Spellcrossed (12 page)

Rowan pressed a quick kiss to my forehead and hurried back to Daddy.

To Jack.

The whimpering was constant now, high-pitched and terrified like a wounded animal. His fingers plucked anxiously at Rowan’s sleeve. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make her cry. Please don’t send me back there!”

A sob caught in my throat. Reinhard’s hand tightened around my waist. Rowan shot me a warning glance, all the while murmuring, “No one will send you back. Maggie’s all right. You just startled her.”

“I’m so sorry.” My voice trembled as much as my father’s. I swallowed hard and tried again. “You reminded me of…an old friend.”

“Who are they?” my father whispered.

“I told you about Maggie, remember?”

He shook his head wildly. “No. No! I don’t remember!”

“Think, Jack.”

As Rowan stroked his arm, he grew calm again. His eyes widened with recollection and he flashed that gap-toothed smile. “Yes! Yes, she’s your girlfriend.”

“That’s right. And this is Reinhard. He’s my friend, too.”

“You have a girlfriend
and
a boyfriend?”

My laugh was too close to a sob, and I pressed my lips together.

“I am the theatre’s stage manager.”

Daddy’s smile faded. “I don’t remember you.”

“I joined the staff after you performed here.”

Daddy suddenly straightened. “You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but I played Billy Bigelow in
Carousel
. My ‘Soliloquy?’ The applause went on for three minutes. Remember, Rowan? And the standing ovation at the end? God, they loved me.”

Suddenly, he was my father again, flipping through his album of reviews, pointing himself out to me in photos, boasting about his performances.

“Maggie was in
Carousel
during her season here,” Rowan said.

“Julie or Carrie?” my father demanded.

“Nettie,” I replied.

“Nettie! You’re way too young for that role.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Rowan and his crazy casting.”

I managed a weak laugh, still stunned by his transformation. “Somehow, he pulls it off.”

“Well, sure. He’s a faery.” He cringed and shot a frightened glance at Rowan. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to tell. Please don’t send me back there!”

And just like that, my father was gone. Numbly, I watched Rowan soothe him, watched the terror leach away yet again.

“Why don’t we all go up to the apartment?” Rowan suggested.

Daddy shook his head. “I don’t like it up there. I like the little house in the woods.”

“Yes, but you can take a bath and—”

“No! I don’t like it!”

“And finish the rest of your cake.”

Daddy’s face lit up. He strummed a chord on his guitar and marched into the theatre, singing, “There is nothing like a cake. Nothing in the world!”

If someone else had transposed the words of a song from
South Pacific
into an elegy on cake, I might have smiled. But my father wasn’t trying to be clever; he was clinging to sanity using the only lifeline he knew.

Rowan took my hands. “He’s frightened, Maggie. And confused. He’d just settled into the cottage when I moved him here.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s go inside. He gets nervous if I leave him alone too long.”

One by one, we filed up the stairs. The door to the apartment hung open, but it was dark inside. Years of experience had taught Rowan to find his way around, but I groped for the light switch and flicked it on.

Something crashed to the floor, followed by the sharper sound of shattering china.

“Turn it off!” my father shrieked. “The eyes! The eyes!”

I quickly switched off the light and slumped against the doorframe. Reinhard squeezed my shoulders and whispered, “Steady,
liebchen
.”

The quick tattoo of Rowan’s boots on the hardwood floor. The muffled thud as he crossed the rugs. The murmur of his voice. My father’s sobs, ebbing to sniffles.

Then Rowan’s footsteps again, slower now. A drawer opening. The harsh rasp of a match.

Light blossomed in the doorway of the living area. When Daddy cried out, Rowan said, “It’s all right. They can’t find you here. You’re safe here.”

Another flare of light. Then Rowan’s footsteps coming toward us.

He opened his arms and I stumbled into them. Our
first embrace. Not the one we would have exchanged a mere ten minutes ago. The only desire now was to comfort and be comforted.

“Eyes?” Reinhard inquired softly.

“The skylights.”

Rowan leaned back to study me. When I nodded, he took my hand and led me into the living area.

The two candles on the sideboard provided barely enough illumination to make out the shadowy outlines of the furniture. I couldn’t see my father at all.

