Элизабет Чандлер - Don't Tell

“Why did you run from it? What did you see?”

“I don’t remember,” she insisted.

“The water was stirred up,” I reminded her, “as if a boat were passing by. Did you notice a powerboat?”

Nora shook her head. “It was her. She was making the river angry. She wants to make the river come up.”

“Who?” I asked, though I could guess the answer.

“Sondra. She wants it to go over our heads.”

“No, Nora, it was just—”

“She wants to pull us down with her,” Nora said, her eyes wide, as if she were seeing something I couldn’t “She wants her little girl.”

I gripped my car keys hard. “Listen to me. There is no one sleeping in there, dead or alive.”

Nora’s eyelids twitched violently.

“Wind, tides, boats,” I said, “those are the things that make the water rise and fall.”

She didn’t reply.

“Nora, while I’m out I’m going to visit my mother’s grave.

She was buried in the cemetery at Grace Church — by the high school. My mother is not in the river. She’s not in the boathouse. She’s in a grave in the churchyard. The stone has her name on it to tell you that’s where she is. Do you understand? Do you hear me?”

She turned away and resumed clipping the hedge.

There was no reaching her, no way I knew of. She needed professional help.

I continued on to my car, stopping at the big oak to look at the swing’s rope, which I had left coiled beneath. I studied the knot, then touched it timidly. There was nothing unusual about it. It must have been there all along and I just hadn’t noticed.

It was a quick drive to the bank. High Street had been swept clean after the festival and basked quietly in the morning sunshine. Its main bank was a smalltown miniature of the kind you see in East Coast cities, with bronze doors and Greek columns. I think the teller I got must have been there since it was built. Her fluffy white hair flew in the breeze made by a little desk fan. Pursing her lips, she read my check and driver’s license, then lifted her head to study me, pushing her heavy glasses up her nose, so she could get a clearer view.

“Sondra’s daughter.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re depositing this in the Ingram account.”

I realized that teens didn’t usually write a check as large as mine. “Here’s my bankbook,” I told her, sliding it under the glass. “It has phone numbers and an e-mail address if you want to verify the availability of the money.”

“No. Your mama’s checks were always good,” she said.

I nodded, though I didn’t know what she was talking about. My mother didn’t bank here.

“And always on time,” she added as she started the transaction. “The first of each month Jule would come in to deposit them.”

I looked at the teller with surprise.

“I always wondered why,” the woman continued. “Of course, I figured your mama was being blackmailed, but I wondered what for.”

Blackmailed? I stared at the woman.

“When I told that to folks here at the bank, they laughed.”

Small wonder, I thought.

“When I told the police, they said I read too many paperbacks. But the real reason they didn’t believe me was Jule. She’s golden around here. The Ingram family, they’re like the Scarboroughs, Wisteria’s royalty.”

“I see.”

“Just between you and me,” the teller said, peering at me, her eyes magnified by her glasses, “why was your mama paying off Jule?”

“She was just helping out,” I replied, “like I’m doing.”

The old woman gazed at me doubtfully.

I wondered if my mother had been in the habit of lending money to Aunt Jule, and if my godmother had become dependent on her. I knew my mother was good at manipulating others with her wealth — I’d heard my father tell her that more than once. Perhaps money was the cause of her and Aunt Jule’s arguments that summer.

The teller stamped my check and handed me a receipt.

As I turned to leave, I heard raised voices in one of the bank’s offices. A door with frosted glass swung open and Frank emerged, his face red with anger. He didn’t see me and, given his scarlet color and indignant gait, I thought he might not want me to see him. I turned aside and took my time putting my bankbook away, mulling over what I had learned from the teller.

My mother and godmother had been best friends since their middle-school years at Birch Hill and probably had known each other’s deepest secrets. But the teller’s suggestion of blackmail was absurd. So was my idea that my mother was controlling my godmother with money, for Aunt Jule had nothing to offer her in return.

Besides, my mother had loved Aunt Jule. In the will Frank had drawn up for my mother that summer, she had left her entire estate to me, to be inherited at the age of eighteen.

But if I died before then, my inheritance was to go to Aunt Jule. Obviously my mother trusted her; there was no reason for me to doubt their relationship now.

“Lauren, you found us,” Holly said, sounding pleased.

“Everyone, this is Lauren Brandt.”

Kids looked up from two rows of computer screens, greeting me with a chorus of hellos. Nick sat at a drawing table fifteen feet away, ink on his fingers and balled-up sheets of paper ringing his chair. He flashed me one of those smiles a girl could believe was just for her; I was smart enough not to. I tried to spread my smile to him and those around him, then turned to Holly.

“You look like you’re busy. I’ll come by at a better time.”

“No, no, stay,” she replied. “Karen, would you show Lauren around the office, introduce her to people, and tell her what’s going on?”

A girl pushed back from her desk, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and obliged. I felt self-conscious, like I was playing my father touring a factory. Nick looked across the room at me and winked.

The walls of the yearbook room were covered with schedules, posters, photos of school events, and cartoons — Nick’s, I figured. My father was the star of several of his pieces. In the cartoon that hung above Nick’s table, my dad’s tooth-filled smile bloomed over a podium as he announced, “I promise to lead Maryland in the Industrial Evolution.” Smokestacks rose in the background; threelegged frogs and two-headed geese applauded.

Nick caught me studying it, and I quickly glanced away.

When I looked back, he turned away, both of us pretending that I hadn’t noticed the drawing.

Holly saw us and her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh, Lauren, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, moving on hurriedly to sports photos.

“I didn’t even think about it,” she explained. “After a while, you forget what’s hanging up.”

Everyone in the room started checking the walls to see what was hanging up.

“No problem,” I assured her.

Holly bit her lip and looked at Nick. So did everyone else, figuring out that it was something of his. Luckily, a guy with funky red hair and a lot of freckles came in right then and saved me from further embarrassment.

“Well, boys and girls, I’m back from the Queen,” he announced loudly, then threw himself down in a chair as if he’d just swum the distance from England. “Got it all scoped out,” he told Holly.

She turned to him, and Karen filled me in: “Our prom is tonight at the Queen Victoria Hotel. Steve’s a photographer.”

“So give me a list of your shots,” Holly said to Steve.

“They’re in my head.”

“Put them on paper,” she told him. “How’s the entrance looking?”

“Very rosy,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “It clashes with my hair, but then, I’m not part of the scene.”

“You mean it’s red?” Holly exclaimed. “I told them to make the archway white or pastel.”