The Woman in the Wall (7 page)

P.S. I have a question of my own. What do you think of Mr. Albright?

What a wealth of information there was in that letter! Some of it I simply didn't understand (what, for instance, did he mean by the concealed butterfly net in his closing?), but overall I was delighted with my letter.

When I first read it, I thought I had a foolproof clue to his identity. I also thought I understood his reluctance to speak to Andrea in person. It was certainly going to be a challenge sewing him a dress shirt, though. Frankly, anybody with a neck that only measures five inches around is practically a freak of nature. Talk about a pencil neck! What size did he take in hats, I wondered? And how did he swallow his food?

Thinking things over, though, I decided that he had misinterpreted my request. He might have measured the
length
of his neck. Knowing nothing about sewing, he probably didn't understand which measurements were necessary. That would also explain his offering measurements of his ears and nose. And, of course, I never actually told him that I planned to sew him a shirt.

I was pleased to see him so open-minded about food. While I pride myself on pleasing the fussiest of appetites, there is no doubt that food allergies and aversions place obstacles in the way of the creative chef. It did look as if my half-formed plan to knit him a sweater would have to be cancelled, however, since he couldn't wear wool.

The letter also gave me plenty of hints about his personality and situation in life. His family, I saw, contained at least three people: his mother, his father, and himself. They seemed fond of him, too: his mother washed F's laundry, even though with inappropriate laundry detergents (which brand, I wondered?), and his father measured F's arms when requested to do so, even while expressing doubts as to F's sanity.

I sighed. Lucky F, to have a father actually in the house rather than lost forever in the storage stacks of the Library of Congress.

The introduction of this Mr. Albright struck a somewhat unsettling note. Perhaps he was a teacher? The name sounded faintly familiar; I was sure I'd heard it mentioned recently. The first name, I thought, was Frank. But what role Mr. Frank Albright might play in Andrea's life I could not imagine.

Remembering the request for a prompt response, I dashed off a quick note:

Dear F,

Tell me, how do you feel about coconut? Personally, I don't like it very much, but I know that many people enjoy it.

I found everything you had to say in your letter very interesting, especially about your "spiritual orientation," as you call it. I guess I'd have to say that my spirit is more dark than light. In fact, sometimes I feel that the dark is my only friend. I hate to bother you, but could you please measure your neck again? This time measure
around
your neck instead of up and down. Thank you. I really appreciate it.

Sincerely,
A

I decided not to say anything about this Mr. Albright. I might guess wrong and give everything away. With any luck F would forget his question.

After posting the note, I did a quick carpentry job on the hall closet. I fixed the shelf on the back wall onto a central pivot so that it could be rotated like a lazy Susan, facing either into my secret room or into the closet. I installed a sturdy latch on my side so that no one would ever accidentally knock it ajar and discover my private place.

The crack was all very well as a mail box for letters, but objects could never be exchanged through it. My new revolving shelf would give me a way to deliver the gifts I planned to make for F in perfect safety. Still, standing there admiring my workmanship once it was completed, I experienced a momentary qualm, a feeling not unlike a cold draft blowing at the nape of my neck. The revolving shelf was a door from the heart of my home into the outside world. And latch or no latch, that door swung both ways.

Impatiently I dismissed my fears, squeezed myself up through the passageway into the attic, and settled down to a leisurely examination of my sewing materials. I stroked the fabrics meditatively as I watched the sun set over the town through the dusty attic windows.

Reviewing my supply of magazines and clothing store ads from the newspapers, I realized that Andrea's male friends never seemed to wear dress shirts or three-piece suits. Usually they wore a tee shirt with some sort of advertising logo on the front. This offered no scope for my abilities at all.

What should I make for him? A plaid flannel shirt or a denim jacket with rivets? Perhaps a hand-painted tee shirt? I pondered my options one by one, taking up first one idea and then another, like a woman fingering the ornaments in her jewelry chest. It seemed to me at that moment that life could offer no greater luxury than this: the pleasure of slowly turning over in my mind
which
gift I would make for him first.

