The Girl at the End of the Line (16 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl at the End of the Line
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“That's right,” said Julian. “And promptly got cast together in a Broadway musical, which just proved to us how talented we were and how right our decision had been. All our dreams were coming true. Then, the day after opening night we returned to our apartment after the show and found Atherton Gale and three detectives waiting for us. They were looking for Felicity Gale's emerald ring and had pretty much turned the place upside down. Maggie's father's first words to her were, ‘You stole your mother's ring, you little thief. I want it back.'”
Julian said the words with a theatrical snarl. Molly could see suddenly the actor in him. He continued, all but acting out the parts.
“‘I didn't steal it, she gave it to me,' said Maggie, but Atherton just started screaming at her, calling her a liar and a whore.
‘Ask mother,' Maggie begged, but her father wouldn't listen. He said Felicity was a liar and a traitor, too, that everyone was trying to cheat him. ‘Where is that ring?' Atherton demanded, over and over, while the detectives restrained me, which was fortunate because I would have beaten the old boy's brains out.”
“But she wouldn't give it to them,” said Molly.
“No, of course not,” said Julian almost proudly. “Maggie had the ring around her neck on a chain, just as you do now, and they never thought to look for it there. Which was just as well because Maggie was a pretty strong girl and she would have put up a hell of a fight if they had tried. Atherton finally stormed out, but not before saying again that Maggie had stolen the ring and the proof would be when she tried to sell it. Then he would have all the evidence he needed that she was a thief, and he would prosecute—she could bet her life on that, he said. His own daughter, this was her wedding present.”
“My God,” said Molly, touching the chain around her neck that held the ring.
“Maggie was pretty shaken,” Julian continued, “but she was also madder than hell. She said she would never sell the ring, would never give Atherton the satisfaction. And she kept her word, even later on when things had gotten rough for us.”
“After
Without Reservations,
” said Molly,
“You know about that?” asked Julian, arching one eyebrow in surprise.
Molly nodded.
“I hadn't realized how much of her identity Maggie had tied up in being an actress,” he said. “But suddenly here were all these people saying she wasn't any kind of actress at all. But if she wasn't an actress, then what was she? It was the only identity she had, the only thing she'd been able to build for herself outside of Atherton's
malignant influence. Maggie didn't know what to do. She just sat around the apartment for months and months totally shattered, afraid of everything and unable to work.”
He let out a deep sigh.
“I continued to get shows,” he went on, “but I wasn't playing leads yet. A chorus boy's salary doesn't go very far and pretty soon we needed money. Maggie was pregnant. I wanted her to sell the ring, but she wouldn't hear of it. She kept repeating what Atherton had said about how her selling the emerald would prove that she had stolen it.”
“Couldn't Grandma's mother intercede?” asked Molly.
“Oh, I thought of that right away, but Maggie didn't want to get Felicity into trouble with Atherton. Finally, though, she broke down and wrote her several letters, not asking for help, just for advice. None of these letters was ever answered. After Angie was born things got even tighter for us, but Maggie still wouldn't sell the ring, though I begged her to.”
“Is that why your marriage broke up?”
“Oh, it was a lot of things,” said Julian absently, waving a hand. “Mainly, it was just that we had been too young to get married in the first place. It had all happened too fast, for all the wrong reasons. I certainly wasn't ready to settle down and support a family. And all the fun went out of Maggie after
Without Reservations
bombed so badly. As I told you, she became a different person from the sweet gutsy girl I ran off with. Withdrawn. Morose. Bitter.”
“So you left her.”
“Why do you say that?” Julian said angrily, looking up. “Do you think I would just walk out on Maggie in that condition?”
“I … That's what people told me.”
“Well, people told you wrong. I didn't leave her. Maggie was
the one who decided to leave me and go back to her family. She was going to do it for the baby's sake, she said.”
Richard Julian paused and took a drink of his tea, then went on.
