I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (20 page)

She wants me to go to her school with her to help decorate the gym for Halloween. I tell her I'd rather not.

“You might enjoy it, Grace. You could meet the other teachers.”

“It's hard for me. People would know about me.”

“They know you've been in the hospital, but they're very kind people. No one would make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Ghosts and goblins and black and orange crepe paper.”

“Yes, basically. A few staples and some Scotch tape.”

I know my mother means well. “Not this time, Mother. I don't feel ready for it. I don't want to hurt your feelings.”

She has put the mixing bowl to soak and is washing her hands. “My feelings aren't hurt, I just hate to see you miss out on things you might enjoy.”

“I'll come another time. I'll spend some time writing in my journal while you're gone. Dr. Rowe wants me to keep it up.”

“I might be gone most of the afternoon. Will you be okay?”

“I'm a little groggy because of the increased dosage. I think I'll be fine, though.”

“You won't forget to take the cookies out? I've set the timer.”

“I'll probably forget, but the timer will remind me.”

After she leaves I take my journal and go to the balcony where the sun is weak against the chilly air. I cloak the old wool Navajo blanket around me like a cowl and wedge my chair back under the eaves. There are no towels draped over the railing.

I hope I'll be able to hear the timer from up here; it's very important. The scraggly Russian olive has lost all its leaves. It was forlorn when it had leaves, and now it's naked.

Then suddenly, I can think only of Luke.

Is he safe or is he captured? What will the authorities do to him when they capture him? If he does get away, will he spend his whole life running from predicaments? There was violence, I wonder if he is suffering; with my whole heart I hope not. I may never see him again; in fact, it's highly probable. It's so very, very odd, the sense of loss I feel.

I decide I'd better write these thoughts.

I take out the ballpoint pen and the doorbell rings. My heart begins a rapid pounding. I didn't see anyone approaching the apartment.

The doorbell is ringing and my mother is gone. I will have to answer it myself, there is no one else. What if the pounding turns to palpitations? Maybe the person will go away.

But it rings again and I rush downstairs. I crack the door and find that it is DeeDee. We hug each other and start talking. My cardiovascular system has returned to normal.

She wants to know how I'm doing.

“I think I'm doing better,” I say. “I get a better night's sleep. I have learned the meaning of the train dream. Dr. Rowe has increased my Mellaril and sometimes I feel groggy.”

“Are you home for good?”

“No, this is just a pass. I have to go back Monday. Dr. Rowe says I'm not ready to be discharged yet. Mother says we have to trust Dr. Rowe and take one day at a time.”

“I'm so sorry about what happened to you, Grace. We never talked about it when Miss Braverman and I visited you.”

She means about the Surlies. I look away.

“It was terrible what they did to you,” she says. “It was horrible.”

I can't look up. My stomach starts to swell. The halls at school are so long and there was the hot cigarette breath and there were hands tearing at my clothes. I swallow and take a deep breath.

“If MacFarlane found out, they would be expelled from school and they would probably go to jail. It's what they deserve. I don't want to butt in, Grace, but I would stand by you. It was De Wayne and Brenda and those hoods, wasn't it?”

I know she means well, but my stomach is twisted. “I can't say, DeeDee. I can't talk about this. Please, my mother asks me the same thing.”

“I'm really sorry, Grace. You know how I open my mouth sometimes. I'm really sorry. I don't want to say things that might hurt you.”

I look up and her eyes are bright, as if she has tears forming. Her hair is so lovely. “I was sick and you visited me,” I say. “You are a dear friend. You could never say anything wrong.” This could be a special moment. I would like to reach out and touch her. Dr. Rowe says it would be okay, but I don't have the nerve. I wish I could tell her more, how much her friendship means to me, how much she teaches me about trust.

But she says, “Can I change the subject? I brought you this.” She is giving me a folded piece of paper which turns out to be a handout on the science fair. I glance at the time of departure, the cost of meals, et cetera.

