The Book of James (17 page)

Her face, when she looked back at me, had taken on the same

blank expression it had when she had come in. She moved in a

slow, robotic way down the steps to the tunnel.

I sat down hard on the sofa. My insides were shaking. The only

feeling I could conjure up at that moment was anger. My initial

shock and sadness had transformed itself into anger. Pure, heated anger. It blinded me from feeling much else. Nick had lied to me, but it was more than that. He’d distrusted me with vital information, and it wasn’t about the money, at least not all of it. I tried to THE BOOK
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imagine how I would’ve reacted if he’d told me about his mother

and about his large inheritance. If he’d told me the truth about his past. If he’d told me we could never have the money when we’d

been so broke, would I have understood? Probably not.

As much as I wanted to gather my belongings and leave that

place, I knew I couldn’t. The loose ends of my marriage were lying all about. And every time I thought I’d collected the last one,

twenty more appeared before me. There were so many things I still needed to do: put the box back and search Nick’s room a little better, maybe look through that office I’d seen upstairs, get the mail from Samantha, find the old gardener if I could, try and find Nick’s father’s friend, and develop that film I’d taken from the camera.

That little roll might hold all the answers.

Cora sat on the edge of her bed, her hands shaking. She had to calm herself down and remember what was important. Color blazed

from the drawings hung on the wal s around her. She reached out

and clutched one, bright with red and yellow crayon. Nick had just been learning how to mix colors to get the exact shade he wanted.

They had been sitting out back on the terrace drinking lemonade

while he scribbled on paper. It was late spring, she remembered;

the flowers were forming buds.

Nick had finished his picture that day and handed it to her.

She’d held on to it with both hands, afraid the wind would blow

it away. That was the first one she’d taped to her wal . She wanted it where she could see it. It eased her mind to see the joy in his drawings when she went to bed. She could even see them in the

dark when the moon was right. She could tell you anything you

wanted to know about any of them: how old he was when he drew

it, what he was wearing, the expression on his face, where in the house it was done. She was so afraid of losing him she didn’t know how else to hold on.

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One afternoon, Bradford had dared to saunter into her bed-

room as if it were his own. He’d stopped in the middle of the room and stared. Cora came around the corner and halted. He never

visited her private wing, and now he’d seen her obsession up close.

He reached for a drawing and pulled it from the wal . “What is

this?” He turned in a circle. “What the hel , Cora?”

Her marriage to Bradford fell into two distinct eras. Before

Edward’s death and after Edward’s death. They both understood

what the contract of marriage expected of them. Act appropri-

ately. Live under the same roof, more or less. Produce offspring.

Everything had been accomplished by the time of Edward’s pass-

ing. Bradford had no need to live in Chestnut Hill any longer. Three weeks after Edward’s funeral, he’d moved most of his belongings

into an apartment near his office in Philadelphia.

He only came to the house when it was planned. For birthdays

or holidays, for outings, and occasional y to indulge his love of photography. There was no better place for that than the darkroom in the tunnels. Even with his comings and goings, he rarely went

upstairs.

So Cora was stunned to see him standing in the middle of her

shrine to Nick. “What are you doing up here?”

“Looking for you. To tell you I’m leaving for Germany and that

business may keep me there for the rest of the year.” He seemed

mesmerized by the colors on the wal . “But now I’m worried that

maybe I need to postpone it.”

“For what?”

Bradford lingered. “I have more than a little concern about

this.” He waved his arm around. “Given the things that have transpired over the past few months. So you know, McBride will be

keeping an eye on things. My interests. On you.” He inclined his

head toward her. “It’s like without Edward you’re out of control.”

Cora folded her arms. “William will not be coming here today

or any other day. So he’ll be keeping an eye from a distance.”

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ELLEN J. GREEN

“Be aware.” Bradford’s head was down, considering his words

careful y. “I’ve given him some limited power of attorney over my affairs while I’m gone. He can file custody motions in court to

have—”

Cora wanted to choke him but stood stil . “You will never take

my son.”

Bradford gave a sad smile. “That’s just it, Cora. Son? Real y? If I so much as hear a word while I’m gone, even a hint that something has happened, that there is a mark—”

Cora had her hands clasped over her ears. “I’m not listening.

Do not come to my house and threaten me. Virginia is right across the way. Contact her while you’re away. Leave William out of this.”

Bradford turned to go. “And if you make accusations in court, I

will fight you. With all I have, I will fight you. Father would never have stood to have a grandson removed from this property,” she

said to Bradford’s back.

Bradford hesitated only slightly. “And I will fight you in return.

I’m going downstairs to say good-bye to Edward’s progeny.”

Soon she watched Bradford’s black sedan head down the drive

toward the front gate.

That day, she’d been terrified Bradford would take her child.

Drag him from the house and prevent her from being a part of

his life. Cora clutched her chest now when it struck her, for the hundredth time that hour, that Nick was never coming home. She

could wait all day for the rest of her life. No car was ever going to bring him back through that gate again. Not alive.

She raised herself up from the bed and secured the picture to

the wall exactly as it had been. The she drew the white gloves onto her hands and prepared to take her car for the biweekly drive.

The thick, suffocating Philadelphia air was changing into some-

thing more moderate, comfortable. A bit crisp, just a hint of chill in the air. A few orange-gold leaves had already dropped from the trees, scattering across the lawn. I walked the front grounds, my head bowed, deep in thought, when the sound of a car startled me

back to reality. I ducked behind a tree and watched.

