The Book of James (9 page)

I walked to the window and looked out at the garden in the

back of the house. The small figure of a woman stood just within

the edge of the woods. She was staring at the house.

“Cora, I think your friend is back.”

THE BOOK
of
JAMES

69

Cora joined me. She shook her head. “Don’t be frightened

by her. She’s harmless enough. She grew up in that house right

through the woods and tends to find herself back here all the time.

I’ve even found her walking about inside this house. Her brother, Harrison, is taking care of her for now, but she might require a

full-time nurse pretty soon. Her mind wanders so.” Cora’s head

jerked suddenly to me. “Please don’t tell her about Nick. I want to tell her in my own way. She and Nick were very close, and I’m not sure how she’ll react.”

“Of course,” I responded.

Cora walked through the living room and exited through the

French doors. I stood by the window and watched her cross the

large clearing to the edge of the woods. Ginny stood in the same

spot, simply staring at the house, until Cora approached her and

the two began to talk. I was about to turn away when I heard a

sharp tone. Ginny’s face was contorted in anger.
Maybe she’s telling
her about Nick
, I thought. I couldn’t hear their words, but the conversation was clearly becoming more heated when Cora suddenly

put one hand on the woman’s back and the other on her frail arm

and rather roughly encouraged her back through the woods.

I watched them disappear into the foliage, certain that the

older woman and I would become acquainted over the next week.

She looked brimming with all kinds of information about Cora,

Nick, and possibly someone named James.

I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom to unpack my belongings,

but my eyelids felt heavy. The bed was comfortable and inviting; I shut my eyes and listened to the sound of wind against the panes, letting my mind wander.

Images of people crowded into the dank hal ways below flick-

ered through my thoughts. Men, women, and children huddled

together, trying to stay warm. The frightened murmurs of hushed

voices called to me. The smell of sweat, urine, and fear filled my nostrils.

I woke, heart pounding, to complete darkness. The only light

in the room came from the il uminated face of the clock on the

nightstand. It was past six o’clock. Everything ached as if I had slept too long, and it took a second for me to get my bearings.

Before I’d reached the window, things came back to me.

“Cora’s house,” I mumbled.

Lightning split the sky wide open; rain beat against the win-

dows. I put my head to the glass and looked out into the distance.

I had always loved storms as a child. The sky lit up again and il uminated the grounds and the woods at the edge of the clearing.

THE BOOK
of
JAMES

71

So much land. So isolated. I wanted to go to the main house to

find Cora, but cutting through the yard to the front was out of the question. My only choice was to go back through the tunnels and

try to find that marble staircase.

The tunnels were dark, the wal s cool and slightly damp to the

touch. A single lightbulb lit the walkway. I followed the path in the same direction I had come before, but I grew confused when the

tunnel split. One passage twisted off into darkness. I had no idea which way to go. “My God,” I whispered.

I stood at the fork and contemplated which one might bring

me back to the main house. They were both dimly il uminated by

light fixtures set into the rounded, carved-out ceiling. They looked nearly identical.

“The left. I’ll go to the left.”

My hands ran along the coarse wal s, guiding me as I went.

Final y I saw an end and sighed with relief. The marble staircase.

Until then I had never realized the extent of my discomfort in

smal , confined places. My hands trembled as I reached for the

railing.

A narrow black door to the right of the stairway caught my

attention. I hadn’t seen it when I’d passed through with Cora earlier. Probably because I was more concerned with what seemed, at

the time, like a descent into hel . The door blended into the darkness and was barely noticeable. It was bomb-shelter solid, with a small silver knob. I turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room inside was cramped, sparsely furnished with a small

love seat, but the wal s kept me riveted in one spot near the door.

They were completely covered with photographs. There were large

ones and small ones, group shots and portraits. Pictures of the

house, the grounds. Some were older, from decades ago, maybe

even more than a century before. I walked closer, almost afraid

to breathe. Nick’s family, his past, was here, fastened behind glass with nails and wire.

72

ELLEN J. GREEN

I walked in circles, admiring the work. There was a picture of

Nick when he was about ten at a birthday party, and one with a

man who must have been his father, all decked out in fishing gear.

I saw the fine, chiseled features that I had known so well slowly emerge from Nick’s chubby, boyish face. After I had turned full

circle in the room and inspected a stained sink, I sat on the love seat, just taking it all in. This was more than simply photography; it was a gallery. It was history.

There was a pattern in the way the photographs were arranged.

Pictures that looked like they were taken at the turn of the century hung on one wal . A man smiled into the camera. His eyes were

alive with something. Like he was just about to burst into laughter when the camera flashed. Cora’s grandfather, maybe. The next section of the wall was devoted to another man. His eyes were pene-

trating, almost frightening. His long, angular face and sharp, harsh features made me look away. His hair changed from a medium

brown to silver to white over the years, but otherwise he didn’t

change much. Every take captured the same expression. A horrible

glare. Something in him reminded me of Cora. This had to be her

father.

I stood up to leave, when something white on the floor in

the corner caught my eye. It lay facedown as if it had fallen from behind the glass. I snatched it from the floor and flipped it over.

It was a faded black-and-white photo of a group of children at an informal gathering or party. Three boys sat in an open, grassy area.

I recognized Nick’s serious face staring into the camera. The other two boys sat close to one another, laughing. Nick sat a foot away, his hands in his lap. A smaller child in the front, slightly out of the shot, reached for the camera. An active blur. Because the photo

was black and white, there was an artistic, almost old-fashioned

feel to it. There was no date printed on it. Nothing to indicate when it was taken. I saw no empty space under the glass where it might THE BOOK
of
JAMES

73

have hung. I was about to drop it on a small table when the door

behind me creaked.

