Читать книгу Never Look Back - Robert Ross - Страница 12

“So what do you think of your new home?”

Sarah Jane stared at the white Victorian standing like some great lady on the beach. The wind was whipping her hair and a salty chill bore down at her from the crashing surf. There were hardly any houses nearby; the whole ride down to the end of the Cape had left her exhausted. This was truly the end of the world. Only yards from the house the land ended, crumbling into the sea. Sarah Jane had never known a place could feel so isolated.

“It’s charming,” she said, hoping her words didn’t sound as false as she felt.

Horace offered her his arm. His pockmarked face was beaming, gaps in his walrus mustache exposing his yellowed and broken teeth. Sarah Jane took his arm and gave him her most gracious smile—the one she’d used on lawyers and judges to convince them of her sincerity. He swung her down from the automobile and she caught a whiff of his cologne and the slightly sour smell of whiskey it barely covered.

“Now, I know it’s not what you were expecting after the house in Washington, my dear, but we have the town house in Boston as well.” Senator Hatch puffed up his chest. “And it’s very cozy and warm—especially in the winter. Ellen—” He made a face, as he always did on the rare occasions when his first wife’s name came out in conversation. “Ellen loved it here.”

Well, I’m not Ellen, Sarah Jane wanted to say, but she kept her smile plastered on her face as he escorted her up the walk to the front door, jabbering all the way about how long the house had been in the Hatch family. He’d been born here, his daughter was born here, and he was hoping their children would be born here as well.

Have I died and gone to hell? Sarah Jane wondered as Horace opened the front door, bellowing for his daughter and her governess. From upstairs came the sounds of feet scurrying, and suddenly his daughter descending the staircase, followed by a sour-looking gray-haired older woman dressed completely in black.

“Papa!” The young girl practically leaped into his arms, and he kissed her cheek and spun her around, finally setting her down.

“Lettie, this is your new mother, Sarah Jane.”

The teenager turned to look at her. Lettie was pretty, Sarah Jane thought. Not a knockout, not the kind of woman men would serenade, who would inspire passionate poetry, or make men pine away for the love of, but she was adequate. There would be any number of eligible young men vying for her hand in marriage someday—and the Hatch money wouldn’t hurt either.

It was clear that Lettie didn’t resemble her father in the least. Her face was heart shaped, with a high strong forehead that looked even larger with her hair pulled back so severely, but her gray eyes were warm and intelligent, and her reddish lips were full and soft. Her skin was pale white, and her neck long and graceful. Her brown hair had glints of red that almost sparkled in the sunlight. She was shorter than Sarah Jane, but she had ample curves and the bosom of her white blouse was full.

The girl eagerly put out her hands. Sarah Jane took them, and the girl kissed each of her cheeks in turn. “Shall I call you Mother?” she asked, giving her a radiant smile.

Sarah Jane froze. The girl was older than her youngest sister. She tried to detect any hint of malice in the soft voice, but couldn’t find any. “I—”

“Of course you should call her Mother,” Horace said with a hearty laugh. “She’s your mother now, girl!”

“Mother,” Lettie said, smiling. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I am sure we will be great friends, Mother.”

“Sister would be more appropriate.” The older woman, still standing on the stairs, sniffed.

Horace’s smile quickly faded from his face and he darted fury across the room. “And that would be none of your business, Ann Windham, and as long as I am paying for your keep, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head!” The senator’s face reddened with rage. “I’ll not be told how to govern my family by a servant!”

Ann Windham glared at Horace for a moment before turning to Sarah Jane. “I have tea ready in the kitchen, if you are so inclined, madame.” Her eyes glinted malevolently. And her tone had gone up a notch when she’d said “madame,” almost making a mockery of the term.

“That would be fine, Mrs. Windham,” Sarah Jane said.

But she couldn’t help but wonder: had she made a mistake by marrying Horace Hatch?

Karen sat up in bed and shivered. Lightning lit up the room, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder so powerful she felt it in her bones. What a strange dream, she thought. So vivid, so real.