“You'll be out in time for the science fair, right? I hope so.”

“I'm not sure. This is only a week from now. If I'm not out, I think Dr. Rowe would let me have another pass.”

Then the timer goes off. It startles me. “The cookies are done,” I say. “There are cookies.”

I take the cookie sheets from the oven and set them on the counter. DeeDee calls from the living room: “Do you need any help?”

“No, thank you. These are chocolate chip cookies. In a few minutes we can eat some.”

“That sounds good to me.”

I am looking and looking at the cookies. So much order in the rows that are so regular. “Chocolate chip cookies are tollhouse cookies,” I call to her.

“I know.”

The rows are straight as arrows, up or down or diagonal, no matter which way you rotate the cookie sheets. So much geometry. And then I know, so suddenly and clearly it takes my breath away:

The hedges of Allerton. Luke is at Allerton Park.

It is vivid in my brain like a very sharp slide projected on a screen. He is at Allerton, in the sunken garden, where acoustics are so fine that sounds carry as easily as beams of light, where you can whisper at one end and be heard at the other.

I lean on the counter and begin deep breathing. He is at Allerton. How do I know this?

DeeDee is in the kitchen, with her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Grace? What's the matter?”

“I think I'm fine. I need a few deep breaths and I'll be fine.”

“You don't look fine. Sit down.”

We sit at the kitchen table and I blurt it out with no introduction: “DeeDee, I know where Luke is. I know exactly where he is.”

“It's like you're a million miles away. And who is Luke?”

“Who would think the knowledge could come from cookies?” As quickly as I can, I summarize about Luke and how he broke out of the lockup wing. I use my deep breathing to keep control.

“But you don't
know
he's there, you just think so.”

“I know he's there. I'm certain as anything.”

“How can you say that?”

“I can't explain it, I just know that he's there. It's amazing to me now. When I first met him I thought he was evil; he terrified me. I believed he was part of the Surly conspiracy. My voice warned me about him; that's the sickness. Maybe you know him—he goes to West High, or at least he used to.”

DeeDee shakes her head. “I don't know him.”

“The staff thinks he's a psychopath, but he's not; you have to know him beneath the surface. It's a tragic thing if a life is wasted because a person never gets a chance to be understood.”

DeeDee says if I'm so certain where he is, I should call the hospital staff or the authorities so they can bring him back.

“Oh, DeeDee, I couldn't. He would be in so much more trouble. He needs to come back on his own, for the right reasons.”

“What do you mean, the right reasons?”

“He has to trust somebody. He has to know that he can't spend his whole life running away from people in authority or rebelling against them. He has to know that everything will go better for him if he comes back on his own.” I get one of the warm, soft cookies for myself and two for DeeDee.

“Let's say you're right, and he is there. You can't really be certain, but let's say you're right. What's the point?”

It's hard for me to believe the next words that come out of my mouth: “I want to go get him. I want to bring him back.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can't force him to come back, I just want to convince him to come back on his own. DeeDee, please, I'm trying to ask you a huge favor. Would you drive me to Allerton?”

“That's almost two hours from here, isn't it?”

“Just about. It's so hard for me to ask for favors, DeeDee. I was pushy with the nurse on lockup. Please, I need this favor; I need to do this.”

“I'm supposed to drive you down there and bring him back in my car? When I don't even know him and you told me he's violent?”

“Not bring him back, just drop me off. He wouldn't come back with someone he doesn't know anyway.”

“Just drop you off? I'm sure.”

“You don't have to worry, I'll be fine.”

“You want me to drive you down there and leave you in the middle of nowhere? What kind of friend would I be?”

“It's not the middle of nowhere. I used to live there; I know all the grounds like the back of my hand.”

DeeDee is shaking her head. “Why don't you ask your mother to help you?”

