Читать книгу Two Rivers - T. Greenwood - Страница 19

I must have fallen asleep, because the screaming invaded my dreams. First it was the wind of a vicious storm, and then the howling of a wounded animal. By the time it woke me, it had become the cries of an infant. I sprung off the couch and raced to Shelly’s room, my heart beating so hard my chest ached. I turned on the light before I realized that the screaming was not coming from Shelly, who sat up in bed, startled and groggy.

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” she asked, her voice raspy.

“Nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep.” I hurriedly tucked in her covers and turned out the light.

Another scream.

“That’s Maggie!” Shelly said, sitting up again.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ll go check on her. Stay here.”

I walked quickly down the short hallway to my own room and knocked before I pushed the door open.

The curtains were open. Outside, the streetlights reflected off the cool green of the swimming pool and illuminated the room, making it look like an aquarium. It was raining; water streamed down the windows in slow sheets. I could see only the suggestion of Marguerite’s body under the covers. Convinced that perhaps it had indeed only been the wind, or an animal, I turned and headed out the door, but just as I was pulling the door shut behind me, she screamed again. I opened the door and turned toward the bed.

Marguerite was sitting up, her arms thrashing as if she were fighting someone off. Her wild punches struck the air, and she wailed, “Noooo!”

“Marguerite,” I said softly.

“Nooo!” she wailed again. She was kneeling on the bed now, her eyes half open and staring out the window.

The shimmering green made the whole scene subaquatic, a watery dream, and Marguerite a wailing siren.

“Maggie!” I said, loudly this time, trying her nickname instead.

She turned to look at me. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair wet with sweat. She was trying to catch her breath, panting with exhaustion. She stared at me, still stunned, for several moments until sleep left her. Her breathing slowly returned to normal, and a look of recognition came across her face. “It’s raining,” she said.

I nodded. “Are you okay?”

I could hear Shelly’s feet padding softly down the hallway. I didn’t have to turn around to know she was standing in the doorway.

Marguerite pulled the sheets around herself as if suddenly embarrassed, and nodded quickly. “I’m fine. The thunder scared me.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding not to argue. There was no thunder. No lightning. Only the softest rain outside. “Let me know if you need anything.”

As I left the room, I put my arm around Shelly’s shoulders and steered her back to her own room. She climbed up into her bed and pulled the covers under her chin; she would likely not even remember all of this in the morning.

“Love you to the bottom of the ocean,” she whispered, our ritual.

“And back to the top,” I whispered, kissing her head.

For the rest of the night, I sat up reading in the living room, waiting. But there was only the tapping of rain, the ticking of the clock, and the sound of my own exasperated breaths when sleep would not come.

The next morning the rain had stopped, and the air was cooler. It was Saturday, so I went to the bakery for doughnuts and then to the drugstore to pick up a copy of the Free Press . The train wreck was on the front page. TRAIN DERAILS : 29 DEAD , 11 MISSING , PRESUMED DEAD . I read the paper as I walked back to my building, narrowly missing the fire hydrant, the broken sidewalk, and another pedestrian. The roster read like those published in the paper during the war. I pored over the names, searching for some sort of clue. And finally, I found among the missing, now presumed dead, Margaret Jones, 15, of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. A single ticket. No Mrs. Jones anywhere.

Inside my house, Marguerite, aka Maggie, née Margaret, was making pancakes. She was wearing a dress that was too young for her, and with her swollen belly looked even more so. The collar looked like a little girl’s dress. Her knees were exposed and bony.

Shelly was standing at the stove with a spatula, helping Marguerite flip the pancakes.

“I don’t like her playing with the stove,” I said, angry at the girl, whatever her name was.

“We’re cooking , Daddy. I’m not a little kid.”

“Do what your daddy says,” she said, swatting Shelly’s behind, and Shelly backed away from the stove obediently.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “Just as soon as I flip this here flapjack. I don’t need no burned hot cakes.”

“In the other room, please,” I said, rolling my eyes toward Shelly, who was pretending to be absorbed in a hangnail.

In the living room, the girl sat down on the couch and looked up at me, those disconcerting eyes wide and attentive.

“Listen, Margaret Jones , or whatever the hell your real name is. I don’t know who you are, but I do know you didn’t get on that train in Louisiana. And your mother wasn’t on the train either. And now everybody in the world thinks you’re dead.” I had no idea where I was headed; I only knew that I was pissed that she’d lied to me.

She reached up then, desperate, and grabbed my hands. I was surprised by how warm they were, like two small birds, shuddering. Even though her eyes disturbed me, I couldn’t look away.

“Please,” she said. “I never said I got on the train in Louisiana. I come from Tuscaloosa. And I just lied about my name because I was scared. Marguerite is my cousin’s name.”

“You told me your mother was dead. That she was on the train. You lied to me.”

“She is dead. I ain’t got no mama. That’s the damned truth.” Her lip was trembling but her gaze was steady.

“And what about this aunt of yours? The one in Canada?”

“Daddy sent me away,” she said; she was crying now. I glanced quickly to the doorway to make sure that Shelly wasn’t eavesdropping.

“To your aunt?”

“He wants me to take care of this,” she said. “But I ain’t giving this baby to no stranger.”

“Your aunt is arranging for an adoption?”

She was silent.

“Your father will be looking for you. I’m sure he’s heard about the accident by now. I’m sure they’re both worried sick.”

“I promise, ain’t nobody looking for me. And I ain’t going back there,” she said angrily. Then she took a deep breath and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Please. Just let me stay until I figure out where else I can go. I’ll help you with Shelly. You don’t have to pay me or nothin’. I’ll keep your house. I’ll do the wash….” She squeezed my hands tightly as she spoke, and I thought then about her fighting ghosts with these tiny fists. I thought about the sound of her screams. About the cool green of that room and the terror in her eyes. There were a whole lot of things she wasn’t telling me, but there was one thing I knew for certain. She was terrified of something, and for some reason, she was trusting me to keep her safe.

“Maggie,” I said, shaking my head.

And she muttered, like a prayer, “Please, please, please.”