The room was dark, even though the alarm clock on her nightstand showed that it was after ten. She threw the covers off. I can’t believe I slept so late—what’s wrong with me?

She’d been having trouble falling asleep since she’d arrived. Sleep had never been a problem for her before. Her mother had once joked, “My Karen could sleep through nuclear war.” But ever since her first night in the house, she had tossed and turned and found herself waking up at various times throughout the night.

She swung out of the bed and walked over to her desk, switching on her computer. I’ve got to get a grip, she decided. Philip had finally called, several times in fact, ingratiatingly apologetic for how busy he had been. She had kept her anxiety and fears to herself, and hadn’t found the steel to ask him about Ivy’s suicide, and when he had been planning on telling her. He doesn’t like confrontation. He’ll think I’m weak, or complaining. “That’s my biggest turnoff,” he’d told her, time and time again. “Nagging women.”

Yet every time she hung up the phone, she cursed herself for wimping out.

But maybe she was being too hard on him. Maybe he hadn’t told her because it was too painful. Besides, Karen thought, it’s not something we should talk about on the phone. She’d wait until he was home to bring it up.

But why didn’t he tell me this was the old Hatch house?

She walked into the bathroom and turned on the water spigot, staring at herself in the mirror. Dark circles were forming under her eyes from the lack of restful sleep. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and headed back into the bedroom. Thunder crashed again, and through the window she could see whitecaps crashing in the bay. Everything outside was gray.

Like my mood.

Jessie still wouldn’t speak to her. They ate meals in silence. When Jessie was finished she would bolt from the table and head back to her room. Then her door would slam. Karen had stopped trying to talk to her.

“I’m sorry she’s so distant, Karen,” Mrs. Winn had offered, and Karen had just sighed.

“She’s just a girl, Karen, be patient with her,” her mother had said on the phone last night. “And have a little sympathy for her.” She clucked her tongue. “How horrible to have your mother kill herself—poor thing. Teenaged girls need their mothers, and you’re going to have to be there for her.”

But I’m not her mother, Karen wanted to say, and for the first time, she wished she hadn’t married Philip, hadn’t left Louisiana, hadn’t moved up here to this weird house in this strange little village. Of course, she was instantly ashamed of herself.

Stop being a baby and go get some coffee, Karen scolded herself as she finished brushing her teeth. You’re always a complete bitch until you’ve had coffee.

Alice Winn was in the kitchen reading the Boston Globe when Karen walked in. “There’s coffee,” Alice said without looking up. She had the paper open to the sports page. “Damn those Red Sox!” She looked over at Karen and smiled. “Sorry, after all these years you’d think I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but—”

“I know,” Karen commiserated. “My dad’s the same way with the Saints.” She filled a cup of coffee and spooned sugar into it, gratefully raising it to her lips. “What a miserable day! Where’s Jessie? In her room?”

“She went out to meet a friend.” Alice put the paper down. “Oh dear, are you not sleeping well?”

“Does it show?” Karen grimaced. “I don’t know what it is, Alice. It takes me forever to fall asleep, and then I’m restless all night.” She sat down at the table.

“I know what it is,” Alice said, a sly smile playing with her lips.

“What?”

“You’re still a newlywed. You miss your husband.”

Karen smiled. It was true. How wonderful it had been for those few short weeks to fall asleep every night in Philip’s arms. Philip Kaye—her hero.

Their honeymoon had been spent in various hotels in New Orleans, Washington, and New York, as Philip fulfilled his publishing commitments, giving readings, lectures, interviews. So it wasn’t the romantic trip to Hawaii she’d always imagined. But traveling with Philip Kaye, getting into bed with the dashing successful author every night—how much more romantic for a fledgling writer was that?

Then it had been back to New Orleans, where Karen got the Lexus and the directive to pack her things and head north. Here. To Provincetown. To this house. And Philip took off for Los Angeles. Then San Francisco. Then Seattle, Chicago, St. Louis…

“Wait a minute,” Karen said, her mind suddenly registering something. “Did you say Jessie went out to meet a friend?”

