The River King (32 page)

“If she was that ill, it's better this way,” Eric said when he saw how upset Betsy had become.

But his words weren't any comfort. Betsy felt as if something had been tossed down a well, something precious and irretrievable ; the world seemed much smaller without Miss Davis as a part of it. Betsy excused herself and walked back to St. Anne's; the sky was black and starry, as cold as it was deep. A north wind was shaking the trees, but in the arbor behind St. Anne's a pair of cardinals slept in the thicket, one gray as the bark, the other red as the deepest rose.

Carlin was still in the kitchen, cleaning up. She'd tied one of Helen Davis's white aprons around her waist and was arm-deep in soapy water, crying as she scrubbed the pots. She had already consumed three glasses of the Madeira stored in the cabinet under the sink and was extremely tipsy, with a pink cast to her skin and her eyes rimmed red. For the first time the black cat hadn't begged to be let out at dark, rather it perched on the counter and mewed uncertainly. When Betsy came in, she draped her coat over a kitchen chair and examined the half-empty bottle of Madeira.

“You can turn me in if you like.” Carlin dried her hands and sat across from Miss Chase at the table. “Of course, I never turned you in for having men in your room.”

They stared at each other, dizzy from the scent of roses, their mouths dry with grief. Betsy poured herself a glass of wine and refilled Carlin's empty glass as well.

“It was just one man,” Betsy said. “Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

“Miss Davis had a crush on him. She invited him to Christmas dinner. It's none of my business, but in my opinion, he's definitely the better man.”

The Madeira had a heavy, bitter aftertaste, perfectly suitable, considering the circumstances. A few nights earlier, Betsy had gone to the phone booth at the pharmacy and called Abe, but as soon as he'd answered, she hung up, completely undone by the sound of his voice.

“It's all over now, and I'd just as soon nobody knew about it.”

Carlin shrugged. “It's your loss.”

“What is that I smell?” Betsy asked, for the scent of roses was everywhere now. Surely, the fragrance was too floral to be wafting over from the bread pudding set out on the table. Betsy was surprised to discover that Carlin was such a good cook; she didn't think anyone made desserts from scratch anymore, not when there were instants for just about everything other than love and marriage. She gazed out the window, and seeing the cardinals perched there she grew confused; for a moment she believed them to be roses.

They let the cat out when it mewed at the door, then locked up, even though there was nothing to steal. In only a few days the maintenance crew would have the place down to bare wood and walls, carting the furniture down to the thrift shop at St. Agatha's and toting boxes of books to the secondhand store in Middletown. By now the odor in the apartment was so strong that Carlin had begun to sneeze and Betsy felt bumps rising on the most tender areas of her skin, the base of her throat, the backs of her knees, her fingers, her thighs, her toes. The scent of roses was seeping into the hallways, winding up the staircases, streaming beneath closed doors. That night, any girl who had something to regret tossed and turned, burning up while she slept. Amy Elliot, with her terrible allergies, broke out in hives and Maureen Brown, who could not abide rose pollen, awoke with black spots on her tongue that the school nurse diagnosed as bee stings, although surely such an affliction was impossible at this time of year.

A funeral mass was said at St. Agathas early Saturday, the last cold morning of the month, with several townspeople in attendance, including Mike Randall from the bank, and Pete Byers, who'd ordered the flowers from the Lucky Day and who sat in the first pew alongside his nephew and Carlin Leander. Abe came in toward the end of the service, wearing his grandfather's old overcoat, for lack of something of his own that might be appropriate for such an occasion. He stayed in the back row, where he was most comfortable, nodding a greeting to Rita Eamon, who had come to pay her respects, as she did with every 911 patient the rescue team was unfortunate enough to lose. He waved to Carlin Leander, who looked like a pixie from hell with her hair all chopped off and the worn black coat, which was coming apart at the seams.

