Chapter Seven #2
It would be idiotic to stop talking to each other again, she thought. When she went downstairs at 7:30 the next morning, she was determined to say hello to him despite the pounding in her eye sockets.
He and the cook were there already, preparing the day’s meals. Lina’s stomach flip-flopped at the sight of him, but she pressed forward. She had Mrs. B’s oatmeal to prepare, if nothing else.
“Morning,” he said.
Some of her muscles relaxed. Good, he was speaking to her. “Hi.” She cleared her throat and took down the box of oats. “Any glass left to clean up?”
“Nope. I got it.”
“Thank you.”
The cook thwacked a head of lettuce in half with a knife. Lina cringed at the sound. Ren smiled at her, briefly, and Lina felt better. He continued assembling salad. She took the oatmeal upstairs.
Still, an occasional smile and civil conversation didn’t quite constitute the blissful relationship a woman dreamed of having. The puzzle of who Ren was, and why he acted the way he did, nagged at her every waking moment, and in dreams too. Every few nights now, as February progressed and spring approached, Ren kissed her in her dreams, touched her, tore clothes off her, and tumbled with her onto all manner of luxurious surfaces. Lina was, in short, losing her mind with frustration and longing.
When she happened to bump into him on the front staircase one afternoon, she halted him and said, “Um, I was thinking.”
“Yes?”
“I’d just like to talk to you, and try to understand.”
He spread his palm on the wall and bowed his head. “Talking is more than I should do. I’m sorry.” He tried to move past.
She stepped into his path. “Please. I just want to know what’s wrong. Last chance.”
“Last chance before what?”
“Before I stop asking you.”
“I’m afraid you’re best off not asking, then.” He glanced at her with what looked like regret and slipped past.
Fine. I only said I’d stop asking you , she thought. I didn’t say I’d stop trying to find out.
She spent all her free time the next week on the internet, scouring for any mention of his name or any arrest record that sounded like his. Google and its peers turned up nothing. She considered hiring a private investigator, but couldn’t bring herself to call one; she recoiled from the idea as she would from picking up a worm with her bare hands.
Not until Valentine’s Day, as she saw him writing at the breakfast bar, did the obvious solution strike her: that journal. What he wrote in there must give some clue about his secrets. Surely it wasn’t all grocery lists and poetry—and even if it was poetry, that would provide clues too. The question was, how did she get hold of the journal? It wouldn’t be ethical of her to read it without his permission. Would she look into it anyway if she had the chance?
Damn right she would. Curiosity and confusion tormented her. And anyway, by kissing and fondling her instead of pushing her directly away, he had given her some kind of right to know about him. Or such was the excuse she invented to ease her mind.
So how would she get a look into the journal? She mulled over the problem in the laundry room as she hauled wet clothes into the dryer and started up the washer for a new load. He locked his room, and she didn’t want to break in—not that she would know how. Those hairpin and credit-card tricks never worked in real life. Then how…?
A thump from the wall startled her. She turned but didn’t see anything unusual. The laundry detergent was not dancing in the air by itself, as she rather feared it might be. Anyway, the sound had come from the other side of the wall, and it hadn’t been particularly ghostly. It had sounded more like something falling over.
She ventured out into the basement corridor. On the other side of the wall was a large storage area, dim, grimy, and musty-smelling, with crowded plywood shelves sagging under old boxes and crates. Heaven only knew how long some of this stuff had been down here. Though the light was feeble, trickling in from one tiny dirt-smeared window, she discovered what had made the sound. A large cardboard box lay on the floor on its side.
This needn’t be supernatural, she reasoned, and approached it. Things fell off shelves sometimes. Contents shifted; the house’s inhabitants and machinery made the shelves vibrate; and, after years of living together, a box and its shelf parted company. Lina pushed away images of long-hidden human bones and knelt beside the box.