“That’s what she said.” Alice shrugged. “That’s all she would say, actually, and I didn’t press her. Would you like some breakfast?”

“You don’t have to—” Karen felt a little guilty that Alice made all of their meals, but she’d insisted that she didn’t mind. I’m just not used to having someone wait on me, that’s all.

“Please, Karen. Allow me. Eggs and bacon?” When Karen nodded, Alice took down a frying pan and started cracking eggs into it. “Now, when I have trouble sleeping, I have some red wine—that always puts me straight to sleep.”

“I’ll have to try that.” Karen yawned. “Maybe it’s a good sign, Jessie having a friend.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Listen, Alice, I’m going to try to get some writing done this morning. It’s a perfect day, all stormy and rainy, to really get into my story. But I have a contractor coming by to give me an estimate on the attic.”

Philip hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of her having a separate office at first, but she’d finally managed to talk him into it. He’d agreed she needed to make the house her own.

“A contractor? Who would that be?” Alice started stirring the eggs. “Do you like them dry or runny?”

“Um, eggs dry, thank you. Bobbie Noble’s the contractor.” Karen picked up the paper and glanced at the headlines. More bombings in the Middle East; another lawsuit against the Catholic Church; another scandal involving the Bush administration. Same old, same old. She pushed the paper away.

“Bobbie Noble,” Alice echoed as she scraped the eggs out of the pan, then lined up some crispy slices of bacon and set the plate down in front of Karen. “You know he’s a homosexual, don’t you?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

Alice just sat back down and picked up the paper again without saying anything.

Karen felt herself getting a little angry. Could Alice be homophobic? She took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of making a work space for me in the attic…and he’s going to help me.”

“That should be nice for you.”

It’s my house now, too, you old witch.

Where did that come from? Karen gulped down her coffee. Alice Winn had been nothing but kind to her—more than kind—ever since she arrived. Where did that sudden surge of venom come from?

Alice put the paper down and smiled at her, her blue eyes twinkling. “Karen, I taught Bobbie when he was in high school. He grew up here on the Cape, down in Eastham. He was always a bit different, if you know what I mean, but—” She sighed. “I always liked him, and I remain fond of him of course—but I don’t approve of his lifestyle.”

“I see.”

Alice picked up the paper again. “Live and let live, is what I say. It’s none of my business or my concern. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a sin.”

“Well, you’re right,” Karen said. “It’s not your business.” She wasn’t hungry anymore. She stood, carrying the plate over to the sink.

“I’ll do the dishes. Just leave it.”

And you’re thinking Philip didn’t marry me for my housekeeping skills, aren’t you? I don’t cook, I don’t clean, I don’t turn my hand to do anything around here. That’s what you really think of me, don’t you, you old bitch? You think I’m some talentless gold digger….

She shook her head. What is wrong with me this morning? Just because Alice has some outdated notions about gay people doesn’t mean she’s thinking bad thoughts about me….

She tried to smile. “Bobbie said he’d be by around one to take a look at the space. Will you call me when he gets here?”

Alice nodded, and Karen went upstairs. She stared at her computer screen.

She wanted to go back downstairs and fire the old witch.

“Karen,” she scolded herself. “Get a grip.”

Alice was her friend; why was she thinking such terrible things about her? And it was kind of her to offer to do the cooking. It wasn’t what she’d been hired to do, after all—and it took a lot of pressure off Karen.

I guess she just caught me off guard with that comment about Bobbie—and I’m feeling guilty about the housework, that’s all. I don’t have the slightest idea of what to make for dinner or lunch or what anyone would want to eat anyway…so why am I so oversensitive this morning?

It was that dream—that’s what this is all about. That dream about Lettie Hatch and her new stepmother. I’ve been obsessing about the whole Lettie Hatch thing the last few days. I was bound to dream about her.

But the dream had seemed so real. Karen could remember the exact way Horace had smelled, the sound of the birds, everything—even the way the sun had felt on her skin as they’d come up the walk.

You’re imagining things again, dumb-shit. You’ve got a vivid imagination, that’s why you want to be a writer—no, why you are a writer.