“Jack. I’m going to turn on some lights.”

The soft moan made me shudder.

“I’ll keep them low. And I won’t turn on any in the kitchen. But you can’t expect our guests to sit in the dark.”

“They’ll see…”

“No, Jack, they won’t. They can’t. They’re in the Borderlands. And you’re here—in my apartment in the theatre.”

The Borderlands?

“I like the little house. They can’t see me there.”

“They can’t see you here, either. You know why?”

A long silence. “Because they’re in the Borderlands?”

“That’s right. Now wouldn’t you like to come out and have some cake with Maggie and Reinhard?”

“No. I’ll eat my cake here.”

“After I turn on the lights.”

“I want it now!”

“Jack!” For the first time, Rowan’s voice was sharp. It drew another whimper from my unseen father.

“For God’s sake, just give him the cake,” I said.

“Let me handle this, Maggie.”

Unwanted memories assailed me.

“Get off my stage. Now!”

“You have no right to do this!”

“Don’t tell me how to direct.”

“You’re not directing. You’re bullying him!”

Rushing to Nick’s defense had helped bring about the
confrontation that had made him walk out of
Carousel
. But it required all of my self-control—and Reinhard’s firm grip on my shoulders—to keep me from rushing to my father.

Rowan turned the dimmer switch and the track lights above the bank of stereo equipment bloomed with soft golden light, enough to make out the kitchen: Daddy’s guitar resting against the refrigerator; a beat-up red backpack beside it; a chair, lying on the floor; clumps of cake strewn among the shards of china. And my father, huddled under the dining table.

“Cake?” he prompted hopefully as Rowan walked toward the kitchen.

“After I clean up this mess.”

“I’ll do it,” I volunteered, eager for some task that might distract me.

“I’m already filthy. Why don’t you clear off some space on the table? Sit, Reinhard. You’ve had a long night.”

“We all have,” Reinhard replied as he sank heavily onto a chair.

Rowan had clearly raided the green room fridge. A half-empty bottle of lemonade sat on the table, along with an unopened bottle of iced tea and plastic containers filled with leftover cookies and veggie sticks. The slab of sheet cake bore a legend in red piping gel that read “ulations, Cast of An.”

I moved everything to the counter and pulled plates and glasses out of the cabinets. Reinhard refused food, but accepted iced tea. I poured three glasses of lemonade; the only iced tea Daddy would ever drink was Mom’s. Steeped for hours in that chipped brown pitcher. He’d always teased her that only a weightlifter could pick it up.

I set the plates down a little harder than I’d intended.

“Cake?” a plaintive voice inquired.

“In a minute,” Rowan replied.

As he dumped the mess in the garbage can, I grabbed
a chocolate chip cookie and thrust it under the table. I heard a startled squeak. Then the cookie was snatched out of my fingers.

“Cookie!” my father crowed in Cookie Monster’s gravelly voice.

Another flood of memories: Daddy sitting on the floor, growling, “Cookie, cookie, cookie!” while I danced around him, holding it just out of reach. His arms waving futilely, then suddenly pulling me into his lap. My delighted laughter. His unintelligible words as he shoved the cookie into his mouth. My mother protesting that he was getting crumbs everywhere.

“Me want another cookie!”

“Me want a bottle of Laphroaig,” Rowan muttered, slumping onto the chair opposite Reinhard.

“Cookie, cookie, cookie!”

“Jack…” Rowan said, a warning note in his voice.

A pause. Then: “Cake?”

Rowan lowered his head onto his hands. Reinhard frowned. I laughed—a little hysterically judging from their concerned looks.

“You have had enough sugar,” Reinhard said. “But you may have some vegetable sticks.”

“Vegetables?” my father wailed.

I laughed again. I really
had
entered
The Twilight Zone
. With Rowan and Reinhard serving as stand-ins for my parents and my father reverting to the role of child—easily frightened, often entertaining, and difficult to pacify. Leaving me the thankless role of the daughter who could not be acknowledged, the helping professional who didn’t know how to help.

My laughter caught in my throat. Rowan gripped my left arm. Reinhard clamped down on my right. I pressed my lips together and clenched my fists in my lap.

