Unleaving Page 8

  “You know, Maggie, I didn’t invite you here just for your sake. I was thinking about myself, too.” She clipped the sides shut.

  Maggie waited for an explanation.

  But Wren only nodded and left.

  She stared at the empty place where the aunt had stood, while the washed bucket dripped, sending water along her arm to her elbow and down to the concrete floor.

  * * *

  Later, in the quiet of the loft, Maggie sat on the floor and picked up her phone.

  She shoved a curl out of her face. Her hair was still wet from her shower. Through her mouth, she inhaled and exhaled slowly. I can do this. I only have to write back, give her a little advice, tell her who to contact. I’m making this harder than it has to be. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she scrolled through her messages. She’d skip over the new ones and just take care of Jane’s.

  But one of the new emails was Jane’s.

  Maggie stared at it, her thumb poised over the girl’s name. “Not again.”

  With a groan, she tapped open the email.

  Jane Cannon

  To: Margaret Arioli

  Me again

  October 20 at 2:14 AM

  I’m exhausted and depressed and will probably regret sending you another email when I get out of bed tomorrow. I don’t even know if you’re receiving these, but if you are, I wish you would write. You’d understand what I’m going through. I keep thinking about what happened, what happened at first and then what happened afterward, like how when I went to the police station to press charges, they put me in a room with two men for questioning. Couldn’t they have found a woman detective to hear me out? It was humiliating. It felt like an interrogation. The one guy wondered if I had a boyfriend, and when I asked him what that had to do with anything, he shrugged and told me that a lot of girls go to parties, drink too much, and make bad decisions. He said, “Then they panic because they don’t want to get in trouble with their boyfriends.” That made me so mad, I just left. Can you believe he said that to me? Can you believe what he was implying? After what I went through 48 hours beforehand? I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t.

  Maggie put down the phone with a trembling hand, rose, and crossed to the window overlooking the woods. Her heart was pounding. She could almost hear it pounding.

  Stars shone in the trees, like strings of lights. The naked branches formed a frayed canopy that was one shade darker than the sky—a ragged blackness beneath indigo blue. The world from here looked like a far-reaching bruise. She put her hands to her cheeks. They were wet.

  When she returned to the floor, she reentered her password, hit REPLY, and wrote:

  I’m sorry I didn’t write back sooner, Jane.

  She put down the phone and scrubbed her damp palms on her thighs. She picked up the phone again.

  I’ve been in rough shape. But I know what you’re going through, and I feel sad for you.

  She went back to Jane’s email, reread it, and then, just briefly, squeezed her eyes shut. Gritting her teeth, she made herself continue.

  I had a bad experience with the police, too. They weren’t helpful. They

  The phone slipped out of her trembling hand. She curled up on the floor and tucked in her head.

  “What do you hope to get out of reporting this?” the officer asked. The station door swung open, and he looked away from Maggie to smile at the uniformed man trudging in. “What? No supper for us tonight, Gary?” he teased.

  The other officer shrugged and stomped the snow from his boots. “No money.” He gave Maggie a curious look as he walked past where she sat on the bench.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Disoriented and in shock, she looked up at the officer. He was frowning down at her again. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Listen.” He rolled back on his heels and scrubbed his face with a hand before sighing, “These situations … they’re hard to prove. People are going to wonder if you were drinking at that party, if you were making out with the guys beforehand—”

  “With all of them?”

  “Sure. This was a Tigers party. You didn’t think you were attending a Baptist youth group meeting, right?” Impatiently, he shook his head. “Did you try to get away? Did you tell them to stop? Okay, okay. But did you scream it—loud enough for someone to hear you?”

  “I—I don’t know. I guess I didn’t. I was afraid people would walk downstairs and—and see me like … that.”

  “Now, come on, don’t cry. I’ll grab Gary, and we’ll take care of the interview and try to clear up this mess. We’ll have to record it, just so you know. Hey, now. Stop crying, okay? I’m only trying to help.”