“It made me sick, but Maggie wrote Atherton Gale a letter, telling him about his granddaughter and saying again that she didn't steal the ring, that Felicity had given it to her. She humbled herself, told him that our marriage wasn't working out, and asked if she could come home. He wrote and said she could come back if and only if she admitted that she had stolen the ring.
“Maggie agonized for a few days, then wrote him that she would return the ring to him if that's what he wanted. She didn't steal it, she said again, Felicity gave it to her, but she had been wrong to accept it and was very sorry.”
“It must have been very hard for her,” said Molly. “Grandma was very proud.”
“Yes,” said Julian in a subdued voice. “It really broke what was left of her spirit. I could see her crumbling in front of my eyes. I couldn't stand it, but there was nothing I could do.”
“What happened?”
“There was no immediate answer from Atherton. Then about two weeks later, Maggie got a letter from the Gale attorneys advising her to send no further correspondence. Since she refused to confess to stealing the ring, Atherton Gale had disowned her. The letter also informed Maggie of what her father hadn't bothered to mention, that her mother had died nearly two years before.”
“What a horrible man!” said Molly.
“Your family, not mine,” said Julian. “Anyway, about that time I got cast in the national tour of
Annie Get Your Gun
. When I got back to New York, Maggie was gone. A few years later a lawyer from somewhere down South—I guess it must have been
that town in North Carolina you mentioned—contacted me about a divorce.”
“Did you never want to see your daughter?”
“Well, I could lie to you and say I did,” said Julian, looking Molly in the eye, “but the fact is that I was pretty much relieved to be free. I had a career and a world of beautiful women to pursue. As you can see, I wouldn't have made a very good father. But I never bore Maggie any ill-will and would have given her child support if she had asked. We had some good times together. We were just too young to get married, that's all. It just didn't work out.”
Molly nodded. The final pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. Molly could now see how Grandma had come to live the life she had in Pelletreau: heartbroken, shamed, abandoned by her family. Grandma wouldn't want Molly to tell Richard Julian what had happened to her.
“So,” he said, his smile returning. “Is my story everything you hoped it would be?”
“No,” answered Molly, rising.
As she stood, Nell got up, too. Molly couldn't tell if her sister had been listening, had understood. Nell's face was blank, her eyes far away.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Julian.”
“Richard. Please.”
“Richard.”
“Say,” he said, flashing a debonair smile, “why don't the two of you stick around and let me get to know you, at least for the rest of the day? We're leaving on a little trip tomorrow. I've never had granddaughters before. Maybe we can have a few laughs together.”
Molly hesitated for moment, wanting desperately to say yes, to have a grandfather, to have someone who cared about her and
Nell. But all Richard Julian had offered were a few laughs, not love, not caring. He wasn't their grandfather any more than he had been a father to Mom or a husband to Margaret Jellinek.
“Thanks,” said Molly, “but we have to be getting back to the United States.”
“Yes, of course,” he said breezily. “It's rather too bad we didn't meet under better circumstances. I think we might have enjoyed knowing one another.”
“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Julian?” said Molly.
“Hm?” he said, gazing off at Gwendoline across the tent.
“Where did you get married to Grandma? Where was the ceremony?”
“We waited until we got to New York City,” he said with a fond smile. “There's a little chapel in one of the government buildings down by City Hall. We spent our honeymoon night at the Algonquin Hotel.”
Molly smiled, too. She owed David Azaria fifty bucks.
 
 
After leaving Richard Julian to find happiness with Gwendoline, Lady Stacey, and Mr. Moto, Molly drove back to Leeds and got herself and Nell on the afternoon commuter flight back to London.
As they waited to retrieve their bags at Heathrow, Molly felt more weary than she had ever felt before in her life. It was as if all the events of the last month had suddenly caught up with her. She sank into a molded plastic chair, resting her head on her hands.
At the baggage carousel Nell grabbed one of their suitcases, then the other. Then she lugged and pushed them across the slippery floor until she stood with an expectant look on her face right in front of Molly.
“So what now, you may ask?” said Molly, asking the question
for her sister. “Why aren't we bolting to the ticket counter and booking the next flight to Gale Island?”
