Prospect Street (7 page)

“Sure. I'll be looking for Lefty.”

Great. Her son was naming the resident vermin.

She peered out the sidelight and saw an unfamiliar woman standing on her doorstep. Faith unlocked the door. Turbanless and dressed in black crepe, the woman from the house next door looked very different, but Faith recognized her by the graceful length of her neck and her extraordinary cheekbones.

“Oh, hi. It's nice to—” She stopped. She didn't know what to say. As it turned out, it didn't matter.

“I've brought you a bottle of Scotch. Glenfiddich, to be exact. It's a good single malt. There's no point in any other kind under the circumstances. Bad Scotch will merely make you drunk—which might not be a bad idea, considering what you're facing here. But good Scotch will make you think all things are possible—which they aren't, of course, but I can guarantee you won't care one little bit.” She held out the bottle.

Faith, who didn't drink, reached for it. “Yes, well…”

“I'd like to come in and see exactly what's been going on.”

Faith stepped aside. “You're very welcome to come in, but the house is a true disaster.”

“No one knows that better than I.” The woman hesitated, then stepped forward. Her hair was wispy white and shoulder-length, and her skin, although deeply wrinkled, was beautifully cared for. “I can tell you exactly how it came to be such a disaster, but that's a story for another day.”

“I'm sorry, but I still don't know your name.”

“I can't understand why not. I'm Dottie Lee Fairbanks. I've lived in the house next door for eighty-one years, and they will have to carry me out on a stretcher. As cold and rigid as my doorknob.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Fairbanks?”

“Never Mrs. Only Dottie Lee, and please don't forget the Lee.”

“I'll remember.” Faith set the Glenfiddich on the bottom step of the staircase and trailed behind the woman, who walked with the gait of a much younger one. “And I'm Faith.”

“Yes, I know who you are. I've seen your husband on talk shows.”

Faith lowered her voice. “Ex-husband. Very soon.”

“Yes, well, he seemed nice enough, even if he's on the wrong side of every political debate. David Bronson is the perfect example of how an intelligent human being can be misled.”

“Misled?”

“He's against everything he should be for. Turn his politics backward and you have a perfect party platform. Your father, on the other hand, needs more than a 180-degree shift. He needs a lobotomy, does Joe Huston. I hope you've inherited your mother's level head, girl. Think for yourself. Think for yourself.”

Faith was too intrigued to be annoyed. “How well do you know my parents?”

“Better than I want to, particularly your father. Your mother?” In the middle of the dining room she stopped and grimaced. “Your mother is not the woman she was.”

Dottie Lee started forward, heading straight for Alex. “And who do we have here? Alex Bronson. Favors Joe a little, but better looking. Quite.”

Alex looked intrigued. “You're the lady next door.”

Dottie Lee laughed. “Oh, never that, young man. Never a lady. What a boring thing to be.”

Alex glanced at his mother, as if to ask what he should say next.

“And what do you think about living in this house, Alex Bronson?” Dottie Lee said. “What exactly do you think?”

“Well, I think it's better than living with my grandfather.”

“Joe? Of course it is. I see you wash windows, Alex Bronson. I've been watching you from outside. Would you like to come and wash mine once you're finished here?”

Alex looked at his mother. Faith shrugged.

“Sure,” he said. “But not for a while. There's a lot to do here. Not for weeks, maybe.”

“And you're helping your mother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Faith prompted him.

Dottie Lee shook her head. “Never a ma'am, either, although this is a Southern city, even if people sometimes forget it. You may call me Dottie Lee,” she told Alex.

“Okay, Dottie Lee.”

Faith held her tongue.

“And now I must be going. I'll save the upstairs for my next visit. This is quite enough for one day.” She pivoted and started quickly back through the house. Faith trailed her.

“I have tea every Wednesday afternoon at four,” Dottie Lee said. “It's a civilized custom, even if it is associated with the English. You'll be ready for a break about then. I'll expect you and the children.” She opened the door.

