The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (11 page)

1:20

It was a week before Hannah had screwed up her courage to do what Father Jimmy had suggested. She waited until Jolene had disappeared into her studio and gotten sufficiently involved in “healing” a canvas so that she wouldn’t want to stop. Then she poked her head in the door and said she was going to drive over to the Framingham Mall.

“I’d come with you, but I’m up to my elbows in plaster of Paris.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll come next time.”

Hannah had no trouble finding Revere Street or the parking garage. The area was teeming with activity - deliverymen with trolleys, office workers on their lunch break, even students from one of the nearby colleges. As she climbed the steps to the agency, she hoped she wasn’t catching Mrs. Greene at an inopportune time. She hadn’t called in advance, for fear that Mrs. Greene would tell Jolene, and Jolene would go into a tailspin. It seemed wiser to leave the Whitfields out of it for the time being. A good heart-to-heart with Mrs. Greene would probably bring everything back into perspective, as Father Jimmy had said.

When she reached the landing, she didn’t see the PIP sign and wondered if, in her preoccupied state, she’d entered the wrong building. She looked around. No, there was the door with the chicken-wire glass in it, and the stenciled letters that identified it as the office of Gene M. Rosenblatt, attorney at law. So she was in the right place.

But the PIP sign was gone. Where it had been, she noticed several screw holes in the plaster. Assuming that it must have fallen down, she gave the doorknob a turn. The door was locked tight. She knocked, then knocked harder a second time, waiting for a response. None came.

Puzzled, she was about to start down the stairs, when she saw a light inside the attorney’s office. She crossed the landing and tried his door, which triggered a welcome chime, as it swung open. A spherical man with glasses so thick they that looked as if they’d been made from vintage Coca Cola bottles, was bent over the drawer of a filing cabinet.

He straightened up and blinked several times. “Yes, young lady. What can I do for you?”

“I was just looking for the woman across the hall at Partners in Parenthood.”

“Partners in Parenthood? So that’s what PIP stood for. My, my, my! I kept meaning to stop in, say hello, introduce myself, as it were.” He gave a push to the metal drawer, which closed with a clang.

“You didn’t happen to see her go out to lunch by any chance?”

“Lunch?” His eyes, magnified by the glasses, resembled pinwheels. “Maybe once or twice last spring, I did.”

“No, today. You didn’t see her leave today, did you?”

“Well, that would be pretty difficult since that office has been closed for a while.”

“Closed?”

“Yes, I kept meaning to go by and introduce myself, seeing as we were neighbors, chat a bit. Before I knew it, they were gone. Moved out lock, stock and barrel.”

“When was that?”

“Well, now, let me see.” He sank into deep concentration. “I was out sick for a week there. Flu. Seems to me that sign was down when I came back. No, wait. It was after my sister came to visit. That’s it. She was here around the middle of spring. So I guess that place has been closed - would you believe it? - more than four months now.”

1:21

At the parking garage, Hannah put a quarter in the pay telephone and dialed the number for Partners in Parenthood. It rang four times, then there was a click and a recorded voice said that the number was no longer in service.

She tried to remember when she’d last had contact with Mrs. Greene. Only a week ago, the woman had called the house in East Acton. Hannah hadn’t spoken directly to her, but after hanging up the phone, Jolene had said, “Letitia sends her best.” And the first of every month, Hannah received her check from Partners in Parenthood, to which Mrs. Greene always appended a personal note.

But when had she seen her, face to face?

It had been a while.

She wondered if the Whitfields knew that the PIP office was closed. If they did, they had never mentioned it.

She walked over to the Public Gardens and looked at the swan boats. A large number of college students were stretched out on the grass, determined to soak up the late-summer rays. Hannah found a free bench and tried to clear her head.

But the worrisome thoughts kept returning. First Dr. Johanson had withheld the results of the sonogram from her and now Mrs. Greene had disappeared without telling her. It was as if Hannah had been demoted to the role of supporting player - important enough to carry the baby, perhaps, but not important enough to be kept abreast of significant developments. They were excluding her. At least, it felt that way.

A young mother, pushing a stroller, passed by. The child had on a yellow jump suit and a yellow sunbonnet tied under the chin, and was fast asleep. The woman’s blonde hair was braided and the braids were piled on the top of her head, rather like a crown. She gave Hannah a knowing smile. There seemed to be an unofficial sorority of new mothers and mothers-to-be, forged out of all the shared fears and joys. No spoken communication was necessary between members. A look was enough to say, “Isn’t it wonderful?” or “Some days all you can do is hang in there.”

