The Singing Bone (22 page)

“No, no.” Greta reached out and touched Mr. Wyck's hand. “We just—well, we never thought we'd see Robert again. We're afraid to believe it.”

“I understand.” Mr. Wyck softened. “Listen,” he said. “There is nothing new here. The Soviets took in Germany's prisoners after World War II, and they took Korea's prisoners, too. This is what they do.” Mr. Wyck rested his fingers on a pile of photographs. Both Greta and Bob were trying to see the images beneath, but he kept his hand there until they looked up and found his face, his beautiful light blue eyes, and he looked into their darker eyes and nodded his head. “This is what they do,” he repeated. “The official word from Carter is that the war is over. But as far as I'm concerned, as long as we've got men in Communist prisons, the war is still going on.” He lifted his fingers from the stack of photos in front of him and laid the pictures out like a card dealer. “These are surveillance photos of the prison where we think your son is being held.”

The pictures were black-and-white, taken from above—perhaps from an airplane—a dirt yard, a coiled wire fence, a row of low buildings. ­Shadows—guards, perhaps. “I know I can get him out,” Mr. Wyck told them. “I've got a guy,” he said. “We just need to do more reconnaissance.”

Greta picked a photo up and held it in her lap, gazing down at it. “To think Robert might be here—” she said. Bob put an arm around her.

“Might be,” Mr. Wyck said. “To know for sure we'll need to do more work. Like I said, I've got a man inside here, one of the guards. He's willing to help—for a fee.”

“Anything,” Greta said. She looked at Bob, who was slow to respond. He was gazing at the photos spread out on the table in front of him. Alice tried again to scan him. She closed her eyes like Allegra had taught her and imagined a white light finding its way around Bob, softening his stiff back and his squared shoulders. She looked inside of him and saw his spine as straight as a ruler. It was red and strong. She opened her eyes and looked at Mr. Wyck, who was telling Greta and Bob about how they found Lee, and Alice focused on him and closed her eyes again, but she couldn't find him. She saw someone else—a thick black coil of a spine, the sacrum glowing red, the vertebrae pulsating like the hearts of animals.

Startled, she opened her eyes again, and when she did, Mr. Wyck was staring at her. He shook his head slowly and then he lifted his chin at Molly. Alice looked over and saw that her friend was making a smiley face with her discarded chocolate chips. Alice took the plate from her and began eating the chips. Mr. Wyck sat back.

“I can tell you,” Bob said, “that we'd do anything to see our Robert again.”

Mr. Wyck banged his hand on the table. “Bastards!” he said.

Allegra put her hand on his knee, touching him lightly. “It's so hard for my husband,” she said, “to hear about your poor son. He can't bear to hear of an American in Soviet territory. He told you about his father, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Greta said.

Mr. Wyck rubbed his thick hands together and shook his head. “Listen,” the magician said. He leaned forward. “If anyone can get Robert out, I can. This is my passion. This is my calling.” He looked fully at them, and they at him. And transfixed by Mr. Wyck's magic, when the wind picked up and the rain began to fall in a great, cold fury, no one noticed. They were ready for battle.

  •  •  •  

Back at Mr. Wyck's, they celebrated. They threw a big party. Schizz and Tuna were there. Big John came. Lady Linda. The Smiths weren't there, of course. The Smiths had no idea where Mr. Wyck really lived. Mr. Wyck showed Big John the check the Smiths had written, and told him that as long as he let them use his mother's house, Big John would get a cut for anything they got from the Smiths.

Big John helped Mr. Wyck build the bonfire. Alice watched them from the porch. She and Lee were smoking cigarettes. It was getting dark. It was twilight. It was Alice's favorite part of a summer day. “Look how excited they are,” she said. Mr. Wyck carried firewood over his head and threw it down when he reached the bonfire.

Lee nodded. “I know. It's a lot of money.”

Alice turned to him. “They're excited because they're going to rescue Robert.”

“Right. Of course.”

Alice finished her cigarette and lit another one. Sometimes Lee was on a different page entirely. It was like he just didn't get things. Maybe he was slow, but she didn't think so. She couldn't figure him out. It was like he was hiding in plain sight.

