Tenderness (13 page)

Tiffany has been my enemy ever since I arrived at Harmony House. We were going downstairs for dinner one evening and I suddenly found myself falling, thrown off balance, clutching frantically at the banister, feeling awkward and stupid. I thought my foot had somehow become entangled with Tiffany’s, until she said, “Sorry,” and continued on her way with a wicked smile at me over her shoulder.

Chantelle, who’d been standing down below, took me aside after dinner that evening. “Watch
out for Tiffany,” she said. “She’s jealous, thinks Miss Kentall likes you better. Miss Kentall gives her the run of the place. So be careful.…”

One afternoon, I opened my backpack in the weeping willow tree and instead of sandwiches found garbage wrapped up in wax paper and a note that said,
You’re not wanted at Harmony House
. When I got back from Webster Avenue, I slipped into Miss Kentall’s office and checked the black leather register I signed the night I arrived. Tiffany’s signature was there and her handwriting matched the writing on the note.

I was determined to keep living here at Harmony House as long as possible and not let Tiffany drive me away. I enjoyed living here. Nobody gets drunk and nobody gets battered. The day my picture appeared in the newspaper, Chantelle and Debbie and Miss Kentall started clapping when I walked into the dining room, and even Tiffany joined in. Chantelle pinned my picture on the bulletin board in the hallway. “Prettiest girl we ever had in this place,” I overheard her saying to Miss Kentall.

But I have to leave before I get into big trouble. Tonight when I returned to my room after watching reruns of
The Dick Van Dyke Show
, I noticed that my bedspread had been rearranged, as if someone had taken it off and put it back on again. Was Tiffany still searching my room, looking for
something to steal? I pulled back the bedspread, blanket, and sheet, and found Miss Kentall’s black leather register between the mattress and the box spring. As I flipped through the pages, three twenty-dollar bills fell out, fluttering to the floor. I knew immediately what this was all about. The register and the money would be found missing tomorrow, and a search of the house would follow. They’d be found in my room and I’d be accused of theft. Tiffany’s final touch.

I waited for everyone to be in their rooms and stole down the stairs to Miss Kentall’s office. I replaced the register in the drawer, relieved to find the door unlocked. Then I returned and began to toss my belongings into my backpack.

Now I check the digital clock which tells me that it’s 1:23
A
.
M
.

I take the change from my pocket and count it. Seventy-eight cents. How far will nine dollars and seventy-eight cents take me?

Thinking of the missing wallet, I realize that poor Walter Clayton will have to get a new driver’s license and new credit cards. Maybe he’s already done that. But the pictures of his daughter, Karen, and his son, Kevin, are gone forever. I vow to write him a letter someday and apologize.

I blink: there are tears in my eyes.

I get mad at myself.

Stop with the self-pity
.

My mother always says, “As long as you’ve got your health and a new day is coming tomorrow, be thankful.” Even if she had a black eye.

I have no black eye.

I have almost ten dollars in my pocket.

I have my fixation on Eric Poole.

And the rain has almost stopped.

Putting on my backpack, I whisper goodbye to the room and I am ready to go.

I will slip out of the house and make my way to Webster Avenue and say a silent goodnight to Eric Poole. Who knows? Maybe he will still be awake and look out the window and see me and invite me in.

Who knows what wonderful things might be waiting for me?

Jake Proctor received the call at six-thirty-five in the morning.

He had been up half the night, coughing, a summertime cold that he could not shake, lingering for the past two weeks, low-grade fever and coughing spells that left him shaken and weary. Air-conditioning made it worse, as he went in and out of stores, from chilled places to the outside heat and then into the car, turning on the air-conditioning, producing more coughs and chills.

He stopped going to headquarters for a while, did not want to spread his cold around and, besides, the air-conditioning in the new building was always set on high, arctic breezes stirring the air.

Jimmy Pickett kept in touch every day, reporting from the surveillance vehicle. Surveillance in this case was minimal, because electronic sweeping of the Barns house had been denied. The chief allowed limited use of the vehicle on adjacent streets, mostly to dislodge plainclothes officers to the scene. A useless detail, the lieutenant knew, but a bit of activity to mark time until the monster
made his move. Which was sure to come, although the chief and the district attorney disagreed.

“Indulge me,” Lieutenant Proctor had said.

“Okay,” the chief replied, rewarding him for all those years on the job.

Pickett’s voice had been excited when the picture of the girl, Miss Anonymous, appeared in the newspaper. Especially that cryptic
once
. Which meant she had met Eric Poole.

“Think we can use her?” Pickett asked.

The lieutenant contemplated the question.

“Find out more about her.”