Hannah stayed in the Gardens longer than she intended. By the time she got on the road, the traffic out of Boston was bumper to bumper. The cars didn’t start to thin out until she reached the East Acton turn-off on Route 128.

Although it was late, Hannah pulled into the parking lot at Our Lady of Perpetual Light and went directly to the rectory. The housekeeper informed her that Father Jimmy had gone away for a couple of days. “His family has a cottage in New Hampshire,” she said.

“So he’ll be back on Monday?”

“No, dear. He’ll be back in time for 7 p.m. mass tomorrow. Priests don’t get weekends off. Shall I tell him you stopped by?”

“No, don’t bother,” Hannah replied, thinking that this was the fitting end to a disappointing day.

The lights were on in the Whitfields’ house and Marshall was already home from work.

“Well, if it isn’t the merry wanderer,” Jolene cried out from the kitchen. “We were just about to sit down to dinner. I hope this roast of lamb isn’t dry as shoe leather. Wash up quickly, can you?” She poked the lamb with a fork. “Marshall, does this look like shoe leather to you?”

They gathered around the table, and Jolene piled everyone’s plate with lamb, mashed potatoes and fresh broccoli. “So,” she said, passing Hannah her serving, “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes. I’m a little tired, though.”

“You’re going to have to start conserving your energy. It’s one thing to be young, but it’s another to be young and pregnant. How was your day, Marshall?”

“Same old, same old. Nothing special.”

Hannah finished chewing a bite of lamb. “I almost paid you a surprise visit today.”

“In Boston?” Marshall’s fork stopped in mid-air.

“I thought you were going to the Framingham Mall,” Jolene said.

“I did. But I couldn’t find what I wanted. Since it was nice out, I decided to go into Boston.”

“In that car? I worry about you in that old car. Marshall, tell her not to drive that rattletrap long distances. You know it’s going to conk out on you one of these days, and then where will you be? Stuck on the side of the road somewhere.”

“The Nova is okay. It looks crummy, but it’s never given me any trouble.”

“Still, I’m more than happy to drive you anywhere you want. I’ve told you that a hundred times. I’d rather drive you than worry about where you are every moment of the day.”

“Thanks, Jolene.”

Marshall resumed eating. “Well, you’re probably getting tired of East Acton. I don’t blame you. Young people are used to a lot more excitement. I’m sure Jolene and I aren’t much fun for you.”

“That’s not true. I’m very happy here, actually.”

“Good.” He reached over and patted her arm paternalistically.

For a while, the only sounds in the dining room were those of forks and knives, scraping china, water being poured into glasses, and the occasional smacking of Marshall’s lips.

Hannah broke the silence. “I almost came by to see you for a reason. I dropped by the Partners in Parenthood office.”

“Whatever for?” asked Jolene.

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Greene since I started showing. But when I got there—”

Marshall finished the sentence. “The office was closed.”

His response caught Hannah by surprise. “You know?”

“Yes. She’s not using that office any more. She’s working out of her home now. Isn’t that right, Jolene? Mrs. Greene is working out of her home these days.”

“Now that you mention it, I remember her saying something to that effect.”

“I think she decided the overhead was too much,” Marshall continued. “She’s absolutely right, of course. Rents in Boston are astronomical. It is a waste of good money. So many of those services work out of homes. So it’s probably a wise decision for her. I thought I told you.”

“Maybe. I guess I forgot.”

“Well, that’s the story. The rent was ridiculous.”

“Like the cost of everything else,” concurred Jolene. “I hardly dare tell you the price of this lamb! Did you want to see Mrs. Greene about anything specific?”

“What? No, it was just a visit. Since I was there…”

Jolene got up from her chair and started clearing plates. “So how was the shopping? Did you find what you were looking for in Boston?”

Hannah handed her plate to the woman. “No, the day ended up being pretty much for nothing.”

1:22

The next morning when Hannah came down to the kitchen, there was no sign of Jolene or Marshall, other than dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. She was grateful not to have to make small talk. Jolene’s mother-hen routine was getting to be overbearing, and even Marshall, commonsensical Marshall, had irritated her last night with his reasonableness.

She barely had time to wonder where they were, when voices coming from Jolene’s studio supplied the answer.

The mini-van had been backed up to the door of the studio. Marshall and Jolene were loading up the vehicle with paintings for Jolene’s show and there was considerable discussion of how best to accomplish the task.

