"Sweet Dreams, Irene" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burke Jan)5I GOT TO CASA DE ESPERANZA before Sammy and Jacob arrived. The place was all decked out for Halloween. Inside, it didn’t look much different than it had fifteen or more years ago – I had to stop and do some math – right, fifteen years ago. The music groups on the posters which adorned its walls had changed, except for one for the Doors. I tried to do a little more math, working out how old Jim Morrison would be today, when a clean-cut, muscular young man came walking toward me. I was wondering if all the runaways looked so well-adjusted these days, when he said, “Irene Kelly? I’m Paul Fremont. My grandmother has often spoken of you.” As I took the offered hand for a vigorous handshake, I tried to absorb the shock of realizing this “kid” was a twenty-one-year-old college student, not a runaway. “Hello, Paul. Your grandmother has told me a lot about you. She’s certainly very proud of you.” He looked at me a little oddly, I thought, but I didn’t have time to figure out if I had embarrassed him or if he just didn’t believe me, because at that moment the grandmother in question appeared on the scene. “Why, Irene! Mrs. Riley told me you’d be coming by this afternoon. And now you’ve met my grandson, Paul. Good, good. Let me show you around, dear. This part of the house hasn’t changed since you worked here, but we’ve been busy out in the back.” She took hold of my arm and led me off. Paul nodded in understanding and went into a small office. Mrs. Fremont was right. The place had changed. A recreation room had been converted out of a garage. There was a deck and a beautiful garden, including a spot where the residents grew some vegetables. There was some indefinable something that inwardly itched at me about the garden. I knew it wasn’t because I remembered it; the last time I had been in this yard it had just been dirt and grass of dubious parentage. “Frank and a friend of his built the deck and did all of the landscaping for us,” she said. I looked at her in surprise, then smiled. “Now I know why something about it seemed familiar.” “Yes,” she said, returning the smile, “I’m not sure his friend Pete enjoyed the work so much, but Frank put his heart into it. He’s a keeper, Irene.” “A keeper? As in, ‘my brother’s’?” She laughed. “No, as in, ‘one you shouldn’t throw back into the pond.’ “She became reflective for a moment. “Come to think of it, Frank is the kind you mention as well. His brother’s keeper. Yes. He certainly isn’t afraid to get involved or lend a hand.” I looked out at the garden again. She was right. Frank was a keeper by either definition. The This warm fuzzy moment of ours was rudely interrupted by the sudden blare of a stereo and the simultaneous ruckus that can only be raised by a group of teenagers. I was cringing at the loudness, but Mrs. Fremont was looking at me with laughing eyes. “I’ve lost some of my hearing,” she shouted into my ear. “Probably from when people who were in high school with you used to sit around here and play records by the Who and Pink Floyd at full blast. I count my blessings.” Judging from the noise outside, Mrs. Fremont had about twenty blessings in tow; but when we got back inside the house it turned out to be about half that. I looked the group over and didn’t see Jacob; I figured Sammy wasn’t here yet either. I was trying to take in this boisterous sea of energy, released from the school day and excited about a Halloween party to be held that night, when it dispersed in varying directions almost as soon as it had arrived. Some of the residents took over the bathrooms, some headed down the separate wings of the house to their rooms, a group went out into the backyard, and a couple of them tried to raid the refrigerator. Mrs. Fremont moved off into the kitchen to chat amiably with them – the generation gap we had talked about in my day narrowed to a sliver. Paul walked into the front room and reached for the volume control, cutting the decibels in the room in half. He winced as he turned to me and said, “My ears can’t take it as easily as Grandmother’s.” “Believe me, I’m with you,” I said. “Don’t ever let any of the residents know, but I prefer classical.” “Your secret is safe with me.” At that moment, the front door burst open with such fury it bounced off the wall and almost closed again on the thin young woman who entered the room. She marched past me, pausing long enough to give me an angry look before heading back into the women’s wing. She was pale, dressed totally in black, and