The Girl at the End of the Line (17 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl at the End of the Line
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After a postcheckout consultation with the dry little man at the motel desk, Molly and Nell headed for the Green Mountain Diner, where they ate satisfactory chicken sandwiches and drank lemonades. By the time they finished dawdling over pieces of birthday carrot cake, it was exactly 4:13 according to Molly's new timepiece.
“Well, I guess we can't put it off forever,” said Molly as they got into the car. “Are you ready to meet the family?”
Nell looked up alarmed.
“Come on. We'll just do it, and it will be behind us.”
Nell didn't answer, but she got into the car.
They followed the broad river next to the road for only a few more minutes. Another signpost appeared, but neither Molly nor Nell needed it to tell them that the looming black landmass ahead of them was Gale Island. The stone castle high atop the island's rocky high point spoke volumes about riches and isolation and unhappiness.
A one-lane bridge spanned the gray-looking waters of the Ashalaca. Molly crossed over the narrow expanse and followed the road, which circled around the island's perimeter, past a small community of perhaps twenty houses, then began to climb. Other houses, most of them small and made of stone, were visible from the road. Driveways off the road led back to other dwellings concealed behind the trees, leading Molly to believe that probably two or three times more people now lived here than had in Richard Jellinek's day.
In her mind Molly had pictured Gale Island as a tiny place that you could throw a stone across, totally surrounded by water. In fact it was quite large, like a mountain that had grown out of the river to match the rolling green Vermont mountains on the
mainland. From most places as they circled the island, climbing up toward the top, Molly couldn't even see the river, just the lush trees and wildflowers that grew everywhere.
As they got closer to the island's peak the evidence of other houses diminished. The final approach to the top was marked with ancient conifers, stone walls, and a granite gate hewn with the single word GALE.
Finally they were at the top. The road leveled off and they drove through another pair of gates, these equipped with iron bars, into the circular driveway at the base of Gale Castle. Molly pulled into an open area, sheltered by a stand of massive pine trees, where several other vehicles were parked.
It was now four-thirty by Molly's new watch—as good a time as any for a meeting, she told herself. It was no accident that Nell had given her this present today. Like the new rental car it seemed symbolic. Time had started again for both of them.
Molly turned off the car's engine, ran a comb through her hair, and made Nell follow suit. Then she took a deep breath and got out of the car. Nell sat where she was.
“Come on, it's okay. There's nothing to be frightened of.”
Nell bit her lip and didn't move.
“Look, I'm nervous, too, but there's really no reason. Grandma left here half a century ago. Atherton Gale is long gone. Probably no one will even know who we are. Come on.”
Slowly, reluctantly Nell got out of the car, then followed Molly up the stone path that led to the enormous steel-banded oak doors of the castle.
There was a huge bronze knocker in the shape of a hideous face, but Molly simply pressed the doorbell. When nothing happened she pressed again. Finally the door swung open, revealing a tall, gaunt woman dressed in a nurse's white uniform. She had grizzled hair tied up in a tight bun on top of her head, thin, bloodless
lips, and a hatchet face that was made more forbidding by the frown it wore.
“Yeah?” the woman snapped.
“Are you one of the Gales?”
“Close enough. What do you want?”
“Who is it, Mrs. McCormick?” asked a small female voice from inside.
“Don't know, ma'am. Strangers. You go back to your company, let me handle this.”
But another woman had already come up behind the hatchet-faced Mrs. McCormick and now poked her head out of the door to see what was going on.
Being so short Molly wasn't used to looking down on anyone, but this elderly second woman who had appeared at the door was tiny, perhaps four foot six. She looked like the type of grandmother usually found only in fairy tales, with kind, milky blue eyes and a delicate pink dress that would have been old-fashioned in nineteen fifty-eight. She had a soft, primly powdered round face, gold-rimmed glasses, and curly hair as white as snow.
“We're Margaret Gales's granddaughters,” Molly blurted in a nervous voice, wondering if either of these two women would even recognize Grandma's name. “Molly and Nell O'Hara.”