Never in my life had I been happier, or my hopes for the future brighter.

Dear A,

What do you mean by saying that sometimes you feel that the dark is your only friend and then asking me to measure
around
my neck? You are beginning to make me very nervous, lady. And what's all this jazz about coconut? I hate coconut. I loathe and despise coconut. It's the only food besides lima beans and liver that I don't like. I guess that's something else we have in common besides our dark souls.

Funny. You always seemed like such a
normal
person before. Not normal/ordinary, but normal/non-peculiar. I mean,
I'm
supposed to be weird, but boy have you ever got me beat!

Apprehensively yours,
F

P.S. Much against my better judgment I measured my neck. 15 inches.

Oh, dear. F was getting suspicious. I'd better sit down and write him an Andrea-type letter instead of an Anna-type letter. Well, what would Andrea be likely to write to F about? What
do
people talk about, especially when they don't know each other well?

Not only was Andrea beautiful, she was clever, which made everything more difficult. I too was clever in my way, but my way was not Andrea's way. I was clever with things, while Andrea was clever with people. And vice versa: I was stupid about people, while Andrea was downright half-witted about things.

I have evolved two strategies for dealing with people. First, I hide from them. Then, if that doesn't work, I try to pacify them with presents. Even I am beginning to see that my tactics are a somewhat inadequate response to the problem of interacting with other human beings.

But look at Andrea! If an inanimate object doesn't live up to Andrea's expectations, her reactions are even less sophisticated: She kicks it, curses it, and discards it. Then she nags Mother into buying a new one.

I didn't answer F's latest letter immediately. While I sewed him a brown western shirt with blue piping, I listened carefully to the conversations of the teens on the other side of the wall, trying to decide what I could write that would make me sound normal/non-peculiar, without sounding normal/ordinary, or worse yet, abnormal /peculiar.

After much thought and observation, I wrote this letter:

Dear F,

Just a few things I thought you'd be interested in knowing:

1. The lead guitarist of the Stinking Lemons lives exclusively on a diet of grape Kool-Aid, strawberry Twizzlers, and Hostess Cakes.
   
2. The economics midterm was murder.
   
3. The new Treat Williams movie is really stupid.
   
4. Kyle Winterbottom split his head open playing soccer yesterday. He was practically leaking brains all the way back to his locker, and nobody did anything about it. His parents are probably going to sue.
   
5. Mia was grounded for a whole month just for talking back to her mother. Can you believe it?
   
6. A girl with pink plastic barrettes in her hair, whose name might be Kendra or else Tendra, is in love with a boy in an orange baseball cap, but he doesn't know it yet.
   Sincerely yours,
   A
   

P.S. Look on the shelf in the hall closet (under the main staircase).

I was very proud of number 6. It was the only piece of information I had found out for myself instead of simply overhearing.

The postscript, of course, referred to the fact that I planned to put the now-completed western shirt and a box of oatmeal raisin cookies on the shelf for him to find.

I enjoyed writing this letter. It made me feel like any normal teen-ager talking, or at least writing, to her boyfriend.
I can do it too!
I thought exultingly.
I'm not a freak!

So I was a little downcast at first when I got his reply.

Dear A,

Okay, okay, I get your point. I'll admit I didn't at first. I thought, what
is
this peculiar letter? Can this really be the A that I know and love so well, writing this gibberish? Or is some wacko purloining my mail? But then I figured it out. You're right. That
is
the kind of stuff everybody always talks about. And it's boring. And I don't want to talk about it either.

Although it is kind of interesting about Kendra and Steve.

Tell me something. Why do you people keep oatmeal cookies in a coat closet? By any chance, did you mean those cookies to be for me? To eat? I sure hope so, because I did.

Besides being delicious, they were very reassuring. I have this recurring nightmare in which somebody like Tiffany Jacobs stands up in the middle of assembly at school and starts reading this correspondence out loud. Tiffany Jacobs would
never
bake me cookies, so you see, she can't possibly be the one writing to me.