had long hair dyed to a dark, raven color. This spidery young lady had to be Sammy. Quite a few of the other residents I had seen earlier were wearing black, and some had that same look of bravado over pain as well, but something about the creature who had just flown past me made her a better candidate for a witches’ coven. I had just figured out that part of this impression came from a cloying fragrance that still hung in the air – she had smelled strongly of some kind of incense or spice oil – when the door opened a second time, more gently. Jacob looked at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Sorry, Miss Kelly. I told you she was dramatic.” “Yes, you did. That was quite an entrance. Do you think she’ll talk to me?” “Oh yeah. Are you kidding? She loves the idea of being interviewed by the newspaper. I think if we just wait outside, she’ll come out again.” He spoke with the easy assurance of one childhood friend discussing another. He knew Sammy. I wondered if she deserved such loyalty. I shrugged and followed him out to the deck. We sat on some patio chairs surrounding a table. From the recreation room we could hear a game of Ping-Pong in progress. Jacob chattered excitedly about his afternoon at school. He had gone in to see the journalism teacher – Michael Corbin, an old friend who had gone to college with me, and who was, as Jacob said, “way cool.” Michael had told him that he could add the class, which was about four days in progress for the winter quarter, and wrote a note to that effect for Jacob’s counselor. The counselor had been obliging as well. I smiled at Jacob’s enthusiasm – a day of conquering potential hurdles of adult permission-giving had his spirits soaring. A different kid from the one I had seen in the morning. I wondered if Michael and the counselor had seen that, too. I’d have to give Michael a call. Jacob had predicted Sammy’s mood swings well. As he reached the end of his tale about the class, she appeared at the back door, and made her way over to us as if nothing had happened fifteen minutes before. She sat next to Jacob and favored me with a long glowering stare. A summer as a camp counselor had taught me all I needed to know about the likes of Sammy. “Well, Jacob,” I said starting to rise from my chair, “I guess I’d better go. Sorry about your dad’s campaign and all that. I know it means a lot to you.” It was a mean thing to do to Jacob. I hated myself when I saw the look of hurt on his face. But it worked like a charm on Sammy. “Hey, wait a minute,” she said. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.” I took my turn staring, then said, “You haven’t indicated to me that you’re really up for that, and I don’t have time to sit around and coax you.” I started to turn again, and she fairly shouted, “Wait!” I faced her. “I’m sorry,” she said, shocking me – I hadn’t expected an apology. She turned to Jacob, but kept speaking to me. “I’ll talk to you. Jacob says you’re okay.” I sat back down again, and tried to give Jacob a quick reassuring look. “Okay, Sammy – want to tell me the story of this witches’ coven?” She looked around nervously. I wondered if it was real nervousness or more drama. “Will my name be in the paper?” “This whole thing may never actually reach print. I’m just trying to be ready in case something breaks. And for that matter, I don’t even know your last name. What is it?” “You won’t contact my parents?” “Not my business.” “Garden.” Holy Mary. No wonder the kid had problems. Anyone who had been given a handle like Gethsemane Garden had an uphill battle. I tried not to let my face reveal that I knew what Sammy stood for. “Okay, Miss Garden, why don’t you tell me about the coven?” “Don’t call me Miss Garden. I hate my name. I’m going to change it. Anyway – call me Sammy, okay?” “If you’d prefer that, sure. Look, Sammy, I’m not here to cause you problems. Tell me about this group you’re in.” “Well, last Friday night our coven gathered, and I went and Jacob came by and tried to get me to leave. End of story.” “Not quite. What kind of group is this? Satanist?” She rolled her eyes. “No. Satanism is a different thing altogether. We’re not Satanists, no matter what that moron Montgomery says.” “So what are you?” She sighed, and looked at Jacob. He just watched her silently, but his eyes were willing her to keep talking. She turned back to me. “We’re into what you would probably call paganism. It’s a very old religion. It’s a religion of the earth. That’s what we worship – the earth and her creatures are holy to us. It’s a very female