“
Slide
the canvases, Marshall, don’t drop them. How often do I have to tell you?”

“Will you calm down? I
am
sliding them.”

Hannah took that as a cue to retreat to her room. All she needed this morning was to get caught up in the logistics of transporting fine art.

For the next hour, the maneuvers continued unabated, Jolene’s admonitions to “be gentle,” “watch where you’re going” and “mind the door” multiplying by the minute. The woman was more high-strung than ever. Hannah tried to lose herself in a book and had very nearly succeeded when the loudest shriek of all jerked her upright in her chair.

“Marshall! Marshall! Get out here immediately. Oh, my God. Oh, my God!”

Hannah rushed to her bedroom window, fully expecting to see one of Jolene’s paintings face down in the gravel or impaled on a tree branch, not that anyone would be able to tell the difference. What she saw, instead, was the woman herself collapsed on her hands and knees on the lawn, huddled over an object entirely too small to be a canvas. Marshall came quickly to her side.

“Look! Dead! It’s
dead
!” Sobbing, Jolene sat up and clasped her arms around her husband’s waist, allowing Hannah to make out the source of her distress. In the grass before her lay a dead sparrow.

“Why did it die, Marshall?” the woman moaned. “Why? This is supposed to be a sanctuary.”

“It’s all right, Jolene. Everything dies sooner or later.”

“But not here! Nothing should be dying here.” The continuing shudder of her shoulders indicated that Jolene refused to be consoled. “What does this mean, Marshall?”

“It means nothing,” he insisted. As he lifted his wife off the ground, he glanced up, spotting Hannah in the bedroom window.

“Let’s get you a cup of tea,” he said to his wife, who allowed herself to be led meekly toward the house.

Just before going in the kitchen door, he added, “You’re just nervous about your show. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s normal. Everything’s perfectly normal.”

Hannah felt the words were being spoken as much for her benefit, as for Jolene’s.

1:23

The Prism Gallery was located on the second floor of a renovated townhouse on Newbury Street, above a trendy bath and toiletries shop. There was no elevator, but a poster on an easel in the entryway pointed to the staircase.

“Visions and Vistas”
New Work by Jolene Whitfield
September 2 – 25

The opening was scheduled for 5 p.m., but when Hannah and Marshall arrived shortly after the hour (Jolene had been at the gallery all afternoon, tending to last minute details), several dozen people were already there, mingling loudly. A bartender served white wine and soft drinks from a table in the corner, while a waiter circulated with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

Not certain how she was supposed to behave, Hannah hung back at the doorway. She put churches and museums – and by extension, art galleries - in the same category of places where people showed their respect by keeping their voices low and their attitude reverential. But this was more like a fancy cocktail party with people laughing and chatting loudly.

“Don’t be intimidated,” said Marshall, sensing her nervousness. “Everybody here’s a friend and supporter of Jolene’s. The critics come later.”

Hannah ran her eyes quickly over the crowd and spotted Dr. Johanson among the guests. The woman, standing next to him, looked familiar, too, but it wasn’t until the woman turned sideways that Hannah realized it was the receptionist in the doctor’s office, who had traded her white uniform for a black dress, cut rather daringly low in the front. At least she would know a couple of people tonight.

“Let me tell Jolene we’ve arrived,” said Marshall. “Can I get you a soft drink?”

“Not yet, thanks,” Hannah said. “Maybe I’ll look at some of the paintings first.” If she kept to the edges of the room, she thought, maybe she would feel less conspicuous.

More than a dozen large pictures hung from the gallery walls. If anything, they struck Hannah as even more bewildering here than they did in the studio in Acton. In Acton, she could accept them as Jolene’s strange hobby. But here people were studying them closely, nodding knowingly, making appreciative remarks. So obviously they really did stand for something.

Hannah edged closer to a one, which was divided into four unequal sections by a thick brown line that ran from top to bottom and, about a third of the way down, by a second line that ran from left to right. An incision two feet long had been made in the center of the canvas with a dull knife. Jolene had stitched the incision together with packing twine, but the stitches were rudimentary and left the viewer with the impression that the two edges were pulling apart. This, Hannah surmised, had to be one of the “wounds” that Jolene inflicted on her canvases and then took great pains to heal.

A spongy-like material gave texture to the lower areas of the canvas. But what puzzled Hannah most was the streaking. Jolene appeared to have deliberately spilled reddish-brown water along the top of the canvas and then let it trickle down in rivulets.

