The File on Angelyn Stark (14 page)

“Where did you think you’d be?”

“Playing baseball! Angelyn, you’d see me on TV.”

I think of Danny. “So, why aren’t you playing baseball?”

“I was good,” Mr. Rossi says. “Good enough to get a scholarship to play for Stanford, no less. I played infield. Freshman year was great. Sophomore year, I tore a ligament in my knee. I had surgery and rehab. Two games back, I tore it again. I was never as good after that. I wasn’t good enough.”

“Did they kick you out of Stanford, Mr. Rossi?”

He smiles at me. “No. Just off the team. I stayed and got my teaching credential. My mom told me she was just as proud.”

“I’d be proud of you,” I say.

Mr. Rossi looks off. Standing, he crosses to the column by the steps.

“I used to sit out here with her.”

I try to see him little. “You did?”

“All the time. We’d watch the stars and talk about anything.”

“My mom and I don’t talk. We fight.”

“Mine understood me. Wanted the best for me. Thought I was the best.”

I curl into the couch. “Must be nice.”

“That part of my life is over, Angelyn. I can’t ever get it back.”

“Why?” I whisper, fixed on him.

“She died when I was twenty-three.”

“Oh no.”

“A plane crash. My stepfather’s plane. He died too.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry.”

His eyes glint.

“Was it a good time for you,” he asks, “when you knew Mrs. Daly?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was.”

“Go back there, Angelyn. I wish I could. See that lady while you can.”

“I’ll go if you’ll take me.” I say the words as I think them.

Mr. Rossi goes into the house.

I watch after. And wait. He doesn’t come back.

I feel like—nothing. No. Sad. So sad.

I try to guess the time. Could be eleven. Could be two a.m. His property is a carpet of unbroken dark. Sound of crickets everywhere.

Dolly’s left too.

I tug a throw pillow from behind and set it at my head. Pretzeled against the cold, I zip the jacket and work my hands into the sleeves.

I know that I won’t sleep.

The screen door creaks. Mr. Rossi steps out with a blanket.

I unbend. “Oh.”

He shakes the blanket out and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “Stay, Mr. Rossi.”

He wobbles. “Can’t.”

“It will be all right,” I say.

Mr. Rossi sort of falls onto the couch.

I lift the blanket. “We can share.”

He pats it to my side. “This is for you.”

I snuggle in. “You’re the best.”

“Ha. No,” Mr. Rossi says.

“To me you are.”

He rests his head against the wall. “You’re very young.”

“I know about guys.”

“I’m a teacher. Not a guy.”

I hide a smile. “You can be both.”

“Mmm.”

“Mr. Rossi?”

His eyes are shut.

“I saw how you looked at me at the frosty.”

He’s quiet.

“You don’t have to pretend. I’m okay with it.”

His breaths become sighs, then snorts.

I study him. “Are you really—really sleeping?”

Mr. Rossi twitches, frowns.

“Are you cold? Aren’t you cold?”

By inches I pull the blanket free. I gather a length and flip it over him.

He drags in a breath and coughs it out.

When Mr. Rossi is quiet, I edge to him until our shoulders touch.

Under the blanket our warmth combines.

Fists curled, knees tucked, I lean against him.

Mr. Rossi lifts an arm. I freeze.

He wraps it around, pulling me in.

Spread across his chest, I can hear his heart beat.

I slip arms around his waist. Smiling.

Sleepy.

I wake alone, stretched along the couch. It’s daylight; cool, clear morning.

“Mr. Rossi?” I’m hoarse-voiced. Teeth fuzzy.

Dolly barks from the lawn.

The screen door creaks. “Angelyn, come in.”

We stand in the hall. The floor is cold even in stocking feet.

“Your clothes are in the bathroom. I ran them through the washer and dryer. Your shoes are there too. I picked them off the lawn.”

“You didn’t sleep like I did.”

His eyes flick over me. “I slept fine. It’s time to get moving.”

Moving where?
I wonder. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten-thirty,” Mr. Rossi says.

“You have someplace to be?”

“Got to get going,” he says. Looking somewhere else.

I ask if I can take another shower.

“You do that,” Mr. Rossi says. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”

We eat on the porch at a table with a frosted glass top. Bacon, toast, orange juice. Coffee for him.

“This is good,” I say. “Like we’re at a restaurant or something.”

He chews dry toast. “Glad you like it.”