thing. Satanism is a very male thing.” If any of that bothered Jacob, he didn’t show it. “So these witches met last Friday. Are they male and female, even though this is a female thing?” “We don’t discriminate.” “So what happened that night?” “Jacob came along and he asked me to leave with him.” “Jacob didn’t participate at all?” “No.” “What would participating include?” “I told you, he didn’t participate.” “And I asked what participating includes.” She stewed for a moment. “I can’t tell you.” “Sworn to secrecy? You take some blood oath or something?” “No! I mean, yes, I am sworn to secrecy and no, it is not a blood oath. Look, this is like my religion, okay? I won’t tell you what we do. It’s between the members of the coven; it’s not for outsiders.” “If what Jacob tells me is true, at least one other person not only knows what you do, but has taken photographs. Don’t you want to tell your side of the story?” “I can’t tell you that. Besides, I left with Jacob on Friday.” “Really? Does that put you on the outs with the group?” She shifted uncomfortably. I decided to take a stab at something. “What are you afraid of, Sammy? Has someone threatened you for leaving that night?” “No!” she said, betraying herself with her vehemence, and catching herself at it. “If anyone could scare me, would I be sitting out here talking to you?” “You’re not even afraid of the guy in the goat’s mask?” She turned white, a startling contrast to her hair and clothing. She turned to Jacob, her eyes brimming with tears. “You told her that? You asshole! Don’t you ever speak to me again!” She jumped up from the table and would have run into the house, but I was quicker and stronger – I grabbed her by the wrist. “Let go of me, you bitch!” “Apologize to the guy who may be the only real friend you have, and maybe I will.” “Fuck you.” “Look Sammy, if you want to have a cuss-out, you should know you’re up against a pro. You’re not going to shock me – not with bad manners, witchcraft, tantrums – and not at all with foul language.” I hadn’t noticed that Jacob had moved up out of his chair. He put an arm around her. “Please let her go,” he said to me. I shrugged and let her go. She crumpled up into his arms, crying on his shoulder. Twice in one day, I thought. Maybe I really was the meanest reporter in town. “I’m sorry, Miss Kelly,” Jacob said quietly. “I owe Sammy an apology, too. This whole thing was a bad idea. I never should have bothered you.” “Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,” I said softly, shaking my head. “It wasn’t a mistake. Sammy, you need to figure out who your friends are. Jacob needs your help. Seriously. Believe me, I don’t get up and jump every time there’s a troubled teenager somewhere. I’m sorry if I scared you or bullied you. It’s just that if I don’t know at least as much of the story as whoever is feeding Montgomery his information, then I can’t present a balanced view of whatever happened. I’ll get one side of this story from the Montgomery campaign. I need your help to get the other side.” She sat back down in the chair, her face a mess from crying. I pulled out a couple of tissues and handed them to her. “The… person you were referring to… that person wasn’t there that night. It wasn’t that kind of gathering. That’s all I can say.” Looking at her, I could see that the fear she had of the character in the goat’s mask was not feigned. It didn’t seem to me that we were going to get much farther. I took out a business card and scribbled my home phone number on the back. I handed it to her. “If you think of anything more, give me a call.” I stood up and started to go. Some movement inside the house caught my eye. I remained still for a moment, then realized that the curtains on one window were swaying slightly, as if someone had been watching us. This seemed so strange – we were off to one side of the activities of the recreation room, but surely it would have been easy for someone to have planted themselves within earshot. Why hide in the house, where he or she would be unable to hear us over the music? I looked back at Jacob and Sammy. He was saying good-bye to her. We left together, and I offered him a lift home. He hesitated only a moment and then accepted. “Jacob,” I said, when we were in the car, “do you think there’s any possibility that Sammy is in real danger?” He turned his face away, staring out the window, but answered, “I don’t know. I guess I must think that she is, or I wouldn’t want her to stay away from the coven.” “Do you know any of the other members of the coven?” “Yeah – a couple