But they did know the name.
Mrs. McCormick's bloodshot eyes widened visibly at the sound of it, but it was the old lady's reaction that was more startling. She covered her prim little mouth with a hand and let out a gasp. Molly could actually see the tears welling up in her eyes. As she fled back into the house, Molly could hear sounds of weeping.
Mrs. McCormick shot a furious look and dashed into the house after the tiny old woman.
Before Molly could decide what to do, three men appeared at
the door. The first looked to be in his sixties, a tall sallow man with an enormous nose. He was dressed in a black suit and looked like an undertaker. The second man was also probably in his sixties, but his complexion was reddish bordering on florid. He was portly and bald and wore plaid pants and a navy blazer. The last man was of Asian descent, younger than the others, and dressed more casually in chinos and a polo shirt.
The undertaker glared at Molly for only an instant before turning on his heel and rushing back into the house after the two women.
“What's going on here?” demanded the red-faced bald man angrily.
The younger third man—he was perhaps of Vietnamese or Cambodian extraction, Molly guessed from his delicate features—spoke in a more quiet tone.
“Is she all right?”
Molly turned around to where the man was staring. Nell stood there behind her. Her hands covered her face and her mouth was open in a silent scream. She was trembling like a leaf in a thunderstorm.
“Is she all right?” the Asian man asked again. As before, his voice was gentle. His large dark eyes were full of concern.
“She's fine,” said Molly, rubbing the back of her sister's neck. Nell had calmed down a little but still trembled. She didn't look up from the floor.
“Has this happened before?”
“A few times. It's nothing to worry about.”
What had prompted Nell's episode this time, Molly wondered. The shock of seeing the little old lady run off in tears? The men, the way they had all clamored to the door? The hatchet-faced woman, Mrs. McCormick?
“Is it some kind of seizure?” the Asian man pressed.
“It looks worse than it really is,” said Molly. “It's psychological. She'll be okay in a few minutes.”
The Asian waited in thoughtful silence. He was slender and pleasant-looking with jet black hair and an unlined face that could have belonged to someone in his mid-thirties. There was something
in the way he carried himself, however—a maturity, a presence—that convinced Molly that he was at least ten years older than that. She had not had much practice in Pelletreau reading Oriental faces.
Molly and her sister sat on a down-stuffed divan in the large living room off the castle's entrance hall where the Asian man had brought them. He stood in front of them, directly across from a pair of walnut armchairs that Molly had instantly recognized as period Queen Anne antiques, each worth in the low five figures. The room's other furnishings were equally impressive: Chippendale tables, Georgian silver candlesticks and salvers, antique Persian carpets. Elaborate tapestries with classical scenes covered the walls where there were not fine oil paintings. Eighteenth-century Kakiemon-style porcelain sat on the mantle above a fireplace large enough to set up house in.
“Who was that elderly woman?” said Molly after a moment, ashamed to be appraising the Gales' furniture, mortified at the fuss that she and Nell had caused by their arrival. “I don't know what we said that could have upset her like that.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” said Molly, trying to catch Nell's eye. “We just introduced ourselves. Our name is O'Hara. I'm Molly. This is my sister Nell.”
Nell seemed to be somewhat calmer now. The trembling had stopped. It must just be the shock of it all, Molly reflected. So much had happened in the last few days, so many changes. It was almost too intense for Molly, too.
“George Gale,” said the Asian man, extending his hand, which Molly took. His hand was soft. His grip was cool and firm. “The woman you frightened was my mother, Mrs. Atherton Gale.”
“Mrs. Atherton Gale!” exclaimed Molly, unable to conceal her surprise.
George Gale flashed a modest, self-effacing smile.
“Okay, I realize there's not much family resemblance,” he said. “I was adopted, of course. Atherton died years ago. Mother is ninety-three.”
“But she can't be Felicity Gale.”
“No, she's Dora Gale, Atherton's second wife,” said George, raising an eyebrow. “How do you know about Felicity? I thought only genealogy freaks like me remember Felicity.”
