Small Blessings (43 page)

There is plenty of food and drink in the fridge, and there are fresh towels in the bathroom.

 

With the greatest respect and affection,
Russell Jacobs
(your loving
Protector
, Russ)

The toilet flushed. Pipes gurgled. Henry was washing his hands.

Rose took a deep breath. She could not have been more wrong about Russell being back to normal. This thing in her hand announced he'd flipped his lid, big-time. He evidently planned to hold her and Henry captive up here in this tower like a modern-day Rapunzel and child.

Rose immediately thought of her great-aunt Miranda, who'd flipped her lid in a similarly bizarre fashion when Rose was about Henry's age. Family history had it that Miranda, an early widow, had been living quietly by herself for decades in a minute house in the tiny Texas town of Wellspring. Rose had an indistinct memory of “Miss Prissy,” as the family had called her, sitting buttoned up to the chin and down to the wrist among the raucous Callahan clan, a frail, faded woman, who never said a word.

Then one morning in early June, wordless Aunt Miranda had taken off all her clothes and marched out her front door into family legend. She'd walked across town and sat herself down in a rocking chair on Tom Dyson's front porch. Tom Dyson was a fiftyish, thrice-married local druggist who everyone said looked just like James Dean would have looked if he'd lived to be Tom Dyson's age. Great-Aunt Miranda had sat and rocked calmly on Tom Dyson's front porch for a couple of hours while a large crowd gathered and gawked.

The problem was that no one knew what to do. Great-Aunt Miranda had always been so shy, so unassertive, so religious, it seemed wrong for a bunch of men to just go up and tackle her while she was naked. Wife Number Three had screamed at her through a front window to go away a couple of times, and the sheriff had gone up on the porch at some point and asked her politely if she'd like a ride home. But Miranda had ignored them both and continued to sit serenely in her rocking chair, wearing her long history of modest timidity like a protective force field.

Eventually someone had thought to call in the Methodist minister, and that had done the trick. Miranda left the porch on the preacher's arm and allowed herself to be returned home. After the Dysons threatened to sue if she wasn't put away, the family reluctantly packed Miranda off to a secure unit at the Baptist home, where she'd had the good sense to die within a year.

Granny Callahan had been the only one of Miranda's siblings to speak out in support of her rampage. “At least Prissy had the good sense to bust loose
once
before she died!” Mavis's mother would say whenever the subject of Great-Aunt Miranda came up. “It's just too bad it landed her locked up with a bunch of Baptists.”

Over the years, Rose had found herself thinking frequently about Aunt Miranda and wondering if she'd enjoyed herself sitting naked on Tom Dyson's front porch. Rose also wondered if she'd inherited any of her great-aunt's propensities to “bust loose,” and if so, what she might need to bust loose from.

Just in the last decade, Rose had concluded that her great-aunt had done what she'd done because she'd finally gotten the courage to be all that she could be, not just the parts of herself she'd gotten used to. And just in the past few days, as Rose had felt herself getting more and more emotionally entangled with the Putnams, she'd wondered if emotional entanglement might be her own version of Great-Aunt Miranda's “busting loose.” It was hard to imagine anything more unlike her.

Of course, right now, it was more important to consider whether Russell Jacobs might be doing a Great-Aunt Miranda, breaking free of a part of himself he'd always denied was there.

It certainly made sense, Rose decided, but it didn't get her and Henry out of here. In a rush of anger at Russell, she balled up his note and bounced it off the nearest wall.

“What are you doing?”

Rose turned to find Henry looking at her. “Nothing.” Which, after all, was true. She retrieved the letter, unballed it, folded it, and stuffed it in the pocket of her pants.

Henry watched her. “Where's Professor Jacobs?”

“He had to go do something.”

“Oh.” Henry looked longingly at the table.

The thing I
must
not do,
Rose thought,
is panic Henry.
“Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” Light shone in Henry's eyes.

