کتاب 02-05

5

The kids were chasing a soccer ball in the valley again, the eerie pale green ball racing this way and that, like a will-o’-the-wisp on crack.

“I don’t know how we’ll wear them out when it snows,” Carol said.

“What happens when it snows?”

“Mr. Patchett says we’ll have to be more careful about our movements outside,” Michael told her. “If we leave tracks, someone could see them from the air. There isn’t one part of winter I’m looking forward to.”

“When did you come to camp, Michael?” Harper asked.

“After my sisters burned to death,” he said, without any trace of distress. “They burned together. They were still holding each other after I put them out. That’s a blessing, I think. They didn’t die alone. They had each other for comfort. They’re gone from this world, but I hear them whispering to me in the Bright.”

Carol said, “Sometimes when I’m in the Bright, I would swear I feel my sister standing right next to me, close enough so I could lay my head on her shoulder, like I used to. When we shine, they all come back to us, you know. The light we make together shows everything that was ever lost to darkness.”

Harper clamped down on a shudder. When they spoke of the Bright, they had all the uncomplicated happiness of pod people.

Carol led Harper into the garden of towering monoliths and pagan stone altars. “There’s a rumor these rocks are thousands of years old and were placed here by an ancient tribe, with the help of alien technology. My father says they were hauled here from the quarry in Ogunquit, though, which is why it’s better never to ask him about anything really interesting.”

When Harper was in among the stones she could see brass plaques screwed into the towering pillars of granite. One listed the names of seventeen boys who had died in the mud of eastern France during the First World War. Another listed the names of thirty-four boys who had died on the beaches of western France during the Second. Harper thought all tombstones should be this size, that the small blocks to be found in most graveyards did not even begin to express the sickening enormity of losing a virgin son, thousands of miles away, in the muck and cold. You needed something so big you felt it might topple over and crush you.

“This is our church,” Carol told her. “If you go up in the steeple on a clear day, you can see into Maine. Only you don’t want to look at Maine. There’s nothing up north except for black smoke and lightning. In the mornings we come to sing and share the Bright and usually my dad will say a few words. After, it serves as a schoolroom.” Carol pointed at a path tunneling through sumac and firs. “I live back there, through the woods, in the little white house with the big black star on it. I stay with my dad. I feel guilty about that sometimes. I should probably stay with all the other women, in the girls’ dorm—that’s where we’re going next. My dad says I can move out anytime if I want to be with the other women, but I know if I left he wouldn’t ever sleep. He’d drink too much coffee and worry and pace around and worry more. He only sleeps about five hours as it is and I have to make him take a pill to do that. Come on! Let me show you where I keep my harem!”

Carol led her around to the back of the chapel, where four stone steps descended into a hole the rough size, shape, and depth of a grave. At the bottom of the pit was an old door on rusted hinges, half open to look into the cellar.

“You’ll have to manage without us from here,” Michael said, nodding to Don. “We’re not allowed.”

“It’s no place for two strappin’ young boys like us,” Don Lewiston said. “All them wimmen undressin’ you with their eyes, plottin’ ways to use you to satisfy their repress’t needs—it makes a decent man feel lucky to escape with his life and virginity intact.”

Michael lowered his head, a blush darkening his pale features. Don laughed.

Carol shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Michael Martin Lindqvist Jr., you are just too much fun to embarrass.”

Renée said to Harper, “If you don’t have any garter belts, you can borrow a few of mine. One of the rules of the girls’ dorm, no clothes allowed except for French underwear. Corsets and so on.”

“I am not listening to any of you,” Michael said. “I am saving myself for marriage.”

He foisted Harper off on Carol and marched briskly away, at something very close to a run. Don Lewiston strolled after him, hands in his pockets, whistling “Spanish Ladies.”

Carol helped Harper make her way below. There were more steps on the other side of the door, descending deeper into the hill.

The room beneath the chapel was a single enormous space, the ceiling supported by whitewashed brick pillars. Camp cots made a knee-high maze across the pitted cement floor. Close to thirty women were hanging around, sitting on their beds, or standing by a folding table set up against the back wall where there was a Mr. Coffee.