of the other kids at the shelter are into it. Sammy was hanging out with them at school a lot. That was before she got kicked out of her house. Now I kind of feel like it’s my fault.” “Why?” “She wasn’t really very into it until she got kicked out. Then I mentioned the shelter, not knowing these kids lived there, and then she really got seriously involved in it. I never should have mentioned the shelter. I should have talked to my mom about it more than I did. I asked if Sammy could live with us, and she said no, but I didn’t really – you know – beg and plead with her or anything. Now look.” “Sammy is your age?” “A little older. She’s seventeen, I’m sixteen. I won’t be seventeen until January.” “She’s free to make her own choices, even bad ones, Jacob. Don’t feel guilty. There are other kids at the shelter she could have chosen as friends, and you said yourself she was already into it before she moved there.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just wish there was something I could do.” “Keep her occupied with other interests, other friends.” “You probably saw why she doesn’t have too many friends.” “You saw through it – other people can, too.” He was quiet until we pulled up in his driveway. “Thanks, Miss Kelly. Thanks for trying, anyway.” He walked back into the house in the same glum mood I had seen him in first thing that morning. I was, at that moment, happy to be heading toward forty after all. I wouldn’t be sixteen again for anything. I STOPPED BY the store on the way home and bought some candy and a pumpkin. Pickings were slim by then, but I did manage to find a bag or two of not-too-unpopular candy bars. At the checkout stand I had an inspiration and bought something for Frank. I OPENED my front door cautiously, and found myself battling the fear that always overtook me when I was home alone. I live in a little 1930s-style bungalow in a neighborhood that threatens to become more upscale, a relatively peaceful area. But the violence of the previous summer had been brought to my doorstep, and try as I might, I could not yet feel safe in my own home. The window blasted out by gunfire had been replaced, the locks improved, the wall replastered – even my grandfather’s chair had been repaired and reupholstered. I was the only item that was still damaged. Wild Bill Cody, my gray, twenty-pound tomcat, heard the door open and came bounding in, scolding me loudly when he reached my feet. I picked him up and scratched his ears; he closed his eyes and purred loudly. “It’s your own fault, Romeo,” I said. He clawed my arm in response. I dropped him on the floor with a yelp. We were even. He trotted after me, following me into the kitchen. I opened a can of some foul-smelling stuff he was fond of. I rinsed the cat food can and put it in the recycling bin. He was already chowing down, but he looked up and blinked his thanks. I watched him with affection. Lately he had been shuffled around like an orphan, traveling between my place and Frank’s. At first he was a terror to transport, employing a vast array of tricks for fighting the cat carrier, and wreaking havoc on Frank’s house when we got there. Frank learned to catproof his place and Cody learned – after two or three times of being left by his lonesome – that if he was going to make a stink about it, he’d be left behind. This time he had refused to come when I called for him, so I had left some dry food and fresh water near his cat door. Outside of shredding the newspapers I put down to shield the kitchen table, Cody didn’t interfere with my pumpkin-carving efforts. He made the biggest mess he could with the papers, decided he didn’t like the smell of pumpkin pulp, and took off. After a minute, I wondered what he was up to, and found him chewing on a candy bar. It was one that had a mint flavor – a particular weakness of Cody’s. I took it from him and got a nice scratch for my efforts. I was going to have to watch that candy bowl like a hawk. The trick-or-treaters started arriving, and kept me busy for the next few hours. It is not a good idea to rest your hopes for the next generation on what they choose for Halloween costumes. While I knew that the boys probably wouldn’t “You’re a pirate!” I said. “I’m a pirate I gave her six times as much candy as the usual ration, and told her to be sure to thank her parents for me. FRANK CALLED as business was slacking off, at about 8:30, saying he wouldn’t be free until after 11:00 – could I wait? I told him I’d have a snack and wait for him to get back for dinner. I air-popped some popcorn and curled