“I don't think Professor Jacobs would mind at all if you started without him. He might be quite a while—you know, doing what he's doing.”

“Okay,” Henry said, “if you're sure he wouldn't mind.”

“I don't think he would at all.” How long, Rose wondered, would it be before the two of them were missed? And then, after they'd been missed, how long would it take for someone to figure out where they were? And after people knew where they were, how long would it be before Russell let them go?

Perhaps she could open a porthole and yell at a passerby and speed things up? “I'm just going to look out a window, Henry, and then I'll be right over.”

Henry didn't miss much. “Why are you going to do that?” he asked, with the slightest trace of worry in his voice.

“Just to see the view,” Rose said, airily channeling Annie Hall. La-di-dah! La-di-dah!

She walked quickly to the nearest porthole. So much for shouting at passersby. The thick circle of glass was unopenable and would have withstood a direct hit from a man-of-war.

*   *   *

Tom got home to find Agnes settled at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and looking through a stack of papers.

“Is Henry here?” he asked.

Agnes looked up and took off her glasses. “No. I assumed he was with you.”

“Well, he's not. Rose picked him up an hour early saying something about an emergency, and no one seems quite sure where either one of them is now.”

Agnes frowned. “Who's ‘no one'?”

“What?”

“Who's ‘no one'? The people who don't know where Henry and Rose are. Whom have you talked to?”

“Oh. Ted, Mrs. Parker, and Russell.”

“Russell?”
Agnes, Tom knew, distrusted anything involving Russell Jacobs.

“Yes. He was with Rose when she left the Book Store.”

Agnes leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Well, what did Russell have to say for himself?”

“That he and Rose had lunch, and then he left her.”

Agnes thought for a moment. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“What doesn't make sense?”

“That Rose would leave work with Russell because of some kind of emergency and then go off to lunch with him.”

Tom considered this. “Well, that's what he said just now when I talked to him.”

“Where did you talk to him?” Agnes asked.

“At his house.”

“Did you go in?”

Tom shook his head. “No, he said was in the middle of something, so I just talked to him at the front door.”

“Hmmm.” Agnes pushed her chair back and stood up.

“Hmmm, what?” Tom asked, trying hard not to snap at Agnes, who, after all, was just being who she was.

“Hmmm, nothing in particular. That just seems a bit weird, even for Russell.”

Tom clamped both hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and squeezed hard. “You're right, that was a bit weird, even for Russell. But now can we discuss how to go about finding Henry?”

“Certainly.” Agnes began moving toward the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Tom asked, thinking again of Mr. Brownlow.

“Mr. Brownlow. Henry's his concern as well as ours. And then I'm calling Clarence Mayhew.”

“But—” Tom began.

“But nothing,” Agnes said, and picked up the phone.

*   *   *

Russell's parlor window was shut and locked. He stood before it, glass in hand, and watched people rush up and down the sidewalk in front of his house. Russell could read lips well enough to realize that when they raised hands to mouths and called out, what they called out was “Henry!”

Russell felt bad that so many people had been sucked into searching for Henry when Henry was upstairs safe and sound. He wished he could let everyone know that there was absolutely no reason to worry about anything, that this was a private matter between him and Rose and Henry.

Russell reached down and touched the pair of nineteenth-century dueling pistols he kept displayed on the small table beneath the window. They weren't loaded, but that didn't mean they wouldn't come in handy if things came to a head. Meanwhile, it was important to carry on as though nothing at all were out of the ordinary.

The phone rang.
Business as usual,
Russell reminded himself, taking a generous sip of bourbon while he moved toward the phone and picked it up.
Business as usual.
“Hello,” he said. “Russell Jacobs here.”

“Russell, this is Luellen Mars.”

“Hello, Luellen.” Russell felt his heart quicken. Surely this couldn't be DNA test results already?

“I just got back the results of the DNA test you wanted.”

Russell sat down in the prim little chair beside the telephone desk. “Yes?”

“The two people whose samples you gave me are not biologically related.”