Nell waited silently for the answer.
“Well, excuse me,” said Molly with a sigh. “But suddenly I'm not as excited as I was about reestablishing contact with our long-lost family. Atherton Gale was a monster. Somehow I doubt that whatever Gales are still living in that castle are going to welcome us with open arms.”
Nell stared at Molly with a quizzical expression.
“Oh, I know we'll have to go to meet them sooner or later, just so we can get on with our lives. I just wish there was somewhere we could go first and catch our breath. Have any suggestions?”
Nell nodded. Then she dug into their carryall and came out with one of the guidebooks to England, which she riffled through until she had come to the page she wanted and passed it to her sister.
Molly wearily took the book and stared at a picture of Trafalgar Square. Beneath it was a quote from Samuel Johnson, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”
“You can be pretty smart, sometimes,” said Molly feeling some of her energy returning. “You know that?”
Nell didn't answer. She had already picked up her suitcase and was headed for a door marked GROUND TRANSPORTATION, TAXIS TO LONDON.
After a long taxi ride into London Molly booked a room at a modest tourist hotel that one of the guidebooks had rated a best buy. It turned out to be more expensive than the Gotham Arms in New York, but she and Nell had never been out of the United States before and they certainly needed a vacation. Besides, for the first time they had money to spend and no mortgage payments to worry about.
Covent Garden, Leicester Square, the Strand, Mayfair, Harrod's department store—they saw them all. They stood outside of Charles Dickens's house, walked along the banks of the Thames and wandered in the footsteps of kings and prisoners in the Tower of London. Most exciting of all, Molly and Nell visited the legendary antique markets in Portobello Road and Camden Passage.
Molly's heart soared as she wandered through the crowded stalls bursting with furniture and silver and ceramics—five hundred years worth of stuff, the attic of an empire. Wherever they
finally ended up, they'd have to make a living, and there was only one way Molly knew to do that. Buying and selling antiques.
They bought “smalls”—the kinds of portable antiques that could be displayed easily and sold anywhere: tiny Vienna bronze animals; rosewood whist markers; enameled snuff boxes and burlwood card cases; silver spoons, matchsafes, and vinaigrettes (which the Victorians carried to mask the unsavory smells that were all around them); miniature china tea sets; Scottish agate jewelry; Chinese scholar's objects.
By the time they returned to Heathrow airport four days later on Monday morning, Molly and Nell had spent several thousand dollars of their settlement. Their suitcases bulged with enough quality “fresh merch” to set up shop (albeit small shop) anywhere in America.
At the airline ticket counter, Molly was able to reroute their return without penalty to Boston's Logan airport instead of JFK. Part of her wanted to spend some time in New York and tell David Azaria all that had transpired, but she couldn't afford to get distracted now. Arriving at Boston would put her and Nell a lot closer to the place they had to go—a small island in the Ashalaca River up above Montpelier, Vermont.
Molly's chest started to tighten with anticipation even before their plane took off. It was a 10:00 A.M. flight, and this time the time difference worked in their favor. They arrived in Boston shortly after noon, though to them it felt closer to dinnertime.
It took an hour for them to collect their baggage and clear customs. Then Molly went to one of the rental companies and got a long-term rate on a car. An airport van took them to the parking lot where a bright little red rental Ford was waiting. Molly had almost forgotten what new cars smelled liked, it had been so long since she had been in one. It was fitting somehow, to have been given a new car. It was a new beginning.
“Let's get this over with,” said Molly, starting the car. “We can make Vermont in a few hours, meet the Gales, and get on with our lives.”
As Nell skeptically started measuring distances with her thumb, Molly set off on the interstate. Soon it veered off in the other direction, and Molly had to settle for an older highway.
After an hour the scrubby landscapes of Massachusetts had given way to the granite hills of New Hampshire, and New England enveloped them. More hours passed as Molly navigated her way through thick forests, rolling mountains, and crystal streams. Only when they got into Vermont were they finally able to find a map at a gas station that included the tiny flyspeck that was Gale Island.