up on the couch to listen to a Kings game in progress. Cody strolled over and settled on my lap. He smelled suspiciously of mint, but I didn’t see a half-eaten candy bar anywhere. During the second period break, I packed up my clothes for work the next day. Frank and I were alternating between houses – one week at mine, one week at his. It was an arrangement that had already grown tiresome, but neither of us had broached the subject of moving in together. Or whatever it was we were going to do next. I was happy to keep packing clothes and cat for a while. On my way back to the living room to listen to the second period, I stepped on something soft – Cody’s candy bar. I bagged up the remaining candy and stuck it in the freezer. What worked with Frank would work with Cody. After that I was completely absorbed in listening to the hockey game. The Kings won in overtime and I was jumping up and down and whooping for joy when the front door burst open, scaring me clean out of my wits. Frank and I stood looking at one another with startled expressions. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I heard screaming.” “I’m fine,” I said sheepishly. The announcer was saying, “So the Kings win it with thirty seconds left in overtime…” “I should have known,” said Frank, coming over to give me a hug. I looked up at him. “You’re tired. Let’s just go over to your place and I’ll fix you something there.” He seemed tempted for a brief moment, then said, “No, I promised you dinner out tonight, and that’s what we’re going to do.” I frowned. It was easy to see that he was exhausted. He had worked long hours all week, and the case he was on now – the murder of a four-year-old girl – had been especially hard on him. He was usually able to distance himself emotionally from the grisly business he had to deal with at work, but this case had bothered him. He bottled up most of his agitation over it, but it seemed to me that effort was wearing him down as well, and from time to time I caught glimpses of how much it had disturbed him. On top of the strain of this case, the last few weeks had been rough ones for another reason: Frank wasn’t getting along very well with his new lieutenant, Dave Carlson. Lieutenant Carlson was an ambitious man, and I suspected he was somewhat jealous of Frank’s popularity with both the other cops and their captain, John Bredloe. Carlson and Frank had already had a couple of minor run-ins, and Bredloe had backed up Frank both times. That didn’t score him any points with the lieutenant. “I’m willing to take a rain check on the evening out,” I said. “Get a sweater, it’s cool outside.” Okay, so he wanted to go out. We went to an all-night cafe, Bernie’s, which is not far from my house. The food was good, but despite the fact there wasn’t much of a crowd, the service was pathetically slow. “I talked to my mom,” Frank said. “She doesn’t have a problem with having you join us for Thanksgiving.” That didn’t sound quite the same as boundless enthusiasm, but maybe he was too tired to convey her level of interest in having me there. Besides, I had made up my mind about it anyway. “Great, I’ll be happy to be with your family for Thanksgiving. Thanks for inviting me.” His face went quickly from puzzled to pleased. With a little food and coffee in him, Frank perked up a bit, but we were both ready to head for home. I looked around. If our waitress was in the room, she was wearing a cloaking device. “You know, Frank, I have thought about our growing old together – I just didn’t think we were going to do it in Bernie’s.” “Yeah, I wanted dessert, but I’m afraid to order it; we’d be here ’til I’m pensioned.” “Don’t bother,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a Snickers bar – the little gift I had bought for him at the checkout stand. “Have at it, sweet tooth.” He grinned in appreciation. “You know, Irene, I think I might satisfy one other craving tonight as well.” “You taking up smoking?” “One more guess.” The waitress chose this moment to reappear. It was about 1:30 in the morning by the time we got back to my house. We captured Cody and I grabbed my clothes and overnight bag. We decided to go to Frank’s place in one car – he would bring me back in the morning. As we made our way up the walk to his house in the early hours of All Saints’ Day, we both saw something that made us stop and stare. Mrs. Fremont’s lights were on, and her front door was wide open. Even from where we stood, we could see the crudely drawn goat’s head on the door. |
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