The Book of James (32 page)

It was odd for her, being so close to civilization.

“Cora, what happened to James?”

Her voice, those words, startled Cora. They hadn’t ever been

said before out loud. “What?” She stared at Ginny long and hard.

Ginny was the weak link to everything. Harrison kept his sis-

ter in check, medicated, but sometimes she would just start bab-

bling, like now.

“He was gone one day, but where did he go? Where did he

go?” She was talking to herself. “Do you know what I was think-

ing, Cora? If James were still alive, we would know by now. I used to think he would come home. That someone had taken him, but

that’s probably not the truth. He’s probably dead. That poor little thing.”

Cora had taken a sip from her iced tea, but she spit it back into the glass. “Why are you bringing this all up now?”

“I was thinking so much about Nick dying, and then I thought

about James. That child was just forgotten. I never forgot, though, even though it’s been over twenty-five years. I can’t imagine what happened to him. The last time I saw him—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Cora felt hot anger burning

through her. She’d not so much as mentioned that boy’s name in

years, and now this. Reminiscing like it was common knowledge.

“He was leaving my house,” Ginny said in her singsong voice,

“that last afternoon that I saw him. The two boys had been over

here.” She sat up as if things were getting clearer in her mind. “I’ll never forget those blue eyes looking back at me when he went to

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the fence. He looked so sad. If I had only grabbed him up and kept him here with me . . .”

“Enough!”

“The day the police came, poor Bradford had just gotten back

from Munich that week. Remember? He’d been gone on and off

for—what? A couple of years? And then just when he came back,

James disapp—”

“We’ve spent years trying to get past all this!” Cora screamed.

“It was a terrible time. Bringing it up always leads to something bad. Always. So stop talking to that girl, do you hear me?”

“Munich. Just back for about three days or so. Poor Bradford,

what a welcome home. You gave birth to two boys. Now both boys

are gone. Both dead. Both dead . . .” Her mind had wandered off.

“Stop this, Virginia. Don’t so much as mention a word about

that child to Mackenzie. Do you understand?” Ginny stared off

into space. Cora took the glass out of the older woman’s hand.

“Virginia, I’m talking to you. Not a word. I want you to shut your mouth. Just shut your mouth. Can you do that?” Her voice was

rising again with each syl able. “Don’t even see that girl again, do you hear me?”

She needed to make sure the woman understood. But Ginny

was still staring off into the distance, awash in memories. Cora

grabbed her hand. Ginny instinctively pulled away, but Cora held

tightly to one finger until there was a snapping sound. Ginny

screamed in pain.

Cora released her grip and leaned toward Ginny’s ear.

“Remember, not a word,” she whispered.

El a rushed out onto the porch. “What happened?”

“Oh, my finger! She broke it!” Ginny was bent over, clutching

her hand.

As Cora fiddled with the catch on the makeshift gate, the metal

wet from the rain, she heard Ginny’s whimpering cries. She hoped

that the pain was making its way through her frazzled brain and

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that she understood the message. She didn’t want to have to make

another visit to that house.

That iced tea was terrible.

We stood in the photo gallery. Dylan was spooked. It was the first time he’d seen the tunnels.

“You get used to them,” I said.

My back was to him. He’d stopped at his house and changed

into jeans and a navy-blue sweatshirt. I was at the sink, getting out the chemicals I needed. He aimed the tiny beam of light at the pictures; shadows danced off the wal s. Nick’s past life, il uminated in fragments. We didn’t want to turn on the overhead light because it might act as a beacon to Cora.

“I can’t believe you’ve been wandering down here alone. It’s

like something you’d see in a movie. Hurry up,” he whispered.

“I’m going as fast as I can.” I signaled him to turn off his

flashlight.

It was so dark I wouldn’t have known anyone was with me if it

weren’t for his uneven breaths against my hair. He was more scared than I was. I pulled the film from the cartridge and wound it onto the reel, feeling with my fingers as I went.

“Relax, Dylan—as soon as I get this on right, I can put on the

red lights.”

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I could hear the fabric of the sofa as he sat down. The air in

this room was usual y cold, but this afternoon it felt warm. I blew strands of hair out of my way and wiped at my face with my arm.

After the canister was clicked into place, I snapped the red light on and began bathing the film in chemicals.

“Your father would kill you if he saw you now, sitting here,

under this house in a dark room with me. He told me to leave you

alone.”

He laughed. “Yeah, wel , fuck my father. I’m tired of taking his

orders.”

Agitating, rinsing, and bathing the film took time. Final y, I set the timer and sat next to him on the sofa.

“Where is James, do you think?” I asked. “Disappeared or

dead?”

“Probably living in Hoboken. Working in a hoagie shop.

Oblivious to all of this.” He laughed. “Imagine that?”

I broke up into laughter and then collected myself. “Shhh,

Cora might be in the house.”

The timer went off, and I clipped the strip to the line to dry.

Every minute that passed felt heavy. Pregnant with possibilities. I kept my eye on the door, expecting it to open. Then I’d check the negatives, waiting for images to become clear.

Final y they were dry enough for me to hold them to the light

and make out images. “Dylan, come here.”

All six shots in front of me were of a child. In one his face was splotched, maybe bruised. One was of his bare back. It was striped with dark lines so that he looked like a zebra.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Marks.” His voice was low with anger. “Belt marks on his

back? Bruises on his face?”

I squinted up into the negative. “Hard to tell until they’re made into pictures, but it looks like James. Bradford or someone was

taking pictures of the abuse?”

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A closer shot of the face showed eyes so large and the area so

dark they had to have been blackened. I pointed at the shadows.