As they wended their way on twisting roads that snaked through the lush canopies of trees, closer and closer to the place where their grandmother had been born, Molly was nearly overwhelmed with intense feelings of loneliness and loss, fear and longing, and just the tiniest bit of hope.
Finally, after several wrong turns and getting lost on back roads, they were almost there. The Ashalaca River appeared beside them, widening as they drove west. The foliage all around seemed to become denser, lusher, more mysterious. A bruised signpost at the side of the road came into view: GALE ISLAND, ONE MILE.
“I can't believe we're here,” said Molly, slowing the car to a stop. “Just a few weeks ago, there we were in Pelletreau, wondering why Grandma's picture was on that program. Now, after all that's happened, we're in Vermont a mile from where Grandma grew up. Where her family still is, maybe.”
Molly felt Nell grab her arm and looked over to see her sister's eyes full of trepidation. Richard Julian's story had not been lost on her. Nell had understood every word.
Suddenly Molly felt her own nerve failing her. She was stiff and sore from the London flight and what had turned out to be a five-hour drive. It was nearly six-thirty by the clock on the car's dashboard—Molly's watch had stopped again. It had been too long of a day already.
“Maybe we shouldn't rush into this,” she said. “We'll be more presentable after a good night's sleep.”
Nell clearly wasn't going to offer any argument. Relieved, Molly turned the car around and drove to a weatherbeaten motel they had passed about ten miles back: The Yankee Clipper.
A thin old man who looked like he might still have his first nickel in a back pocket showed them to a small, dark room. Everything, including the night tables and the shower, was made of plastic. At least the sheets were clean, however, and there was plenty of room for both of them in the king-size bed.
The two of them spent the rest of the evening watching television, despite problematic reception. For once Molly didn't provide her usual running commentary, though she wasn't sure if this was from being nervous about meeting the Gales or simple weariness. They were still running on London time which was five hours ahead of Vermont's. When they turned out the light a little after nine o'clock it felt like two in the morning. They were both asleep in minutes.
 
 
When Molly awoke the next morning, Nell was gone.
At first Molly thought her sister was just in the bathroom. Molly lay in bed staring at the room's cinderblock walls, waking up slowly, waiting for Nell to come out. After fifteen minutes, she grew impatient.
“How long does it take for a person to shower and primp?” she yelled. “You're beautiful enough.”
There was no answer.
Molly pulled herself up and opened the bathroom door. Nell was not there. Molly threw on her jeans and opened the room's outside door, thinking her sister had stepped out for some fresh country air. But Nell was not outside, either. And their car, which had been parked in one of the spaces directly in front of the room, was gone.
Fighting down panic Molly dashed back inside to the telephone. She wasn't clear whether she intended to call the front desk or the police. Only then did she notice a note on the pad next to the phone in Nell's careful hand: “I've gone out to get something. Don't worry. N.”
But Molly did worry. She ran back outside and scrutinized the road that ran in front of the motel. An occasional car sped by on the road that led into the ubiquitous pine forest stretching out in both directions. There was no sign of Nell and their little red Ford.
“You idiot!” exclaimed Molly out loud. “What is going on in your confused little brain?”
She started to speak again, but stopped herself. It wasn't going to bring Nell back any faster. What time was it? Molly wondered, glancing at the useless watch on her wrist, which hadn't ticked for five consecutive minutes since they had left London. It felt late. She went back inside the room, turned on the TV and flipped through stations. A weatherman mentioned the time in passing: eleven thirty-five. They had slept for more than fourteen hours. Or rather, Molly had. There was no telling how long Nell had been gone.
Molly tried to stay calm. After all that had happened in the
past few weeks the world no longer seemed like a safe place, if it ever had been. Where had Nell gone? What was she doing? At least Nell was a good driver, Molly consoled herself, though she hardly ever could be coaxed to take the wheel. The last time Nell had taken off by herself in their old van she had come back with a new dress and a hundred dollars worth of cosmetics, which she had never used. Thank goodness, she didn't have any money to spend this time. Or did she?