“Okay, Vicky,” she said aloud, pushing everything else out of her mind. “How are you going to get out of this one?”

She started typing, and before long she became completely immersed in what she was doing. The words started flowing out of her and she forgot everything else—the storm, Alice, Jessie, everything was gone. She was in Vicky’s world, and Vicky had to get away. She hadn’t been able to get the escape sequence to work—she’d erased several versions already, but today it worked. It all made sense, and she typed away.

She was so lost in her work that she didn’t hear the doorbell ring, and when Alice knocked on her door she almost jumped out of her skin.

“I’m so sorry!” Alice wrung her hands. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s okay.” Her heart was pounding, and she took a couple of deep breaths. “I was concentrating and didn’t hear you, that’s all. It’s fine.”

“Bobbie’s downstairs.” Alice smiled. “He hasn’t changed a bit.” She shook her head. “The same terrible tease he always was. I showed him into the living room.”

“Thanks, Alice.” Karen gave her a smile. She saved her work and turned off the computer. The storm had passed, and the sun was out now. She walked into the big living room. Bobbie was standing on a chair, examining the crown moldings. He turned when he heard her and grinned.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said in his best Barbra Streisand imitation. He hopped down from the chair. “The woodwork in this place is exquisite.”

Karen’s jaw dropped. Out of drag, Bobbie was a very handsome man. He was short—which she’d known, since even in his heels and his towering wig his eyes had been about level with hers—but without the clothes and the makeup, there wasn’t anything the least bit effeminate about him. His hair was dark and curly, his skin olive and tanned—and his eyes were so green they almost glowed. He was wearing a tight white ribbed tank top that showed powerfully muscled arms and a strong chest. He was wearing a pair of cargo shorts that clung to his strong legs like skin. His regular speaking voice was deep and melodious. He had a backpack draped over one shoulder.

“Wow,” she said.

He laughed. “Quite a diff, huh?” He snapped his fingers. “It takes a lot of sweat and time to turn me into Zsa Zsa.” His eyes twinkled.

She couldn’t help herself. She stared at his chest. “How do you—um, how do you—”

“The boobs?”

“Yeah.”

“Darlin’, you’d be amazed at what you can do with tape, a push-up bra, and a nice pair of falsies.” He shrugged. “I’m not transgendered—I’m not a woman in a man’s body. Zsa Zsa is just something I do for fun. And a nice extra chunk of change to get me through the dark, cold, and very long Cape Cod winters.”

“Well, I hope Philip and I are in Boston then. I’ve heard how isolating it gets out here—”

Actually, she hadn’t. But it seemed as if she somehow knew it.

Or rather, that Sarah Jane knew it….

Bobbie snapped his fingers again. “And I’m a perfectionist—if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it right. That’s why I’m the best drag queen and carpenter on the Cape. Now, let me get a look at this attic of yours.”

She grinned. “I guess I just don’t understand why anyone would subject themselves to high heels if they don’t have to wear them. Come on, let’s go on up.”

She led him up the stairs. He whistled as he looked around. “What a waste of space!” He walked over to one of the windows and looked around. “So you’re seeing this as an office, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He pointed to the windows. “Back when this house was built, they understood the importance of natural light.” He knelt down and felt the floor. “And this floor is nice and solid. It just needs to be sanded and finished.” He stood up. “What did you have in mind?”

“What I’d really like is this corner over here.” She led him to the corner farthest from the stairs. “I’d like some bookshelves built into the wall, if that’s not too hard to do, and then I figured I could put my desk here.”

He knelt down. “Okay, good thinking. There’s a couple of outlets here—when they wired the house I guess they thought someone might use the attic for something other than storage.” He began testing the floor-boards. “Solid over here too—no signs of rot or anything.” He stood up. “And we’ll need to do some painting, obviously. Lucky for you, darlin’, I come cheap. Ask anybody in town what a cheap floozy I am.”

