Secrets in the Shadows (22 page)

I'd rather be like Rachel,
I thought and hated myself for not being that way now.
Duncan didn't call again that day, nor did he come to the cafe. I was troubled, but I swallowed it back as best I could and made every effort to hide it from my uncle and aunt, forcing smiles, talking with Mrs. Mallen, keeping busy. Even though I had little appetite, I ate more than I usually did. My cover-up seemed to work.
When we all went home after closing, I expected that Duncan might call. I kept listening for the phone, but it didn't ring, and I finally fell asleep. I didn't sleep well. I woke .in the middle of the night and tossed and turned for hours, getting up and standing by my window to look out at the field and the studio, hoping to see him hovering in a shadow. I didn't and finally fell asleep again. I slept well into the morning, and when I did eventually awake, I found that my uncle and aunt had left me a note saying they were going to the cafe together earlier this morning and Aunt Zipporah was leaving her car for me to drive to the cafe when I was up and about.
I made myself some coffee and sat thinking, again wondering if Duncan would call. I decided to call him and tried, but the line was busy. I tried again and again, but all I got was a busy signal. Finally, I asked the operator to tell me if the line was out of order. She checked and returned to tell me it wasn't.
"Someone might have left the receiver off the hook," she suggested. She said there was nothing she could do about it.
Would his mother deliberately do that? I
wondered.
Doesn't anyone call her? Wouldn't she be afraid to leave it off the hook?
When I went out to the car, I paused and looked down the road, thinking about Duncan and the strange things he had said to me on the phone. I made an impulsive decision, got into Aunt Zipporah's car, and drove off in the opposite direction from the cafe, following the memory of where Duncan had told me his home on the old egg farm was located. I recalled the cross streets, but I got lost looking for them and finally had to stop at a gas station and get directions. It wasn't that much farther.
There was no sign to indicate the property was Duncan's, but I saw a small statue of the Madonna just inside the driveway. The chicken coops were off to the right. They were long, gray buildings that looked dark and empty even from this distance. I saw a tractor parked beside one, but no one was around.
The house itself was a large, two-story Queen Anne with a turret roof on the lower porch and an upper porch just under the principal roofline. The exterior walls had patterned wood shingles, and the steeply pitched roof of irregular shape had a dominant front- facing gable. There was a short stairway leading up to the front porch. It was clearly a classic old house, and if it had some real money invested in it, it would surely be a prime property, I thought.
On first glance, it looked abandoned. All of the windows were dark. I drove a little further into the driveway, and when I leaned to the left, I could see a clothesline with sheets, shirts, skirts and dresses waving in the breeze just to the right of the rear of the house. The windows in the late morning sun glittered and reflected the blue sky.
I remained there, thinking and staring at the house. I saw Duncan's mother's car parked in front, but there was no sign of his scooter or of him.
Should I just drive up and knock on the door? I
wondered.
What could she do, shout at me, babble some biblical quotes? At least I would know he was all right.
Yet I still hesitated. I had yet to see another car on this side road. Way off to the right, someone was developing the land. A bulldozer was parked there, but at the moment, there was no one working. I was hoping that at any moment I might see Duncan walking about the property, or at least he would see me parked out here and come to me, but nothing moved. Even the blades of wild grass off to the right and left seemed to have frozen.
I continued slowly down the gravel driveway, hearing only the crunch of tires and small stones. When I reached her car, I stopped and sat there for a few moments, now expecting that surely she or Duncan would step out on that porch. No one did. I turned off the engine and got out slowly, deliberately closing the door hard so someone would hear me. Again, I waited, watching the door. No one appeared.
A voice within me urged me to turn around, get back into the car and drive off. I seriously considered it until I heard what sounded like a woman's wail coming from somewhere inside the house. It sent my heart racing. I listened for it again, but heard nothing. Was it the wind? There was barely any breeze. Even the few clouds against the soft blue sky looked pasted, unmoving.
Why should I go forward?
I asked myself.
Why should I care?
The debate raged inside me.