Michael and Don could, in fact, have safely descended the steps without fear of finding themselves in a silken garden of delights. The room had an unsexy smell of damp and mothballs and most of the girls had the waxen look of people who had not seen daylight for a long time. No garter belts in sight, but a lot of wet socks hung over pipes to steam-dry. The prevailing fashion was Salvation Army chic.

There was a double-sided chalkboard close to the foot of the steps, the sort of thing sandwich shops stood on the sidewalk to advertise the day’s specials. Harper paused to see what was written on it, in bright chalk and girlish lettering:

HOUSE RULES

NO CELL PHONES EVER! YOUR CELL PHONE SHOULD’VE BEEN TURNED IN TO A LOOKOUT!

SEE SOMETHING, HEAR SOMETHING . . . SAY SOMETHING!

EVERYONE HAS A JOB TO DO! KNOW YOURS!

FOOD, BEVERAGES & MEDICAL SUPPLIES BELONG TO EVERYONE!! NO HOREDING!

NO GOING OUTSIDE IN THE DAYLIGHT!

LISTEN TO THE LOOKOUTS! IT COULD SAVE YOU’RE LIFE!!

DON’T LEAVE CAMP WITHOUT TALKING TO A LOOKOUT FIRST!

WEAPONS ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN!

SO ARE SECRETS!

SAFETY IS EVERYONE’S BUSINESS!!!

Act like everybody depends on you! They Do!!

“Quick,” Carol said. “What’s your favorite song, celebrity crush, and the name of your first pet?”

Harper said. “‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me,’ Ewan McGregor, mostly for Moulin Rouge, and my first pet was a schnauzer named Bert, because he was soot black and made me think of the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins.”

Carol stood up on a chair and cleared her throat and waved an arm over her head to get the attention of the room. “Hey, everybody! This is Harper! She’s our new nurse! ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me,’ Ewan McGregor, and a schnauzer named Bert! Let’s have a big cheer for Nurse Harper!”

This was met by a mix of hooting, applause, and halloos. Allie Storey threw a bra at Harper’s head. Someone else yelled, “Harper what?”

Carol opened her mouth to reply, but Harper spoke first.

“Willowes,” she called out. “Harper Willowes!” And to herself, in a lower voice, she said, “Again. It seems.”

Carol led Harper on a winding path among the beds, to a neatly made cot near the center of the room. Harper’s carpetbag had been set upon the pillow.

Harper unbuckled it and peeked inside. Her clothes had been picked up and put in neat stacks. The Portable Mother rested on top of all. Harper folded her Temporary Cat and put it inside the cover. Her child’s first pet.

“I should thank Mr. Rookwood for collecting my things,” Harper said, remembering only after the words were out of her mouth that the Fireman seemed to be Carol Storey’s least favorite subject. It was too late, though, so, in a casual, offhand tone, she finished: “Where would I find him?”

There was no look of contempt or anger this time. Instead, Carol regarded her with a mild, almost bland expression, then punched her softly on the arm. “Come on outside again. I’ll show you.”

Even with Carol’s help, Harper’s ankle was twanging painfully by the time they mounted the steps into the night. The temperature had dropped. The air had texture now, a thousand fine quivering grains of almost-rain blowing in off the ocean.

They stood alone, at the rear northeastern corner of the chapel. Carol pointed over the soccer field, the pines, and the boathouse below. Out in the surging blackness of the water was a darker blackness, a small island.

“He’s out there,” she said. “John Rookwood. He doesn’t come to church. He doesn’t eat with us. He keeps to himself.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“I don’t know. It’s a secret. It’s his secret. He never leaves the island for long and no one knows why. You hear different stories. She died out there, you know. My sister. She burned to death and almost took Nick with her. Maybe John is out there mourning her. Maybe he’s doing penance. Maybe he just likes being mysterious.”

“Penance? Does he blame himself somehow?”

“I’m sure,” Carol said, and although her face was carefully composed, Harper once again heard an edge, a razor wire of emotion. “Not that it’s his fault. He wasn’t on the island when it happened. No. My sister didn’t need any help to kill herself. She managed that just fine on her own.” Carol gave Harper a sidelong look and said, “But I’ll tell you what. I won’t let the kids go out there anymore: Nick and Allie. I think John understands. You might not want to make a habit of dropping in for social visits yourself. People who get too close to John have a way of going down in flames.”