She laughed as he pulled out a tape measure and started marking off the walls and making notes. “You know, Bobbie, it’s just so, so—”

“So hard to think Zsa Zsa and I are the same person?” He grinned at her and wiggled his eyebrows. “Girlfriend, that happens all the time.” He started tapping on the walls. “Solid, solid—hey, what’s this?” He tapped again, and this time she heard the difference. “Sounds hollow here. Weird. Do you have any tools handy?”

“I don’t know.” She looked around and spotted a rusty toolbox covered in dust. “What do you need?”

“A hammer, if you’ve got one.”

She opened the toolbox and pulled one out and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

He slipped the claw handle into a crack between the boards and started twisting. After a few moments of struggling, with a groan the board came loose. “Hello, what do we have here?”

Karen stepped over to the hole in the wall. There was a dark space behind it. “What’s this?”

“A hiding place.” Bobbie grinned at her. “Maybe there’s a lost treasure in here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

“Hey, you never know. See—there’s something in here.” Bobbie reached in and pulled out a dusty book. “Looks like a ledger of some sort.”

Karen grabbed it out of his hands and carried it over to the light. She opened it to the flyleaf.

Property of Letitia Hatch, 1922.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, turning to the first page. “It’s Lettie Hatch’s diary.”

12 August 1922

He wants me to call her Mother! As though Mother never existed! I’d rather die!

I HATE HER!!!

The last sentence was underlined three times.

“August twelfth, 1922,” Bobbie read over her shoulder. “Almost to the day…”

“What do you mean?” Karen closed the book.

“Today’s the sixteenth.”

Karen nodded. “Which would mean…that I arrived here on exactly the same day Sarah Jane arrived here in 1922.”

Bobbie hummed The Twilight Zone theme. “Weird…”

Karen sat down on a rusted old iron chair. “Wow. Lettie Hatch’s diary. What do you think we should do with it?”

He shrugged. “Probably should take it over to the Historical Society, I would think. I imagine some historians would be really interested in it.” He lowered his voice. “Do you think…” He paused, and theatrically looked over his shoulder. “That she talks about the murders in there?”

Karen flipped to the back of the book. The pages were brittle, yellowed with age, and the ends crumbled a bit as she touched them. “What was the date of the murders?”

“I don’t know, offhand, but I think it was in December.” He tapped his forehead with the index finger of his right hand. “I mean, it’s not like we have a town holiday or anything on the anniversary.”

“The last entry in here is dated December third.” She closed the book and clutched it to her chest.

Lettie Hatch’s diary—and no one has ever seen it before.

She let out a breath. Forget the Vicky mystery. This was a gold mine! She could write a book about the Hatch murders—and she would have access to information that no one else ever had before!

“What are you thinking?” Bobbie asked. “You look like Lucy Ricardo when she’s cooking up some scheme to get into Ricky’s show.”

“Bobbie, think about it.” She got up and started pacing, clutching the book tighter.

“I am thinking about it, honey, and you may be on to something if you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

“I am.” She beamed. “This is a major find. How much interest do you think there’d be in this diary?”

“Oprah kind of interest, darlin’, Larry King Live.”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Can you think of a better hook for a book about the Hatch murders? I live in her house! I have her diary—which no one has ever seen.”

“Sweetie darling, you haven’t even looked to see if she writes about the murders yet….”

“I know, I know….” She began flipping through the pages.

Bobbie laughed. “And to think—I knew you when.” He gave her a mock bow. “Please don’t forget the little people when you’re world famous, Karen.”

“I’m going to read this cover to cover.”

“Okay, Ms. Soon-to-be Superstar, I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll do an estimate on this and bring it back by later. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

He tapped the diary. “You have to tell me what that thing says. After all, I found it for you.”

“I will, but you can’t breathe a word of this yet, Bobbie. You can’t tell anyone. Swear?”

“I swear.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “All right, all right, I’m going. I know when I’m not wanted or needed anymore. If you want me to find any more treasures in your walls, just holler.” He bowed again at the top of the stairs, and then went down.

Karen opened the book again, her fingers trembling. She stared at the words on the first page again.