“I'm not sure we can—”

Dottie Lee turned. “Faith, there are few rules for life on Prospect Street. One of them is never to turn down my invitations.” Then she smiled.

Faith was sure the room had brightened fifty kilowatts. The smile was magnificent. “We'll be there. Or Alex and I will be. I don't know if my daughter will be coaxed out of her room.”

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Unfortunate.” Dottie Lee nodded, then she turned and started down the steps.

Faith watched her go and wondered about the other rules for life on Prospect Street.

L
unch didn't go well. Remy found nothing to tempt her appetite at Booeymonger, a small Prospect Street deli several blocks away. She sipped bottled water while Faith and Alex dove into sandwiches the size of paperback dictionaries. On the way back, Faith tried unsuccessfully to point out landmarks. Cafe Milano, one of the city's talked-about restaurants. The lovely and gracious Prospect House, once used to house foreign dignitaries. Remy was unimpressed.

A block from their house, Remy finally spoke. “There's that man again.” She froze midstep and pointed. “He's digging through the trash. That's sick.”

Despite the hot weather, the man in question was dressed in overalls and a sweatshirt. He was bearded, with grizzled hair that straggled past his chin, but even though he was old enough to be spending his waning years on a Florida golf course, he appeared—at least from a distance—to be a healthy weight for his large frame.

Faith and David had struggled to instill compassion and sensitivity to the plight of others in their children. As a family they had always celebrated Thanksgiving by preparing dinner
at a local shelter. Remy and Alex had grown up fashioning table decorations from construction paper, and serving turkey and dressing to people just like this.

Now she realized that seeing the homeless in a warm, safe environment had made them more palatable. The children had probably gone away every year believing that one good meal had almost cured the problem.

“The only sick part,” she said carefully, “is that he has no other way to take care of himself.”

“He could get a job.”

Since Faith had heard that sentiment from older and more influential people, she couldn't fault Remy. “Not easily.”

Alex reached for his mother's arm. “Do you think he's looking for food?”

“Probably something he can sell.”

“He might be hungry.”

“He might be.” Faith waited to see what her son would do.

“He
ought
to get a job.” Remy had progressed in her thinking.

“He has one, Remy,” Faith pointed out. “Whether you approve or not. He's doing what he can to support himself.”

“I'm going to see if he's hungry,” Alex said. “He might want a sandwich. I'll tell him how good the sub is.”

The homeless were not stray dogs to be fed in back alleys and petted if they came close enough. They deserved respect and sometimes, like all human beings, caution. But Alex also deserved a chance to feed a hungry stranger. Faith was torn.

“We'll go with you,” she said.

“Not me.” Remy stepped back. “No way.”

“Fine. Here's the key. We'll meet you at home.”

“What's wrong with you? He might be dangerous.”

“We'll meet you at home.”

“It's not my home!” Remy grabbed the key and crossed the street, giving the homeless man a wide berth.

“Come on.” Alex started toward the man, and Faith followed close behind.

He stopped just before he reached the can where the man
continued to sort the trash. “Hi,” Alex said. “Find anything neat in there?”

It wasn't the way Faith would have opened the conversation. The man straightened, frowning. He stared at Alex for a long time before he spoke. “This is my can.”

“Oh, I don't want anything. I just wondered.”

The man's gaze flicked to Faith. “He's yours?”

She nodded. “No question.”

He looked surprised at her smile; then his frown faded a little. “Then you tell him I'm busy.”

“I would, but he's incorrigible. He wants to ask you something.”

Alex moved closer. “I just ate this great sandwich from the deli.” He pointed. “I thought you might like one. Would you let me buy it? We're new here, and I saw you the other day and I thought—”

The man took a step closer. “You thought what?”

“Well, I thought you might be hungry. I'm always hungry.”

Faith put her hand on her son's shoulder. “We don't want to bother you. Really. Alex just thought—”

“Alex? Your name's Alex?”

Alex nodded. “Uh-huh. What's yours?”

“Alec.”

Alex grinned. “That's going to make things hard. People are going to get us mixed up. Cool.”