After the service, Abe waited outside in the raw January air, watching as parishioners left the church. Carlin had wrapped a green woolen scarf around her head, but when she came down the steps, she looked chalky and chilled to the bone. Sean Byers was close beside her; anyone could judge his attachment from the look on his face. To see a wild boy so concerned made people passing by pity him and envy him at the very same time. Pete had to drag the boy back toward the pharmacy to get him away from Carlin, and when at last he had, Carlin went over to Abe. Together, they watched six strong men from the funeral parlor carry out the coffin.

“You're not going to break Sean Byers's heart, are you?” For Abe could still see the love-struck boy looking over his shoulder as he followed his uncle down Main Street.

“People break their own hearts, if you ask me. Not that it's your business.”

It was a good day for a funeral, brutal and cold. The burial was at the school cemetery and Carlin and Abe set off in that direction. Carlin didn't mind being with Abe; it was almost like being alone. She didn't have to be polite to him, and he clearly felt the same way. When the scarf on her head slipped back he nodded toward what she'd done with the razor. “Walk into a lawn mower?”

“Something like that. I mutilated myself.”

“Good job.” Abe couldn't help but laugh. “If Sean Byers wants you when you look like this, he'll take you any way.”

“He didn't even notice,” Carlin admitted. “I guess he thinks my hair was always this way.”

They passed the Evanses' house, and Abe waved to Charlotte, who was peeking out her front window, curious to see who was walking along Main Street on such a dreadful day.

“Why did you wave to her?” Carlin shook her head. “I wouldn't bother.”

“She's not as bad as she seems.”

“Some people are worse than they seem. Harry McKenna, for instance. I think he's guilty of something. If nothing more, he knows what happened to Gus. It's disgusting how he gets to go on with his life as though nothing happened.”

“Maybe.” They had cut through Mrs. Jeremy's yard in order to take the fastest route to the far meadow. “Maybe not.”

Now they made their way through the tall, brown grass, taking the path where the thornbushes grew. The gravediggers had been at work earlier, for the earth was frozen and it had taken three men quite some time to break ground. A small number of mourners had gathered at the graveside; faculty members who felt it was only civil to pay their respects. A pile of dirt had been deposited outside the fence and icy clods littered the path.

“I've been thinking about leaving Haddan,” Carlin told Abe.

Getting out of Haddan seemed like a fine idea to Abe, especially as he was forced to watch Betsy, who was standing between Eric Herman and Bob Thomas. She had on the black dress she'd worn when she'd come to his house and stayed the night, but today she wore sunglasses and her hair was combed back and she looked entirely different than she had on that night. The priest from St. Agatha's, Father Mink, a large man who was known to cry at funerals and weddings alike, had arrived to consecrate the ground, and the circle of mourners stepped back to accommodate his girth.

Abe watched as those in attendance bowed their heads in the pale winter light. “Maybe I should be the one thinking about leaving.”

“You?” Carlin shook her head. “You'll never leave here. Born and bred. I wouldn't be surprised if you got special permission to be buried right in this cemetery, just to stick it to the Haddan School.”

There was no way Abe was going into that cemetery, not today and not when he was ready for his final resting place. He preferred to meet his maker out in the open, as the woman buried out at Wright's farm had, and he'd pay his respects right out here in the meadow as well. “I bet I'm gone before you are.”

“I don't have to make bets,” Carlin said. “Miss Davis left me money, enough to cover all of my school expenses.”

The instructions in Miss Davis's will were absolutely clear. Her savings, wisely invested by that nice Mike Randall over at the 5&10 Cent Bank, were to be used in a fellowship program for students in need, providing funds each semester that ensured the recipient would not have to work and would also be free to travel during vacations. Miss Davis had stipulated that Carlin Leander was to be the first beneficiary of this award; all of her expenses would be seen to until the last day of her senior year. If she wanted clothing, or books, or a semester in Spain all she must do was write up a request and present it to Mike Randall, who would process the check and forward any cash that she needed.

“I have nothing to worry about financially.” Carlin secured the green scarf around her throat. “If I stay.”

Last week Carlin had turned fifteen, not that she'd told anyone, or felt she had anything to celebrate. Today, however, she didn't look more than twelve. She had the blank expression of disbelief that often accompanies the first shock of bereavement.