  8

  THE AUNT HEFTED a mound of clay onto the scale, scooped off a chunk, eyed the weight, and removed a bit more. “When’s your next book club meeting?” she asked abruptly.

  “Hmm?” Maggie raised her chin from her palm. Her head seemed to weigh a ton.

  “The book club?” the aunt repeated slowly, as if Maggie had a shaky grasp of English. “When is the next meeting?” She strode over to her wheel.

  Maggie peered around blearily. When was she supposed to go back to the bookstore? “Soon,” she said. “On a Saturday.” Hard to picture herself going. She wasn’t up for it.

  “As in this Saturday? Some Saturday next month? A Saturday in a year from now?”

  “The last Saturday of the month, I think.” Maggie squinted out the window. “What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  So nine days from now. It wasn’t an actual meeting, but Ran had asked the members to meet at the shop so they could check out the latest releases and brainstorm ideas for their next read.

  They can do that without me.

  “I’m worried about you. Three days now you’ve gone around looking not so good.” She blindly patted the chunk of clay into a ball, her stern gaze on Maggie. “Flat-out bad, actually.” She fell into her seat, slapped the clay onto the wheel, and planted her hands on her knees. “I think I’d better call your mom.”

  “Oh no.” She straightened, alarmed. “Don’t call Mom.”

  The aunt answered with a disapproving hum and plunged her hands into the bucket of water. After stepping on the pedal and shooting the wheel-head into a whirring spin, she began centering. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Maggie shook her head. She did not want to talk about it, about any of it: Jane’s situation or Jane’s emails or how Maggie couldn’t pull her shit together long enough to manage a reply. Talking about Jane was too much like talking about herself.

  And that was the whole problem.

  “You’re a mess. Either jumpy or comatose, but continuously morose. Here we have a stretch of warm October weather, and you don’t spend a single hour outside beachcombing.” Without smiling, she quipped, “And everyone knows how much Margaret loves her beach glass. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  Wren jerked up her chin, like a header, shooting Maggie’s lie somewhere else, then she just waited, eyebrows raised.

  Maggie hunched lower in the clay-smeared chair.

  “Come on. Tell me. Maybe I can—”

  A thud resounded from the mixing room, followed by an explosive “Shit!”

  “Eek.” Wren leaned back from the spinning wheel and called, “What happened?”

  Sam appeared in the backroom doorway. “My project.” He clutched his head. “I dropped the base of it!”

  The aunt returned to the wheel, her expression decidedly unsympathetic. “I warned you, and after all this time, you ought to know better. You can’t transport unfired sculptures.” To Maggie: “Until it comes out of a kiln, clay’s basically mud. Wet mud, dry mud”—she shrugged—“doesn’t take anything to bend or crack or chip it.” She opened the centered mound. “Sam, Sam, Sam…” Her head wagged. “You need to finish that project here.”

  “How can I?” He stomped into the studio. “I watch Kate every evening now. That’s my on
ly time to work on the stupid thing, so I have to get it home. It’s not smart, bringing her over to the studio and letting her run around and play, just so I can sculpt. Too many things in here could hurt a little girl.”

  Maggie grunted. Or vice versa.

  The aunt ran the wire under the bowl. “I can help watch her.”

  “You’ve got a deadline on that thing.” He swatted the air in the direction of the closed damp box. “I can’t ask you to babysit.” His exhalation carried a sound that was like a whimper. “You’re way too busy.”

  The aunt murmured something about making time and chipping in.

  Maggie dipped even lower in the chair and avoided Sam’s gaze, half-wishing she wore a sign that read, DON’T ASK ME, a generic notification to ward off anyone asking for anything or anyone asking about anything: Jane, the aunt, Sam, her mother, Linnie, Ran, everyone. A big PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE.

