Specter (9780307823403) (14 page)

The picture is that of a man who is smiling, and I see Julie’s face. His nose is long and narrow, eyes wide and blue. He’s standing on a bridge, and a
strand of pale, thin hair is blowing across his forehead.

“Is this your father?” I ask.

“We look alike,” she tells me.

“You certainly do. Is there a picture of your mother in the box, too?”

Solemnly she takes the snapshot from me and carefully puts it back. She snaps the lid of the can shut and hugs it to her chest.

“Now we can go,” she says.

“Julie, are there other things in the apartment that belong to your family?”

“No,” she says.

“I think I’d better look around.” I open a drawer of the nearby chest, but it’s empty.

“I told you. They took everything except my treasure box.”

“Why didn’t they take that, too?”

“They decided to leave while I was at the playground. There’s a little playground two blocks down that street out in front. And they just picked me up and said we were moving. Nancy had packed everything. I told them they had left my box, but they wouldn’t go back.” Her voice is rising, and there is such anger in her face that it frightens me.

“Why would they leave this—this treasure box?”

“Because I hid it. Everywhere we go I hide it, so no one will find it except me. There’s always someplace. This closet has some boards loose on the floor. I hid it under the boards.”

She is so intent she must be telling the truth, but
she has lied to me before. I can’t be sure. I walk into the other bedroom. The bed is unmade. A pair of man’s shoes are on the floor, a shirt draped over the small chair, cigarettes and matches on the chest. I open the top drawer. It’s stuffed with men’s underwear, some papers, rolled socks in a heap of disorder.

“Julie! Look at all this! Your parents didn’t pack everything. There may be something here that will help Detective MacGarvey.”

I flip through the papers. A credit card. A photograph. I pull them out. “George Washburn?” The photo is of a smiling family. They’re black. “Julie, what is all this?”

She shrugs. “Maybe we just paid for one week. I forget. Someone else must live here now.”

I shove things back into the drawer as though they are crawly, alive, and biting. “Let’s get out of here! We could be arrested for breaking into someone’s apartment!”

“We didn’t break in. I’ve got the key.”

“Give it to me!”

I grab it from her fingers and run into the living room. I can hear footsteps across the walkway in front of the apartments. I hope whoever is out there is not coming in this apartment!

The footsteps stop. Julie comes up beside me. “Shhh,” I whisper, and clutch her arm.

“Ouch!” she says.

I am frozen into the minute, which goes on and on. The footsteps move down the walk. I think I’m breathing. I think I’m moving across the room. The
key. Where am I going to put the key? If Mr. Washburn finds it, he’ll know someone was in the apartment.

There’s a small table with a drawer in it. It rattles as I open it. The table isn’t shaking. I am. There’s nothing in the drawer except a phone book, so I drop the key in beside it and close the drawer.

No! The footsteps are returning!

I tug Julie out the back door, not even looking to see if anyone is outside. We’re the only ones in this parking area.

“You’re pulling my arm!”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to make you hurry.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to get away from this place. We have no business here.”

“You sound like Nancy.”

Here is the car. I can’t find the keys. They’re in my handbag somewhere. What happened to the person on the walk? No one is around now. Is someone watching us from one of the windows? The keys!

“Get in, Julie. Lock your door.”

I’m still trembling as we drive away. It occurs to me, as we double back to the shopping center, that I haven’t noted the name of the apartments, the name of the street, or the address.

“Now let’s go home,” she says calmly.

“That’s where we’re going.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I was just scared.” Suddenly I
remember something she said. “Why did you tell me that I sounded like your mother?”

“Because she’d rush around and get excited when we had to leave.”

“Did you always leave places in such a hurry?”

“Not all the time, but sometimes.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“But you’re a smart little girl, Julie. You must have figured something out. Was someone chasing your family?”

“Sometimes.”

“Was it Sikes?”

“I hate Sikes. I wish he’d go away. He’s mad because I didn’t die, too.”

Back to the beginning. “Why, why, why?”

“Don’t yell at me.”

This is no time to try to talk to her. I’ve got to watch the traffic. I must calm down. Take a long slow deep breath. Calmly, calmly, nothing matters now. Watch the traffic. Home again, home again, jiggity jog. What am I doing in this car with this child, playing this crazy game?