Alec looked up at Faith as if he couldn't believe she had given birth to this child. “He always like this?”

“Pretty nearly.”

He turned his attention back to her son. “What kind of sandwich?”

“Whatever you want. I had the sub, and it was this big.” He spread his hands to demonstrate.

“Now, that's funny, because the sub is my favorite, too.”

“No way. On a roll?”

“No other kind, to my way of thinking.”

“Would you like a Coke, too?”

“You're reading my mind.”

Faith wondered if Alec was really hungry, or if he just wanted to make her son happy. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he was helping
them.
“Can we get you anything else?”

“That'll do.”

“We'll be right back.” Alex started back toward the deli. Faith lingered a moment.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Their eyes met. He shrugged a little. “Some things ought to be encouraged.” Then he went back to digging and sorting.

 

By four o'clock Faith was ready to quit. They had done what they could, and the rest would have to wait until the floors were finished. She had been sorely tempted to begin removing wallpaper, but a few forays in that direction had been fruitless. Despite being decades thick, even the top layers didn't peel off. She was going to have to read up on the process, and the job was going to require the patience of Job.

Alex was grumpy, too. They had made a tentative attempt at investigating the attic, but the absence of lightbulbs, a midafternoon thunderstorm that had robbed them of sunshine, and a flashlight low on power had meant little progress. Faith had seen enough to know they had their work cut out for them. Just removing the trash could take days.

“We won't give up on it,” she promised, as they washed faces and hands and tried to make themselves presentable for afternoon tea. “I promise we'll get to it as soon as we can. I need to put some boxes up there myself.”

“How many boxes?”

Faith was determined not to hang on to all the minutiae of her life with David, but there were things the children might want someday. She hugged him hard as he continued to grumble. “I don't know. But it's a big attic. We can work it out.”

She decided to make one more attempt to get Remy, who had already said no, to accompany them next door. Upstairs,
Faith knocked on Remy's door, counted to five and opened it. She was surprised to see that her daughter had cleaned and swept and washed the two windows that looked toward the river. The thunderstorm had passed, and sunlight glistened through the panes.

“Hey, it's looking better. Did you make a stab at removing the wallpaper?”

“Like I care.”

“It's pretty awful.” Faith traced a peeling seam. She wondered who had chosen the floral print. It wasn't old enough to be charming or new enough to brighten the room. Sad sprigs of tulips dotted corridors of wide black lines. There was evidence of masking tape and thumbtacks all over the walls, as if someone had tried to cover as much of it as he could with posters.

“This was my sister's nursery,” she said, when Remy didn't answer. “There's probably a baby pattern under this somewhere. Old-fashioned storks, or teddy bears…”

“You mean this is the room where the kidnapping happened?”

Faith wished she'd thought before she spoke. “That was a long time ago.”

“I don't want to live in here.”

“I'm sure Alex will trade. This is a nicer room, and he was generous to let you have it.”

“His room has the entrance to the attic. That's the only reason he took it.”

Faith waited.

“I don't want those stairs anywhere near my room. Who knows what's up there?”

“Then you'll have to stay here, I guess.”

“You think this is funny, don't you?”

Faith leaned against the wall. “I think you've had a tough break. We all have, and it's not going to be funny at any point along the way. But that doesn't mean that eventually we can't be happy here. We're allowed.”

“I'm never going to be happy again.” For once Remy's tone was something other than defiant. She sounded genuinely sad.

Faith was touched and worried, but she knew better than to put her arms around her daughter. “I know that's the way it feels right now.”

“How can you think it's going to be any different?”

“Because the things that are most important in your life haven't changed. You still have a family that loves you—”

“I don't have a father.”

“Yes, you do, and he loves you every bit as much as he did when he was living with us.”

“I don't want to see him again. Not ever.”

Faith moved on. “I had the strangest feeling today when I was cleaning downstairs. This house belonged to generations of women in our family. They lived here, loved here.” She didn't add that some had probably died here, although she suspected as much. Lydia had never acquainted Faith with family history.