  “I need to get going. Dad’s teaching tonight.” Glancing over his shoulder, Sam growled in disgust. “I’ll have to start over on the damn base now.” He rubbed his forehead with both hands, smearing a powdery white over his brown skin. “If I can just get the other half home without breaking it…”

  He looked so defeated and miserable that Maggie couldn’t help it—she felt bad for him. “Is it something I can hold on my lap?” she asked reluctantly. Holding she could do. Babysitting Kate—not so much. “I’ll just walk home afterward.” She perked up a little. Exercise would probably be good for her—fresh air to clear her thoughts. Plus, if she left with Sam, she could avoid the aunt who was now frowning at her, as if she’d suddenly remembered the interrupted heart-to-heart.

  His face brightened. “That would be awesome. Thank you, Meg—um, Maggie.”

  “If you wreck your piece, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Wren dropped the wire by her bucket and sighed. On a kinder note: “Why don’t you take off tomorrow morning? That’ll give you a few hours to sculpt while Kate’s at school. You can come back after lunch.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded and cast the closed damp box a glum glance. “Not much for you to do here anyway while I work on that thing.” Wren waved away Sam’s thanks and watched Maggie drag herself to her feet. “Catch you later.” She widened her eyes meaningfully, a we-have-unfinished-business look.

  Maggie frowned. Not if I can help it.

  The aunt smiled. “And thanks for helping Sam, Megummaggie.”

  * * *

  The ride to the house next door seemed to take a long time. Sam’s project was big and busy, a conglomeration of jagged corners and voluptuous folds, and it was slightly malleable, too. (“Not quite leather-hard,” he’d said, situating it carefully on her lap.) Maggie was afraid to move.

  As close as her face was to the groggy clay, she couldn’t get a good idea of what the sculpture was supposed to be but didn’t dare maneuver it. When Sam turned off the rutted Ash Drive and onto the slightly smoother length of the parkway, she finally blurted, “What is this?”

  “A brain”—Sam gave his sculpture a pained look—“under duress. Not literally, of course. Like a metaphor for an internal geography, filled with bad shit.”

  Huh. Maggie frowned at the piece.

  He smiled wryly. “At least that’s what it’s meant to be. Not one of my subtler creations, but at least it showcases technique. I’m working on my portfolio for college.” At Maggie’s interested glance, he continued, “My top choice is south of here—Alfred University. It has one of the best ceramic-art departments in the country. Your aunt went there. I’d like to go at least part-time, if I can figure out how to manage the commute and the financial aid and my work schedule. And Kate.”

  “That’s a lot to figure out.” Crazy to think he’d been juggling Kate and work and everything else since he was seventeen. Talk about pressure. Maggie frowned at the rough clay. Was that why Linnie had left? Did everything just get too … hard?

  He sighed. “Yeah.”

  They turned right onto Wayside Lane, a dead end that ran parallel to the aunt’s drive. It was so thick with foliage that Maggie couldn’t make out the lake through the flickering orange. Along the short passage, the mesh of branches and leaves formed a shadowy tunnel, but it ended brilliantly, opening to a sun-filled property and a jewel of a house, a good-sized place, not a rickety cabin like Wren’s, and modern. Its many windows gave the impression that it was comprised entirely of glass. It reflected the molten glow of the evening sun and the light-shattered gold of the maples and the sky and the lake—blue on fire to the west and rumpled water twinkling along the north. The lake wore a gently curving sheen until it met the base of Devil’s Tongue, where it broke apart in shimmering explosions.

  The beauty was arresting. For the first time in days, Maggie’s spirits lifted. “Wow … how beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” He opened his door. “Don’t move. I’ll come around.”

  Taking her directions from Sam, who trudged behind her lugging his sculpture, Maggie hurried ahead to open a side door that led into a dim garage, shut the door after him, and trotted up three steps to do the same with another door. She followed him into a mudroom, lined with shoe cubbies, coat hooks, and two more doors.

  The mudroom opened to a tall-ceilinged great room. The sweeping area encompassed the living and dining spaces, as well as the kitchen. Maggie hardly spared it a glance. The world through the windows demanded her attention. Sun, sky, lake, and trees—the landscape made the inside, however awesome, undeniably inferior.

