David Ambrose: Superstition

“I'm sorry,” he said, as reassuringly as he could, “that was misleading of me. As your wife is plainly not the Joanna Cross I thought she was, none of that applies any longer. I know that sounds obscure, but I can't tell you more for the moment. I don't really know any more.”

“Well, this is all very mysterious,” Ralph said, though he didn't seem especially perturbed, “but I can see we'll have to take your word that you'll explain everything when you can. You don't have a card by any chance, do you? Somewhere we can get in touch with you if we need to?”

“Yes, I should have one somewhere…” Sam fished out his wallet and found one of the cards Peggy had gotten printed for him a couple of years ago and that he rarely found use for. He wrote his home number on the back. Ralph took it with thanks and placed it on the mantel.

“You must be sure to let me know what you think of my book, Dr. Towne,” Joanna said. “I'd love to have an academic opinion.”

“I promise I'll call you.”

“And let me know if there's anything you can think of about Adam that I've left out. It's not too late to add a few footnotes.”

“Yes, of course,” Sam mumbled. Then he looked at them, first one, then the other, and said, “I assume you're not superstitious, either of you.”

“Superstitious? How do you mean?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, history repeating itself. I mean, Adam being your husband's ancestor…”

“Oh…” She laughed as though he'd made a joke, and reached out to ruffle Ralph's hair playfully. “No, I'm not superstitious in that way. Neither of us is.”

They saw Sam to the door and watched as he walked off into the night.

“Strange man,” Ralph said when they were back inside.

“I thought he was kind of nice.”

“All right-nice and strange. But I hope we find out what that was all about someday.”

“Maybe Adam's started haunting somebody-clanking around in chains and uttering low moans. I wouldn't put it past him-he's done just about everything else.”

The phone rang. Ralph went back to the room where they'd been sitting to answer it.

“Hello? Oh, Bob…” He gestured to Joanna that it was her father. “How are you? You want Joanna, she's right here…?”

He broke off, his face clouding. Joanna, realizing something was wrong, came quickly to his side.

“What is it?”

He gestured her to be patient while he listened.

“You're kidding. When was this?”

He listened some more, then he said, “That's the weirdest thing. We just had someone here looking for her. It must be the same woman.”

Joanna's patience, never remarkable, was reaching its limit. She was holding out her hand for the phone, expecting him to pass it over any moment, but instead Ralph said, “No, sure, I understand. I'll tell her. Okay, bye, Bob.”

He hung up and turned to her. “That is quite extraordinary.”

“What? What?”

“Your parents have had some strange woman at the house banging on their door and claiming to be you. It must be the same woman Sam Towne was looking for.”

“Is she there now?”

“No, she got away. Apparently your mother was alone and freaked out and called the police. Who can blame her? Your father got back in time to see the woman, but then she gave them the slip.”

“What was she like? What did he say?”

“Not much-only that she was about your age, dark hair. He said Elizabeth's still pretty shaken, but she'll call you tomorrow. He just wanted to warn us in case the woman shows up here. She must be some kind of weirdo-a stalker or something.”

“Jeez!” Joanna gave an involuntary shudder. “That's a little creepy.”

Ralph reached out to brush back the hair where it fell across her forehead. “Don't worry, the cops seemed to think she was harmless. They said there was a name for it, some kind of syndrome-people who develop an obsession about being someone else. Maybe it'll turn out to be somebody you went to school with, or college. I've heard of that kind of thing happening.”

“All the same, I don't like it.”

He took her in his arms and held her face against his. “Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you. I'll make sure of that.”

She took the subway from Grand Central and emerged on Sixty-eighth Street. Minutes later she was on the street that she had walked along the day before with Sam. The house they had seen then had been neglected, closed up and uninhabited. Tonight its windows blazed with light, and its door, painted in a green so dark that it was almost black, bore the number 139 in plain brass characters.

Filled though she was with an apprehension bordering on terror, she stepped up and rang the bell. She heard a lock turn, and the door opened. There was no recognition in Ralph Cazaubon's face when he saw her.

“Ralph?” She spoke his name uncertainly, her voice caught somewhere in her throat.

A look came into his eyes. Not recognition, but understanding of some kind.

“Do you know me?” he asked her.

“Yes. Don't you know me?”

He shook his head slightly, then checked himself. “Yes, I think I know who you are.”

There must have been some change in her face, some expression of relief or gratitude for the tiny crumb of comfort he had offered her, because she saw it reflected in his. There was a sympathy in the way he looked at her, a kindness that had become in so short a span of time quite alien to her.

“Do you? Do you really know me?”

There was a pleading in her eyes and voice that touched him. He could not believe that this poor disturbed creature meant ill toward anyone.

“I think you'd better come in,” he said.

As she stepped into the light, he saw that her hair was dank and tangled from the rain that had been falling earlier. There was a red mark on her cheek where she'd been scratched by something. Her clothes were creased and dirty, and her shoes caked with mud that had splashed up her legs.

She looked around, then turned to fix her gaze on him as he closed the door behind her. The words began to tumble out of her.

“Nobody knows who I am anymore. Only you. And this morning I was so afraid of you I ran away. I went to my parents’ house and they locked me out, they didn't know me…and then I heard someone say their daughter's name was Cazaubon, Joanna Cazaubon…”

“Come through, in here…”

He took her arm and steered her gently through into the drawing room where he had sat with Sam two hours earlier.

“Sit down. Don't be afraid, don't worry about anything. I'll do all I can to help you.”

“But do you know what's happening? Do you understand?”

“I think I do.”

She became agitated suddenly. “I have to talk to somebody. His name's Sam Towne. I must find Sam, we must call him…”

“Sam Towne was here earlier.”

She seemed both surprised and reassured to hear this.

“He was here…?”

“Two hours ago. He was looking for you.”

“We must call him now…Please, I must see him…Sam will know what to do…we must get him here…”

“Yes, of course, I'll call him.”

Just then, distantly, he heard his wife call “Ralph…?” She was coming down the stairs.

The woman with him reacted instantly. “Who's that…?” she asked abruptly, as though the voice she had heard belonged to someone with no right to be there, an intruder whose presence was both an affront and a threat to her.

He didn't answer her question. All he said was, “Wait here a moment, please.”

“But I have to see her…”

“You will. But just sit down a moment, please.”

She sat obediently on the edge of the sofa that Sam had occupied earlier. Ralph started out of the room. At the door he glanced over his shoulder; she was still there, tense and ready to get up and follow him if he gave the word.