There it was. No Jeffersonian fatherhood for him. Whatever else he was, he wasn't Henry's father. A great calm enveloped Russell; for some unquantifiable amount of time he felt nothing, knew nothing, was nothing. Then, gradually, he became part of the world again. Somewhere a clock ticked. More people rushed by outside his window, their mouths open in wordless appeal,
Henry! Henry!

“Russell, are you still there?”

The enveloping calm retreated, leaving him feeling quietly invincible. He, Russell Jacobs, was the one who could make things right for all concerned. “Yes, I'm here,” he said to Luellen.

And then he put down the phone.

*   *   *

Susan Mason was walking by the Dean Dome thinking about where she should search for Henry next when Henry appeared on the porch carrying his soccer ball. The door shut immediately behind him.

“Susan!” Henry called out.

“Henry!” Susan began running toward him. “You're alive!”

Henry, who'd begun trotting down the Dean Dome's front walk, stopped and frowned. “Of course I am. I was up in Professor Jacobs's tower.”

“Really?” She'd reached the little boy and didn't quite know what to do next.

“Yes. Really.”

What Susan really wanted to do was hug Henry, but that might not be a good idea. Her little brother didn't always like to be hugged in public anymore. So instead, she knelt down in front of him, took both his hands in hers, and said, “We've all been so worried about you. The whole campus is looking for you.”

Henry looked troubled. “We were locked in. But then Professor Jacobs came up and said I wasn't his son and I could go, but Rose had to stay.”

“What did he mean, you weren't his son?”

Henry shook his head. “I don't know. But I'm glad I'm not. I'd rather be Tom's son.”

“Of course you would.” Susan's brain was processing information and exploring possibilities at a pace she would never have thought possible. “Did you say Rose was still up there? In Professor Jacobs's tower? Is she locked in, do you know?”

“Yes.” Henry looked anguished. “He told her she had to stay up there until she came to her senses.”

Susan stood up. Rose Callahan was her hero. “Well, let's go get her out,” she said, reaching for Henry's hand.

Henry shied back. “We can't,” he said in a tiny, crumpled voice.

“Why not?”

Twin tears rolled down Henry's cheeks. “Professor Jacobs has a gun.”

“A gun!” Susan pushed Henry behind her and began backing up, her eyes scanning Professor Jacobs's battlement.

“Could we go and get my dad, please?” Henry asked. “He'll know what to do.”

“Of course,” Susan said, still backing up, still keeping Henry behind her. It was only when they'd gotten across the street and behind cover that she turned around, took Henry's hand, and began lickety-splitting it across campus, ignoring the delighted cries of other searchers.

*   *   *

It was now full dark in the Dome Room except for stray gleams from the streetlights. Rose stood at one of the round windows, watching the crowd gathered below. The campus police had set up velvet ropes borrowed from the college museum to keep people from trampling the ancient and valuable boxwoods that ringed Russell's house. Onlookers were massed in a neat semicircle about ten feet back from the front entrance.

Many people carried lit flashlights. The scene below reminded Rose of a Grateful Dead concert.

Mavis had liked the Dead almost as much as she'd liked the Stones. “Truckin'” and all that.

Rose sang softly to herself.
Lately it occurs to me, what a long strange trip it's been …

*   *   *

One of the Dome Room's lamps flared. As there were no light switches in the room, Rose knew Russell had to have switched it on from below. A few people spotted her silhouetted against the window. Word spread quickly; soon everyone was looking up and pointing, like a crowd of movie extras standing around Metropolis pointing up at Superman. Rose waved a hand; those below waved flashlights, littering the world with dancing points of light.

There was a rumbling sound, and Rose turned to see that Russell had opened the floor just wide enough for him to stand at the top of the staircase. In his hand was an old gun that was not pointed at her but still made its point: She was a prisoner.

“Fools,” Russell muttered. “They're all fools. I could spend the next thousand years explaining what's going on between you and me, and not one of them would understand.”