Face on the Wall (16 page)

There was a pause. Homer could hear a muffled explosion from McNutt and an apologetic mutter from Kennebunk. Then McNutt spoke fiercely into the phone. “Listen, Kelly, I got news for you. Mrs. Small, she's in Albany. Her husband got a postcard. You want I should read it to you?”

“Well, okay, go ahead.”

McNutt read the postcard in a horrible falsetto.

Dear Fred, this is a luxury hotel

in the heart of downtown Albany,

with 229 rooms, a London pub,

a French cafe, a hairdressing salon,

and an indoor pool. I'm exploring

the fashionable shops located

in the lobby. Love, Pearl.

Homer couldn't believe his ears. “Hold on. Just read that again.”

McNutt harrumphed, then read it again very fast, in his own voice this time. “So you see, pal,” he said, coming down heavily on the word “pal,” “the woman is not missing, she's on a shopping spree in Albany. Kindly get lost.”

There was a savage crash in Homer's ear. Wincing, he stared at the phone, then called back the police department in Southtown.

“Sergeant Kennebunk? Is McNutt still there?”

“No,” said Kennebunk softly, “he's in his office.”

“Well, listen, did you see that postcard? Is it the real thing? Was it canceled by the post office in Albany?”

“Oh, sure, it came from Albany, all right. There's a picture of the Regency Hotel on the other side.”

“Tell me, Sergeant, did you ever hear anything so phony in all your life
?”

Kennebunk snickered. “It sounded to me like a promotional pamphlet.”

“Exactly.” Homer gripped the phone and gazed out the window at the opposite shore of Fair Haven Bay, hazy now with pale-green budding leaves and a mist rising from the river. “Easy enough to check. We could call the hotel, find out if she's registered as a guest.”

“Great, I'll take care of it.” Then Kennebunk raised his voice. “Yes, ma'am, of course we'll look into your missing cat. I'll talk to the dog officer. She also handles cats.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” whispered Homer, and put down the phone.

Chapter 24

… the Dodo suddenly called out “The race is over!”

and they all crowded round it, panting,

and asking “But who has won?”

Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

C
harlene won in her age group at the New England Senior Swimming Championships at Harvard's Blodgett Pool. Most of the kids in her homeroom at Weston Country Day were there to watch her compete.

Mary went along to swell the participation of the school in support of its star athlete. Besides, she was still taking an interest in the sociopathology of the fifth-grade class in which Charlene had become so powerful.

Mary had taught at Harvard for ten years in a joint professorship with Homer, but she had never been to Blodgett Pool. She edged along one of the steep rows of seats in the bleachers, which were crowded with the families of the contestants. Sitting down, she tried to take it all in.

It was an unfamiliar world. Below her the pool was big and blue, its surrounding apron alive with adolescent contestants, slim girls in one-piece bathing suits, gangly bare-chested boys. Deafening music roared from the loudspeakers. For an hour the rows of patient parents watched their children practice in the roped-off lanes. The swimmers were slender fishes speeding underwater, surfacing to race for the turn and go bottoms-up, then pushing off again with strong thrusts of their feet against the wall.

“Hi, Mrs. Kelly.” A procession of excited girls crowded in beside her and sat down, pulling off jackets and scarves and craning their necks to look for Charlene. Were they too late Had they missed her event?

No, they were just in time. There were squeals. “There she is!” “Charlene,” screamed Alice Mooney, who had lost her doll to Charlene. “Charlene,” screamed Beverly Eckstein, whose bicycle had mysteriously become Charlene's. “Charlene,” screamed Cissie Aufsesser and Wilma Brownhill, to whom Charlene had never said a friendly word. “Charlene, Charlene,” screamed Becca and Joanna and Carrie and all the rest.

Charlene looked up and smiled her queenly smile. She was standing with her competitors behind a row of low diving platforms along one side of the pool. The other girls had narrow waists, plump breasts and thighs. Charlene was still a skinny little kid.

The music stopped. The loudspeaker grated and scratched. “At this time,” boomed the master of ceremonies, “please rise for our national anthem.” At once everyone stood up. The young swimmers turned to face the flag hanging over the pool, and a hoarse recorded version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” bounced off the walls. When it ground to a stop, the voice roared again, “
EVENT NUMBER THIRTEEN, THE WOMEN'S TWO-HUNDRED-YARD INDIVIDUAL MEDLEY
.”

Charlene's classmates clutched each other as she mounted her low diving block. There were eight contestants along the edge of the pool, waiting for the signal, nervously adjusting swimming caps and goggles, pulling at their suits, waggling their arms to loosen muscles.

The whistle blew. At once the eight girls bent over, ready to dive, and then, at the sound of a horn, they plunged into the water.

Charlene was in lane four. “Go, go, Charlene,” screamed all the girls from Weston Country Day. Mary screamed too, “Go, Charlene, go!”

Charlene needed no urging. She was ahead of the pack from the beginning.