“My mother wouldn't understand. She wouldn't want me to go near him, not after what those people at school did to me. She would call the hospital and tell them where to look for him, or she would tell me to forget it altogether. She would mean well, but that's what she would do.”

DeeDee is munching on her cookie. “Grace, you don't know what you're asking.”

“I do, though. Would you like another cookie?”

“No, thanks. Grace, this is such an impulse. Wouldn't it be a good idea to think it over for a day or two?”

I can feel tears forming in my eyes, but this is not the time for me to be crying. “Impulse is good for me. It may be the best thing possible. Besides, there isn't a day or two for thinking. It may be that Luke is hurt, and my pass is over tomorrow night.”

“You say impulse is good for you. How am I supposed to know it really is? And I'm not saying that to hurt your feelings.”

“I know. It grieves me to cause you this dilemma. The sickness brings so much data it paralyzes me. I can't act and I can't even think. The data comes all at once and I get scrambled. I wish I could explain it, but I can never find the words.”

DeeDee doesn't say anything, but she is listening.

“When the voice comes it is worse, because it changes all the data. I know it's good for me to act, when I know what to do. I know Luke is there, and I believe I can help him.”

“And what if he's not there? You don't think it's possible, but I do. Then what?”

“I would just stay overnight with Mr. and Mrs. Walters.”

“Who are they?”

“They're the Allerton caretakers; they live right on the grounds, and they know me. I'm sure they would even bring me back home, if it turns out I need a ride.”

“It isn't that I don't want to help you,” she says, “but I don't know what to do.”

My heart is in my mouth; maybe she's going to do it. Maybe she will drive me. To think it is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. “I feel bad putting you in this position,” I tell her, “but I really need to do this. I need to know the thing to do, and then do it.” I know my eyes are bright with tears, but I'm not going to cry.

For the longest time DeeDee looks at me without speaking. She finally says, “If I do this, am I being a real friend to you, or am I betraying you?”

“You are being my friend because you are helping me do the thing that needs to be done.”

The shiny Camaro whispers on the interstate like white noise. It's like riding on a cloud. DeeDee grips the steering wheel with both hands and gives the highway her undivided attention. I have given her a dilemma which is causing her much stress. I tell her I'm sorry.

“You don't have to apologize,” she says, without looking away from the road.

“I know how you feel. Luke asked me to help him escape from lockup but I couldn't do it.”

“The more you talk about him the more stressed out I get. Don't take it personally, but he sounds like a total hood. I don't like this feeling; I'm not used to it.”

“I understand, DeeDee. I feel guilty for asking you and you feel guilty for taking me. We both feel guilty.”

“It's not that I don't believe you. It's not that I think you're crazy.”

“I know.”

She is still looking exclusively at the road. She asks me if there will be people at Allerton.

“Not now. Not this time of year. They only have guests on holidays, once you get into October. But Luke will be there.”

“You think. You hope.”

I know she is not being quarrelsome, she is just expressing her conflict. “There are greenhouses at Allerton,” I tell her. “They are run by the university. They grow all kinds of flowers there, even tropical ones. In the summers, my father worked in the greenhouses. He had hands that could mold a sculpture or nurture an orchid.”

“You were really fond of him, weren't you?”

“Fond is one thing, but it's not good to be pathological. Dr. Rowe has helped me open my eyes. My father wasn't perfect. He could be impatient and he could be arrogant. It's important to know someone's imperfections and still love the person. When my dad died, he was cremated. The funeral home gave us the ashes in a brass urn, but I transferred the ashes to a clay pot my dad fired a long time ago. It's amazing that all of a person can fit into a pot no bigger than a Kool-Aid pitcher. I kept the pot next to my night-stand. Every morning I said my prayers beside it; I prayed for my father's soul, and Uncle Larry's, and anybody else I knew of who was suffering.”

“But it must be disappointing that he was cremated; you don't have a grave to visit.”

“I'm going to visit his grave now. That's where we're going.”