|
16.
Funny woman, he thought pressing the button. She had hung up without another word. The room shook again as that pesky military plane murmured in low and thundered overhead before resuming its circling high up over San Tomas Peninsula.
Ears burning, Mary-Shane hung up the phone. There was something about Roger Chatfield she did not like, but she wasn’t sure what it was that bothered her.
By eleven, most of the work was in. She had fifteen funeral notices and six articles. Of the articles, two were major stories (as obits went). The big one was Freddy Shaw (with a y), a city councilman. As Mary-Shane typed the formal, unimaginative notices and articles, her mind wandered in various directions. What was life? What was reality? Why did some people live to be ninety years old, and others only ninety days or nine years? She had nearly lost Kippy. She HAD lost Frank. Now these other obits. You became philosophical; doing obits was an overview, a final checkpoint on life.
The phone rang. Vic Lara. “Oh hi,” she said, hearing that little spin on the i in hi that told her she was interested in him.
“I was wondering if we could meet for dinner.”
“Not this evening. I have a doctor’s appointment.”
He pressed: “This is my only evening off. What do you say I take you dancing.”
“We-e-ll...” She wanted to go slow.
“Say yes.”
She laughed. “Yes.”
“Great. Crank’s? What time?”
“Crank’s will be fine,” she said still laughing. She was glad he made her laugh.
“Okay—I’ll pick you up at your...”
“I’ll meet you at Crank’s in the bar,” she interrupted to keep a distance. “Nine.” She wrote herself a note just to be sure and resumed her work with a pleasant hum.
The phone rang. It was Sister St. Cyr. Mary-Shane was surprised; usually communication was by a note left in Kippy’s lunch box. “Miss MacLemore, nothing big. You forgot to send ten dollars for Kippy’s class trip next month. It was due today.”
“Oh, sorry. I can bring it by on my lunch hour.”
“Tomorrow will be fine,” Sister said.
“No really. How is Kippy doing?” she asked.
Sister hesitated. “Well, I am a little concerned. Not worried now,” she quickly amended. “Nothing dramatic, but his attention seems to be wandering. He got C’s on three quizzes, and that’s not like him.”
“Do we need a conference?”
“Oh, not at all.” Sister St. Cyr had a pleasant laugh. She told parents to remember her name was Sister Sincere.
A short while later, eating an apple, Mary-Shane wandered into the front yard at St. Andrew’s. Stark light fell into the Victorian jumble of tomato-colored brick and almond-colored marble set behind a garden of trees and ferns. She had attended grammar school here. Alone in the courtyard, she stopped and looked up at the shuttered windows. The Dark Feeling swooped down over her—no, welled up from inside of her—and she dropped her apple. She reeled dizzily, sitting down on a low wall. I W A N T TO T O U C H Y O U... something inside of her said drooling. Marble gargoyles gazed down at her from leaded drain spouts. Horned goats, hissing serpents, grinning devils leered down at her.
Go away, she screamed inside. Go away! She looked down the tunnels of her blood, into the chamber of her brains, through the egg whites of her eyeballs. Get out of my fucking life!
I H A V E W A I T E D S O L O N G ... it said, but then drew away. Abruptly she felt okay again. She brushed off her apple, but saw a worm in it and threw it away in disgust. She walked down a dark corridor that smelled of floor wax and books. She paid the ten dollars to the school cashier, a chubby volunteer with a merry smile. As she left, she paused and looked back. Somehow oozing through the pores of the brick, children’s cries reached her. She walked back. A Virgin of creamy nougat smiled down. Mary-Shane walked a little further and rounded the corner. Now the cries were plain. She looked down a slight incline past the school and saw milling blue uniforms on the playground. The boys’ shirts and the girls’ blouses made a constant semaphore of white through the leaves.
She resisted the impulse to wave, yell his name. Instead she kept to the shade under the trees so as not to be seen. There: around the basketball court. Shirts had the ball. Whack, whack, whack, went the ball as the shirt tapped it on the asphalt and decided on an opening.
Alone on the side lines at mid-court stood Kippy wearing no shirt. He was firmly planted on one crutch, leaving the other hand free...
Flurry of shirts and skins. Ball moved rapidly. Basket.
Kippy yelled “Yeah!” and waved a fist. His teammates pranced by and one by one slapped his upheld hand.
Mary-Shane waved her fist and whispered, “Yeah!” With a feeling of relief, she hurried to her car. Lunch hour was over (she’d forgotten to eat) but no matter. That was one healthy boy out there, yelling his lungs raw.
Having met her deadline, Mary-Shane gave Jules the high sign. He nodded, and she sloshed out into the drizzle. First stop, the public library, the information desk. “Hi. I seem to remember seeing, somewhere in the halls, a marble scroll or something that reads Burtongale Room.” The young librarian called over an older lady whose kindly eyes swam like pickled eggs behind thick lenses. “Yes,” the older woman said, “years and years ago when they built this building, there was a plan to have a room for Burtongale memorabilia and books. They practically paid for this library, I’m sure you know. Then, who knows, nothing ever came of it. The room is now part of the stacks, and off-limits. If I remember correctly, we keep magazines in it.”
“But why the change of plans?” Mary-Shane asked.
The older woman shrugged. “I think they decided to keep all their books up in the mansion. They have a family museum up there, I’m told.”
Mary-Shane went to a pay phone and looked up the number.
A woman answered (refined, cheery, British...). “This is Martina Strather.”
“I was wondering about the Burtongale Family Museum,” Mary-Shane said. “The library told me it’s at the family mansion.”
“Yes, it is, but it hasn’t been open to the public in at least twenty years, and I don’t anticipate that it will be. Miss Polly is very firm on that. Are you a scholar?”
“No, just nosy.” Mary-Shane hung up.
|