Remy looked dubious as Faith continued. “I was thinking that other women, women who helped make us what we are, probably began new lives here, too. We know one terrible thing happened in this house, but we don't know anything else. And this is our heritage, yours and mine. We should find out, and we should make this a happy house again.”

“That's so lame.”

Faith had to smile. “Okay, it sounds lame. I'll tell you the truth. Sometimes I feel like I'm just hanging on by my fingernails, and I'll dig them into anything that gives me hope.”

Remy focused on the last word. “How could somebody just carry off a baby that way? The windows are so high….”

“Nobody knows how it happened. But not through your windows. Certainly not in broad daylight.”

“They aren't
my
windows.”

“Are you sure you don't want to go next door with us?”

“Just leave me alone.”

Faith resisted the urge to smooth her daughter's hair.

 

Dottie Lee Fairbanks liked red, brilliant Oriental-red, and brassy, eye-torturing gold. She liked mahogany and rosewood carved into fanciful dragons and serpents, and furniture so massive it dwarfed the rooms of her house. She liked anything that gleamed or menaced, and apparently despised the ordinary. Because there was nothing ordinary in her house. Nothing at all.

“Do you like dogs?” she asked Alex, as he stepped through the doorway.

“Sure. Everybody likes dogs.”

“Well, you might not like mine.” She thrust two fingers between her lips and gave such a piercing whistle that it was all Faith could do not to cover her ears.

A pint-sized Chihuahua arrived on cue and proceeded to bare its seed-pearl teeth at Alex. He ignored the warning growls, got down on all fours before Faith could stop him and barked back. The dog backed up a foot—which considering its size took a few moments—then dropped to its mini-haunches and eyed the boy.

“A sensible child,” Dottie Lee said. “I see I didn't misjudge you.”

“Here, boy,” Alex said, holding out his hand. The Chihuahua frowned, an expression Faith wouldn't have believed if she hadn't seen it herself.

“Girl,” Dottie Lee informed him. “Nefirtiti. Titi for short.”

“Here, Titi.”

Titi considered, then launched her three pounds in Alex's direction. He caught her, tucked the dog under his arm and got to his feet. “Have you met Alec, Dottie Lee?”

“If you mean Alec, the Can Man, yes, of course I have.”

“Alec, the Can Man?” Faith followed Dottie Lee through several centuries of priceless Chinese antiques to the back of her house. Dottie Lee's dining room stretched along the back, illuminated by floor to ceiling windows. She had a clear view of the Kennedy Center and the Watergate, as well as a stunning
view of Key Bridge. The table was imposing, too, but now that the storm had passed, natural light streaming into the room tamed it like a lion snoozing in the sunshine.

“That's what he calls himself. He used to sleep in your basement, you know.”

“He did?” Alex joined them. Titi's eyes were closed, as if she had already fallen asleep.

“Until he found a better one.”

“Where?”

“I believe he sleeps in mine,” Dottie Lee said. “When it's cold, that is. He prefers sleeping outdoors when the weather allows for it.”

“How does he get in?” Alex said.

“I leave a window unlocked. We don't discuss it, of course.”

Faith was still coming to terms with the fact that her own basement hadn't been nice enough. “It's a difficult life. He's not a young man.”

“He eats well. Some of the restaurants on the street give him leftovers at the end of the day. He gets clothes at the end of the school term, when the students are moving out. He's still strong as a bull.”

“Why does he live that way?” Alex plopped into a dining room chair after Dottie Lee pointed to one.

“He drinks.” Dottie Lee motioned Faith to a seat across the table. “A lot.”

“Oh.” Alex rubbed Titi's ears. “Can't he just stop?”

“Have you tried it, boy?”

Alex shook his head. “Does he know how bad it is for him?”

“Who would know better?”

Alex considered that. “I'm going to fix up our basement.”

Faith moved on quickly. “Did you pick up all this extraordinary furniture on your travels, Dottie Lee?”

“Not a stick of it. I was never much for travel. There's very little of the world I can't find right here on Prospect Street. But I knew men who did, of course. And they knew what I liked.”