The top flaps had once been held shut with clear packing tape, but the decades had yellowed it and robbed it of its glue, and it had given way. The flaps now fell open. Lina spotted the corner of a picture frame inside, with balled-up newspaper used as padding. Dreading the spiders and mice that might have moved into the box, she nudged a wad of newspaper out of the way, and when no spiders went skittering forth, she took hold of the picture frame and pulled it out.
The picture was so large it took up one whole side of the box. Almost two feet wide and a foot tall, it was what the sororities called a composite: a frame containing the head-and-shoulders portrait of every girl in the house in a given year. The year in this case was the school year 1934–1935. It was written in fancy calligraphy beneath the words “Gamma Eta Omicron” in the center.
It didn’t take her long to find Julia Grise. It was the same photo used in the newspaper articles, but much clearer here. Now Lina detected the shine in Julia’s eyes, the twinkle of a necklace beneath the collar of her blouse. She practically felt on her own head the weight of those thick blond tresses gathered around the ears and brow. A survey of the two dozen other faces brought Lina to the conclusion that Julia had indeed been the most beautiful girl in the house.
A row above, Lina found the other name and face she would have heard of: Jacqueline Jackson, now Jackie Clairmont. Jackie’s eyes and cheeks were a bit puffy, her face a bit jowly, her hair a bit dry. Still, her smile was frank and amiable, and softened Lina toward old Jackie. She even considered bringing the composite upstairs with her to show Mrs. Clairmont, but then decided it might not be a good idea. She didn’t want to stir up unpleasant memories.
Lina propped the composite against a shelf and looked deeper into the box. She found old university-theater playbills, programs for commencement ceremonies, and several envelopes of photos. She opened one. The envelope was falling apart, but the photos inside were clean and glossy, black and white with wavy cut edges. She flipped through them, stopping now and then to gaze at a familiar room or part of the garden. Most of the photos had writing on the back, in that spindly hand everyone seemed to have had in the early twentieth century, spelling out vague descriptions like “Spring Fling” or “Dressing for the Valentine play.” She found one taken in the dining room— “Monday night dinner”—and stared at it. She brought it closer to her eyes and tilted it toward the light.
Five girls sat at the table, smiling, hands in their laps—no one she recognized, no Julia or Jackie. All of them appeared to be wearing white. China and crystal gleamed on the tabletop. The wallpaper was different than it was now. But none of those things interested her at the moment. She studied the houseboy with the silver water pitcher in his hand. He stood behind the table in profile, as if turning to leave. She knew that stance, that figure, that clipped dark hair, those shoulders in a button-down white shirt. She would have recognized them anywhere.
So this was Sean Reynolds. It had to be. No wonder Jackie Clairmont flipped her lid upon seeing Ren for the first time. Ren was a dead ringer for the late Sean. Of course, Sean’s face in this photo was smaller than her thumbnail; Lina’s imagination could have been filling in the details. Still, she set the photo aside, deciding to keep it for now. It was interesting, if nothing else.
Her knees hurt from crouching on the floor, and she heard someone coming down the stairs from the kitchen. She put the composite and the other items back into the box, heaved it onto its shelf, and walked back into the corridor, carrying the photo.
Ren’s door was open. Light spilled from his room onto the concrete floor. He must have been the one whose footsteps she had just heard. She moved quietly, curious to get a look inside those sacred quarters. The room slid into view as she approached. A tiny chamber, six feet square, with walls painted pale green, and unpainted wooden beams as a ceiling. In the second she had to look at it, she also saw a tidily made bed against one wall, a desk with a laptop computer, old dark-red curtains concealing a window near the ceiling, and a surprising number of bookshelves. Ren placed the journal onto one of these shelves, next to scores of books similar to it.
Lina prepared to speak up, show him the photo, use it as an icebreaker. But he sensed her standing there, and his glance snapped toward her with the closest thing to hostility she had ever seen on his face. His meaning could not have been clearer if he’d said, “Stay out.” So she muttered, “Hey,” and slipped away, back to her laundry. Guess that kiss hadn’t guaranteed any soft feelings after all, she thought, wounded.
