[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning Page 6

  "It isn't going to bite," she muttered. "She'll have a fit if you don't turn it off."

  Quickly, she moved around the stairwell and down the hall, made the corner with one hand trailing along the wall and stopped at the threshold to her mother's parlor. There was a rolltop desk set between the two outer windows and on it a package that caught the light and held it. Silver paper, bowed, the Bradford's Jeweler's insignia embossed clearly on the side. A summoned image of her mother in that ludicrous get-up, and she realized there wasn't a sparkle of gems on her; not around her neck, on her fingers, nothing on either wrists. Now why, she wondered, would she go to all that fuss about a new bracelet and then not even wear it? It wasn't like her not to show off a new acquisition to her friends. But then, she thought as she switched off the light, there was a lot about her family these days that wasn't really like them. A current of nervous energy that seemed to have no focus.

  She shrugged and continued downstairs, was crossing the open foyer when she looked left and paused. The front room was empty, voices drifting in from the buffet though the connecting doors were now closed. A single laugh, multiplied, filling the spaces so silent before.

  Cyd shook her head, thinking that the complaint parents never understand their children was an easily reversible oversimplification. One of these days, she thought with a grin when the laugh came again, I'm going to have a talk with them. They're getting too rowdy in their declining years.

  5

  Her hands nestled deeply in the sweater's pockets as she stood beneath the faintly bronze glow of the outside light, staring at the row of automobiles in the drive. They flared brief explosions of silver at her, of amber, of red, seemed all to be black though she knew there were midnights of blue and green, and one deep copper at the head of the line. There were no chauffeurs waiting, no high school attendants hired for the occasion. And she recalled a number of muggy summers too many years ago when lank men in tight uniforms lounged about the hoods, smoking, talking quietly, every so often carelessly wiping a chamois rag over a spot on a fender. Glamorous then, she wondered now what a life like that could possibly be. What did they think of, dream of, talk about, scheme? What was on their minds as they drove?

  She took the few steps down in a single exuberant leap and walked to the nearest sedan, peered in at the glittering console and decided a jet pilot in his prime couldn't have more controls to worry at and play with. Her car was different; she drove it rather than steered it, something the owners of these cars couldn't possibly understand.

  A husky whisper of wind brushed at the few leaves remaining on the trees and she straightened, sensing rather than seeing her breath fog from her lips. She began to walk, coming down hard on her heels to listen to the sound, to banish the silence. The cold drew at her cheeks and tightened the skin, chapping her lips as she licked at them frequently to keep them moist. Something small scurried through the shrubs that hugged the house's base; she stared into the darkness, saw nothing and shrugged. Squirrel. Chipmunk. Nothing to do from season to season but protect a family and gather food against the snows.

  When the drive began to curve inward toward the lane and the Pike, she left the concrete and walked over the grass. Frost had already begun to stiffen the blades, and she snapped them underfoot as though walking on cellophane. She scarcely ever paid much attention to this section of the grounds; they were and always had been solely for show. As children, she and her brothers had not been permitted to play here, and over the years they had lost whatever interest they might have had in displays of defiance. A new land, it seems then, of alien slopes and dark pools that should have been water and were only odd shadows. Even the trees that masked the house from the road were different—blue-tinted spruce with broad heavy boughs in staggered rows that, when the wind blew, dragged on the brown-needled dirt. She wandered aimlessly toward them, breaking into a tuneless, comforting whistle as the cold slithered down the back of her neck.

  There was no moon. There were no stars.

  And the front door's light seemed weak as an ember.

  She tripped on a rough-edged rock buried in leaves, stumbled sideways and felt a sharp twinge at her ankle. A testing, a wince, and she moved on again, paralleling the trees now as she headed back for the drive. Had someone been watching and she knew they'd been there, she would have manufactured a limp after her minor, careless spill; not a heavy one, but enough to show that she had sustained an injury and was carrying on in the best Yarrow tradition. Courage, she thought; that's what her father had demanded from them all. In finance, in school—the courage to take blows and not be stopped by them.

