The Doctor's Wife (50 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
Rosie shrugged.
“I want to give you a tattoo. It’s just something I want to do. Okay?”
“And then what?”
“And then we’ll see.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“A present for Jesus.”
“Okay.” She reached out her hand.
“Not there. On your tummy.”
“Why?”
“It’s a good place to do it. That’s where Jesus wants it.”
The little girl thought for a moment. “How do you know?”
“Because I work for Him. He’s the one I answer to. Now just lift up your shirt and we can do this and then I’ll take you back.”
Rosie lifted up her shirt. Lydia took her red Sharpie and drew a red cross. She’d learned how to draw a three-dimensional cross in eighth grade, Sister Louise had taught her, and she did it now on the child’s stomach, and it came out good. Big and red. It took a few minutes to color it in. “There,” she said, and capped the pen.
“I want to go now.”
“Be quiet and eat your ice cream.”
Lydia started the car and drove back to the school. She was right on schedule. School would be over in fifteen minutes. Someone would find the child and scold her for hiding instead of returning to her class like she was supposed to.
We’ve been looking all over for you!
When Lydia had been in school, she’d had Sister Eleanor to contend with, who used to lock her in the closet with the spiders.
We’ve been looking all over for you!
When Lydia had been in school, she’d had Sister Eleanor to contend with, who used to lock her in the closet with the spiders.
She pulled up to the curb near the playground. “Run along now,” she said.
“What about my dog?”
“I lied to you. I don’t have your stupid dog.”
Rosie wiped her eyes again.
“Don’t you tell anybody about this. Or I’ll come back and get you. And I’ll make you eat worms.”
The child’s eyes went dull with fear. “You’re not very nice,” she muttered and scrambled out of the car and ran down the hill back into the school.
Lydia reached across the seat and closed the door. Then she pulled away fast, her tires screaming like the small voice inside her heart.
59
SNOW FELL from the heavens that afternoon. It was a fluke, the weather-man said, so early in the season. There would be sixteen inches by noon tomorrow.
The bell rang inside the school. A moment later the doors opened and the children spilled out, rejoicing in the snow, twirling through the thick flakes with their heads thrown back and their mouths open wide. Even Henry looked happy, tossing fluffy snowballs into the air. But when Rosie came toward the car, Annie saw that something was not right. “Hi, Rosie. Look at the snow! Isn’t it beautiful!”
Rosie just stood there.
Henry, a devoted snowboarder, pressed his hands together in mock prayer. “Please, God, give us snow! Lots and lots and lots of it!”
“Rosie, come on, get in, sweetie.”
Rosie hesitated. “What’s your problem, Rosie?” Henry grabbed her coat sleeve and pulled her into the car. Rosie twisted away from him and stared out the window.
“Rosie, what’s wrong, honey?” Annie asked, but Rosie didn’t answer. “Had a hard day?” Annie studied her daughter in her rearview mirror. Her hair was a little mussed and there was some chocolate in the corners of her mouth that made her look as if she were frowning. “Rosie, are you sad?” she asked.
“Leave me
alone!
”
alone!
”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they got home Rosie ran up to her room and closed her door. Annie and Henry exchanged a look. “I’ll go,” Henry volunteered.
“All right.”
Annie waited at the foot of the stairs while Henry went up and quietly entered Rosie’s room. Moments later he called for Annie. Worried, she went upstairs and opened the door, only to encounter her tearful little girl holding up her shirt and baring her naked midriff, where a large red cross had been drawn.
“Who did that to you, Rosie?”
“Someone.”
“A man? A woman?”
“A lady at school.”
Suddenly weary, Annie sank to her knees. She opened her arms to Rosie and Rosie came over and crawled inside. “Tell me, honey. Tell Mommy what happened.”
“She said she had Molly. She took me in her car and got me ice cream.”
This was no time to admonish Rosie for getting into a stranger’s car. “Have you ever seen her before?” she asked gently. Rosie shook her head. Annie swallowed her tears; she did not want to cry in front of Rosie. She would do it later, in the privacy of her room.
“What kind of car was it?” Henry asked.
“White. I got to sit in front.” She paused for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. “She didn’t have Molly. She said she did. She lied.”
“What did she look like?”
“Black hair. Her nose was bleeding.” Annie imagined some demonic creature. She waited for Rosie to give her more description, but the child climbed back onto her bed and curled up, hugging the doll she had saved from the mailbox. They had something in common now, after all, Annie thought.
“I’m going to call the police. Henry, stay with Rosie.”
Henry sat down on the end of Rosie’s bed and began to read to her from one of her books. Annie went into her bedroom and made several phone calls. First, she called the school and explained what had happened. The principal questioned one of the teacher’s aides who’d been on duty at the time. The woman claimed that Rosie was with the group the entire time. Annie became so incensed that she hung up on the man and called the police. The female officer on the other end listened to her story. “I’ll send somebody out there to write up a report. Of course with this weather coming, it may take a while.”
“Please, tell them to hurry.”
“They’ll be there just as soon as they can.”
Annie hung up and paged Michael and when he called back she told him what had happened. For a moment he said nothing. “Michael?” She could only hear his breathing, erratic gasps of rage. He told her he would be home within the hour and hung up.
Rosie came into the room. “I want to wash it off.”
“We have to show it to the police,” Annie explained. “Just keep your shirt down and pretend it’s not there.”
“It’s a present,” Rosie said. “For Jesus.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Rosie nodded.
Annie took Rosie onto her lap and held her and rocked her as tears fell from her eyes. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” Rosie said. “You don’t have to cry.”