“You’ve been great.”

“Last night is sort of a blur,” Mr. Rossi says.

“We sat on the porch. Talked. We fell asleep.”

“Together,” he says.

“Like friends,” I say.

Mr. Rossi rubs his face.

“About your son—”

“I talked about that?” He’s wincing.

“You’ll see him again. I know it.”

“These are private matters,” Mr. Rossi says.

“I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t.”

He looks at me wild-eyed. “I was impaired last night!”

Impaired?
I want to laugh. I
would
laugh if it weren’t for his expression.

“Mr. Rossi, you were fine. You really were.”

He pushes back from the table. “It’s time to take you home.”

“We’ll stop at Mrs. Daly’s?”

“Mrs. who?”

I make my voice calm. “You remember.”

Mr. Rossi takes a moment. “Your neighbor lady tutor person.”

I nod. “She’s in a nursing home. It’s on the way. You said,
See her.
”

“All right,” he says.

We sit in the parking lot.

“I’m afraid to go in,” I say. “Will she even know me?”

“Nursing homes are tough,” Mr. Rossi says.

“Nathan visits. Jeni sees her. If
they
can—”

“You will handle whatever you find. You’re a brave kid.”

Instant smile. “I am?”

“You are,” he says. “Now, go. Tell her what you need to tell her.”

From outside, the home looks like a budget motel, a long rectangle of rooms behind sliding glass doors. On one side of the building, a rose-lined path. On the other, a picnic area with patio furniture, a barbecue pit, and flowering planters. A calico cat is curled asleep in a lounge chair.

Through the lobby door I watch the scene inside. A nurse at a counter pages through a thick binder. Across from her, a tiny old woman and a heavy old man sit in wheelchairs against a wall.

The woman could be Mrs. Daly. I step back.

“Angelyn!”

Jeni’s at the door in white pants and floral smock.

“Come in,” she says with a smile I’ve never seen.

The smell about knocks me out, human and chemical combined.

“God,” I say. The old people look over. The nurse too.

“You get used to it,” Jeni says. Quietly. Kindly.

“Where is Mrs. Daly?” I ask.

“She’s in Activities. Come on. I’ll take you.”

The room is big and sunny, walls of windows on three sides.

A dark-haired woman with a beach ball stands at the center of a circle of people in wheelchairs.

“Bill,” she says, tossing to a man with muscled arms and frozen face. He catches the ball and squeezes fit to burst.

The woman walks to him. “Nice job!” She works the ball free.

“Sad,” I say. “Which one is Mrs. Daly?”

“Not sad,” Jeni says. “Just life. She’s at the window.”

Hunched in a wheelchair, Mrs. Daly looks out on a view of the picnic area. Short white hair in curls, a wrap around her shoulders.

“Wow,” I say softly.

I follow Jeni there.

She leans in, a hand on Mrs. Daly’s arm. “A friend is here to see you.”

Mrs. Daly asks, “Who?” in a cracked little voice.

Jeni steps aside. “It’s me,” I say. “Angelyn.”

She’s smaller than I remember. Only three years, but so much older.

“We were neighbors,” I say.

Mrs. Daly’s smile is polite. Nothing more.

I crouch by the chair. “Angelyn Stark.”

We look at each other. I recognize her eyes, clear hazel-gray.

“The little girl next door,” Mrs. Daly says. Then: “Angelyn!”

I sit on my heels. “Yes. Not so little now.”

“Pretty girl. I’ve changed, haven’t I?”

I nod. “Why are you in that chair, Mrs. Daly?”

She considers herself. “Well, I don’t know. Do you?”

“No,” I say. Smiling.

Mrs. Daly lifts her hands. Drops them. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. Have you been asking for me?”

She frowns. “Have I? I am glad to see you.”

“Nathan said you
had
to see me.”

Her face lights. “Nathan? Is he here?”

“It’s not lunch yet,” Jeni says. “Let’s go outside.”

I stare at her. “Yeah. Let’s go out.”

I push Mrs. Daly along the rose path.

“I have heard her talk about you,” Jeni says. “That wasn’t a lie.”

“Not quite how Nathan said, though, was it?” I keep my voice low.

She scuffs some leaves. “Maybe he wanted—”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure what Nathan wanted.”

Mrs. Daly touches a yellow rose. She lifts her face to the sun.

“I’m not sorry I’m here,” I say.

