The Book of James (18 page)

Philadelphia. This had to be the gardener. The payments began in

1987 and stopped abruptly in the fall of 2003. He’d left after sixteen THE BOOK
of
JAMES

145

years of service. I committed the address to memory and closed

the ledgers, laying them in front of me.

I reached for the bottom drawer. It wouldn’t open. There was

no key in any of the other drawers. I was so lost in what I was doing that I forgot for the moment that Cora might be in the house. I was jolted back to reality when I saw light streaming under the office door. Someone had flicked a switch in the hal way. I froze. The

ledger books, calendar, and canceled checks covered the top of the desk. Footsteps clopped down the hal .

My fingers were trembling so hard that checks fell to the floor

as I stuffed them back in the box. In frustration, I crumpled a few and stuck them in my pocket. When they were all back in and I

could close the lid, I pulled out the drawer and put the box back where I’d found it. The footsteps passed my door and continued

down the hal way. I breathed heavily, putting the ledger books

in their place and sliding the calendar back on top. The footsteps grew heavy again and stopped right outside the office door.

I looked around. The only place for me to go was the closet

on the far wal . The chair squeaked when I got up. I didn’t dare

to breathe or move. I just stood in one spot, waiting for the door to open. My hair was drenched in sweat. It felt like 110 degrees in the room. I had the urge to urinate and squeezed my legs together tightly. That was all I needed—to wet myself.

The closet door was made of heavy wood. I had no idea what

was in it or if there was room to hide. I opened the door slowly; it creaked loudly on its hinges. If Cora could hear Ginny scream all the way in the guest room, then she could surely hear this. I was terrified, and the adrenaline being dumped into my body was tel -

ing me it was justified.

The closet was full of men’s clothes. Old clothes that looked

like they were from the turn of the century. Did they throw noth-

ing away in this house? The closet was shallow, but I managed to

get myself in and shut the door. I sank to the floor, hugging my

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ELLEN J. GREEN

knees. The space smelled of mothbal s and decay. I gagged a few

times and tried to hold my breath. I heard the office door open

only seconds later, and a tiny sliver of light filtered through the crack at the bottom of the closet door. It was barely enough to il uminate the tips of my shoes. My black suede Kenneth Cole loafers

that I’d paid over a hundred dol ars for. I’d saved the money over a period of a month and a half. When I final y bought them, I hid them at the back of my closet for a week so that Nick wouldn’t see my extravagance. It wouldn’t have mattered. He never noticed.

I heard the muffled sounds of Cora moving about on the other

side of the closet door. My throat closed off; I was afraid I would suffocate. When I tried to breathe, the odor of the old clothes

assaulted my nostrils—it was like a vintage clothing store, only

concentrated a thousand times. They should bottle this odor and

sell it as a new perfume. Call it Thrift Shop Stench.

I stifled a giggle at that. I suddenly had to bite my tongue to

keep from laughing. Cora would open the closet door and find me

drenched in sweat, urinating on myself and laughing hysterical y

at nothing. Then she’d have me committed. I bit the side of my

cheek as the urge to laugh got stronger. The light from underneath the door became shadowed. Cora had to be blocking it. She must

have been right on the other side of the door. The giggles died in my throat. I drew in air and put my head down on my knees.

I was raised in the Presbyterian church but never went back

after my mother died. I searched my memory for any prayer I

knew, but the only thing that came to me was the Psalm 23. We

had to memorize it in Sunday school when I was ten. Our class

stood up in front of the congregation one Sunday and recited it

during the service. I could see my mother, in her gray dress and

pearls, smiling at me from the second pew. I’d been so afraid I’d forget part of it that I practiced it over and over in front of a mirror.

I hadn’t thought about it in years, but for some reason it came to me now.

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147

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want
. Want? I wanted to get out of there. My eyes were tightly closed. I was afraid to even lift my head.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth
me beside stil waters.
He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the
paths of righteousness
.

My lips moved silently:
Yea, though I walk through the val ey of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me
. It was then that the tears started streaming down my face. Was I walking through the valley of the shadow of death? And didn’t I fear evil?

She was right on the other side of the door.
Thy rod and thy staff,
they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence
of my enemies.
I didn’t bother to wipe the tears, I just let them dry where they fel . When I looked up, I could see the tips of my shoes again.

I heard the desk chair squeak with her weight. My lips con-

tinued to move, and when I reached the end of the psalm I started all over again from the beginning. I tried to concentrate on every syl able and block everything else out. God and I weren’t exactly on good terms, but if I ever needed Him, it was now.

I recited that psalm over and over, silently, until I no longer

smelled the odors of the closet and the words ceased to have any

meaning. They were just sounds in my head that lulled me from

minute to minute. At some point, I realized that the light was

gone. Everything was dark. I felt my cheeks. The tears had long

since dried, leaving itchy lines on my face. Had I fallen asleep? I didn’t think so, because I could remember every minute as though

through a hazy veil.

I moved my leg slightly. It was so cramped it screamed. Cora

might have just turned off the light, for all I knew; she could be standing right outside the door. I decided to take my chances.

I had to get out of there. When I stood, my legs ached with the

weight. The old clothes hit my face, and the odor was strong again.

I turned the handle slowly and listened as the old hinges creaked.

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ELLEN J. GREEN

Limping out into the dark room, I expected a heavy hand on my

shoulder.

Nothing. There was nothing. There was no longer any light

coming under the door from the hal way. Maybe Cora was already

asleep in that room across the hall lined with Nick’s renderings. I shuddered and practical y ran across the room to the door. I went noiselessly to the main stairway. It was large and slightly curved, made of inlaid marble. An Oriental carpet ran up the center of the stairs. If I hadn’t just been through such a horrendous experience, I might have felt like Scarlett O’Hara. As it was, I just clung to the banister and scampered to the front door.