“I’ve got some other things in my treasure box to show you, but it’s not time now.”

“No, it’s not. Not while I’m driving.”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“Good.” I remember there’s a radio in the car, and I turn it on. Country western. Familiar stuff. It eases me back to Mrs. Cardenas’s house. I leave the car in the driveway.

“Don’t tell Mrs. Cardenas about my treasure box,” Julie says.

Mrs. Cardenas? I suppose it doesn’t matter if she knows or not. It’s Dr. Lynn I need to talk to.

“It has to be my secret for a while,” Julie adds.

“Okay. I won’t tell her.”

I carry in one sack of groceries, and Mrs. Cardenas goes out for the other. Julie slips into the house like a small ghost. Mrs. Cardenas doesn’t see her.

“Where’s Julie?”

“She came in while you were going out.” I hand her the sales slip and the change and put a head of lettuce in the refrigerator.

“Here I am,” Julie says. Sweet smile. No sign of her treasure box. How did she do that so fast?

“Dave called. He said there’s something he has to tell you, Dina. He’s going to come over tonight after work, about eight o’clock.”

“Is that too late? Will it bother Mr. Cardenas?”

“Nothing bothers Carlos, not even his own snoring. Dave said it was important.”

It dawns on me that I don’t have the number of the hospital. There must be a phone book around here. Where have I seen one? I remember the phone book in the dresser in George Washburn’s apartment, and I shudder.

Mrs. Cardenas stops, a carton of milk in her hands, and studies me. “Are you cold, Dina? On such a warm day?

“Cold? Oh, no. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been looking a lot better. I said to Carlos, ‘There’s been a big difference since she’s been out in the sun and has more color in her face.’ ”

Julie is studying me, too. Don’t worry. I won’t give away your secret to Mrs. Cardenas. To me a promise is something to keep.

“What can I do to help you?” I ask Mrs. Cardenas.

“
Nada más
.” She shakes her head. “There are some books in the living room bookcase. Maybe you’ll find something in there that you’d like to read. Carlos and I aren’t much for reading, but we got our boys some books while they were home and in school.”

Bookcase? I wonder if that’s where she keeps the telephone book. It will give me an excuse to look.

She shuts the refrigerator door and says, “I almost forgot to tell you. My sister-in-law, Angie, is taking me shopping with her in a little while. She’s going to buy some material to sew new drapes for their den, and she can’t make up her mind. She can never make up her mind about anything. Always has to have somebody help her. This time it’s me.”

“Would you like me to drive you?”

“No, no. She has a car. She drives like her head is somewhere else, but I pray a lot, and we don’t run into anybody. I just want you girls to know that I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. You’ll be all right, won’t you? The doctors said I don’t have to be with you every minute.”

“We’ll be fine,” I tell her.

“Help yourself to whatever you want for lunch. There are still some of Carmen’s
empanadas
in the refrigerator.

I sit on the floor in front of the built-in bookcase. On the lower shelf, in a brown vinyl cover to make it look acceptable in the living room, is what I’m searching for—the phone book.

Mrs. Cardenas and Julie are chatting in the kitchen. I quickly look up the number of the hospital. I should have thought. No pencil or paper. I’ll memorize it. I go over and over the number in my mind as I slide the phone book back into its place.

“Why are you just staring at those books?”

I jump. “Julie! I didn’t hear you come up behind me.”

“You’re just staring at those books. Are you going to read one of them?”

I reach up and pull down
Tom Sawyer
. “Here’s one you’d like. I could read it to you.” The idea surprises me, even as I say the words. But it’s a good idea. Sharing a book might make Julie more open with me. Maybe we can talk more about the things that have happened to her.

“That doesn’t look like a book for children. It looks like those other books.”

There aren’t many books in the case, and most of them have the same inexpensive binding. Part of a set: Alcott, Twain, Dickens—I always hated
Dickens, because the children in his stories were so abused. I only read his novels that were class assignments, and all the time I was reading, I had such a miserable feeling of frustration.

“Does that story have a horse in it or a ghost in it?” Julie asks.