When the bonfire was ready, Allegra and Lady Linda brought big pots of food outside. They passed around plates. When it got dark, it was cool enough for a sweater, and Alice pulled Mr. Wyck's sweater—the red one she'd found in the drawer upstairs—over her sundress. Mr. Wyck was in a good mood. He danced around the fire and hopped on one foot, holding a bottle of wine in the air. Molly clapped as she watched, and Allegra and Trina brought out more food. Mr. Wyck had money in his pockets. He told Allegra they'd get her a car. He'd buy some fancy new recording equipment.

“We need to rehearse more,” Allegra said. “Every day.”

Mr. Wyck took her hands and ran around with her in circles. “Anything you want, my love.” Alice hadn't heard him speak to Allegra like that in a long time, she realized. He said those things to Alice, to Molly—sometimes to Trina, but to no one else. Allegra let him lift her into the air. She looked so fragile and light. Everyone watched them. “We'll get you more equipment. We'll cut a record.”

That night, they sang for the small audience of their friends. The girls sat in front with their feet tucked under them. When it was time for Alice to begin “Dark Eyes,” she stood up and sang, and everyone fell quiet and listened. “Damn, girl,” Lady Linda said when they finished. “You have chords.”

Full of wine and food, they slept late into the next day. And even when they were awake, they were slow moving and soft. Allegra said it was because the seasons were changing. She showed them yoga twists, knees to one side, then to the other, that would help wake them up. Mr. Wyck fed them coffee and water, and by late afternoon, they were ready to begin practice.

Lee sang a baritone, Molly a soprano, Trina an alto. Alice could travel up and down the scale, but she liked low better than high, just as she liked slow better than fast. Stover and Mr. Wyck played their guitars. Alice wished Mr. Wyck would sing, too. She liked his voice. It was deep and gravelly.

  •  •  •  

Alice and Molly sang for the Smiths when they took care of the twins, and when Alice sang “Juniper on a Hill” at naptime, Greta closed her eyes in the rocking chair and drifted off with the children. When they were all asleep, Alice crept out and closed the door of the bedroom to join Molly. Once she found Molly tearing a page out of one of the Smiths' architecture magazines. It showed a man and a woman holding hands in a field and walking towards a beautiful house. It was an ad for exterior paint. “Molly,” Alice said, placing her hand on her friend's. “What are you doing?”

“I want this.”

“But they'll see a tear in the magazine.”

“It's just an ad, Alice,” she said. “Look.” She took her hands away from the picture. “It's me and Mr. Wyck. We're going to our new house.” Alice put her arm around Molly and looked at the picture. It wasn't of a man and a woman, Alice saw, but of a man and a child. “Alice,” Molly said. “I feel sick.”

“Did Allegra give you your beet juice this morning?” Alice asked. Allegra had been giving Molly beets in the morning and licorice tea in the afternoon to stave off Molly's asthma. In the mornings when they all did yoga together, Allegra showed them how to do special breathing exercises. “Molly,” she'd say, “you should be doing these throughout the day.”

“Do you have your straw?” Alice asked, and Molly looked through her bag. She pulled out a straw and began to breathe through it. Breathe in, one, two, three; breathe out, one, two, three, four, five.

When Molly took the straw away, she said, “This shouldn't still be happening. I'm doing something wrong.” Her breathing came quick. “I should be better by now.” Her cheeks were flushed.

“Shh,” Alice said. “If you worry about it, it will make it worse.” She got up and laid Molly on her back, propping the space between her shoulder blades with a pillow. Alice held her hand until Molly's breathing returned to normal. She studied the picture Molly had torn out. The father and daughter walked across the field to their new house. On the doorstep, another woman, the mother—Alice guessed—waited. Alice didn't know which person Molly thought she was—the mother or the daughter. Maybe she was both. “Shh,” she said again to Molly. “It's not your fault.” Alice finished tearing the picture out and slipped it into Molly's bag.

  •  •  •  

So Molly didn't practice singing with them; instead, she sat between Alice and Lee knitting a sweater. The sweater was a Fair Isle design, with patterns that Molly had chosen from a book that Allegra kept on Norwegian knitting. “Why aren't you singing, Molly?” Mr. Wyck asked.

“I don't feel well.” She touched her chest with one hand.

“It's the change of season.” It was September, and the nights were getting cooler.

“That's no reason not to sing tonight.” Mr. Wyck poked at the fire. It sent smoke into the room. “If you're not going to sing, leave.”

Alice looked at him and shook her head. “Let her stay.”