“I won’t, Rosie, I won’t cry,” she said, but she could not seem to stop, and she held on to her little girl tightly, as if the child was the strong one, not her. They sat there like that for a long time as the windows filled up with darkness. Neither of them made any effort to move.
60
EVEN THOUGH he’d promised, Michael would not be home within the hour.
He left the office at once and drove to St. Vincent’s. He parked his car in the loading zone in front of the hospital and went into the page operator’s office. The woman on duty was frail and white haired. An open box of candy sat on her desk. She’d taken bites out of several pieces and the small brown wrappers held remaining half-moons of chocolate. “How you doing today, Lorna?” he asked, reading her name tag. “I need a favor.”
“Why sure, Doctor. What can I do for you?”
“I want to send something to one of the chaplains, but I don’t have his address. I don’t even know his last name.”
“Oh, certainly. Who is it?”
“Reverend Tim.”
“Oh, yes, Reverend Tim Hart.” Her face lit up. “He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, he is.”
She flipped through her Rolodex and wrote the minister’s address down on a Post-it: 23 Dove Street. “Why, that’s right around the corner, isn’t it?”
Michael left the hospital and walked toward the park. The snow was falling heavily. As it landed on the tops of things it dazzled in the twilight. It made the world quieter, he thought. Michael wasn’t sure what he would do to the man once he got there, but he knew that he would have to use his gun. Dove was a cobblestoned street flanked with brick town houses and brownstones and small shops. Number 23, a brick walk-up, housed a hardware store on the ground floor. A big hammer hung on the outside of it. Michael stood across the street from it, looking up at all the windows. The windows above the store were dark. The street was crammed with parked cars and the snow was beginning to pile up. A little bell rang and he turned toward the sound of it and saw a man coming out of a shop, closing and locking the door behind him. The shop owner grunted a greeting and walked on down the street. Michael glanced in the large window of the shop and saw an array of animals, real animals that had been stuffed—a taxidermist’s shop. There was a wild boar, a tiger, a zebra, and beyond that, in the back, the unmistakable yellow fur of a golden retriever. Michael stood there, incredulous, and moved closer to the window to get a better look, focusing on the collar around the dog’s neck. Sure enough, with bizarre clarity, he saw the name on the tag. MOLLY.
Michael entered the vestibule and found Reverend Tim Hart listed on the registry, Apartment 2B. Feeling the gun nudging against his ribs, he climbed up the stairs. He stood at the door. There was the sound of a vacuum running inside. He tried the knob; it was unlocked. He opened the door slowly and stepped into a dark foyer. Beyond the vacant living room he saw a heavyset black woman vacuuming a bedroom. Michael stealthily entered the living room, taking in the surroundings. The room was modest, exceptionally neat. A white cat slept curled up on the couch. The cat looked up at him moodily, then settled back down to sleep. Michael had never liked cats, really.
I’m not a cat person,
he often told people. The vacuum went off for a moment and the woman said, loudly, “Stop your fussing, I’ll be done in a minute!” Michael noticed an oxygen tank against the wall, the line of which was attached to someone in the room, obviously not the minister. The vacuum went on again, and the woman continued her work, shaking her head angrily. All the other rooms in the apartment looked dark; Tim Hart was not at home. Michael searched the living room for something of value to destroy, but nothing really stood out. There were several books on the shelves. An oil painting of the Virgin Mary. A small photograph of a woman, perhaps the man’s mother, on the table. There was nothing that connoted a dangerous man. Nothing that implied a person who was behind what had happened to Rosie that afternoon. The cat meowed and stretched and Michael found himself studying the animal strategically, trying to convince himself that killing the cat would be the ultimate retaliation for what he believed had happened to Molly. If he killed the cat, he thought, Reverend Tim would get the message not to fuck with him anymore. The cat was an easy target, he thought, just as Molly had been for the minister. Surely, he could shoot it. He took out his gun and put it right up to the cat’s furry head. The cat nuzzled its head against the short barrel of the pistol.
Stupid cat.
He clicked off the safety and took aim, but his hand began to shake.
Coward,
he goaded himself.
After all they’ve done to you. After what they did to Rosie.
Anger burned through him, yet he could not go through with it. He clicked the safety back on and returned the gun to his coat.
I’m not a cat person,
he often told people. The vacuum went off for a moment and the woman said, loudly, “Stop your fussing, I’ll be done in a minute!” Michael noticed an oxygen tank against the wall, the line of which was attached to someone in the room, obviously not the minister. The vacuum went on again, and the woman continued her work, shaking her head angrily. All the other rooms in the apartment looked dark; Tim Hart was not at home. Michael searched the living room for something of value to destroy, but nothing really stood out. There were several books on the shelves. An oil painting of the Virgin Mary. A small photograph of a woman, perhaps the man’s mother, on the table. There was nothing that connoted a dangerous man. Nothing that implied a person who was behind what had happened to Rosie that afternoon. The cat meowed and stretched and Michael found himself studying the animal strategically, trying to convince himself that killing the cat would be the ultimate retaliation for what he believed had happened to Molly. If he killed the cat, he thought, Reverend Tim would get the message not to fuck with him anymore. The cat was an easy target, he thought, just as Molly had been for the minister. Surely, he could shoot it. He took out his gun and put it right up to the cat’s furry head. The cat nuzzled its head against the short barrel of the pistol.
Stupid cat.
He clicked off the safety and took aim, but his hand began to shake.
Coward,
he goaded himself.
After all they’ve done to you. After what they did to Rosie.
Anger burned through him, yet he could not go through with it. He clicked the safety back on and returned the gun to his coat.
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