But she barely had time to think it. She opened the laundry room door and shrieked, raising her hand to cover her mouth. Her wet clothes, torn out of washer and dryer both, were flung all over the room. Crumpled in corners, snagged on the tops and sides of the machines, dangling from the shelves and the doorknob. She had not heard it happen. There had been no footsteps until Ren’s just a minute ago. He hadn’t had time to do it, despite that hostile look.
And her shriek brought him running; evidently dropping the unfriendliness in the face of alarm, he appeared beside her and sucked in a breath when he saw the clothes everywhere.
“I’m going to assume you didn’t do this,” he said.
“And I’m going to assume you didn’t.”
“You assume correctly.” He stepped into the room. “Do you need help, or…”
“No.” Even in the wake of the scare, she foresaw the embarrassment of him helping pick up her soggy underwear.
“Are you sure? I—”
He was stopped by the sound of a crash and a howl from upstairs.
“Someone fell,” Lina said, rushing for the stairs. Ren followed at her heels.
They ran up past the breakfast bar and into the dining room. Jackie Clairmont lay on her side on the hardwood floor, struggling to get up. Marla and Alan held her arms and told her not to move. The serving girls fluttered around looking frightened, and two dazed seniors watched from the nearest table.
“Someone pushed me!” Mrs. Clairmont insisted. “I was pushed!”
“No one was near her,” Consuela said.
Lina looked at Ren, the only person she had told about the shove on the stairs. He looked back at her, uneasily.
“I know, honey,” Marla assured Consuela. “Now, Jackie, you just hold still, all right? We don’t want you to hurt yourself getting up too fast.” She turned. “Ren, call 911, will you?”
He nodded and dashed away.
“I was pushed!” Mrs. Clairmont said. “She pushed me! I told her I was sorry!”
Goosebumps rose on Lina’s limbs. She knelt near Marla and did her best to help soothe Mrs. Clairmont and discover where it hurt. Soon the medics arrived, a familiar flashback to Lina’s hospital days with their strong, efficient voices and their smell of sterilized sheets and latex gloves. They decided to take Mrs. Clairmont away to X-ray her hip; naturally one did not want to take chances with the elderly. They lifted Mrs. Clairmont onto a stretcher. Marla held her hand and walked beside her, talking to her.
At the curb Marla peered out the back doors of the ambulance at Lina. “Make sure Mrs. B doesn’t get the gossip all wrong, you hear?” She winked. Lina nodded. A medic shut the doors, and the ambulance pulled away.
Lina looked up at the gray sky, down at the perpetually wet sidewalk, shivered, and walked back inside to take care of her scattered laundry.
The line of light falling on the basement’s concrete floor stopped her. Ren had not closed his door. In all the commotion, he had probably forgotten.
She looked around, then crept down the hall and slipped inside the small room. It smelled like Ren in here, though she didn’t know she would recognize his smell. It was a scent made up of cooking ingredients (butter, flour, spices, sauces), mint gum, fruity gum, bubble gum, books, papers, cotton sheets, and the cologne he had worn on Halloween. She took a deep breath, dizzy with the memory of dancing with him, kissing him…
But she had no time to stand and daydream. She was here without permission, and to judge from his defensive glance earlier, he wouldn’t give his permission if she asked. So she stepped up to those shelves of journals—for that was what they all looked like, now that she examined them. Journals and other blank books, all marked on their spines with the white ink used in college libraries. The markings were numbers, like “030197 100597.” After looking along the three rows of books, she saw the pattern. They were dates. The earliest volume, highest up, covered March 9, 1986 (030986), to April 12, 1987 (041287). The latest, at the far end on the bottom shelf, had just one date (082003), because, of course, it hadn’t been finished yet.
