Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Grace; no, Izzie, he saw, as she came in from the dark hall and the light hit her hair. Izzie. She looked as though she’d just had eight hours’ sleep followed by one of those runner’s-high workouts; her hair still wet and gleaming from the shower. He rose.

“Nat! What happened to you?”

“Me?”

“Your nose.”

He resisted the urge to touch it. “I’m fine.”

She glanced around. “Wags cleared out?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She closed the door, lowered her voice. “It’s done.”

“What’s done?”

“The plan, of course. Sure you’re okay?”

But the plan was out. “Done?” he said. “Done in what way?”

“Don’t worry. Everything went smoothly. Grace called, as me, and said she’d been-” She lowered her voice still more. “-you know, kidnapped. We toyed with the idea of asking for yen, the kind of interesting twist that makes things authentic, but then we-”

“Called who?”

“Our father. You’re acting funny, Nat, like you’re hearing this for the first time. Sure you’re-”

“She called as you?”

“Why not? No one can tell us apart on the phone. ‘This is Izzie, something terrible’s happened, I’m so scared,’ blah blah blah, million dollars, sequential, nondenominational, whatever it was, blah blah.” Izzie laughed; she had that untamed look of Grace’s in her eye.

“We have to stop this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We just do.”

“Nat. I told you. It’s done. Grace is hiding down in the cave and the money’s on its way.”

“The money’s on its way?”

“It’s nothing to him-didn’t we mention that? He’s sending someone. Someone gives it to me, I give it to no one, Grace reappears. We get back to normal life. Voila.”

He shook his head. That hurt, and had no other effect.

“You and Wags had a little disagreement, didn’t you?” She came closer, brushed her lips against the tip of his nose, barely touching it. “Give me a kiss.”

He kissed her. They’d kissed maybe dozens of times by now, but never like this.

All those years, growing up in this town-Inverness, the name itself snotty and hateful-all those years and he’d never once been inside a house on the Hill. Been in their yards, as he was in the backyard of Leo Uzig’s house now, the summers he worked for one landscaper or another, but never inside. They had nice yards up on the Hill, and this was a nice one, surprisingly big, with different kinds of trees and a high stone wall. A snow-covered terrace led up to double back doors, heavy and black with brass fittings, like the door at the front. No cheap sliders, no bulkhead with stairs down to the basement, nothing easy. Funny thing, though, about people who lived on the Hill, especially those who’d lived there since the time when no one locked their doors-some still didn’t lock them. Freedy tried the polished brass handle. Locked.

He stepped back, almost knocking over the bird feeder, checked the house, hoping for balconies, windows cracked open an inch or two, maybe a One of the double doors opened. An old woman came out with a bag of birdseed in her hand, saw Freedy, stopped. She was all in white-a long white housecoat, white slippers-except for her hat, red with earflaps sticking out to the side. She looked like somebody’s old gran. He himself had no old gran, his mother’s mother, whoever that might have been, belonging to some earlier life. Not to mention the other side, where The other side. Freedy had maybe the most amazing thought of his whole life, a kind of jump or leap, like you turn the key in the ignition and then you’re there, without doing the actual drive. This, this old thing with the watery eyes and the Kleenex sticking out of her goddamn sleeve, could be his gran! They stared at each other. Freedy knew he should say something, but what? No idea. Had he run into a situation he didn’t know how to handle? That would be a first.

He got lucky-a nice change. The old lady spoke first. “Can I help you, young man?” she said.

“I, uh, represent the Aqua Group,” Freedy said; meant to say Agua, too late.

“We’re happy with what we have now.”

“With what you have now?”

“Poland Spring, I believe. Or possibly Mount Monadnock.”

What the fuck was she- Then he got it. “This is swimming pools,” Freedy said. “I was just checking out your space for possible swimming pool installation.”

“Were you?” she said, making a big thing out of that were, like she was pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But it’s the middle of winter.”

“The early bird,” Freedy said.

The old lady smiled. “How right you are.” She gazed beyond him, scanning the trees in the backyard, the smile slowly fading, but not completely. “Perhaps you can help me,” she said, indicating the birdseed. “Before we get to the actual spiel.”

Freedy took the bag from her, spread seed in the feeder.

“Richie,” she called, in a yoo-hoo kind of voice, although she didn’t say yoo-hoo. “Richie.”

“Richie?” said Freedy, glancing around, seeing no one.

“My cardinal,” said the old lady. “Short for Richelieu, of course, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

“None of my business anyway,” said Freedy.

The old lady laughed. “I love a sense of humor. Swimming pools, you say?”

“The best.”

“But now? In the middle of winter?”

“The early bird,” Freedy said again, since it had worked so well the first time.

The old lady nodded. The sky had brightened slightly and he got a good look at her face. Did he resemble her, at all? “Those folk sayings,” she began; but a crow swooped down at the feeder and she threw up her hands in horror. “Oh, no.”

Freedy took a swat at it. He was quick, yes, and a fuckin’ leg breaker, yes, but not bird-quick, so some luck must have been involved. Good luck-a nice change. Supposing, on top of all his other qualities, he was starting to get lucky too? Shudder to think, whatever that meant.

Some luck must have been involved. Why? Because he caught that crow a pretty good one, not on the button, but close enough. It went down and stayed down, a black feather or two drifting in the air.

“My goodness,” said the old lady, gazing down at the crow, then up at Freedy. “What a competent fellow!”

Freedy tried to think of some aw-shucks folk saying that fit; he knew there must be some, even felt one on the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t come.

“And modest as well,” she said. Yes, even things he didn’t do were paying off. This was the start of a lucky day, had to be. He should buy a lottery ticket, maybe go on Jeopardy.

Something caught her eye, something red. “Good morning, Richie.” The cardinal settled on the rim of the feeder. “Isn’t he the most elegant little man you’ve ever seen?” the old lady said, lowering her voice.

Quicker than a crow, Freedy wondered, or slower? Not the time to experiment. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She turned to him. “I’m glad you agree. Now get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

“Why, swimming pools. I was a champion swimmer.”

“You were?”

“At Camp Glenwhinnie. Many, many ribbons, red and blue. Do you know Camp Glenwhinnie, Mr…?”

“Just call me Freedy.”

“Freedy. What an interesting name. I don’t believe I’ve met a Freedy before. Camp Glenwhinnie, on Lake-is it a diminutive?”

“Huh?”

“Freedy. Is it short for anything?”