“There are lots of good stories that don’t have horses or ghosts in them.”

“When are we going to read it?”

“How about this afternoon?” Suddenly I am so tired. If there is a sandman, I think he’s more like a cat burglar, creeping up behind me on dark, softly padded feet, smothering me in a blanket of exhaustion so heavy my head can hardly support the weight. My arms and legs feel limp, no help whatsoever. “Maybe I can take a nap first,” I add.

“All right,” she says. “First you sleep.” She looks pleased. I guess she likes the idea of being read to after all.

How am I going to make that phone call? Julie will hear me. Mrs. Cardenas will hear me. There has to be some way. But what is it?

Mrs. Cardenas comes in carrying her handbag. “Angie is always late, too. Drives like that and still is late.”

I climb to my feet. “I’m going to read
Tom Sawyer
to Julie.

“
¡Muy bien!
There’s a nice breeze right now. You might like to sit on the porch while you read.”

She’s given me a terrific idea. “Why don’t we
go out there now while we wait for your sister-in-law?”

“It’s a little warm out there for me,” she says. Then she chuckles. “But think how Angie will feel when she comes and we’re all out there waiting for her. I hope she’ll feel guilty about being late.”

She and I settle into the webbed chairs. Julie sits on the steps. It’s hard to sit still. The lake is silvery gray in the sun, and heat shimmers up from the street. I lift my face to the breeze that riffles across the porch.

“We’re going to have a hot summer,” Mrs. Cardenas says. She fans herself with her handbag. “Clouds are building up over to the west. Maybe we’ll have rain. We need it.”

“Excuse me for a moment. I’ll be right back.” I get up slowly, hoping my plan will work, hoping I’ll have enough time. Julie stays where she is. Mrs. Cardenas keeps fanning.

Into the house, quickly, quickly. The phone is in their bedroom. The strange feeling of another person’s room, the fragrance of the two people who have lived here for many years, making this their own domain. I feel like a trespasser. The number is clear in my mind, but the phone dial is so slow. The operator at the hospital answers.

“Dr. Lynn Manning, please.”

“Can you speak up? I can’t hear you.”

“Dr. Lynn Manning.” I clear my throat.

“One moment.” Two moments. Three moments. Hurry!

Finally a voice answers, but it’s not Dr. Lynn.

“This is Dina Harrington. May I please speak to Dr. Manning?”

“Hi, Dina. This is Alice. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I’m fine. I—oh, could I speak to Dr. Manning?”

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Alice says. “She’s at some meetings today. I think she’s coming back this evening. Do you want to leave a message?”

Now what do I do? If she calls back, I can’t talk to her. Someone else will be around. I’ll have to think of a better plan. This one isn’t working.

“Dina? Are you there?”

“I was trying to think. No, I won’t leave a message. I’ll just call back tomorrow maybe.”

“Okay. I’m glad it wasn’t anything important. Take care.”

I replace the receiver on its cradle and walk back into the hallway. Julie is standing in the living room, watching me. Do I look as guilty as I feel? I hope not.

“What were you doing in Mrs. Cardenas’s bedroom?” she demands.

“I was on the phone. Didn’t you hear me talking?”

“No. I just came inside. Mrs. Cardenas left. I didn’t hear the phone ring, either.”

“I doubt if you can hear the phone ring when you’re out on the porch.” I hope to distract her.
“Weren’t you going to show me some other things in your box?”

“It’s not time yet.”

“All right. Whenever you want.”

“Are you going to take your nap now?”

“I’d better stay with you.”

“I’m going to watch television. You could watch it with me.”

I nod.

“You could sleep in the big chair, like Mr. Cardenas does.” She pauses. “Those big chairs aren’t very comfortable, though.”

“It’s all right.”

“If you want to sleep in your bed, you could. I’ll be right here in the living room, watching the television. If you need me, you can call me, and I’ll hear you.”

She seems so eager to please, and the idea of stretching out on the bed is so tempting. There should be no problems.

Julie follows me into the bedroom. “Do you think Mrs. Cardenas would care if we turned off the air conditioner in here for a little while? Then you won’t feel so cold.”