Hannah tried to remember what Jolene had once told her – a painting meant what you wanted it to mean – but she had no idea of what this one was trying to say. It wasn’t pretty in the least. You wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning and have a painting like this staring you in the face, she thought.

She approached the identifying label to the right, hoping for a clue. “Renewal,” it read. No help there.

She moved on to the next painting, identified as “Cathedral.” A muscular man in a tight black t-shirt and – yes, Hannah was not imagining things – blue-tinted hair, was already examining it with his companion, a thin, myopic man with jug ears, who could have been an accountant. The two men gave her a furtive glance, then moved away, leaving her to contemplate the canvas by herself.

It consisted largely of shards of colored glass, embedded in thick gobs of black paint. Hannah was hard put to see the cathedral in question, unless it was one that had been destroyed by a bomb or a fire. There was definitely a feeling of violence about the work, as if Jolene were taking out all her aggressions on the canvas. Well, Hannah had seen her at work!

“Say ‘hello’ to Yvette.”

The high-pitched voice came from behind her. Hannah turned around to see a small, wrinkled woman in a purple turban. A carpetbag was slung over her bony shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?”

The woman shifted the carpetbag, so Hannah could peer into it. Peeking out through sprays of white and black hair was a tiny Shih Tzuh.

“Normally, she growls at strangers. But she absolutely insists on meeting you.”

Hannah reached over and tentatively petted the dog, which responded by licking her hand.

“You see? You see?” trilled the woman ecstatically. “Yvette recognized you immediately as a very special person. Didn’t you, pumpkins?”

“She’s very friendly.”

“Oh, not always. When I first got her, she barely spoke to me. Took months for her to come out of her shell. And until his dying day, she never acknowledged my late husband, God rest his soul. Would you like to hold her?”

“That’s all right. I don’t want to bother her.”

She looked over the woman’s shoulder, wishing Marshall would come back. The gallery had filled up and the decibel level had risen accordingly. Hannah glimpsed Jolene at the center of an admiring throng and waved at her, but before Jolene could wave back, several new admirers besieged her. Her paintings were clearly a runaway success.

“You wouldn’t be bothering Yvette at all,” the woman with the turban insisted. “On the contrary. If you could hold her for a minute, we would both consider it quite an honor.”

Just as she began to scoop the dog out of the carpet bag, an elegantly groomed woman with pearl earrings swooped in front of her and clasped Hannah by the hands. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight!” Then turning to the woman with the dog, Letitia Greene said, “You don’t mind if I interrupt, do you?”

“Well, I was just about to let——”

“It’s just that Hannah and I haven’t seen one another in ages! And I’ve got so much to tell! Let’s see if we can’t find a quiet place to talk, Hannah.”

The dog went back into the carpetbag.

“It was very nice meeting you and Evelyn…I mean, Yvette,” Hannah said over her shoulder, as Letitia dragged her toward the back of the gallery and a smaller exhibition room, where the crowds, for the moment, were less dense.

People moved aside to let them pass, smiling as they did. That was one advantage to being pregnant, at least, Hannah thought. You never had to push. A path just sort of opened up automatically for you.

“Thanks, for rescuing me, Letitia.”

“I owe you one,” Letitia replied. “When Jolene told me you went all the way to Boston to see me, I felt so guilty. It just reminded me how much I’ve missed you. I’ve been impossibly busy. Oh, I know, I know. That’s no excuse. I’m not pretending it is. One must make time for those one loves.”

Still clasping Hannah’s hand, she took a step backwards and looked her up and down appraisingly. “Heavens to Betsy, what do we have here? Only the prettiest pregnant woman ever! You’re absolutely radiant, Hannah!”

“Thanks. Once the nausea passes——”

Letitia Greene held up a hand. “Say no more! Nothing worse! Some of my clients swear they’ll never touch food again. But you’re eating, I hope?”

“Lots.”

“Me, too. Unfortunately, I don’t have your excuse.” Letitia Greene rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and laughed. “Isn’t this exciting, by the way! Jolene’s work is stunning.”

“It’s…different, that’s for sure.”

“They’re going to make such splendid parents. Imagine! A business executive for a father, an artist for a mother. And a stay-at-home mother, too! That’s always best for the child, a full time mother on the premises. That’s why I closed the office on Revere Street by the way. I mean, there really was no reason I couldn’t do the work out of our home.”