By the way, I hate to criticize your choice of friends, but c'mon, A, Tiffany Jacobs?

Actually, it seems pretty incredible that you would bake me cookies either. I hope you don't think you've guessed who I am and got it wrong. I am
not
Foster Addams, for instance. Sorry, but I'm afraid I'm nothing at all like Foster Addams. By the way, I think he's kind of a jerk, don't you? Or don't you? Sometimes you act like you really like him.

Love,
F

P.S. There was a brand-new shirt all wrapped up in red satin ribbons underneath the cookies. Did somebody in your family misplace a birthday present?

P.P.S. You never said what you thought of Mr. Albright. I mean, isn't he dating your mother? I heard they're getting kind of serious.

I smiled and sighed over the first nine-tenths of F's letter. How stupid of me not to put a note with the shirt! And then I read the post-postscript. My disappointment about the shirt and my failure at writing an Andrea-type letter instead of an Anna-type letter evaporated instantly.

Chasms gaped beneath my feet.
What?
What did he mean? How could this Mr. Albright possibly be "dating" my mother? And what did that ominous phrase "getting kind of serious" mean?

At first, naturally, I assumed that it was some sort of a sick joke, or possibly the result of a fleeting bout of insanity on F's part. But with dawning horror I realized that this nightmarish notion might quite possibly be true. Strictly speaking, the law maintained that my mother was a widow. For her to go out on a date with another man was probably not actually illegal. Broad-minded people might not even consider it immoral.

But—but how could she be so cruel? Why, for all she knew, my father might quite easily still be alive. How would he feel if he came back after all these years only to find my mother consorting with strange men? The very idea was unthinkable. Why hadn't I known about this before?

Forgetting F entirely, I hurried to my peephole into the library, the room my mother used for an office. I ducked my head down, screwed up one eye, and peered through. My jaw dropped. There
was
a man in there with her. He was leaning back in a chair,
my father's chair,
and smirking in a truly horrible way at my mother.

After a few moments, I straightened up and massaged the small of my back with my thumbs. Well, that was one explanation of why I hadn't been aware of this Mr. Albright situation before. I had to twist myself up like a pretzel these days in order to get my eye down to the library peephole.

I strained my ears to hear their conversation. Unfortunately they were sitting at the far end of the library, which was a large room. The shelves of books and the heavy brocade curtains and massive Victorian furniture deadened the sound so that at first I heard only scraps and tag ends of their talk.

"...dinner and a movie tonight, Elaine?"

So it was true. Elaine was my mother's first name. How dare he?

My mother murmured something in reply. It must have been a refusal, since he began to argue.

"...surely they're old enough! Just put your foot down. You're a slave to your children, Elaine."

I bent again and squinted at my mother's face. She was weakening, I could tell. No, Mother, I thought, don't do it. Remember your wedding vows.

"...don't understand," she said, her voice strengthening. "I know it's idiotic and irrational of me, but I can't help feeling that if I go out frivolling with you, Frank, I'll be punished for it. I have this image in my mind of the whole place going up in flames with my daughters inside, the minute I step outside the front door."

He made a rude noise. "That
is
idiotic and irrational. But if it would get you out of here now and then, I'd be happy to bring the kids along."

She shook her head, smiling. "Irrational fears aren't calmed by rational solutions, Frank. But," she hesitated and her voice dropped, "... admit I would enjoy it."

"Of course you would," he said briskly. Then, "Have you given any more thought to my other suggestion?"

"No." My mother's voice came through strong and clear. "No, Frank, if our getting married means my selling the house and leaving Bitter Creek, I can't do it, and I can't tell you why. I'm sorry; I don't mean to make a mystery of it, but I just can't."

Married! Selling the house!

I straightened up so abruptly that I hit my head against a wall stud with an audible
crack!
I groaned aloud.