Written on My Heart (22 page)

“Someone brought in a bundle of their own.”

“What?” I said. “
Who?
”

The blood pumping through my ears was so loud I almost didn't catch the
name.

I
had never met Andy Barrington's mother, Barbara. I had never even seen a picture of the woman. When Glen, Bud, Dottie, and I had accidentally set the Barringtons' porch on fire during the firecracker raid, we had destroyed a beautiful rosebush she had planted, but she hadn't shown up for our Big Apology. A few years later, when Andy and I got together and we talked about our parents, I gathered that, while Edward was the type to fetch his son home and call the sheriff, his mother, Barbara, let him do what he wanted. At one point, Andy told me that his mother, whom he described as airy and timid, had left Edward because of Edward's drinking. But who knew how much of it was true. Andy twisted things.

Dottie's encounter with her had been the first I'd heard of her in years. Now she had stumbled into Parker's office to deliver a bundle of letters to him, high on something else other than life, according to Parker, makeup running down her face, winter hat cockeyed on her head. “Take these,” she had said to him. “I found them. I finally found them. I knew he couldn't keep it in his pants, even here. Despicable. A bounder.”

“What's a bounder?” I asked as Bud and I sat in front of Parker's desk in his office. The kids were with Ida and Maureen. It looked as if we would be spending Christmas at The Point with family after all, which was fine with me.

“Them people know words we don't even know exist,” Parker said.

I had identified my mother's handwriting on the opened envelopes. About thirty letters, most of them going back years before I had been born to her and to Daddy. All of them addressed to Edward Barrington. I held them to my nose and breathed in musty dust. I was dying to know what was inside, but at the same time, I wanted nothing to do with them.

“I guess you was right,” Parker said.

“Oh, really? About what?” I said.

“Barrington. Well, at least about me talking to him.”

“You contact him yet?” Bud asked.

“He's coming in after Christmas with his lawyer,” he said. “Told him he'd better. The good police officers in Boston know he's a person of interest. He's being watched.”

“Why aren't you arresting him
now
?” I said. “He killed Carlie.”

“We don't know that at all,” Parker said. “Don't jump the fence, Florine. We still don't know much about who wrote them letters you got. They didn't have no signature, remember. We don't know if Barrington is involved with them or not.”

Bud shook his head. “What if he don't show up?”

“He will,” Parker said.

“What day? What time?” I said.

“December twenty-seventh,” Parker said. “Morning, sometime.”

“What if he admits it? What then?”

“That's a step down the road,” Parker said.

“He'll just deny everything,” I said. Bud helped me to my feet.

Parker reached for the letters. “Got to keep those for now. You can have 'em later to read. You might want to know what they said.”

My hands shook as I handed the letters to Parker. “I don't want to fucking look at them ever again,” I said. I turned to Bud. “It's Christmas,” I said, “let's go see the kids.”

I stuffed everything connected with letters, the Barringtons, and Carlie in a seldom-used part of my mind and I focused on the light that my
kids, with their joy and energy, brought to the season. Playing with them, feeding, scolding, comforting, cuddling, and loving them left little time to think about what my mother might or might not have done with Edward Barrington. Every time one of those ugly visions tried to gain a foothold in my head, a small hand or a little voice swept it away.

It was good to be with everyone we loved.

We were staying with Ida this trip. I had thought that maybe we could share Grand's house with Glen. But after we arrived, I went to see how he was making out. I knocked on the door, and when he didn't answer, I pushed the old house key into the lock, turned it, and walked inside, not because I was nosy but because I wanted to make sure that he was all right. I called his name, but got no answer. I walked down the hall and looked to the left, toward the kitchen. It was a mess; dirty dishes piled up in the sink and scattered over the table. The floor hadn't been swept for ages.

But what Glen had done to the living room shocked me. He had pushed furniture against the walls and had put up his tent in the middle of the floor. The air stank with the sweetish odor of marijuana and the staleness of old beer.

Goddamn it, Glen, I thought. How dare he bring drugs into Grand's house? How goddamn dare he? Then I felt Grand's big, soft, ghostly hand on my shoulder.
He's got to come back to himself, if he can
, she said to me.
He's down deep
. If she was okay with this, I decided I would try to be okay with it too. It was hard to leave the house without at least cleaning it, but I did. I shut and locked the door and walked down to Ida's house.

The bedrooms down there were tiny. For the sake of convenience, Arlee and I shared Maureen's room, while Bud slept in his old room in a twin bed beside Travis's crib. Maureen and I whispered to each other in the dark after Arlee dropped off to sleep.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said.

“Me too,” I whispered back.

“It's funny to hear other people breathing in my room. It's nice.”