In back, flower boxes border a postage-stamp lawn. I set Mrs. Daly next to one and sit on it beside her. Jeni hovers.

The cat comes around, meowing.

“She’s hungry,” Mrs. Daly says.

“I’ll get her food,” Jeni says.

The cat rubs its cheek along Mrs. Daly’s footpads.

“Mora lives here,” she says, looking down at the cat. “Like me.”

“I have a dog,” I say. “Sort of.”

“I am glad you came,” Mrs. Daly says. “Nathan visits. My son hardly does.”

“You and Nathan left our block to live with him.”

“Yes,” she says. “We lived with Roger.” I pick at my jeans. “You left because of me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t remember. Maybe it’s good you don’t remember.”

“You were a child,” Mrs. Daly says.

“Nathan told you something about me. I said he lied, but it was true.”

“I’ve never known Nathan to lie,” she says.

“
I
lied.” Mora the cat skitters off. “My stepdad lied, and I backed him up.”

First time I’ve said it out loud. Out right.

“Mrs. Daly, I lied to the cops. I lied to this lady they made me see. Danny and Mom weren’t even there, and I kept on lying.”

“You look sad,” she says.

“So much is wrong,” I say. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Some things aren’t fixable,” Mrs. Daly says.

I stiffen at that. “Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes, Angelyn. I know.” Her eyes are sharp. I believe her.

“It was you who called the cops. We were supposed to hate you.”

“Hate,” Mrs. Daly says. “I hope not.”

“But we did hate you. Danny slashed your tires. Mom made crank calls. She wanted to scare you away. I even helped.”

“Are you all right now?”

“Am
I
all right? I threw rocks at your house. At your
dog
, Mrs. Daly.”

I hide my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “So sorry.”

“You take things hard,” Mrs. Daly says.

“I was bad. Really bad. Even you say it—some things can’t be fixed.”

She touches my shoulder. Feather-light and gone.

“I meant to say, these things are not fixable by
you
. Not you, Angelyn.”

“Who’ll fix them? My mom, you mean?” I laugh—I can’t help it.

“She was hard on you,” Mrs. Daly says after a time.

I look up. “You didn’t like Mom, did you?”

She fusses with her wrap. “I didn’t care for her, no.”

“The cops kept asking if anything happened between Danny and me. The lady asked too, over and over. Mrs. Daly, my mother never asked.”

“I would have asked, if it were me.”

“I know,” I say.

“I could have done more.” Her voice shakes.

“No,” I say, turning. “You were great. You were—”

“I cared for you, Angelyn. Does it help to know I cared?”

I hold on her. “Yes. It does help.”

“Tell me about you,” Mrs. Daly says. “Tell me about school.”

I talk. Jeni comes over. Cross-legged on the lawn, she listens.

Time passes like nothing.

A door opens at the back of the building. A woman’s voice:

“Jeni! Time for lunch setup.”

“Five minutes, Mom,” she calls.

Jeni’s mom crosses to us. She’s taller than Jeni, thin like her.

“I’ll bet you’re Angelyn,” she says. “I’m Kim.”

Off-balance, I say hi. “How did you know me?”

She nods to Jeni. “This one talks about you.”

Jeni flushes. “Not that much.”

Her mom rubs Mrs. Daly’s shoulder. “Eleanor talks about you too.”

“She does?” Something settles in me.

“Mom, we’ll bring Mrs. Daly around front,” Jeni says.

We take the path slowly.

“Does Nathan come to see her a lot?” I ask.

“Every lunch,” Jeni says. “Even on school days.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t want to see him.”

“Did you guys—fight, or something?”

I look at her. “What did he say?”

“Just that he dropped you somewhere last night. Someplace he didn’t know. He was pretty pissed, for Nathan.”

I focus on Mrs. Daly’s white curls. “Maybe now he’ll leave me alone.” Adding: “I’m glad she has him.”

Jeni says, “I’ve been thinking about what happened at the frosty.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Sharp with her.

“I’m going to say it. There’s something wrong with that teacher. You should stay away from him.”

“Don’t talk about him. I mean it.”

We turn the corner to the rose path. I stop.

“Give us a minute, all right?”

Jeni walks on. I kneel by Mrs. Daly.

“I liked seeing you so much,” I say.

She puts out her hand. I take it. Hold her fingers carefully.

“I loved seeing you,” Mrs. Daly says.

“I’ll come back,” I say. Eyes down.