She shrugged, as if the conclusion were self-evident. “That fancy office was just an extravagance. ‘You’re not a business woman,’ my husband said. ‘You’re just helping people.’ And he was 100 percent right. Clients don’t mind coming to the house at all. In fact, my house is the last thing they’re thinking about. It’s the service they come for. They want a family. I could be living in a trailer for all it matters to them. Well, live and learn. Speaking of family…”

She opened her purse and flipped through the pictures, until she found the one she was searching for. “You remember my son, Rickey. This is the latest snapshot of him. His eighth birthday.”

“He’s going to be a handsome young man.”

“Growing more like his father every day! The best part is I am there for him, when he gets home from school. If a meeting runs late or I have a last-minute appointment, it doesn’t matter. I’m home already. Oh, I’m all for women working. Some have no choice. But we don’t go through all this rigmarole just to turn our children over to day care, do we? Baby sitters are fine in their place, but there’s no substitute for a round-the-clock mother. Like Jolene will be. Listen to me, going on and on…Tell me, how are you, Hannah?”

“Tired, sometimes. But, uh, basically good.”

“And the Whitfields?”

“They’ve been very attentive.”

“My intuition told me it would be a perfect match. Everyone working toward a common goal. Children are what it’s all about. Was there any reason you wanted to see me, when you came into Boston the other day?”

“Oh, um, nothing important. I just happened to be there. I came by to say hello.”

Letitia Greene heaved a huge sigh, contentment suffused with relief. “Well, hello. Hello to you now! Incidentally, I had an inkling you might be here tonight so I brought you your September check. ‘Special delivery for Miss Hannah Manning.’ You’ll notice the old address is still on it. I haven’t had a chance to get the new ones printed. But I’m sure the bank will honor it just the same. I haven’t gone broke yet!”

She let out another peal of laughter, as Hannah slipped the check into her pocket.

“These paintings! Let me show you my absolute favorite. It’s called ‘Herald.’ Of course, I have no idea what the title means, but the blues in it are divine.”

Taking Hannah’s hand again, Letitia started back into the other room. People stepped back politely, opening a path again, when all of a sudden a woman emerged from the crowd and blocked their way. Hannah recognized her from someplace. Then it clicked. The braids piled on her head! She’d seen her the other day in Boston Common, pushing a baby carriage.

“Look at you! Just look at you!” the woman squealed, her eyes shining. “May I?”

“I’m sorry?” Hannah said.

“You don’t mind, do you? Just for a second.” She extended both of her hands toward Hannah’s stomach, as if she were about to caress it.

“Not now,” Jolene snapped. The woman froze, her hands suspended in mid-air.

What was it tonight? Hannah asked herself. Everybody was treating her as if she were some rare specimen. This is what Jolene must have meant about the liberties people took with pregnant women. Even total strangers seemed to have a proprietary interest in you.

From the other room came the tinkle of a glass being struck with a knife. Conversation subsided and a voice, announced, “Quiet, please. I would like to propose the toast.” It was Dr. Johanson.

“Come, Hannah. We want to hear this.” Expertly, Letitia maneuvered the two of them through the room, until they stood at Dr. Johanson’s side.

“I think you will agree with me that tonight is very special achievement,” he said, raising his voice so it carried to the back of the gallery. “All this beauty put on display for us to see. Is truly honor and privilege to be here. So I ask that you join with me to thank the person, who has brought it about. As we say in my country, ‘The orchard which is tended with the most care brings forth the sweetest fruits at harvest time.’ Is correct word in English, orchard, yes?”

The man with blue-tinted hair assured him it was.

“Good! Then raise up your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, as I raise mine, to a remarkable visionary and the keeper of the orchard, Jolene Whitfield.”

“Aren’t you glad you’re here?” whispered Letitia Greene into Hannah’s ear. “Moments like these don’t happen often in a lifetime. We must cherish them.”

“When did you close the office, Letitia?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your office in Boston. When did you close it?”

“I can’t remember off-hand. What’s today?”

“The second.”

“Of course, it is. Fall’s right around the corner. So it had to be, um, a month ago yesterday.”

“A month?”

“Yes. Shhh. Jolene’s about to speak.”

Red with excitement, Jolene stepped in front of the crowd, as applause and cheers erupted like firecrackers. “I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me that you all here,” she said when the noise had finally died down. Her eyes glistened with emotion. “So many friends. So many supporters! So many very special people to thank.”

Impulsively, she reached over and took hold of Hannah’s hand. “I am truly at a loss for words.”

Hannah had the odd impression that even though this was Jolene’s big night, everybody’s eyes were trained on her.