“You'll stay.” Abe was looking at the little stone lamb, which had been festooned with a garland of jasmine.

“Miss Davis told me that people bring flowers here for luck,” Carlin said when she noticed his gaze. “It's a memorial for Dr. Howe's baby, the one that was never born because his wife died. Every time a child in town is sick, the mother presents one of those garlands to ask for protection.”

“I never heard that one, and I thought I'd heard them all.”

“Maybe you never had anyone to protect.”

When Carlin went on to the cemetery for the service, Abe stayed where he was for a while, then turned and retraced their path through the meadow. Father Mink's voice was harsh and mournful and Abe had decided he would prefer to hear birdsongs in memory of Miss Davis, who, no matter how ill, had always made certain to set out suet and seed.

His ears were ringing with the cold and he still had to get back to the church, where he'd parked his car, but he found himself heading in the opposite direction. It made no sense, he should have stayed away from the school, and yet he kept on through the meadow. It was a long, slow trek and he was freezing when he finally reached the quad. There were starlings perched in the trees, and because of the thin sunlight, the rose trellis outside St. Anne's was filled with birds. Abe couldn't see them, but he could hear them, singing as if it were spring. He recognized the chirrup of cardinals as well, and the black cat also heard the call. It was poised beside the trellis, head tilted, mesmerized by the pair of birds nesting there.

There might be another black cat with one eye in Haddan, but it wouldn't be wearing the reflective collar Abe had sprung for at Petcetera in Middletown Mall last week. Helen Davis's cat and his were definitely one and the same. If it hadn't shown up at his door, Abe would have been happy to be alone, but now things were different. He'd gotten involved, buying collars, worrying. Now, for instance, he found he was actually pleased to see the wretched creature, and he called to it, whistling as he would for a dog. The birds flew away, startled by the tinkling of the bell on the new collar, but the cat didn't glance over at Abe. Instead, it walked in the direction of Chalk House, navigating over ice and cement, not stopping until it crossed the path of a boy on his way to the river where a free-for-all game of ice hockey would soon begin. It was Harry McKenna who gazed down at the cat.

“Move,” he said roughly.

Harry had always felt the need to excel. It made perfect sense that he'd surpassed those fools who'd thought themselves so brave, trapping helpless rabbits on the night of their initiation. He had chosen the black cat instead, and therefore had in his possession a souvenir far more original than a rabbit's foot, a memento he kept in a glass tube taken from the biology lab. By now, the yellow eye had turned as milky as the marbles Harry used to play with; when he shook the tube, it rattled like a stone.

On his way to play hockey, Harry knew he was finished with Haddan; he was as sure of it as he was certain whatever team he played on would win. The future was all he was interested in. He'd been granted early admission to Dartmouth, yet he sometimes had nightmares in which his final grades rearranged themselves. On such occasions, Harry awoke sweating and nauseated, and not even black coffee could separate him from his dreams. On these mornings, he grew nervous in ways that surprised him. The slightest thing could set him off. The black cat, for instance, which he came upon every once in a while. Although impossible, the cat seemed to recognize him. It would stop in front of him, as it did on this January afternoon, and simply refuse to move. Harry would then have to shoo it away, and when that wasn't effective, he'd threaten it with a well-aimed book or a soccer ball. It was a disgusting animal and Harry felt he really hadn't done it much harm. Its owner, that nasty old Helen Davis, had spoiled it more than ever after the incident. The way Harry saw it, the cat should probably be grateful to him for ensuring it be granted a soft life of pity and cream. Now that Miss Davis was gone, the cat would probably follow her lead and good riddance to both of them, in Harry's opinion. The world would be a better place without either one.

The black cat did seem to have a surprisingly long memory; it peered up at the boy through its one narrowed eye, as though it knew him well. From where he stood, Abe could see Harry chase off the cat with a hockey stick, shouting for it to stay the hell away, but the cat didn't go far. Cruelty always gets found out in the end; there's simply no way to run from all that you do. Frail and inadequate although this evidence might be, it was all the proof Abe needed. On this cold afternoon when the starlings had all flown away, he had found the guilty party.