“You can leave, too.” He stood. “Come here,” he said to Trina. Trina rose and went to him. He kissed her. He turned to Alice and Molly, who sat watching on the couch. “What are you two staring at?” He kissed Trina again, hard, taking the back of her head in his hand. Alice had never seen Mr. Wyck kiss Trina before. She took Molly's hands and rose to go, but then she realized she didn't know where he wanted her to go. “Trina,” Mr. Wyck said, and Trina opened her eyes and looked at him. He stroked her cheek. “Who do you belong to?”

“To you.”

“Alice thinks I belong to her. She wants to tell me what to do. What do you think of that?”

Trina shook her head and put her lips to his again. “We don't belong to each other. No one belongs to anyone,” she murmured.

He took her by her shoulders and pushed her away. “Slap Alice,” he commanded. “Hit her hard.” Trina hesitated, so he hit her. Molly's breath quickened. Trina touched her cheek but didn't say anything.

“Why is he doing this, Alice?” Molly squeezed Alice's hand.

“Do it,” Mr. Wyck told Trina, and she walked over to Alice.

“I'm sorry,” Trina said, and slapped her. It wasn't a hard slap.

“Don't apologize to her,” Mr. Wyck shouted. “Slap her again. Harder.” Trina turned around and looked at him, lifting her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “Square your shoulders,” Mr. Wyck said. “Breathe evenly. Look Alice in the eye and punch her in the face or so help me I will come over there and knock some—” He didn't have to finish. Trina did what he said, and in another moment, Alice was falling backwards through space.

When she woke, she knew she wasn't in the living room. She bumped her head and reached up to touch a low ceiling. She couldn't see anything in the dark. She felt around her and called out, but no one answered. “Is anyone there?” she called again, and this time, she heard footsteps. “You're in the crawl space.” It was Stover. “You're safest there,” he said. “Just stay quiet so he doesn't come. He's acting like a fucking lunatic.”

“No he's not,” Alice said, but she didn't know why she said it.

“Whatever.” She heard Stover trail away.

Alice squatted and wrapped her arms around her legs. She touched her fingers to her eye. It was tender. Alice didn't know how much time passed, but eventually, Allegra opened the door and handed Alice a plate of food and a flashlight. “Where's Molly?” Alice asked, holding the door open with her shoulder. She looked up and down the hallway.

“In bed.” Allegra pushed Alice's head back into the crawl space and slammed the door shut. Alice turned the flashlight on and looked around. It smelled bad, like old cheese or meat, and it was cold. She turned the flashlight on and off, whispering the words to “Disco Duck.” “Quack, quack,” she said and shone the flashlight on the food: Mashed potatoes, toast, peas and carrots, but no fork. She ate the peas with her fingers, one at a time. She ate the mashed potatoes by lifting the plate to her face and taking gulping bites. “Woof,” she said to the air. When she finished, she knocked lightly on the door. “Allegra!” she yelled. She heard footsteps, but it was Trina who opened the door.

“Shit,” Trina said when she saw Alice. “That's fucking bad.”

“Bitch,” Alice whispered. “Pow. Bop!” she said, play-hitting Trina.

“I gave you a black eye.”

“I figured. Hey,” Alice said. She was still squatting. “Check this out.” She put her hands in her armpits and lifted her elbows like wings. “Quack, quack,” she said. She sang “Disco Duck.”

Trina was laughing, rocking back and forth with her hands over her mouth. “Shh-shhh-shhh,” Trina whispered. “Stop. He'll come.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Alice said. “Can I get out?”

“He says not until morning.”

“All right,” Alice said. “Can you get me some water?”

Trina nodded and rose.

“Oh, and Trina—” Trina turned and looked at Alice. “Can you get me a blanket, too?” Trina nodded. Alice listened to Trina's soft tread as she went downstairs, but she never came back. Alice fell asleep on the floor in a fetal position.

In the morning, Mr. Wyck opened the door. “Look what I found,” he said. He pulled her out and propped her up against the wall, but Alice slumped to one side. He whistled when he saw her eye. “That's one hell of a shiner.” He sat her up again. Alice felt sick and she had a metallic taste in her mouth. “Now you've got to know.” Mr. Wyck pressed Alice's damp hair away from her sweaty forehead. “You've got to know that though you are very special to me—in fact, I love you, and I would prefer never for my good girl to suffer violence—but you've got to understand that you don't own me, and you should never tell other people what they can or cannot do. That implies rigid law, and no one likes a rigid woman. You don't want to get ahead of yourself telling other people what to do.”