Читать книгу Bittersweet - Miranda Beverly-Whittemore - Страница 21

I TURNED WHAT I CAN only imagine was a shade of crimson, feeling the intensity of Galway’s gaze. ‘I really should go.’

‘Nonsense.’ Indo gripped my arm. ‘Now’s a perfect time to show you the archives we talked about. Test your mettle. Oh, don’t look so terrified, I’m kidding. Mostly. But really, can you resist? They’re just up there, waiting for someone to do something with them, to reveal their secrets. Galway helped me box them up a few years ago, and since we are such good friends now, and my poor back won’t allow me regular stairs anymore – don’t grow old, you beautiful creatures …’ And on she went, urging me up the rickety steps.

Much to my chagrin, Galway followed.

Indo flipped on the weak overhead lights and excitedly pointed out the mouse-nibbled cardboard boxes piled in the center of the immense, airless attic. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased,’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘Galway is such a help in these matters, and I know you two will have good fun tackling this together.’

I could barely think, so embarrassed was I to be near that man. I kept my head down and tried to focus on the sound of Indo’s voice.

There were dozens of boxes, filled with clippings and personal papers and business documents. The immensity of the task I had blithely agreed to that chilly afternoon the week before struck me – Indo wanted me to find something in this mess for her? And if I found it, she’d, what, give me her house? Fat chance.

‘What exactly do you want me to find?’ I asked, when I could get a word in.

‘First order of business,’ she pronounced, ‘put your hands on that manila folder about my painting. Yes, Galway, I told her your parents took my painting – you know me, I can’t keep my mouth shut. The folder’s nondescript, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to root around a bit, but that’s half the fun now, isn’t it? And keep your eyes peeled for good stories – you never know where you might find some material. She’s a budding writer, did you know that, Galway? The quick mind of a detective. Especially, dear, especially keep your eyes open for anything about … Well, yes, all right, I’ll let you find your own way.’

She then launched into a disquisition on her storied ancestors – ‘They were visionaries! The leaders of their fields!’ – until Galway asked me pointedly, ‘Weren’t you looking for Ev?’ I considered him the enemy but saw the possibility for retreat so agreed apologetically that, yes, he was right, Ev had fallen ill at the picnic and I really should check on her.

‘Oh dear,’ Indo exclaimed, releasing me. ‘You should have said something.’ I hurried down the attic stairs as she called after me, ‘If it’s woman’s troubles, tell her to find me; I’ve got fabulous herbs from my guy in Boston.’

I was back out into the moonless night in seconds, cursing myself for ever stepping foot inside that building, cursing Galway for playing that guitar, and it wasn’t until I was far from the Dining Hall that I realized I had no flashlight and only a vague notion of the direction I should be heading. ‘Abby!’ I called, but even the dog had abandoned me. I told myself not to think about vampires. The crunch of my feet on gravel was a good, if small, sign I was going in the right direction.

The Dining Hall was out of sight by the time the light glanced toward me. The beam flashed over me a few times, and I stopped, like a deer in headlights, grateful for the flashlight if wary of whoever might be bearing it. It was just as I feared – Galway, alone. He was winded.

He handed me the flashlight silently, and I was forced to thank him. There were two of us, and only one light. One of us would have to walk the other home. Since we were halfway to Bittersweet, we continued in my direction.

He cleared his throat. I thanked god for the darkness. We walked on together into the night. Finally, he said, ‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’

I said nothing.

‘It’s kind of funny, actually, when you think about it,’ he went on. It sounded like he was smiling.

I kept my eyes on the beam and prayed he was done.

‘I was looking for Ev that morning,’ he said, ‘and I thought she might be sleeping and—’

‘Okay,’ I said, wheeling toward him, shining the light at his face, ‘good.’

He put his hand up to shield his eyes. ‘I just wanted to say—’

‘I get it.’ I kept the light pointed directly at his face, unable to restrain my anger at the oblivious, blithe way these people went about their lives. ‘I get it, it’s hysterical, and now you can hold it over me and humiliate me all you want, you saw me … doing that … but it isn’t lost on me that you were the one spying on people, that you’re’ – I searched for the right word – ‘a Peeping Tom, a pervert’ – and with that, I left him. Didn’t care that I had the only flashlight, or that he was the one who’d brought it to me.

Abby met me a few steps from a pitch-black Bittersweet, the night filling with her clacking tags and panting tongue. She licked my hand faithfully. I went straight for the crawl space below the porch, easily finding the one bag of recyclables I’d set aside, grabbing the three magazines on top. I listened for Galway’s footsteps, but I could hear only the night.

We crept into the sleeping house. The bedroom door was closed, a relief, since Ev, who’d abandoned me for the evening, was the last person I wanted to see. I clicked on the lamp in the living room, pulled the pair of nail scissors from the medicine cabinet, grabbed a notepad and roll of tape from the supply basket, and settled before the cold hearth, letting myself open the September 1, 1961, issue of Life,