“Your brother snores,” I said. “I hear that every night.”

“Dad used to snore so loud that Madeline Butts came down from their house one summer night and pounded on our door. When Ma answered, Madeline told her to turn her husband over or stuff something in his mouth, before she killed him.”

I laughed. “Never heard that one.”

“After that, Ma made sure he didn't get too far into it before she poked him, or did whatever she did to make him stop.”

“Well, I hope Bud doesn't get that loud,” I said. A sharp
snork
came from the other side of the wall and we both giggled.

Christmas dawned with Maureen shaking me awake at five thirty a.m.

“What the hell?” I mumbled, turning over toward the wall.

“We have to get up,” Maureen whispered. “We have to see what Santa brought.”

“The kids are still asleep,” I said. “That's their present to me. Go back to sleep.”

But then, Travis let out a peep and I stumbled up and staggered into Bud's room. I swayed in the dark for a few seconds before I crept to the crib and listened to his breathing. Even. Deep. I touched his blond curls.

“While you're here,” Bud whispered, “I got a present for you.”

“Did Santa bring it?” I asked him.

“Santa had nothing to do with it,” Bud said. I peeled off my nightgown and joined him in his little bed, where we gift wrapped each other for a while.

“Merry Christmas,” Bud whispered when we were through.

“Well, I got what I wanted,” I said.

Travis made a real noise and I unwound myself from my husband, slipped my nightgown over my head, and went to my son.

Bud's other present to me was a box with a key inside of it, much like the one I had given to him on our wedding night.

“You're giving Petunia back to me?” I asked him.

“Nope,” he said. “I'm giving you the Fairlane.”

“That's nice,” I said. “What are you going to drive?”

“I'm fixing up a 1967 Ford F-100 pickup,” he said. “Got a good deal on it.”

“How good?”

Bud smiled. “Good.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said. It would be good to have a set of wheels for myself. And I had a mechanic with a drive shaft that wouldn't quit living with me. Anything that might go wrong could be
fixed.

C
hristmas passed in a flurry of paper and boxes. The kids and I spent the next day playing inside and outside. We all went to bed early that night, but I didn't sleep. The morning of December 27, 1973, was hell for me. I knew Edward Barrington was in Parker's office. I pictured him sitting in a chair across from Parker, a little smile on his face, relaxed and cool. Maybe he was speaking in that soft whisper that could coil itself into a shout and strike down a person without warning.

He was someone I hardly knew, yet knew more than enough about.

A memory: The time he had talked down to us after the failed firecracker raid. So cold, yet his eyes burned. When he had said something to me, Carlie had answered him in my defense. He had snapped back at her. I could still feel her delicate hands gripping my shoulders. Had she feared him too?

Another memory. I was thirteen. It was late June. I had gone for a walk, alone, in the state park and run into him. He had been drunk. It had taken a few seconds for him to focus on me. “It's you,” he had said. He acted like he wanted to kiss me. In light of what we knew now, I realized he probably mistook me for Carlie.

A final memory—the clearest and most awful memory I had of him. Andy, shaking, gripping my hand in the living room of the Barrington cottage on a freezing winter night as Edward's voice tore his
spirit in two right in front of me. Andy and I leaving the cottage and Edward following us, slipping on the icy back steps. Edward, lying unconscious on the ground. It didn't take a lot of memory to still feel his warm, sticky blood on my hands.

What had he done to my mother?

Bud stayed with me until noon, when he went up to the house to visit Glen. He sent Dottie and little Archer down to be with me.

“He looks like his mother,” I said. Dark curls, blue eyes. Red lips. Unmarked skin, clear eyes, sweet brows, soft hands and fingers. Archer bobbed his head against Dottie's chest, looking for lunch. “Nothing there for you, bub,” she said as she fished a bottle of milk from her parka pocket.

“Where's Evie?” I asked.

“Who the hell knows,” Dottie said. “Pump and run.” She stuck the warm bottle between Archer's wet lips and he sucked milk down like a pro. “He's some good at this,” Dottie said with pride in her voice.

Arlee wandered into the kitchen, followed by Maureen, who made a fool of herself over Archer. Ida brought Travis from the living room and he gave Dottie a goofy grin. I made Arlee a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I mashed a banana for Travis and let him muck himself up with it. He batted his eyes when we laughed.

“That's new,” I said.

A knock at the door interrupted our laughter. Ida stood up, and her expression immediately changed.

Edward Barrington was looking through the window in the front door.

“Shit,” I said. I stood up and took in the face of the man who had possibly killed my mother. I had last seen him about five years earlier, and this was not the face I remembered. Lines crisscrossed his wide forehead like fishermen's nets. Deep creases guarded both sides of his downturned mouth. What was left of his blond hair was combed back off his forehead. His eyes were red, as if he'd been crying.