  And part of her reason for fleeing to Europe . . . she grinned her melancholy at this first admission of the flight. Flight, not a trip. Flight from the selfsame courage that kept upper lips stiff as Grandfather's fortune was eaten by taxes, by larger competitors, by extravagance and waste. She had demanded her father do something about it, and in the library that night had seen him appear helpless. For the first time . . . helpless.

  She had thought to make him angry enough to regain the advantage, to fight back with his sons the best way he could. But Evan had fallen into the same well of despair; only Rob had understood what she was trying to do, had tried to rally with her. Had tried, and had failed. He was the middle child, though he often seemed the eldest, and she often wondered where the depths of his frustration ended. It was he, she had come to learn, who had instigated the firing of the Lennons and McLeod, had cut down on the parties, on the cars, on the ground. An acre here, an acre there, until only five out of fifty were left to be tended. By Mother, when she felt like it; by a gardener when they could.

  She found herself suddenly at the edge of the drive, one foot on the blacktop, the other balanced on the row of canted, whitewashed bricks that set the circumference of the circle.

  If it were true that things were so tight, she wondered if that was the reason for the vanishing gems. Was it possible—

  "Is this a private meditation, or can anyone join in?"

  With one hand to her chest she swallowed to set her heart back in its place, was momentarily proud of the way she had not leapt screaming for the nearest tall tree.

  "I kind of thought you were out here," she said when her voice would work without trembling.

  "You came looking?"

  "Just checking," she said quickly, looking up as Ed moved to her side. "I wanted to see how the peasants had adapted to the Station's brand of cold."

  He held out his hands, buried in thick gloves, and wrapped his arms over a dark woolen jacket to mime the blizzard he felt on the rising wind. He wore no hat; she had never seen him wear one. When he exaggerated a sneeze then, she patted his arm lightly in a show of patronizing sympathy before looking around at the shadows, at the shrubs and the trees.

  "You alone?"

  "Absolutely. It was a last-minute call from your father. I had a feeling it was only because he felt guilty."

  "Well, you certainly don't have to worry about thieves tonight," she said with a pointed glance to the house. "What's in there now wouldn't tempt the devil. Strangest party I ever saw."

  "You couldn't tell by me. I'm only here to see that these behemoths don't get slaughtered at the curb."

  A pause that became a silence. The distant growling thunder of a truck on the Pike. The scurrying again that faded before the wind.

  Ed suddenly snapped rigid, lay a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back off the drive. She frowned, followed his gaze and was about to question him when she saw, faintly, a dark figure moving along the outside of the line of cars from the far end. As it kept the vehicles between it and the house it bent down at each driver's door to peer inside while one hand tugged at the handle. Quickly, silently. With increasing agitation. By the time it had reached a point opposite the front door, she felt Ed readying to call out and she nudged him into silence. Then she stepped lightly over the brick row. The last car in line was the copper sedan. She leaned against the fender with
her arms folded against her breast. Waiting. The figure too intent on the cars and the house to see her until it reached the rear bumper. Sensed her and looked up. The tempting option of flight was obvious in his attitude, disappointment flaring darkly over his face framed by a black and pulled down skull cap.

  She tsked loudly. Twice.

  He sagged and stood up, a full head taller than she.

  "Looks like business is a little slow, huh, Sandy?" she said.

  "Hi, Miss Yarrow. I guess you caught me, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess I did."

  Ed moved to stand behind her, but the boy's eyes did not leave her face.

  "You guys going to call the police or something?"

  "Why?" she said. "You haven't done anything yet."

  The boy scratched at the side of his nose. "Intent, isn't that what they call it, Mr. Grange?"

  "That's what they call it, son," Ed said. "You mind letting us in on the secret?"

  From cap to shoes Sandy was dressed in flat black, and the pale cast of his face was harsh in contrast. He coughed into a fist. And the nervousness he'd been trying to control finally broke through and his hands flapped uselessly at his sides before diving into his pockets. A boot scuffed at the ground. He looked up without raising his head.