“Felicity and Atherton Gale were our grandmother's parents,” said Molly, repeating what she had recently learned from Richard Julian.
George Gale's eyes widened.
“Felicity and Atherton were your grandmother's parents?” he said. “What was your grandmother's name?”
“Margaret Jellinek,” replied Molly, squeezing Nell's shoulder. “But before she married, her name was Gale. Margaret Gale.”
“And that's what you told Dora?”
“We said we were Margaret Gale's granddaughters, yes. Why?”
George Gale gave a low whistle.
“Well, that certainly explains Mother's reaction,” he said soberly. “It's been a pretty rough few weeks for all of us, but especially for her.”
Before George Gale could explain himself further, Molly heard footsteps on the marble staircase in the hall that led to the upstairs of the castle. In a moment the fat bald man whom she had seen at the front door entered the vast living room.
Molly had never met anyone who wore plaid pants before. The man's belly protruded out above them in a manner that suggested that he had recently swallowed a basketball. His bald head bore a striking resemblance to an energy-saver lightbulb.
“Dora's locked herself in her room, won't let anyone in,” he announced without ceremony, crossing to a bar at the far side of
the room. “Henry's parked outside like some kind of Yankee vulture wondering who to sue, and McCormick is screeching the Twenty-third Psalm at the hall ceiling. Not a pretty sight, believe you me. Anybody else need a drink?”
Molly wanted to raise her hand, but restrained herself. What kind of madhouse was this?
“I think you should go up there, George,” the bald man said, fishing for ice cubes in a refrigerator concealed behind the bar.
“Why?” asked George Gale.
“Didn't you hear what I said? Didn't you see how agitated Mama was? She could be having a heart attack for all we know.”
“Do I break down the door?”
“Why are you asking me? You're the doctor.”
Molly stared at George Gale, who smiled back.
“Sometimes you don't have to perform an examination to understand what's wrong,” he said quietly. “I think maybe Mother just needs to be alone for a while.”
“I still don't understand what set her off like that,” said the bald fat man, constructing himself a scotch and soda. “What did these gals say to her? McCormick wouldn't give me a straight answer. Who are they, anyway?”
“Forgive me for not making introductions,” said George Gale in a polite voice. “Molly, I'd like you to meet Russell Bowslater. Russell's my stepbrother. He was Dora's son by her first husband.”
The red-faced bald man raised his glass and rattled his ice cubes perfunctorily in Molly's direction.
“Russell, may I present Molly O'Hara and her sister, Nell. Molly and Nell are the granddaughters of Atherton and Felicity's daughter, Margaret.”
“Jesus Christ almighty,” said Russell Bowslater in a choked voice, nearly dropping his drink.
Molly rose to her feet, feeling the room closing in around her.
This was not what she wanted, not the way it was supposed to be. Even after all she had learned over the past weeks, Molly still had a fantasy of what would happen today, a fantasy that had probably been brewing all her life. One day she would meet her real family. They would all be beautiful and kind. They would know her and Nell instantly and welcome them with open arms. There would be tears and hugs. There would be laughter.
“Look, I think we've made a mistake,” said Molly. Suddenly all she wanted to do was get out, to run away and find somewhere to hide.
“Jesus Christ,” repeated Russell Bowslater after taking a stiff slug of his drink. “Now I'm the one having the heart attack. Just when you think it's all over, another damned Gale shows up. Two of them, for crissakes.”
“We just happened to be passing through the area and thought we'd look up our grandmother's family, that's all,” Molly stammered. “We certainly didn't want to make trouble for anybody, but that's all we've seemed to have done. I think it would be better if we were just on our way. It was very nice to have made your acquaintances, thank you very much. Come on, Nell.”
Molly pulled on her sister's arm, but Nell stared straight ahead and didn't budge from the divan on which she'd been sitting.
“Please bear with us, Molly,” said George Gale in a soft voice. “Russell works down in Washington, D.C., so he's naturally hysterical, but for once there are good reasons for his behavior. Something terrible happened here a month ago, and I'm afraid you and your sister are involved in the whole complicated mess, whether you want to be or not.”