Who were you, Lettie Hatch?

She traced the underlined words with her finger.

I HATE HER!!!

She took a deep breath and turned the page.

August 23

Mrs. Windham doesn’t like her either. She hasn’t said anything, but I can tell. She gets that sour look on her face whenever she says her name, the same one she uses when I don’t get my lessons right—the one that looks like she’s smelled something bad. She just sneers at her. She will not say anything bad to me about her—she knows her place—but I can tell she would just as soon slap her face than speak to her.

Oh! How could you, Father? How could you forget yourself, forget Mother—and marry this woman? I know that men have needs, and Mother has been gone for two years, but why this woman? How people in Washington must be laughing…just as the people in Boston and here in Provincetown will be when they meet her. We will be the subject of so much malicious gossip—oh, it isn’t to be borne!

And why did I know nothing of this until now? The talk from Mother’s death has finally seemed to die down…although the other youths in town still are cruel. Just two days ago that monster Abby Winston called me “ghost-girl” to my face…as God is my witness, someday she will pay for her slights and cruelties. But I know in my heart of hearts it is my fault—I should have simply kept my mouth shut and borne my burden alone rather than trying to get sympathy from the small-minded.

Dinner last night was horrible. Mrs. Windham made cold crab salad—Father’s favorite—and I was polite, but it took all of my self-control not to throw my tea in her face. So smug, sitting there with her blond curls, acting like the lady of the house. She’s from Pennsylvania—Philadelphia, she said—but her parents are dead and she has no other family. I would feel sorry for her—it’s only Christian, and it must be terrible to be without any family—but there’s just something about her, something that’s not quite right. Why would such a pretty young woman marry a man Father’s age? Surely there were many suitors for her—so why Father? I know it is terribly un-Christian of me to think this, but I cannot help myself. She must have married Father for his money and fame, that can be the only explanation for such a misalliance.

She says she worked for the suffragette cause, which also struck me as quite odd. She actually spent time in prison—and is proud of such a shameful thing! And Father just sat there, listening, smiling, and nodding his head. I cannot imagine Father marrying such a woman. How many times have I heard him rail about the suffragettes? “Women unsexing themselves, forgetting their God-given command to be subservient to men.” That’s what he always believed. How has such a silly filly turned his head?

None of this makes any sense. Has she somehow bewitched him? Father listened to her with a smile on his face, nodding his head as she talked about women’s rights. He MUST be bewitched. I remember how angry he was when I suggested going to college—and he told me in no uncertain terms how I was to be obedient to his wishes, and there would be none of that for me. “A woman’s duty is to get married and have children and keep house for her husband, my Lettie.” Those are the very words he used…but now he has married this child, this girl, and his mind has changed?

After dinner, they retired to their bedchamber and Mrs. Windham also retired. I snuck out and met S. If Father knew…but he must never find out. He would kill me if he knew. No, he would kill us both.

It’s late and I must get some rest. Lord, give me the strength to deal with this.

Karen closed the book, her mind racing.

S? Who was S?

A boy, of course. Who else would a teenaged girl sneak out of the house to meet after everyone else had gone to bed?

She stared out the window at the crashing sea. The words rang in her head.

But I know in my heart of hearts it is my fault—I should have simply kept my mouth shut and borne my burden alone rather than trying to get sympathy from the small-minded.

“What was your burden, Lettie?” she said aloud. It had something to do with her mother’s death.

Once again Karen felt a chill when she realized she had arrived at this house on the very day Sarah Jane had arrived here in 1922. The parallels in their stories were just too eerie. Both of us were married to older men with stepdaughters the same age. And we live in the same house. And our predecessors—

Did Ellen Hatch commit suicide too? Just like Ivy Kaye?

Maybe that was the burden Lettie carried—the same burden Jessie was now carrying.

Karen shivered. That’s just your imagination working overtime again, Karen. Get a grip. Tomorrow, you just march your butt down to the Provincetown Town Hall and see what you can find out about Ellen Hatch’s death.

For now, she had some reading to do.

Oprah’s Book Club—here I come!