Finally, it wasn't only the similarities that I felt Duncan and I shared--this fear of inheriting evil, this self-defeating and depressing idea that no one would see anything good in us--that drove me to go to that front door. I had seen there was a softness in Duncan, a loving softness and a desperate need for real affection. In his eyes I saw the sincere affection he had for me. I had become his hope, his way back from the same twisted pathway I had been made to take. We could join hands. We could defeat the shadows and darkness. We could be something wonderful together.
Strengthened by my hope, I stepped forward and went up the short stairway. I barely heard my own footsteps and looked down to see if I was tiptoeing or walking on air. Moments later, I stood before the large, oak wood door and searched for a doorbell button. There was none, not even a knocker. Did no one ever come to this house? It made me think of a face without eyes.
I gazed around, looked back up the empty driveway at the quiet street, and then I knocked on the door and waited. I heard nothing, not a voice asking who's there or any footsteps from within. I knocked again, this time harder, and when I did, the door opened. It had not been closed tightly.
I didn't expect that, of course. For a moment it seemed as if some invisible person had opened it, some ghost. Surely, the sound of it opening would attract either Duncan or his mother, I thought, and I waited to hear footsteps or voices. There was nothing but the same deep, echoing silence.
"Duncan?" I called. "Are you home? It's me, Alice. Duncan?"
I waited and listened. At first I heard nothing and thought I should simply turn around and leave to go to the cafe. My aunt was probably wondering where I was by now. Suddenly though, I distinctly heard the sound of someone crying. It wasn't Duncan. It was a female, so I imagined it was his mother. Why was she crying?
I stepped a little farther into the house. Despite it being the late morning, it was very dark inside. All the shades were drawn closed on all the windows I could see, and there were no lights on anywhere inside. There was a sharp odor, the smell of strong disinfectants. From what I could see, there were no rugs or any carpets. The dull wood floors were surely the original, I thought. All the furniture 1 saw as I walked through the entryway and into the downstairs area looked as old as the house.
The loud gong of a grandfather's clock right beside me spun me around. I gasped and listened as it marked the hour and resonated throughout the house.
"Duncan?" I called again.
The sobbing was coming from upstairs.
I approached the stairway slowly. When I reached it, I heard this monotonous buzzing and looked down right to a small table in the hallway, where a phone sat, the receiver clearly off the hook.
"Hello?" I called up the stairway. "I'm looking for Duncan. Anyone here, please?"
The sobbing stopped. I waited, gazing back at the still-opened front door to make sure I had a quick avenue of escape when and if I wanted it. I could hear the floorboards above me creaking. I held my breath and waited, and then she appeared at the top of the stairway.
Duncan's mother had her dark brown hair tightly tied in a bun at the back of her head. She wore a light blue bathrobe but was barefoot. She looked barely five feet three or four and quite petite in the robe, which appeared to be a size too big or perhaps even a man's robe. When she stepped forward, the dark shadow over her face lifted, as if she'd been removing a mask.
"What do you want?" she asked me.
"I'm looking for Duncan," I said. "My name is Alice--"
"I know who you are. You're related to the people who own that cafe in town, the one he goes to."
"Yes. Is he at home?"
"No," she said, wiping her cheeks with a tissue. She started down the stairs and paused about midway. "He's gone," she said.
I can imagine why, I
thought, but I dared to ask anyway.
"Why?"
She smiled weakly.
Here it comes,
I thought.
She's going to unload all the blame at me, send it cascading down the stairway in the hope it will drown me in guilt.
"He blames me," she said instead.
"He should," I fired up at her. "Why did you make me seem so terrible? Why were you so cruel? You don't know anything about me."
She stared and then continued her descent. As she drew closer, I saw she had a pretty face with diminutive features that actually made her look very young. There was nothing hard or coarse in her eyes either. They were a soft hazel brown.
"I don't know what you mean," she said. "I wasn't happy with his staying out all night at your relatives' home without at least calling to tell me, but I was happy that he finally found a friend."
I recoiled as if she had spit at me.
"What?"