“Look, I told you,” protested Molly. “We're just distant relatives passing through. The last thing we want to do is interfere with your family, Mr. Gale. Dr. Gale.”
“George,” he corrected her. “And you're not distant relatives.
As Atherton's sons—adopted and step though we may be—Russell and I are technically Margaret Gale's brothers, which makes us your uncles. Or great-uncles, I guess I should say. Russell, why don't you pour our grandniece Nell a brandy?”
“And God only knows how many more of Margaret's line are going to turn up now,” moaned Bowslater, shaking his head. “How many children did your grandmother have … what did you say her name was, George?”
“Molly.”
“How many children did Margaret have, Molly? How many children did her kids have? How many do you and your sister have for that matter?”
“There's nobody but us,” said Molly. “There was only our mother and Grandma, and they're both dead.”
“About that brandy, Russell?”
Russell fiddled with a bottle of Courvoisier and brought a short snifter over to Nell, who made no motion to take it.
“I think it might help if your sister drank that,” said George Gale in a gentle voice.
Molly nodded, taking the glass from Bowslater. She held the brandy up to Nell's lips, fighting back the impulse to take a sip first, herself. What was going on here? Why was everybody so upset?
Nell drank automatically, then broke out coughing.
George Gale came over and knelt down on one knee beside her to be at eye level.
“Are you okay now?” he asked.
Nell's eyes darted up for only an instant. She nodded, then stared back at the floor.
“Tell me how you feel.”
“She doesn't talk,” said Molly.
“Not at all?” asked George.
“No. But she's all right. She just gets this way sometimes.”
“Why doesn't she talk?” asked Bowslater.
“It's a long story,” murmured Molly.
George Gale put his hand on Nell's back, stroking it gently in small circles. Then he checked her pulse against his wristwatch. Nell didn't seem to mind. Or notice.
“Now, wait a second,” said Russell. “How do we even know these kids are who they say they are? You know Henry's going to want to see some proof. Frankly so do I.”
“Can you prove you're Margaret Gale's granddaughters, Molly?” asked George Gale.
“Why do we have to prove anything? I told you, we're just passing through, just stopping to say hello. And good-bye.”
“See?” said Russell with a sneer. “They're probably con artists. I swear, George, you're as gullible as a Democrat congress-woman.”
Molly felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but fought down the impulse to say something defensive. Why shouldn't these people want to be sure of Molly and Nell's identities? You didn't just let strangers into your life, especially when you had the kind of money that the Gales obviously did. Not that Molly intended to stay here any longer than it took to make sure the old woman was all right.
“We've been traveling, so I happen to have a lot of identification right here with me,” said Molly reaching into the brown leather bag that she had gotten into the habit of bringing with her everywhere automatically. “Here are our passports, copies of our birth certificates and our mother's marriage license. I know there's a record in New York City of Margaret Gale's marriage to Richard Jellinek. They can send you a copy. It will take four to six weeks.”
George Gale took the proffered documents and glanced them over.
“Thanks, Molly,” he said, passing everything to Russell
Bowslater. “We have to be sure, you understand. Considering the circumstances. It all looks pretty good to me, Russell.”
“Henry will want to verify everything, he's such an old woman,” said Russell, studying the documents.
“Henry Troutwig is Mother's attorney,” said George. “He's the man who's still upstairs with her.”
“Well, I guess it's a whole new ballgame,” said Russell with a sigh, passing the identification back to Molly. “Welcome to the family, girls. Don't forget to wear your batting helmets at all times. They throw bean balls around here.”
He raised his glass and finished what was left of his drink.
“Look, I'd really like to know what's going on,” said Molly turning to George. “You said before that something terrible happened here a month ago and that we were involved. Is that what this is all about?”
“Might as well tell her, George,” said Russell, heading back to the bar. “Tell her about the reunion. She's got to be told sooner or later.”

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