  Maggie whistled softly. “This place is all about out there, isn’t it?”

  “My mom’s plan. Dad used to tease her about it, how they could have saved a ton of money and just camped out under the stars.” He headed for a door off the dining area, and Maggie hurried to catch up with him and open it. “Thanks.” He trudged into a room—a combined office and workshop—and gently perched the sculpture on a butcher-block counter.

  A voice from overhead called sharply, “Sam?”

  “Down here.”

  Maggie heard footsteps on the stairs and a fast stride across the great room. Thomas Blake appeared. He gave Maggie a distracted nod, then scowled at his son. “I’m late for work.”

  “Sorry, I was—”

  His father, already half-jogging toward the mudroom, held up a hand without turning. “We’ll talk about it later.” The door to the garage slammed shut.

  Sam winced. “Great. He’s pissed.” Then he hollered, “Kate?” When no one answered, he strode out of the workshop toward the foot of the stairs, beckoning Maggie along with a hauling motion of his arm. “Daddy’s home!” When silence greeted this announcement, he called even louder, “Kate?”

  “I’m busy,” his daughter said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Writing a book. Jeez!”

  He smiled at Maggie and started climbing the stairs. “Come on up.”

  She followed slowly. Kate wasn’t going to be thrilled to see her, but this house was cool. Maggie wanted to check out the second floor. To her left, framed maps, brown with age and ragged-edged, decorated the staircase wall. She paused to examine one that she recognized by the label on a bluff: Devil’s Tongue. The elegant script curved across the protrusion. No lanes or drives bisected this portion of Lake Ontario’s shoreline. No parkway ran parallel to the water. Except for a thin horizontal road marked The Ridge at the very bottom of the map, everything south of the water, for what must have been miles and miles, was dense forest. Across the sketched canopy flowed two words, and Maggie read them aloud: “Black North.”

  “That’s what the settlers called this area. It was a wilderness for a long time, decades after the Holland Land Company sold off its parcels southwest of here.”

  “How come?”

  “Probably because of the quality of the land. Swampy.” He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and trudged up the rest of the stairs.

  The landing opened directly to a den, its couches and chairs upholstered in oatmeal chenill
e, the wood of its tables and bookshelves painted white. The second-story rooms shot off from this neat space. Sam headed for a light-filled doorway, but Maggie lagged behind to peer into another room, most likely, given its size, Thomas’s. Windows made up two of the walls, and one side overlooked the water. From the doorway, she could just make out the bluff below and a stretch of sand to its right. The sun had set, and the swelling darkness blurred the terrain’s edges. In the bedroom, the elegant furniture looked colorless in the muted light.

  She backed away, then walked through the den in the direction of Sam’s voice.

  “What are you working on?” he was saying.

  Just shy of the room, she paused. Sam was crouched by Kate, who sat cross-legged on the floor by a frilly canopy bed, its pink and yellow blankets and pillows scrunched and askew. Tons of toys filled the room. Spoiled, Maggie concluded.

  Red crayon poised over a drawing, Kate grinned up at her dad. “A book about poisonous kitties.”

  “Cool.”

  He turned to smile at Maggie.

  When Kate followed his gaze, her smile collapsed, and her eyes narrowed. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Use your manners,” her father chided. “Say hello.” He started picking up toys and tossing them into a corner basket.

  “Hi.” Profound unfriendliness weighted the syllable.

  Maggie responded with what she hoped passed for a genuine smile. “How’s it going?” After sidling into the room, she gingerly patted the girl’s head.

  Kate jerked back and glared.

  Yikes. Maggie crossed her arms, tucked her hands into her armpits, and glanced down at the splayed book. Across an unlined page, Kate had drawn a few cats, stick figures except for their faces. Three huge heads sported angry feline eyes, bristling whiskers, and giant ears. “Writing a book?”

  “It’s a diary.” She slapped the book shut and planted a fist on the cover. “Private.”

  Maggie smiled tightly. Oh, good, because I didn’t want to read it anyway.