  "I wasn't going to steal one. Not for good, anyway."

  "I know that," Cyd said.

  "I just wanted to leave it out on the Pike somewheres. Make them think it was gone, at least for a while."

  Ed's voice was carefully neutral. "That would have been a lot of trouble for the Yarrows, you know, son. It would have been awfully embarrassing for them, what with the police coming around and their friends probably getting angry."

  "But that's the point, isn't it?" said Cyd. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm freezing out here. Let's go inside. As long as we're going to have confessions and police brutality, we might as well be warm in the process."

  "What? Miss Yarrow—"

  She grinned. "Sandy, your grandfather and I were pretty close in what we folks call the old days. And Mr. Grange here knows you just about as well as I do, right? So let's go inside, the back way, and get something from the kitchen. I promise you now it's nothing my mother has cooked."

  She refused to allow the boy any time to think. She took hold of his arm and led him quickly around the side of the house, knowing that Ed would follow dutifully—if only to find out what Wallace McLeod's grandson was doing back beyond the park. And by the time the pan had warmed the milk, the cocoa spooned out and dissolved while the three of them were seated around a huge table, the boy's face had flushed and his eyes were puffing red.

  "Come on, Sandy," she said gently. "Your folks didn't raise you to be a car thief. Give."

  "It wasn't fair, Miss Yarrow," he said finally, staring through the steam that rose from his cup. "He was a good guy, my grandfather, and it wasn't fair that he was let go just like that." He snapped his fingers weakly, watched them retreat to hold the cup again. "I mean, he could work as good as me, you know what I mean? It killed him to have to leave this place, really it did. I mean it killed him. He was too old to get another job, even though he was strong and all, and my mother said it was his heart that did it. It was broken."

  "People don't break their hearts, not literally," she said softly, uncomfortable for the sensation of family guilt that had settled to her shoulders, weighting them, making them sag.

  "I know that," he said angrily. "I know that, I'm not stupid. But it killed him just the same. He shouldn't have died, Miss Yarrow. He was a strong man. His heart was just as good as yours or mine. But he . . . dropped. Just like that, he dropped."

  "I know," she said, avoiding Ed's gaze. "As a matter of fact, I'm ashamed to say I only heard about it this afternoon. From Iris Lennon."

  "Oh, that old bag."

  "Sandy!"

  The boy ducked his head quickly and muttered an apology without substance, sipped at his drink and grimaced when the burning chocolate scorched his tongue. He blew at the swirling surface before looking to Ed. "He was going to the police, you know."

  "I knew he was in front of the station when it happened, yes," Ed said. "But going there? Why? Was there something he wanted to tell someone there?"

  "I wish I knew." The boy's frown deepened painfully. "I was the last to see him before . .. you know. We were at the house waiting for the train to bring Dad back. He was conductor on that trip and promised to bring us all something from the city when he got back. So we was waiting and all of a sudden he said he had to go and see Chief Stockton. I didn't say anything about it. Neither did Mom. He was always saying things like that. One day he was going to fetch the mayor out of bed for something or other, then it was the President of the United States. When he said the police, we thought it was his head again. Ever since he left here—I'm sorry, Miss Yarrow but it's true— ever since he left here he was talking like that." He tapped a palm softly against the edge of the table. "I'm sorry again, Miss Yarrow, but it looks to me like it was your parents' fault for the way he was, like that. They should have kept him on, really. I mean, they gave him a good-sized going away gift, if you know what I mean. At least that's what my mother said. Enough to keep him going for a long time. But they should have kept him on. He needed that work, Miss Yarrow. Honest to God, he needed that work.

  "And now he's dead. Nuts. Now he's dead." Cyd watched helplessly as his hands embraced his cup, fell back, returned—a fierce dancing struggle against the tears he wanted to shed at his frustration and sorrow, and the image he evidently felt he had to maintain: a boy, like a man, has no business crying. She wanted then to reach across the table to him, a simple gesture to tell him she knew and was sorry beyond the conventions of courtesy and form; but she kept her hands still, clasped tightly in her lap. Either the move would be misunderstood, or it would be the trigger. And that she would not do to the boy/man before her.