Cora was seated behind the wheel of an old black Buick. It

looked like an early sixties model, but it had been kept all shiny and new in the carriage-house garage. She sat up straight behind

the wheel and wore a little round hat on her head; she faced for-

ward with a purposeful look on her face.

Now was my chance. I watched her until the gate closed behind

her, then I headed for my room. Grabbing the box from behind the

sofa, I went through the tunnels back to the main house. I got the feeling that every time I passed through them they got smaller, and that at some point they would close in on me altogether.

The main part of the house was dark, dreary, even in the after-

noon, but I knew the layout well enough to get to the kitchen

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ELLEN J. GREEN

without much light. The kitchen, however, was bright; the windows allowed sunlight to pour in, casting shadows across the counters.

I ignored it and climbed the stairway very careful y. When I

got to the room that I knew was Nick’s, the knob wouldn’t turn.

The handle jiggled back and forth but wouldn’t open. I stood there, box under my arm, unsure what to do. I hadn’t anticipated this.

I went to the next door and tried the handle. If I was right, this had to be Cora’s room. I had no choice but to go through to get

to Nick’s room to put the box back. If I didn’t, Cora might notice it missing, if she hadn’t already. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. If there was one bedroom I had no desire to see, it was Cora’s.

I held my breath and entered.

My brain told me to keep going, find the adjoining door and

put the box back, but my feet wouldn’t move. The entire surface of the wal s from floor to ceiling were covered with papers, taped up neatly so they didn’t overlap.

My eyes were adjusting to the dim light coming through the

window, and at first I could only discern different shades of gray.

As the colors separated and solidified, I realized what I was seeing: a shrine to Nick’s childhood. Baby pictures, his first scratchings with crayon on paper, attempts at writing the alphabet, pages from a coloring book neatly cut out and pasted up—it went on and on

across the wal . The crayon drawings got better as he got older, and then they eventual y became pen and ink, charcoal, watercolors.

There was even one from high school that looked to be a crude

design for a building. His budding talent as an architect, immor-

talized in this room.

Seeing it in the dim sunlight was dizzying enough. I was

tempted to flick the switch, to see the full assault of color, but the room faced the front of the house. Cora might see it even in the

daylight if she pulled through the gate.

My mouth was dry, and I felt sick. I stumbled backward and

forced myself to open the adjoining door. There was no lock on

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it, no barrier to get into Nick’s room. The one door where there

should have been a lock, there wasn’t.

I squirreled the box away in the closet, exactly where it had

been. Then I leaned against the wall briefly and closed my eyes. I tried to remember breathing techniques I’d learned when I’d gone

through a yoga phase a few years ago. In through my nose, hold

four seconds, and out through my mouth. Or was it the other way

around?

It didn’t matter, because no air was going into my lungs any-

way. Things started to spin, and I was afraid for a minute that I might faint and Cora would find me there. I went back through

Cora’s room and out into the hal way. It was then that I heard footsteps in the foyer. Unmistakable, heavy footsteps. The main stairway that led to the foyer was at the end of this hal way. If she came upstairs, she’d see me in a few minutes. She must have taken the

car out and just driven once around the block.

By the grace of God, the doorknob across the hall turned under

my hand when I twisted it. I was in the office that I had seen the last time I was up here. I leaned against the wall behind the door and waited. Straining to hear any sounds coming from the other

side, I pressed my ear against the door, but my heart was beating so loud and fast it drowned out all other sounds. The
swoosh swoosh
in my chest came so fast and hard, I was sure I was going to die.

There was no way out. I was on the second floor facing the

back of the house. Even if I could have climbed out the window,

there was nothing to hold on to to scale to the ground. The only

way out was the door that led back into the hal way. If I went back out that door, I would surely get caught.

After standing in the corner until my muscles were rigid, I sat

down in a heap, my back to the wal . The room was dark, but I

could see the desk, the filing cabinet, a typewriter. No computers or modern inventions here. The fact that there was electricity in this house surprised me.

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ELLEN J. GREEN

I was so weary I thought I might weep. As the minutes passed,

some of my anxiety dissipated slightly, and I realized there had

been no sounds from the other side of the door for a while. I stood and tiptoed to the window. The woods were there in the distance.

A far-off light was visible through the trees. The Cooper house.

Was Ginny sound asleep, sedated, in one of those rooms? For some

strange reason, that light brought me comfort. Civilization was out there, not too far away.

I turned around and took stock of my situation. The opportu-

nity had availed itself to look around, so I went over to the desk.

The top drawer slid out almost noiselessly. It was as neat and organized as the rest of the house. It held just a calendar and some

personal financial records. I pulled them out and sat down in the chair, spreading them before me. The calendar was filled with

appointments and to-do notes. I held them close to my eyes and

squinted to read the print, but the dim light that came from the

window was insufficient.

Pushing the calendar aside, I perused Cora’s financial records.

Blue ledger books were used to record all checks written every

month. There were four in al . A metal box held canceled checks

and bank statements. I opened the cover of the book and skimmed

through the entries. The print was very small and neat, which

afforded maximum use of the space. The first entry was dated 6/86; the entries ran through to the present. I put it down and picked

up the one underneath it. It began in 9/78. Under each month,

check numbers and amounts were listed. The other side of the page contained corresponding names and addresses. I looked down the

list. The usual utility bil s, car-insurance payments, and credit-card bil s. I turned the page. Cora had made out a rather sizeable check every month to a Mr. Ralph Simpson, 413 Crescent Lane,