“Call Parker,” I said. “Take the babies out of the house and call
Parker.” Chairs scraped back as people gathered kids. All except for Arlee, who pressed herself against my legs. “Go with Grammy Ida,” I said, but she didn't move. Edward looked down at her, then back up at me.

I put my hand on her head and pushed her behind me. “What do you want?” I shouted at Edward through the storm door window. “Go the fuck away. We're calling Parker, right now.”

Edward held up his gloved hands. “I mean no harm,” he yelled back. Moisture from his mouth fogged up the glass.

“I don't care, you bastard,” I hollered. “You have no right to be near me or my family.” Arlee squirmed her way to the side of my leg. “Bad?” she asked.

“Go,” I said to her, again. “Please.”

“No,” she said.

Edward looked down, and too late, I realized the door was unlocked. He turned the knob and I sprang forward and pushed myself against it as it opened. “Go away,” I shouted. “Get out of here.”

“Florine, calm down,” he said. “I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. That's all I want. I promise.”

“No. You have nothing to say to me.” And then it occurred to me that Parker hadn't slapped him in jail. Why wasn't he headed to prison? Had he seen Parker at all?

As if he'd read my mind, Edward said, “I've talked to Parker.”

“Bullshit,” I yelled, and pushed with all my strength against the door. Edward stepped back and I slammed the door and locked it.

“I loved her,” he yelled. “Yes, I'm a bastard, but I could never hurt Caroline.”

Caroline. Not Carlie, but her full name.

Edward said, “I wanted to tell you that. And,” he said, “I wanted to tell you that, no matter how hard I tried to make her love me, she loved your father.”

“Shut up,” I said. Tears flooded my eyes. “You're a liar.”

“It's true,” he said. “I wanted you to know that.”

“Fuck you,” I said. Someone touched my shoulder and I jumped.

Ida murmured, “We don't say that in this house, Florine. Let the man in. I'm tired of hearing you both shout through the door. And you're scaring Arlee.”

“No. Are you crazy?”

Ida said, “This is my house. Hear what the man has to say. And keep your temper. Jesus will protect us.”

Hell he will, I thought.

“Maureen and Dottie, this may not be a conversation fit for the kids. Please take them up to your house, Dottie, if you would,” Ida said. Maureen, holding a solemn Travis in her arms, bent down and spoke softly to an upset Arlee. “Go, honey,” I said to Arlee. “I'll come get you soon.” Arlee took Maureen's hand and they followed Dottie and Archer out the back door. Ida walked to the front door and opened it. “Hello, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Won't you come in?”

Edward stood on the doorstep and looked at me. I backed up and stood in the living-room doorway, both hands gripping the door frame. A glance out a back window showed me Maureen, Dottie, and the kids walking through the dusting of snow up the hill.

“Would you like some tea?” Ida asked.

Edward looked at her. “That would be nice, Mrs. Warner. Yes.”

“Milk? Sugar?”

“A dash of milk, please.”

“Sit down,” Ida said to him. She pointed to the kitchen table and he lowered himself into the chair where, just minutes before, Dottie had fed Archer.

I didn't know what to do with my arms, so I hugged myself with them.

“Florine,” Ida said, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“No,” I said.

“Why don't you sit down, dear,” Ida said.

“I'm fine, here,” I said.

“All right,” Ida said. “Did you have a nice Christmas, Mr. Barrington?”

What the fuck was she doing?

Edward played along. “Yes, I did, Mrs. Warner. And you?”

“Oh, wonderful. It's so nice having children in the house during the holidays.”

“Yes,” Edward said. “It's been a long time, but I imagine it would be.”

“Oh for Christ—heaven's sake,
Mr. Barrington
,” I cried, “say what you have to say and get out.”

“Not until he's had some tea,” Ida said. She gave me a look, which I ignored.

“Well,” Edward began, and then Bud burst through the door with Glen on his heels.

“Where is the bastard?” Bud said.

“Fuck do you want?” Glen said, plunking himself down across from Edward. He leaned his bulk toward him, and Edward pushed his chair away from him.

“James Walter,” Ida said. “Manners. And, Glen, if you use that language, you'll have to leave.”

Glen muttered, “Sorry.”

Dottie walked back in and looked around. “Well,” she said, “the gang's all here. Isn't that cozy?”

Ida poured a little milk into Edward's teacup.

“Ida,” I said, as calmly as I could, “this man may have murdered my mother.”

“I didn't,” Edward said. “I told you through the door, I could never have hurt her. I loved her.”

“You had no right to do that,” I said.