Cora stood directly behind me. “I see you found the develop-

ing room.” She took the photograph from my hand. Her expres-

sion was blank, but her eyes were livid.

“You scared me. I was coming back to the main house when I

saw this doorway.”

Cora went directly to the wall of photographs of her son. She

folded her arms in front of her. “This was Bradford’s gallery. He spent hours in here developing. He actual y won some awards for

his work. Sometimes I come in here just to remember.” She stared, lost in her thoughts. “He was always down here fiddling with those bottles. He captured Nick quite wel , don’t you think?” She gestured toward the prints on the wal .

I moved closer to the door and forced a smile. I had vio-

lated her sanctuary by coming into this room. “Yes, wonderful,” I mustered.

I glanced up and saw ugly, unfinished pipes crisscrossing the

ceiling overhead. The room felt chil y and damp, as if it had been left out of the central-heating layout. Cora was absorbed in a photo of herself and Nick; I said nothing more. At that moment her face was tranquil, serene, but that was short-lived. Without warning,

she turned and motioned me to the door, her expression now

creased with anger or worry. She dropped the photo on the small

table and held the door open for me, making sure I exited in front of her.

As I left, I glanced back, feeling those hundreds of pairs of eyes watching my every move.

We climbed the marble stairway to the first floor. Warm air grad-

ual y eased the dampness from my bones. Cora led me to a large

kitchen in the back of the house. It was the kind of kitchen that I had only seen in magazines. The windows were set very high into

the cathedral ceiling and would bring in a good deal of light in

the daytime. Such a contrast from the space below. A large island filled the middle of the room, with gleaming copper pots hanging

overhead. One large pot sat simmering on the stovetop. Cora lifted the lid, and the smell of beef stew filled the air.

“I used to make this for Nick when he was a boy. It was one of

his favorite meals. Especial y in weather like this.” She motioned toward the window.

She ladled the stew into bowls and placed them on the large

oak table at the end of the room. I followed her, prepared to sit next to her, when I saw that she had placed settings at opposite ends of the table. As if we were having a formal dinner. Odd. I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it. Maybe this was

how people with money ate every day. I didn’t want Nick’s mother

to think me ignorant.

THE BOOK
of
JAMES

75

“The photos downstairs are arranged beautiful y,” I said. “Your

whole family, generations. Very nice.”

“That door,” she said, looking down as she raised her spoon,

“is usual y locked.”

I felt blood flush my face. Was she angry? “It wasn’t. Locked, I

mean. I didn’t mean to disturb anything. That picture was on the

floor.”

“Was it, now?” Her tone had dropped. Her eyes, though,

remained two piercing dots across the table.

I put my spoon down and held her gaze. “After my mother died,

my father took down all our family photos. As a way of dealing

with his grief, I suppose. But it was so hard on me and my brother.

About five years ago I found a boxful in his basement. Some of

them ruined from moisture. I was so upset.” Cora remained silent.

“It must be a comfort for you, having those photographs of your

mother, father—” I stopped.

Cora lowered her spoon to her plate. “There are no photo-

graphs of my mother.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that no women were represented

on the Monroe family wall of memories. “That’s too bad. Losing

someone is harder when there are no remembrances. My father

not only took down my mother’s photographs but he took every-

thing connected to her. Her jewelry—”

“My mother was a ghost.” Her words were almost inaudible.

Then, louder, “Whatever is there is what survived.”

I had pushed her too far. I was about to change the subject

when a loud bell sounded at the front of the house.

“Someone’s at the gate.” Cora’s eyes were large with curiosity—

and fear? “Who could be coming here in this weather?”

She pushed herself up from the table and went to answer the

door. I took a bite of stew.

Seconds later Cora reappeared. “A friend of yours is here.

Dylan McBride. He says he has something for you. Were you

76

ELLEN J. GREEN

expecting him?” Her tiny green eyes nearly disappeared beneath

folds of skin. I felt—as I had in the passageway—that though her

expression was neutral, her eyes were on fire with rage.

“No.” I stood, frowning. “I left a message that I was going to be staying with you for a few days. I have no idea . . .”

I went to the front door and waited for the sound of his tires

on the gravel. Dylan jumped out of his car and hurried toward me.

He was drenched by the time he reached the front door.

I stepped back to let him in. His hair was plastered to his head.

He had on a charcoal-gray suit and a pale-yellow shirt under his

raincoat. His tie was all that revealed any personality or expression: it was expensive silk but a mismatched red covered in geo-

metric shapes. Odd choice, but it somehow worked. “I have some

paperwork for you, and I was on my way home.” He motioned to

his briefcase and looked at me expectantly.

I wasn’t sure what to say. “Wel , thank you.” We stood awk-

wardly in the front entrance. “Do you want to come in?” He

glanced around the foyer and shifted with discomfort. “I need to

talk to you. Is there somewhere we can go?” he asked.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Cora was stand-

ing at the edge of the foyer, watching us.

“What’s wrong? Is there some problem that I should know

about?” I said it loud enough for her to hear. I didn’t want her to think I’d invited him to her house.

“Not a problem, but there’s a few things in the paperwork I’d

like to go over with you, if I could,” he said. His eyes rested on Cora and then shifted back to me.

“Give me your coat.” I held out my arms. He slipped out of

it and handed it to me. I was unsure where we could go, so I just stood in a moment of indecision.

“Use the room down the hal . First door on the right,” Cora