes of “Remember.”

A particularly appropriate song when you're living in a place called Remember House, she thought.
Pushing aside the inclination to flip the dial again, she picked up a serrated knife and began to slice tomatoes for a salad. When he phoned, Adam told her he hadn't had time to eat. “But you forgot to remember,” the vocalist warbled.

The unique sound that the wind made when it rushed past the house was starting again. Perched high on the embankment over the churning water, the house became a kind of bellows in a wind storm, and the whooshing sound it emitted had the effect of a distant voice calling out “Remember, RememberÂ .Â .Â .” The legend was that over the decades that peculiarity had given the house its name.

Menley shivered as she reached for the celery. Adam will be here soon, she promised herself. He'd have a glass of wine while she made some pasta.

There was a sudden noise. What was that? Had a door blown open? Or a window? Something was wrong.

She snapped off the radio.
The baby!
Was she crying? Was that a cry or a muffled, gagging sound? Menley hurried to the counter, grabbed the monitor and held it to her ear. Another choking gasp and then nothing. The baby was choking!

She rushed from the kitchen into the foyer, toward the staircase. The delicate fan-shaped window over the front door sent gray and purple shadows along the wide-plank floor.

Her feet barely touched the stairs as she raced to the second floor and down the hall. An instant later she was at the door of the nursery. There was no sound coming from the crib. “Hannah, Hannah,” she cried.

Hannah was lying on her stomach, her arms outstretched, her body motionless. Frantically, Menley
leaned down, turning the baby as she picked her up. Then her eyes widened in horror.

The china head of an antique doll rested against her hand. A painted face stared back at her.

Menley tried to scream, but no sound came from her lips. And then from behind her a voice whispered. “I'm sorry, Menley. It's all over.”

July 15th
1

A
fterwards, steadfastly through the questioning, Scott Covey tried to make everyone understand just how it had happened.

He and Vivian had been napping on a quilt spread on the boat's deck, the hazy sun and gentle lapping of the water lulling them into sleepy contentment.

He had opened one eye and yawned. “I'm hot,” he said. “Want to check out the ocean floor?”

Vivian had brushed her lips against his chin. “I don't think I'm in the mood.” Her soft voice was lazy, a contented murmur.

“I am.” He sprang up decisively and looked over the side. “It's perfect down there. Water's clear as a bell.”

It was nearly four o'clock. They were about a mile off Monomoy Island. The haze of humidity lay like shimmering chiffon, but a faint breeze had begun to stir.

“I'll get my gear,” Scott told her. He crossed the deck and reached down into the small cabin they used as a storage area.

Vivian had gotten up, shaking off her drowsiness. “Get my stuff too.”

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