The cool air hitting my face was without a doubt the most deli-

cious sensation I had ever experienced. My body sagged, weary

from being bombarded for hours with one adrenaline rush after

the other. My shoulders were tense and achy. I sat on the front step and breathed. It was getting cold out. Goose bumps broke out on

the surface of my skin. I’d been trapped in that closet so long the sun had set. The sky was clear, and I could make out Orion just

coming into view in the fall sky. It was a winter constel ation that was visible from about November until March. I put two fingers to my forehead and saluted him. It was a habit from childhood.

My father had taught me the constel ations, with me sitting on

his lap in the backyard, when I was no more than four. Orion was

the easiest to spot, a mighty hunter who lived on earth and was

loved by the moon goddess, Artemis. She loved him so much that

she forgot to let the moonlight shine at night. One day Artemis

accidental y killed Orion with an arrow when he was swimming

in the ocean. She was so heartbroken that she put him way up in

the sky with his two dogs, where everyone could see him and he

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ELLEN J. GREEN

would remain the mightiest hunter ever. The story was sil y and it made me laugh.

Whenever the stars were out, I would beg my father to tell me

that story over and over. I think some of the facts changed with

each telling, but it didn’t matter. He would tell me the story, and then we would salute Orion together. What my father didn’t know

was that I kept up the tradition long after my relationship with him had withered. No matter where I was in the world or what I was

doing, whenever I spotted Orion in the sky, I saluted. Today was

no different.

I stood up and walked to the fountain. It was so pretty against

the trees. I sat on the edge, dipped my hand in the water, and

watched the moonlight reflect off the surface. Over my shoulder

I saw the room that I thought was Cora’s. I couldn’t real y be sure.

The house was so damned big. Did Nick ever feel as trapped up

there as I had felt tonight?

The unmistakable sound of the front gate opening broke the

silence. I stared, unable to comprehend. Cora’s black car pulled

slowly into the driveway. I hid in the trees and watched. The car passed in front of the house, slowing at the turn and then disappearing around the back toward the old carriage house. If Cora

had been out driving around, then who had been upstairs? My

heart started pounding again. I ran all the way around the perimeter of the house without stopping, my emotions spent.

My room was such a sweet sight. Cora had wanted to talk to

me tonight, but I just couldn’t right now—I’d look for her in the morning. The soft, inviting bed with its cool, clean sheets was cal -

ing me. All I needed first was a shower. The sweat had dried on my skin, and I stunk. I peeled off my clothes and threw them in a heap in the corner of the bathroom. I let the warm water run over me as I scrubbed myself clean with soap.

I had been curious, repulsed, scared, intrigued, scared again,

petrified, and then curious again, in that order, tonight. Now I just THE BOOK
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151

felt relieved. I didn’t mention guilty, mostly because my guilt was covered in snowy, bitter-cold anger. And that anger was nowhere

near close to melting. In fact, every day that I stayed here, it built layer upon layer into a rock-solid miniglacier that was changing

the climate of the rest of my life.

—

When I opened my eyes, Cora was standing over me. In my half-

sleepy state, she looked huge, her craggy face carved from granite.

The deep creases at the corners of her mouth pulled her lips down, contorting her mouth into a frown.

“It’s Sunday,” she announced. “Every Sunday is laundry day.

We want to be clean for the rest of the week, don’t we?” Since the question was rhetorical, I didn’t answer. This woman had come

into my room without knocking. “I expected to see you last night

so that we could discuss my son. But maybe you were still recuperating from your party?”

Her hands were on her hips. My eyes were drawn to them and

I couldn’t look away. What the hell had happened to them? They

were a fiery crimson red; the skin looked like it had been scarred over and over again. There were deep scabs around the cuticles

where she’d picked them. A laundry bag hung from one arm. She

wore a navy-blue dress, similar to all her other dresses, falling loosely around the top of her thick calves. Only the color varied.

Did she summon a tailor to the house and say, “Bring only one

pattern and twenty bolts of fabric”?

“Do you want to get your clothes for me or shall I do it?” she

asked.

“I can do my laundry, Cora,” I said. “I’ll take it to a Laundromat tomorrow.” Laundry was a somewhat intimate thing.

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ELLEN J. GREEN

She shook her head. “No. It has to be done this morning, and

it has to be done right. It won’t take me long. I’ll have it back to you this afternoon.”

I stood and faced her and took the bag from her hand. She

watched as I gathered up all my dirty clothes and shoved them into the bag. She looked into the bathroom. My clothes from yesterday

lay where I’d thrown them.

“Is this how you take care of your things?” she asked.

Wel , in truth, it sometimes was. “No, no, no,” she muttered

to herself. She picked up my clothes from the bathroom floor and

took the laundry bag from my hand. “Cleanliness is next to godli-

ness. Especial y on Sunday. Weren’t you raised that way?”

“Cora, you have it backward. On the Sabbath, you rest.”

Her tiny eyes bored into mine. “Since you’re so concerned with

observing the Sabbath, we’ll not only have our discussion tonight but also spend time on Bible study.”

Bible study? I’d done my Bible study last night. I ran my hands

over my forehead. I watched her chunky form disappear down the

steps and close the door behind her.

I showered and dressed quickly. I folded my remaining clothes

and placed them neatly in the dresser, then made the bed and

plumped the pillows. I stood back and looked. Everything seemed

to be in order. I wanted to get out of the house. On one of my

walks, I had noticed a sitting area in the woods farther down the fence line from the Coopers’ house. It wasn’t much, just a bench