Molly ran over to her brown leather shoulder bag. Her wallet with their traveler's checks and all their cash was gone. If Nell had decided to go on a shopping spree with their nest egg, Molly was going to kill her.
It was already past the motel's checkout time, which was eleven o'clock according to the notice on the door. Molly had no intention of remaining in the drab little room another night, but she could hardly leave now, even if she had wanted to. Nell had the car, not to mention their means of paying. Molly picked up the telephone and dialed the front desk.
“Hi, this is Miss O'Hara in twenty-three,” she said.
“Yep,” answered a squeaky male voice that Molly recognized as belonging to the old man who had shown them to their room the night before.
“Is it possible to get a later checkout time?”
“Yep.”
“What time would that be?” asked Molly.
“What time you want?”
“I'm not sure exactly. My sister went out, and I'm trying to figure out where she might have gone. Is there anything around here? A shopping mall, maybe?”
“Nope.”
“No stores?”
“Ned Burny's general store down the road. Get yourself some nice Vermont cheese.”
“What about clothing stores?”
“They're a few around, if you go lookin' for 'em. Buy mail order, myself.”
How long would Nell be? There was no way to know. If she didn't come back in a few hours, maybe Molly would call the police.
“How about some time in the afternoon?” she asked.
“How about it?” came the answer.
“As a checkout.”
“Stay as long as you like,” said the voice. “I'll just prorate the room fee on an hourly basis.”
“Gee, thanks a lot.”
“Yep.”
Molly hung up the phone, flopped back onto the bed, and tried to concentrate on a grainy old black-and-white movie. The hours passed with excruciating slowness. Finally, when Nell hadn't shown up at two o'clock, Molly began to panic in earnest. She turned off the set, and picked up the phone to ask the Yankee clipper at the desk how to call the police.
At that moment the door opened and Nell walked in.
“Where have you been?” demanded Molly, slamming down the telephone. “I've been worried sick! How could you run off like that and leave me here? Don't you know how frightening that would be for me? What's the matter with you?”
Nell hung her head, reached out and touched Molly's shoulder.
“Don't touch me,” said Molly, squirming away, refusing to let her anger die down easily. “I'm furious.”
Nell nodded. Her face brightened. For the first time Molly noticed that her sister was holding something in her left hand, a small box wrapped in red paper and tied with a ribbon.
“Is that what you went out for? What is it?”
Nell handed the package to Molly and indicated for her to open it. Angrily, Molly pulled off the ribbon and tore off the paper. Inside the box was a small silver wristwatch.
“What is this?” asked Molly. “Where did you have to go to get this? Back to Boston? Do you really think this was the greatest time in the world to buy yourself a watch?”
Nell pointed at little window below twelve o'clock on the watch's face. Inside was a tiny number five. It was the fifth. August fifth. It was Molly's birthday.
“This is for me?”
Nell nodded, then bent down and gave her a kiss.
“You crazy nut,” Molly murmured. “I was worried sick.”
Nell took her sister's hand and turned it until the old cheap watch that Grandma had given Molly was face up. Then she undid the strap and set the poor dead timepiece down in an ashtray.
“What is this, real silver?” said Molly, as Nell slipped the new watch onto Molly's wrist. “It probably cost a fortune. You shouldn't have spent our money that way.”
Nell punched her in the arm. Hard.
“Ow,” said Molly, rubbing the spot. She didn't know what to say. All kinds of emotions rushed through her, pushing out the fear and worry that had occupied her for the past hours. Molly wasn't used to anyone taking care of her; she only gave, didn't receive—as David Azaria had made her painfully aware of. She was supposed to be the caregiver, but now Nell had turned the tables. Molly shook her head. What were you supposed to do in a situation like this?
“Thanks,” she said in a very quiet voice. “I love you, too.”
Nell beamed.
“So, why are you standing there with that idiotic expression?
What do you say we get out of this rat hole and find something to eat? I'm starving.”

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