  "It doesn't make any sense," Sandy said, poking at the cup's handle, taking deep breaths that were released in spasms.

  "It never does," Ed said. He rose after a moment, yanking up his jacket's zipper, and stood behind him, tugging at the chair's back. "Come on, Sandy, I'll drive you home. I don't think I'm needed here anyway, not now." He looked over the boy's head at Cyd, who nodded, rose herself and walked them to the door. "I'll be in touch," he whispered as he walked outside.

  Sandy turned around once on the patio, the light from the kitchen pinning him to the night. "I'm sorry, Miss Yarrow. I just wanted to do something. I just wanted to hit somebody, that's all. I'm sorry."

  She knew there should have been words for her to say to act as a balm, but she could not find them. She only lifted a hand in farewell instead, and watched them vanish beyond the reach of the light. Then she turned slowly back to the room, her right hand jumping into a fist when she saw her mother standing in the doorway. The peasant blouse had been pulled up over her shoulders, and one curl of grey dangled unbecomingly over her forehead. Her face had grown taut, so much so that her lower lip quivered until she touched a finger to it briefly without losing her scowl.

  "What were they doing here?"

  Cyd pointed mutely at the cups on the table, too startled by Myrtle's sudden appearance to say anything immediately.

  Myrtle sniffed, raising her head slightly to jut out her chin. "I don't like that boy," she said, then moved into the room and walked quickly to a cupboard from which she fetched a tin of China tea. "He tries to stir up trouble for your father and me. Talks around the town like we're crazy of something."

  "He misses his grandfather," Cyd said, surprising herself that she automatically took the boy's defense.

  "Nonsense." Myrtle spun the tin in her hands, held it tightly and tapped a long nail against its lid. "Well, I suppose that's true enough. But he says things he shouldn't. Wallace McLeod, he was old, Cynthia, very old. He wasn't as strong as he liked people to believe, the way he used to be at any rate. We couldn't keep him, that's all. Even if we could have
afforded him, we couldn't keep him. I hope that's clear. Even—"

  "All right, Mother, all right! He's just a boy, for heaven's sake. You'd think he'd been trying to steal the family treasure or something."

  Myrtle opened her mouth to retort, apparently thought better of it and hurried to the door. At the threshold she stopped and glanced back at the table. "You invite him?"

  Cyd had no answer.

  Myrtle smiled. Coldly. "If you're going to stay inside, dear, you'd better take off that sweater. You'll catch your death. You are going to stay in, aren't you?"

  She nodded.

  He mother nodded, as if the response were one that should be rewarded. "Well ... as long as you're not going to prowl around anymore, I don't suppose you'd want to . . ."She lifted her shoulders in not quite a shrug.

  "No, Mother, I would not. Once is enough, believe me. You grab the little creep yourself, make Father jealous. You know, sometimes I think he takes you and all that you do for granted. Why don't you let the doctor sneak you off to his clinic? It'll do Father good to get shaken now and then."

  "Darling, the one thing your father does not do is take me for granted." Her smile was broad, quick, hung in the air long after she had left, as false as the statement that had caused it to spring.

  "I don't believe that for a minute, Mother," she muttered to herself as she began to clean the cups from the table. And for the first few minutes she kept her mind clear as she emptied the chocolate into the sink, filled the pan and cups with hot water for soaking. But as she wiped a damp cloth over the table, she could not help seeing Sandy and the desperation on his face, the curious play of emotions that tugged hard at his lips and gave birth to an intermittent tic at the corner of one eye. It was . . . odd. The boy was a senior at the Station high school on Steuben Avenue, his parents both commuters to an insurance firm in Hartford, and she had noticed nothing in his make-up—until now, that is—that would send him on such a fool's errand as trying to steal a car just to cause the Yarrows trouble. And the stories he was supposedly spreading around town—that was curious, too, since she had heard none of them and surely would have after all this time. The love, she thought, he must have had for that old man.