The Woman in the Wall (11 page)

F didn't answer immediately; he just looked at me. So she turned and looked at me too. The pressure of their two gazes gave me back the power of movement. I stealthily shifted position, trying to escape. To my dismay, their eyes followed me. So it was true; they could see me perfectly well.

"I'm afraid there's no other way," F said. "You're going to have to come out of the wall, A."

"A party," F said. "A Halloween party."

"
A party,
" Kirsty said scornfully. "That is the dumbest thing I ever heard in my life. Shy people absolutely hate parties."

It was two days later, and Kirsty and F were still squabbling over the details of my introduction into society. My terror slowly died down as I realized that nothing was going to happen to me immediately; that at least for the moment my only role was to listen to the debate raging around me and serve juice and cookies.

In any case, I had another card up my sleeve. I knew something, something that would completely derail any plans that Mother and Mr. Albright might have. It seemed a little odd, actually, that no one but I had noticed that a very definite impediment to the marriage existed. However, I felt reasonably secure, and in the meantime I was enjoying the novel experience of being fussed over by F and Kirsty.

"Listen," F said, "I've been doing some research on this..."

Kirsty groaned. F had gone to the public library and checked out a big stack of books about shyness (amazing! I never knew that such a body of literature existed) and now spoke a language largely incomprehensible to us, using terms like "agoraphobia" and "fear hierarchies," and debating the value of "flooding therapy" over "systematic desensitization."

I thought that this scholarship was very impressive and settled down contentedly with my sewing to listen and admire. Kirsty, on the other hand, seemed annoyed by F's cleverness. I suspect she rather resented the fact that she couldn't make heads or tails of what he was talking about.

"C'mon, Kirsty, listen. I mean it. We don't have time for all that gradual one-day-at-a-time stuff." F gestured vigorously with both arms as if he would create a brave new spirit for me out of thin air and his own will. His zeal received a bit of a check when he inadvertently banged his right hand on the underside of a stair tread. "Ow! That hurt." He broke off to suck his knuckles. "We'll just have to push her off the dock," he continued cheerfully, "and see if she can swim." His eyes brightened, and he actually rubbed his hands gleefully at the thought.

I gasped for air, feeling the metaphorical waters already closing over my head. I pictured a crowd standing on the shore, a sea of staring, critical faces watching me as I sank for the third time.

"And what if she can't swim?" Kirsty demanded.

I looked anxiously at F. I also wanted to know the answer to that question.

F looked impatient. "If she can't, she can't. We'll be right there," he said, turning kindly toward me. "Nobody's going to eat you, you know. It's just gonna be an uncomfortable hour or two."

I felt a little faint. An
hour
or two!

"There's nothing to worry about, A. I'll protect you."

F reached out and patted my arm.

I stared down at my arm, at the place where his hand had touched my skin, thinking to see a small charred spot where flesh had met flesh. My panic was gone, swallowed up in wonder. F had touched me, and I had not burst into flames or shattered like glass or sunk through the floor like a stone into a well. I rubbed the place on my skin gently. It didn't even hurt. How long, I wondered, had it been since anyone had touched me?

"Pay attention, A," F said. "This is the good part."

I sat up obediently and tried to give my mind to what he was saying. It was nice to know that there was going to be a good part.

"This," F continued triumphantly, "is where my plan is so brilliant. Don't you see? It'll be a Halloween party. A
costume
party."

"A costume party?" Kirsty asked, frowning.

"Sure," F said. "A costume party. Right up As alley. She can go to the party and hide behind a mask! See?"

A costume party, I thought. Hmmmm...

"It might work," Kirsty admitted grudgingly. "And as a matter of fact, Andrea was talking last night about giving a Halloween party. How do you feel about it, Anna?"

"Would I have to talk to people?" I asked.

"No," said Kirsty.

"Yes," said F.

"Francis—" Kirsty protested.

"Kirsty," F said, "she has to start sometime. If we had more time, I'd say fine, let her get used to being around people first. But we
don't
have time. Once my dad gets the go-ahead for a project, he's like a runaway train. He'll drive straight through a brick wall to get where he's going."

I flinched.