"For a long time I've been worried and terribly concerned about Duncan. I tried getting him to socialize with young people at our church, but he refused. He wouldn't even talk to them, and he never wanted to do much with anyone at school. That's why I was so torn about his staying out all night and not calling to at least let me know where he was. I didn't want to discourage him from making a friend, but he shouldn't have done something so irresponsible.
"You're right. I don't know anything about you, but I know who your relatives are," she continued. "They're nice people, hardworking people."
I shook my head. What was she saying? "But when I called here for him the other day, you called me Satan. You said, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and you hung up on me," I said.
"Oh God have mercy," she said and choked back a sob. "I never spoke to you, young lady."
"You're lying. Didn't you . . . weren't you afraid he would be more likely to become a sinner if he was with me? Didn't you tell him that? Didn't you punish him for being with me, not take him on some church trip?"
"Oh God have mercy," she said once more. "Is that what he told you?"
I nodded.
Tears came into her eyes again. What was this act she was putting on for me? Did she hope to avoid being blamed?
"Why did he run away then?" I demanded. "It's because you made him feel terrible, right?"
She started to shake her head, but suddenly she represented all those people back in Sandburg who stood in judgment over me. I saw all the eyes glaring, heard all the whispers.
"What right did you have to do that? I know something about the Bible too. I remember something about `He without sin cast the first stone.' "
She took another step toward me.
"He didn't run away because of me," she said firmly. "The only thing I did was forbid him to use my car."
"Then why did he go? Where is he?"
"He went to see his father," she said, then she wobbled weakly and took hold of the bannister as she lowered herself to the step and sat.
Her words flew like hard rain into my face.
"His father? But I thought . . . I thought he didn't know where his father was, hadn't seen 'him for years and years."
"He didn't. He hasn't seen him. Neither of us has, nor have we heard from him. That's all true. However, yesterday we received a call from a hospital in Albany. His father was brought there in an ambulance. From what I understood, he was found unconscious in whatever fleabag hovel he lived in. His drinking finally started the nails in his coffin," she said. "Somehow, on his deathbed, he was able to manage getting the information about us to the nurse or the doctor.
"Duncan was angry at me for not rushing out and up there. He was right to be angry. I should find forgiveness in my heart, but I just couldn't do it. God forgive me," she said. She looked down and then up at me again, her face riddled with concern.
"But he's not rushing up to him out of love or respect or a son's obligation. He's rushing up there because he's angry at him. He wants him to know it before he dies. He wanted me to stand beside him and both of us heap our rage on him I told Duncan that was wrong, that it would be a dreadful thing to do, but he's very bitter about it.
"I told him it was wrong to keep blaming everything unpleasant or every one of his own mistakes and failings on his father. I tried to teach him to have responsibility for himself, to show him that if he shifts that to his father and never accepts
responsibility for his actions or inactions, he will never improve. Without remorse, there's no
forgiveness. That's what I taught him, but I never taught him to cast stones at anyone."
She took a deep breath. I could see how difficult it was for her to say all those things. She looked like her own words were poisoning her. They took my breath away.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just so confused right now."
She nodded and wiped her eyes again with her tissue.
"I'm afraid for him," she said. "I never saw him like he was before he left. That was another reason why I tried to keep him from going. He sounded so mixed up, so confused himself, babbling about how he crossed over and how he was escaping. Escaping from where, from whom? I tried to understand, but he was in a frenzy and made no sense.
"I think," she said after a short pause and a sigh, "that he is escaping from himself. Only I don't know where that will take him, where he will go, or what he will do."
She continued to cry softly.
I leaned against the bannister.
"I'm sorry I said those things to you," I said.
She smiled weakly. "You're a pretty girl. I'm not surprised he wanted to be with you, and whatever he did say about you always sounded very flattering. You seemed to be someone he really trusted."
"He showed me his poems."
"Did he?" She shook her head. "He would never show them to me. I thought, okay, when he's good and ready he will."
I didn't want to tell her how much of his poetry was about his being in a cage, a cage he clearly made sound as if she had created.