She swallowed, looked out in the hallway again, then grabbed the most recent one. When she opened it she experienced a strange moment of thinking she had forgotten how to read. Then she thought it might be a language they made up for Star Trek .
qrdii kl pgdk ctpt. rctv’pt qgvdkb rcdq qzjjtp cgq httk zkzqzgiiv spv. d ogk htidtyt dr. d gj gorzgiiv xdqcdkb dr xlzis pgdk gbgdk. tytpv xdkrtp d btr rdpts la rct pgdk, gks tytpv qzjjtp d jdqq dr. bztqq d’j g cgps lkt rt mitgqt. vtqrtpsgv tytkdkb xgq qilx ctpt, qg rctv itr jt bl lzr alp rct kdbcr. d ogzbcr g hzq goplqq rlxk rl ogpfttf mgpf, gks qgr rctpt xgrocdkb rct qzk qtr. rctpt xtpt gorzgiiv fdsq qxdjjdkb dk mzbtr qlzks. d’j klr qzpt dr xgq nzdrt xgpj tklzbc rl olkydkot jt rl sl rcgr, tytk da d olzis.
It went on like that for the whole book.
Not a foreign language. A code. Lina flipped to the front inside cover, then to the back, but found no tidy alphabet lining up traditional letters with code letters. Even with such a guide, she wouldn’t have had time to decode it while standing there.
Frustrated, she put it back, but couldn’t bring herself to give up and leave. She wanted to take one of the books and try her hand at cracking the code—even though that would mean stealing. Unfortunately, the one she really wanted was the latest one, because he might mention her in it. But if she took that one he would certainly notice.
Time for a decision. Footsteps came and went over her head, in the dining room. He was bound to come down again any minute. She fidgeted and finally pulled down an older book (2/21/94–5/10/95), rearranged the surrounding volumes so he might not notice the gap on the shelf, and hurried out into the corridor, hugging the journal to her chest. Gary did say summer of ’94 was when Annette had worked here, didn’t he? She was almost sure of it. Maybe, then, if she couldn’t read about herself, she might at least learn something about Ren and Annette.
In the laundry room she dropped the book and the old photo into her basket and pulled all her wet clothes from their scattered locations. She threw them back into the washing machine, started it up again, and took her laundry basket and the journal up the stairs, jogging fast and not stopping on any of the landings. She rounded the corner in the third-floor hallway and almost ran into Alan.
“Whoa, careful there!” He smiled.
“Sorry.” She tried to catch her breath.
“You look worried. You okay?”
“Yeah. Just, you know, concerned for Mrs. Clairmont.”
“Sounds like she’ll be okay. Marla went with her, she’ll let us know.”
“Thanks, Alan.” She moved past him toward her door.
“Sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Thank you. Really.”
He smiled again, waved at her, and went away.
She shut her door and opened the journal.
ath rxtkrv lkt. gklrctp ytpv olis sgv ctpt. d rcdkf tytpvlkt’q qrgprdkb rl btr xcgr rct mgmtpq cgyt httk ogiidkb qtgqlkgi gaatordyt sdqlpstp. xt olzis zqt qljt qzkqcdkt gks xgpjrc. tytk alp jr dr’q httk stmptqqdkb. g qrtm lzrqdst rct idktq lkiv ptydytq jt alp ghlzr gk clzp.
Right.
But Lina Zuendel, enthusiast of the New York Times crossword puzzle, was no stranger to cryptograms, assuming she had a cryptogram here. She knew a thing or two about solving them. She had just never solved one so big before.
Much as she wanted to get started on it, she had to photocopy it first. She needed to be able to pencil in possible letters above the script, and erase them and try new ones when those didn’t pan out, and she couldn’t do that on the original without making a mess.
And now, of course, it was dinnertime.
Reluctantly she slipped the journal into a desk drawer, hiding it under a box of stationery, as if anyone would be going through her drawers looking for it.
Of course, in this house, you never knew.