“What are they doing?” shrieked Mary to the woman sitting in front of her, as the eight girls rose and fell across the twenty-five-foot width of the pool. “The butterfly,” shouted the woman. “Go, Debbie, go!”

There was no contest. Charlene's butterfly stroke was no more graceful than the rest, but it was faster. Her backstroke carried her yards ahead of her nearest competitor. With her breast stroke she was far in the lead, and in the beautiful stroke called “freestyle” she flew to victory. “
CHARLENE GAST, THE YOUNGEST COMPETITOR, WINS WITH A TIME OF TWO-ONE-FORTY
.”

Mary stayed to watch Charlene receive her award. The eight girls had changed to sweat suits. They stood on a pyramid of boxes. It was just like the Olympics. Charlene stood at the top to accept her medal, while her classmates screamed her name, and screamed it again.

Mary applauded politely, then stood up to go. She brushed past the knees of Charlene's fifth-grade fans, smiling at them, saying goodbye. Looking back, she saw Roberta and Bob Gast way down in front, cheering their daughter. Eddy was not there.

Annie woke up. Across the room the TV was noisy with excited music. A cheetah in a final burst of speed reached its prey. Cymbals clashed, the rhebok was dragged down. Annie hated wildlife shows. She clicked the remote control, put out her hand for the lamp switch, and gave a small shriek. There was a face at the window.

Oh, God, it was Eddy. What was he doing, wandering around in the dark?

She unfastened the screen and lifted him inside. “Eddy, what are you doing? Why aren't you in bed?”

There were tears on Eddy's cheeks, but he smiled at her, and gave her a rumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing of the emperor's nightingale. Annie had read him the Andersen story. Eddy's mechanical bird was a miracle of jewels and interlocking gears, while his live bird sang in the background with open beak. “For you,” said Eddy.

“Oh, Eddy, thank you, it's beautiful. Come on, now, I'll take you home. Your mother will wonder where on earth you are.”

The front door of Eddy's house was wide open, the way he had left it. No one was at home. There were no cars in the driveway.

What should she do? She could send him back upstairs to bed, but that would mean leaving him alone. She could take him back to her house and put him down on the couch and leave a note for the Gasts to explain where he was, but it would look like a criticism. Well, goddamnit, they deserved it. They might be indulgent parents for their talented daughter Charlene, but they were rotten caretakers for their retarded son Eddy.

Her dilemma was solved by the return of the Gasts. They came rocketing up the driveway in two cars. Charlene bounced out of the Bronco and ran past Eddy and Annie. At once there was a blare of noise from inside the house.

“It's the news,” explained Roberta, hurrying in after her. “She's on the news.”

“Charlene won,” cried Bob, slamming his car door. “The youngest kid there, and she broke the record.”

Annie stood in his way. “Here's Eddy,” she said loudly. “He was wandering around outside.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Bob. He took Eddy by the shoulders and rushed him indoors.

There was a screech from Charlene. “Here it is, quick, quick. It's me!”

Chapter 25

“Oh dear!” said the poor Princess. And the three drops of blood heard her, and said, “If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart.”

The Brothers Grimm, “The Goose-Girl”

“H
omer, Annie's got problems.”

“Annie's
got problems?” Homer stared at his wife in disbelief. “For Christ's sake, who cares? Not me.
I'm
the one with problems. My teaching assistant's down with flu, so who has to read two hundred papers?
I
do.
And those poor kids in prison, what about them? Talk about problems!
They've
got problems, and who's going to help them out? Me again. Yours truly. And what about my poor
book?
It's not getting
written,
for Christ's sake, and, good grief, Mary Kelly, your friend Princess Pearl,
she's
got a problem, because where the hell is she? She's not really in Albany at all, did I tell you? Because that postcard was the silliest thing you ever—” Homer scrambled his hair with his fingers and looked wildly at his wife. “And now you tell me poor old Annie has problems.” Homer groaned. “Well, all right, what is it this time?”

Mary looked at him pitilessly, and explained about the recurring mystery of the face on Annie's wall. “It keeps coming back. At first they thought it was just a blotch. You know, mildew or something, but now it's clearly a face. Somebody's been getting into her house and painting weird faces on her wall.”

Homer showed no interest in the face on Annie's wall. “Well, so what? What difference does it make, one face more or less on Annie's wall, compared with a missing woman and two hundred student papers and the abandonment of a truly significant book and the plight of six poor guys serving mandatory minimum sentences in the Concord prison?” Homer picked up his briefcase, slammed it on the table, and began stuffing it with books.

“And there's something else,” said Mary ruthlessly. “Homer, listen, this is important. Annie's little neighbor, Eddy Gast, Annie thinks his parents are trying to get rid of him.”

“They want to send him away?”

“No, no. Worse than that. He keeps having accidents. She thinks it's more than just carelessness on their part. She thinks it's deliberate.”