"And, A," F continued persuasively, "if you can go to a party, a teen-aged party, and actually talk to people, maybe even dance with somebody, well, after that you can do anything, go anywhere. It's like a baptism of fire. You can never be as afraid again."

"How would you know?" Kirsty asked, smiling slyly at F. "I saw you at the Freshman Mixer last week.
You
didn't talk to anybody, and you sure didn't dance. When I said hi to you, you turned bright red and acted like you didn't hear me."

"What—what were you doing at the Freshman Mixer anyway?" demanded F, obviously a bit flustered. "You're a seventh grader. You're supposed to stick with the middle-school kids."

Kirsty haughtily explained that she had been invited by a ninth-grade girlfriend, but I wasn't listening.

"I
can't
dance," I said sadly.

"Oh, that's easy," F said. "Don't worry. We'll teach you. I do know how." He looked coldly at Kirsty. "I just didn't feel like it that night." He turned to me. "It's easy. You sort of wiggle around to the beat of the music."

"No, I mean I just couldn't. With—with a boy, you mean?"

"I don't see why it has to be a boy," Kirsty said. "Half the couples at dances are two girls anyway. I'll dance with you, Anna. You'll see, it'll be fun."

"
I'll
dance with you, A," F said, frowning. "You won't be afraid to dance with me, will you?"

"N-no," I said. I pictured F and me, waltzing all alone in an immense, shadowy ballroom. The music swelled to a crescendo and F swept me away, cradling me tenderly in his arms. We danced exquisitely together, our steps matching perfectly.

"I'll dance with you," I said, lowering my eyes and blushing a little.

"That is," Kirsty said acidly, "if boring old Andrea doesn't happen to look in his direction. Too bad if she does, Anna, because he'll completely forget about you. He'll spend the rest of the night mooning around, hoping she'll do it again. Francis has a crush on Andrea," she informed me. "Along with the rest of the males in America," she concluded gloomily.

"I know," I said sadly.

F folded his arms and attempted to look dignified.

"Which is
so
stupid," Kirsty said spitefully. "Andrea's fallen in love at long last, and not with Francis, that's for sure."

F turned away, and would not look at us.

"With Foster Addams," she explained, apparently determined to crush any hopes he might still cherish. "That's why she's so hot to move to Chicago. Foster Addams's family is moving to Chicago at Christmas. His dad works for the same company your dad does." F looked stricken, and my heart nearly broke for him. I groped in my mind for something to make it up to him, to make him smile. But what could I do that would compensate him for the loss of Andrea?

"I'll dance with anyone you like, F," I offered, my heart pounding uncomfortably in my throat. "I—I'll
ask
someone, a totally strange boy, to dance. I will," I repeated stubbornly, as they stared at me in amazement. "I'll be brave, you'll see. You'll be proud of me."

"Anna, no!" Kirsty said, horrified. "We wouldn't expect you to do anything like that! I wouldn't have the nerve for that myself. Not a total stranger, anyway."

"I'm not afraid," I said, although I was, very much.

"But, Anna—" Kirsty protested.

"Let her be," F said. "She's got guts." To me he said, "We're proud of you already. You'll be great, A."

"Yes," I agreed, "I will."

In my dark corner I straightened my spine, assuming the carriage and posture of a queen. I
was
a queen at that moment: clever, charming, and kind. And brave, heartbreakingly brave. My eyes swam with sudden tears at my own courage.

I wanted F to understand how splendid my offer was. He admired me now; he would admire me more when he realized that my pledge had been given for entirely unselfish, disinterested reasons. "But, of course," I confided, "you know that none of this is actually necessary."

"What do you mean, Anna?" asked Kirsty, curious.

"It is too necessary, A," said F, frowning. "No backing out, now. You promised."

"Certainly I promised," I said with dignity. "And what I have promised I will deliver, you can be quite sure about that. I only mean what I said. None of this is necessary. The marriage cannot take place."

"What?" "Huh?" They stared at me, wholly mystified. I didn't like it.
Why
hadn't anyone else thought of this? Mentally clutching the tattered edges of my imaginary queen's robe about me, I tried to carry it off with a high hand.