“His eyes have been beaten in? And blood? Does that look like

blood? Right here?” I pointed under the nose area and then low-

ered the negative. I felt sick and wobbled slightly.

Dylan went to the cabinet and opened drawers until he found

an envelope. He grabbed the negatives from me and stuffed them

inside. I had trouble breathing. Cora had beaten James repeatedly and violently. I knew the child had been gone for over twenty-five years—so however he’d been wronged, it was long over. But no

amount of time would heal these wounds.

“I don’t think James is in Hoboken. We’re getting out of here

now.” Dylan grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door.

It was raining when we got outside. Dylan stuffed the roll under

his shirt, and we ran through the clearing to the woods.

I stopped halfway and headed off the main path to a secluded

spot. I rested my back against a tree trunk.

“What?” Dylan was a bit breathless when he reached my side.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t know. There’s something about these woods.” I sunk

down to the ground, my back resting against the bark.

“Yeah, something horrible. They belong to Cora.” He followed

my lead and took a seat next to me. “Let’s go back to my house.”

I shook my head. “Not yet.” Drops of rain made their way

through the branches and landed on my shoulder. His head was

only inches from mine. My lungs were heavy, my breaths labored.

“She beat the shit out of that child. Maybe tortured him—and my

husband watched it, growing up? Did she beat Nick too? Lock him

in a room? Punch him? Whip him?” My voice cracked. “Is that

who I married? And I never knew?”

“Mackenzie.” He put his hand on my arm.

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“I’ve seen so many patients over the years who were abused.

None of them are normal. None. They suffer from nightmares,

flashbacks. They don’t trust anyone. They use drugs. Cut them-

selves. The worse the abuse, the worse the symptoms.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t get it. My husband was normal. There was noth-

ing. I’ve been thinking about our marriage, our life together, our conversations. There was nothing, Dylan.” I turned slightly. “Yes, he was closed off. Not always the warmest person. But he could

be. Very kind. Gentle. Funny.” I rubbed my hand over my face.

“How?” I felt a tear on my cheek. “Could I have not known? I’m

an idiot.”

“Let’s go.” He pulled me up.

The rain had subsided a little by the time we reached his back

porch. We dropped onto the wet glider and looked up at the dark

sky. There was nothing there, no stars or moon. Just blackness.

Neither of us said anything for a minute. I glanced over at him

and caught him looking back at me. Both of us were wet. I could

feel the bottom of my pants, cold against the glider.

“Don’t worry about it, Mackenzie. We’re both idiots.”

“Why are you an idiot?” We were sitting so close our legs were

touching.

“For sitting outside in the rain when I could be inside with a

glass of bourbon.”

It was so stupid it made me laugh. His face was right there, his

mouth with the tiny freckle just below. I leaned over and put my

lips on his. I felt the softness of his mouth and the wetness of the rain coming down on us. I moved closer to him when I felt something large and hard jab into my leg. I looked down.

“Sorry to disappoint—it’s the roll of pictures.”

I started laughing so hard the glider began to shake. I leaned

in to kiss him again, but he put both hands on my shoulders and

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pushed me back. I felt like a bigger idiot. “I know. I’m not your type,” I whispered.

“And what’s my type?”

“The blonde perfect type, tal , thin, born into a good family,

sophisticated. Excellent taste and can set a proper dinner table.” I breathed. “Someone who . . .”

He leaned in and caught my eye. “Is this another one of your

lists?”

“Someone who loves cricket,” I continued.

“What is it with you and cricket?”

“Someone who goes to wine-tasting parties for the socializa-

tion. And organizes fund-raising campaigns. And sleeps in a pei-

gnoir. Whatever the hell that is.”

He bowed his head and laughed. “No, my type only wears

faded jeans, and she swears at me all the time. She does the most abnormal things like climbing over wal s or crawling on her hands and knees through woods and dirt. She gets shit stuck in her hair and has this fixation with cricket. And she has to drive a real y, real y crappy car.”

He reached out and touched my arm. “Oh, wait, and she gets

these wild impulses to go spelunking in old, decrepit tunnels.”

I smiled. “Touché. But it’s been fun, huh?”

“It has.” He took my hand. “I just need to do two things.” He

pulled at my wedding band and dropped it onto the glider beside

me. “That has to go. It’s been bothering me that you’re still wearing it.”

“What’s the other?”

“Let me do this.” He pulled me onto him so that I straddled his

legs. His hand wrapped around the back of my head and he kissed

me. I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d been carrying around

with me until then. I col apsed into his arms until he stood up and led me inside.

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My wet clothes lay in a heap on the floor when we dropped

onto his bed. I had all this energy, anger swirling around inside me. Images flashed in front of me like a slide show. Nick, the night before the day he died. It was late. I’d woken up to find him standing by the bed staring down at me. Green eyes, not tender, not

angry, just intense. It had startled me. I looked up. Green eyes

weren’t on me now; they were blue. Blue eyes, and he was reaching for me.

His hands were soft and damp. He was shuddering—from

the cold or nerves, I didn’t know. I felt him enter me, the bed hitting the wall with every thrust. I wrapped myself around him and

threaded my fingers through his black hair. When we were fin-

ished, he rolled off onto his back.

I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of thunder in the

distance, the rain beating against the windows. I could hear his

heavy breaths alternating with mine. He was suddenly up and

gone, returning minutes later from the bathroom and wrapping

his arms around me. The sheets were a bit damp from our bodies,

and I moved to get comfortable. His hair had separated into a million black ringlets.

The slide show in my brain continued. Nick and me in bed.

I had tried to coax a softer, slower experience from him. He was

always frenzied, too fast, almost angry in his lovemaking. But this time he had given me what I wanted and then left the room, just

as Dylan had now. But Nick never came back to bed that night. I