“After a while, no, not legally,” Edward said. “Of course not. She loved your father. But that didn't stop me from loving her.”

Ida set his tea down in front of him.

“Thank you,” Edward said. We all watched him stir his tea, take the teabag out and squeeze it, and put it on the teabag holder Ida had placed in front of him. He took a sip of tea, put his cup down, and looked at me.

“I can see why you might think I would hurt Caroline,” he said.
“You've seen my temper, unfortunately. But I—and she, I'm sure—never would have chosen for you to find out about us. Or what was once ‘us.' There was no ‘us' after she met Leeman in terms of, well, in terms of . . .” He waved his hand around, finally snatching the word “that” out of the air.

“You're a liar,” I said.

He smiled, and I saw that one of his top front teeth had gone bad. “I am many, many things, Florine, but I am not a liar. I do have secrets, but if they happen to come to light, which this one has done, I will not deign to be untruthful.”

“Will you just talk normal?” Dottie grumbled.

“I believe he means that he would not stoop to telling a lie,” Ida said.

“Yes, exactly,” Edward said. “That's what I mean. Anyway,” he said, “let me go back into the past, back to when I met Caroline.”

I shook my head, but Ida took my arm and said, “Let him tell the story, Florine. Let him be done with it and then he'll leave.”

He paused, and took a deep breath. “I met Caroline in Boston,” he said. “She was seventeen years old, but she was pretending to be older. I was twenty-one years old and I wasn't pretending anything. We met in a park, actually. I was taking a break from my studies. I was an English major at Boston University. It was fall. Come to think of it, it was just after her birthday, October thirteenth. Am I correct?” He looked at me.

I hated that he knew when her birthday was. I didn't nod. I didn't shake my head.

He went on. “At any rate, I was walking through the park. It was cloudy, but there was a flame sitting on a bench to my right. The flame was Caroline's hair. She'd let it go wild. It was long and tumbled down her shoulders like a river of fire. It perked me up, seeing all that marvelous hair, so I stopped in front of the bench. She was slouched down, hands in the pockets of her coat. It's amazing what one remembers. The coat was navy blue and she had on a red plaid skirt. If she'd taken off the coat, I would have seen a school uniform.”

Edward smiled at me. “‘What do you want?' is what she first said to me.

“I said, ‘I wanted to let you know that your hair is beautiful and that it has made my dismal day much brighter.' She said to me, ‘And just who in the hell are you?' I fell in love, immediately.”

“Why do you think I care about this shit?” I said. “My mother has been missing for ten years. If you knew her so well, why haven't you said something before?”

“Say what? That we were friends? That we'd known each other for years? That I loved her?” For the first time during the visit, I caught a bit of his temper.

“Why not?” Bud spoke up.

“Well, why, actually?” Edward said. “I don't know what happened to her any more than you do.” He placed the teacup onto its saucer with a tiny clink.

“You had those letters from her. They might have given us a clue,” I said.

“Those letters were personal. They were old, for the most part, and wouldn't have helped anyone find her.”

“Turns out they were evidence,” Bud said. “Or at least your wife thought so.”

Edward glared at him.

“Don't look at him like that,” I said. He turned his glare on me.

“And by the way,” I said, “someone has been sending me scraps of letters that you, most likely, sent to Carlie. Would that have been your wife too? I'm sure Parker talked to you about those.”

“Yes,” Edward said. “He showed me some cut-up letters. They were, in fact, bits and pieces of correspondence between me and Caroline and they are nobody's business. Whoever sent them to you is a mystery to me.”

“You were pissed off in a couple of them,” I said.

“I was. I was losing the woman I loved. Those letters were desperate and angry and I'm ashamed of them. I had lost her already, and I should have left it at that.”

“Why should we care about you and my mother?” I said. “All I care about is my father and who they were together. Compared to him, you're nothing but a piece of—”

“Florine,” Ida said.

“This has nothing to do with you,” I snapped at her. “This is between him and me. I didn't even want to let him in.”

Ida crossed her skinny arms over her chest. The cross hanging from her neck glinted gold against her pale skin.

“Florine,” Edward said, quietly, “I want to clear things up between us. I imagine you have some questions, and rightfully so. Let me finish up, if just to give you some closure on our story.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don't care about your fucking story,” I said, blinking back tears.

“You've made her cry,” Glen said. “I didn't like you before, and I don't like you even more now.”

Edward looked at Glen. “My intention is not to make Florine cry, but to reassure her that her mother was loved, and that her mother loved one man. That man was not me.”

Ida said, “Mr. Barrington, please finish your story. While you're welcome here, I think that brevity may be your best bet right now.”

“Snap it up, so we can get rid of you,” Dottie said.