"How can you have forgotten, F?" I asked reproachfully. "Your mother. In one of your letters you referred to a mother in the present tense. Unless she has suddenly expired, your father is a married man. And even if she did just die, I call it indecent, marrying only weeks after a spouse's death." The looks on their faces almost made me despair. "But," I concluded in a rush, "I don't think she
has
died or you'd have said, and the law must have changed an awful lot since I last checked if it's legal for a man who's already married to marry our mother."

"Oh, Anna," said Kirsty sorrowfully.

"For cryin' out loud, A! They're divorced. Two years ago," F said. "Weekends I live with her, and weekdays I live with him."

"Oh," I said. "Oh."

My defenses crashed about me. There was nothing to stop the marriage after all. They would marry and move to Chicago, as sure as fate. And I—

"How long is it until Halloween?" I asked in a strangled voice.

"A whole two weeks," Kirsty said comfortingly.

In two weeks I would be out in the open under harsh lights, no doubt wearing an ill-judged costume that would make me look like a fool and a freak and a geek, standing before some conceited, boorish boy with sadistic tendencies. There I would be, baldly begging this vulgar lout to take me in his arms and caper about with me across the floor in full view of a crowd of total strangers. And this entertainment would last only
an hour or two.

My thoughts went further; I waded deeper and deeper into despair. Even if I survived this experience, there was all the future to dread. My mother would marry, yes, and what sort of a man would he be? A divorced man. A man leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him, a man who was obviously yearning for the opportunity to break some more. The fact that he would one day inevitably grow bored with my mother and toss her aside was cheering, but it wasn't as much of a comfort as you might expect. He wouldn't desert her until
after
we had left Bitter Creek and our beloved home.

And then of course, we would be homeless. We would be expelled from his luxurious penthouse on Lakeshore Drive, four waifs drifting aimlessly through the alleyways and sewers of Chicago, at the mercy of the wind and the rain and the snow and the evil leers of passersby.

We sat in silence for a bit. There didn't seem to be anything to say.

"I think..." F murmured thoughtfully. I waited. Surely darling, kind, wonderful F would now say something that would make things at least a little bit bearable.

"I think I'll come as a ghost," he said. "That's easy, and then Andrea won't know who I am. If I disguised my voice, we could probably have a really long conversation without her even guessing it's me."

I sighed.

"Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile," I mused. Slowly I drew thick black barbaric lines around my eyes. I backed away from the mirror to study the effect. I had painted cloth and wood before, but never skin. It was interesting, really; a whole new medium for concealment. The liquid eyeliner felt heavy and strange, weighting down my eyelids, making them look sensuous and cruel.

I reddened my lips and wrapped a black cloth around my mouse-colored hair. Then I arranged myself in a classic two-dimensional Egyptian pose before the mirror.

"Hmmm..." I said. In my fringed tunic I looked like a giant moth with cruel and sensuous eyes.

"The clothes are wrong," Kirsty said, pushing forward to take her turn at the mirror. She had draped herself in yards and yards of faded purple velvet. "Take them off," she ordered.

I blushed, and clutched defensively at my tunic.

"Not all of them, you idiot," Kirsty said. "Just down to your underwear. Then we can kind of wrap you up in this white sheet. Oh, here! Take the sheet and go try it on behind that screen, if you're so modest. You're as bad as my friend Shana. She always hides in the bathroom to get dressed for dance class instead of doing it with the rest of us."

Thoughtfully, I retired behind the screen in the corner of the south attic. Kirsty and I had come up to my sewing workroom to rummage through fabrics and try to decide on costumes. Instead of squeezing through my passageways, she had simply walked up the attic stairs, where I unlocked the door and admitted her.

"Wow!" she'd exclaimed, staring at the hundreds of bolts of material, skeins of yarn, racks of trim and thread, cutting tables and scrap bins. "I had no idea! Though I suppose I should have guessed. When I was little I thought you just waved your magic wand and poof! There was a new dress or whatever." She fingered a length of figured silk. "Why didn't we ever come up here looking for you? Why didn't we ever even think of it?" Her eyes were forlorn.

"The door was locked," I explained gently.