Later that day, Pickett reported that she was living at a home for pregnant girls. “But, get this, not pregnant. A runaway from New Hampshire. Fifteen years old. We could move in. Use her—”

“Let her be,” said the old cop. “She’s underage. Let’s not place her in jeopardy. We’ll follow the original design—”

A coughing spell obliterated Pickett’s sigh of disappointment.

At last, the call came at six-thirty-five in the morning, bringing him sluggishly out of sleep. He heard the banging of waste barrels in the street as the rubbish collectors did their job.

“Pickett here. I know it’s early.” Apology in his voice. “Sorry, Lou.”

He responded with his usual morning ritual:
coughing, clearing his throat, reaching for Kleenex.

“Go ahead,” he croaked finally.

“He’s on his way. Left his aunt’s house twelve minutes ago—”

“Heading where?”

“West on Route Two, just like you said.”

Paused, sighing. “We still wait, right, Lieutenant?”

“Right,” the old cop said, coughing.

Waiting had become a way of life.

Now in the driver’s seat of his minivan, the wheel in his hand, his foot ready to accelerate, he knew his first full sense of freedom since his release from the facility. The windshield clear of dust, the after-rain breeze cool on his face, the motor purring beautifully under the hood, he steered out onto the street and headed toward state Route 2.

Away we go
.

He remained cautious, however, a part of him that could never relax, had to remain on guard, alert. He glanced into the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. He checked out cars that pulled into the street behind him as he passed.

He was on the lookout for an old beat-up car driving behind him at a discreet distance. As ridiculous as it sounded, he thought that old Lieutenant Proctor would be driving a car as ancient as himself, dusty and used up. Told himself to shrug off that possibility but kept looking, anyway.

He stopped–started at several traffic lights, enjoying the throb of the engine reverberating under his feet, the small vibration of the steering wheel
in his hand. He felt the sweet surge of ownership. He rolled up the windows, sealing himself off from the rest of the world.

Finally free of city traffic, he entered the ramp that led to Route 2 and beyond. He kept his speed under fifty-five, letting other cars pass him by. He did not want to run the risk of speeding—or going too slow—and being pulled over by a cop. Knew he had to maintain a violation-free life. Not call attention to himself. Live by the rules. Appear to live by the rules, that is.

Pulling up at the first rest stop, he parked facing the highway. And waited. Leaned forward, chin resting on the steering wheel, studying the oncoming vehicles as they approached. Cars whizzed by, most of them obviously going faster than fifty-five. He would have to make adjustments, probably drive at around sixty. He saw nothing suspicious about the traffic. Commuters on their way to jobs in Worcester or Boston, nobody slowing down to check out the rest stop.

At that precise moment, as he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, a white car with two men in the front seat slowed down as it approached the rest stop. Turned in and drove slowly past his van, stopping near a green rubbish barrel, about forty feet away.

Eric stilled as he always did when a threat presented
itself. As if his heart had stopped beating, his blood ceasing to flow through his veins and arteries. His senses grew sharper, alert, keen.

Through the rearview mirror, he saw one of the men vault from the car, stumble toward the woods, falling suddenly to his knees and vomiting violently.

Eric relaxed and took his eyes away from the mirror. No longer stilled, his heart beating again. His legs and arms prickly as his blood began to churn through his body once more.

He drove slowly out of the rest stop, the place deserted at this time of day, and pulled onto the highway.

He was cruising along at fifty-eight or fifty-nine, keeping to the right-hand lane, when a sound reached his ears, fracturing the silence of the car. What sound? A movement of some kind.

Instantly alert again, he realized he was not alone in the car. Somebody or something in the backseat. Crouched down, hiding, as he himself had hidden when Aunt Phoebe drove him away from the house. He slowed a bit, looking for a place to stop, saw a highway sign warning
EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY
. Knew he could not afford to break that particular rule and risk a cop car stopping to offer assistance.

He accelerated slightly, cautioning himself to
relax as he saw the starkness of his eyes in the rearview mirror.

No more movement in the backseat—was his imagination playing tricks?

He spotted a highway sign announcing Exit 22, a half mile away from a place called Hancock. Flashing his turn signal, he drove toward the ramp, entered, rounded a 180-degree curve, and halted at a stop sign. Waited for two cars to pass, then turned right. A quarter of a mile down a street of small houses, with faded paint and unkempt lawns, he came to an abandoned gas station, a huge
FOR LEASE
sign on the garage door. He pulled into the place, parking alongside an old gasoline pump.

Tensing himself, his voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I know you’re there. Who are you—what are you doing in my van?”

Her face popped up in the mirror. The girl across the street, Miss Anonymous in the newspaper. Green eyes gazing at him, like a little kid caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Hello,” she said.

We look at each other.

He can’t believe his eyes as he looks at me.

And I can’t believe I am actually here in his
van, looking at him. Can’t believe that I slept here in the backseat during the night and drove away with him this morning.