Something tugged at the hem of my dress. A moment later, a tentative hand patted my knee.

“It’s all right,” my father whispered. “You don’t have to eat the vegetables if you don’t want to.”

I sat there, shaking silently, until their power calmed me. And all the while, my father’s gentle fingers patted my knee.

The first time I had felt his touch since I was eight years old.

I seized a napkin and blew my nose. Reinhard pushed back his chair and announced, “I think it is time for us to go home.”

Daddy’s fingers gripped the hem of my dress. “You go. Maggie can stay.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I promised. “With breakfast.”

“Breakfast!”

“Eggs and bacon and English muffins and orange juice,” I said, reciting our traditional Sunday morning menu.

“Thomas’. Not the store brand.”

“Of course Thomas’. The store brand never has the good—”

“Nooks and crannies.”

How many times had he lectured my poor mother about that when she was just trying to save a buck by buying the cheaper brand?

“So is it okay if I go now? I
am
pretty tired.” The understatement of the year. “And you must be, too.”

The fingers relaxed their grip. Regretfully, I pushed back my chair.

“Are you going to come out,” Rowan asked, “and say good night to Maggie and Reinhard?”

“I can say good night from here.”

“Well, you have to come out eventually.”

“Why?”

“You can’t sleep under the table.”

“They’ll never think to look for me here.”

Rowan crouched down. “Jack. They’re not looking for you.”

“Just in case.”

I crouched beside Rowan and said, “We could put cushions on the floor. And bring a pillow and a quilt.”

Daddy surveyed his prospective sleeping quarters with a frown. “My feet’ll stick out. If they see them—”

“We’ll drape a sheet over the table. Like—”

“A tent!” he exclaimed. “I used to do that with my little girl. Her name’s Maggie, too. But I call her Magpie ’cause she talks a blue streak.”

Unwilling to trust my voice, I simply nodded.

“We used the dining room table. It was much bigger than this,” he informed Rowan loftily. “We’d crawl inside with books and toys…and sometimes, a plate of cookies.” He flashed a beguiling smile.

“You are
not
going to wheedle more cookies out of me,” Rowan replied, unbeguiled.

“Rowan and Reinhard will make up the tent. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Daddy craned his neck to peer up at the skylights. “But what if they see me?”

“They won’t if we run.”

“They won’t see you at all!” Rowan exclaimed. “They can’t find you here!”

“Not if we run quick like a bunny!” Daddy said.

“Quick like a bunny, Magpie. That way, the gnomes’ll never catch us!”

“We’ll let Rowan go first so he can put a candle in the bathroom. When he gives us the signal, we’ll run. Okay?”

Daddy nodded. Rowan sighed and stalked off.

Long minutes ticked by. Daddy grew increasingly restive, his questions more panicked. Finally, I hurried into the bedroom and found Rowan standing before his armoire, barely visible in the flickering candlelight.

“What is it? He’s getting nervous.”

Rowan slowly closed the doors to the armoire. “No toothbrushes, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll pick up whatever you need tomorrow.”

Rowan nodded and walked over to the small chest under the eaves. When he just stood there, staring down
at it, I edged around him, yanked open the top, and unearthed a neat pile of bedding and a pillow.

“Put the candle in the bathroom, okay?” I hesitated, trying to make sense of his queer expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Just very tired all of sudden.”

I pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and hurried back to my father.

“Ready?” I held out my hand and smiled as he clasped it. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

Hand in hand, we sprinted through the apartment. Daddy scurried into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. I paced the bedroom until the door eased open again. We shared another ten seconds of handholding during our return sprint. Then he scrambled under the sheet.

“A pillow…” he sighed.

How long since he’d rested his head on one?

“Will you wait for me downstairs?” Rowan asked quietly. “It won’t take me long to get him to sleep.”

With a final longing glance at the tent, I followed Reinhard out of the apartment.

We slowly descended the stairs. As the uncomfortable silence lengthened, I said, “He’ll be fine. After he settles in.”

“He needs a doctor’s care, Maggie.”

“A doctor would lock him in a psych ward, pump him full of meds, and spend years trying to convince him that he’d imagined all of this. Maybe he’s confused and frightened, but he’s not delusional.”