The Ledger Page 9

  “No, thank you anyway, Mrs. Fenley. I’m going to be very busy.”

  “Of course, of course. Marie will get your coat for you. It was so lovely to meet you. And good luck in ... in your work.”

  Whatever that is, Christie added silently. The maid appeared in the hallway without a word and carefully held Christie’s coat for her. Dobbie’s screeching voice rose from the living room, apparently anguished by some delay on the part of the workmen. It was an anguish, however, that could be easily corrected. Christie adjusted the toggles of her coat, reached for the doorknob and pulled open the door to the small, private hallway.

  She heard a long, low hissing sound somewhere over her head. She looked up and Kelly, hunched on the steps of the duplex apartment, her face pressed between spindles, stared down at her. She pushed the blankets off her arm and poked her hand out into the air. Her fingers formed a V-sign.

  “Hey cop,” she said in a low and mournful voice. “Peace even unto the cops.”

  The girl’s face was young and sad and pained. Christie held her right hand up high, returned the salute. “Peace unto all of us, Kelly.”

  6

  MARTY GINSBURG REACHED FOR the switch which controlled the heater. “Christie, I better turn this up. You look like you’re frozen solid.” He gestured with his thumb toward the back of his station wagon. “We got some quilts somewhere in the back. Why don’t you climb over and find yourself one?”

  Christie shuddered against the cold for a moment, then nodded. “Right. And please, Marty, watch the road. I’ll find the quilt myself.”

  Marty was a confident driver. He was accustomed to driving a wagonload of boys of all ages, sizes, shapes and temperaments who had one thing in common: the level of noise issuing from healthy young throats. The father of five young sons, Marty was unnerved by silence and Christie Opara had been particularly quiet for the last ten miles. About the only noise from her was the chattering of her teeth.

  “Hey, Christie, while you’re there, dig around a little, huh. One of the kids usually leaves something to eat back there: pretzels, gumdrops, whatever.”

  Christie was at the very back of the station wagon. Marty’s entire face confronted her. “Marty, at sixty miles an hour on the Thruway, will you please face the way we’re going?”

  Her body was stiff with cold as she climbed over the seats and wrapped the crocheted quilt around her legs and thighs. Her fingers were rigid inside her fur-lined leather gloves, but she struggled to unwrap a hard candy for Marty. If she handed it to him, he’d probably release the steering wheel and use both hands to get at the candy.

  “Don’t you want one? You know Christie, you ought to eat some candy. The sugar will warm you up. You know why you’re so cold?”

  “I think maybe the fact that it’s about twelve degrees has something to do with it.”

  “Naw. Listen, kid, are your hands and feet cold? I mean, like all the time?”

  “All of me is frozen. Marty, I can hear you. You don’t have to turn to me.”

  Marty nodded. He focused on a Volkswagen and was determined to overtake it. He wanted a look at who could be taking off on a ski trip on a Wednesday morning. As he spoke, he increased his speed.

  “Now this is a very little-known medical fact which my cousin Sidney, the doctor, told me. See, my wife always has cold hands and feet. And a cold nose. It can get very creepy, especially on a hot summer night, you know? Well, I told Sidney about it and Sidney knows things that sometimes I think he makes it up but this time he was right. You know what he told me?”

  “No. What did your cousin Sidney tell you?”

  “You ready for this? Well, see you smoke too much. My wife smokes too much and that was the first thing Sidney asked. Did Estelle smoke too much? And right away, Sidney told me that every time a person smokes a cigarette, all the Vitamin C in that person’s body gets used up. I mean, I don’t know the technicalities of how it gets used up, but it does. So, Sidney gave Estelle these vitamin capsules, Vitamin C and riboflavins, and she took like eighteen times the amount a human being needs every day. But, now get this. Also, Sidney said Estelle had to eat an orange every single day.”

  “What’s so unusual about eating an orange every single day?”

  “Ah, that’s the catch, see.” Marty’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator. “A whole, entire orange. Not just the orangey part, but the whole entire thing. Skin and all.”

  Christie glanced at the speedometer. It was edging toward seventy. “Skin and all?”

  “Yeah. Like Estelle had to learn how to just keep eating. ‘Eat the garbage part too,’ Sidney told her. It took a little getting used to, but Estelle’s a pretty game kid. She even got to like the skin. Kind of. She started a little at a time and worked her way up to the whole thing.”

  “Did it work? Did it help her cold hands and feet? And nose?”

  “That’s the crazy part.” Marty turned to her, his face puzzled. “The darnedest thing. After about two weeks, Estelle’s hands and feet and nose were just like anybody else’s. But she had to give the whole thing up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everything that was cold warmed up, but her face started to turn yellow.”

  Christie pulled the quilt around her against a sudden chill. She started to reach for a cigarette but changed her mind. “Marty, are you putting me on?”

  “No, really. Honest to God.” Marty pulled out of the lane and paced the Volkswagen. “Look at those skis.” He leaned across Christie and tried to see the driver of the small car. “I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “The guy has a beard.” He accelerated, passed the small car and pulled back into the right lane. “You know, I think maybe my whole life would be different if I could grow a beard. Like, instead of driving upstate on an assignment, I could load up the wagon with the kids and skis and sleds and stuff and spend a couple of days in Vermont skiing. Right in the middle of the week. Those guys know how to live.”

  “What guys?” There were times when it was difficult to follow Marty’s rambling conversation.

  Marty gestured behind him. “Those guys. With the beards. I tried to grow a beard one summer. It turned out seedy. Like, it just never grew more than two days’ worth. In two weeks, it looked like I just needed a shave. And what is even worse is that if I shave early in the morning, by nighttime, I look just the same as if I haven’t shaved in a week.” Marty slid his hand over his cheek. “Oh, well, what the hell. Christie, unwrap me one of those butterscotch candies, okay?”

  Beyond the banks of traffic-stained gray ice mounds on either side of the Thruway, the snow rose high and white shadowed by skeletal black trees and dark thick pines. The sky was painfully blue, totally cloudless, and the sun hit the wet road in sharp glints. Christie pushed her green sunglasses to the top of her head and narrowed her eyes. The houses were clustered together in tight little areas, almost as though for protection against the vast uninhabited pine forests. No black smoke spoiled the air. Now and again, puffs of white, steamy and rapidly dissipated, floated from brick chimneys, and Christie visualized fireplaces and yellow warmth. Now and again, a single, isolated house, set high on the face of a mountain, held her attention, and though she nodded and commented briefly as Marty rambled on, she wondered what kind of people lived in such far-off houses.

  The Good Shepherd Protectorate was three miles off the Thruway. Marty slowed the station wagon and carefully took the right turn under the archway which marked the boundary of the orphanage. The narrow road, which had been cleared, ran between vast fields of untouched white snow. The main building was gray and Gothic and ugly. A group of children stopped working on a variety of snow sculptures and watched them curiously. Some of the children waved, others turned back to their work with concentrated effort. Their voices were sharp and clear in the cold, windless air.

  Marty pulled the heavy door open and his voice was unnaturally low. “Hey, Christie, you do the talking, okay?”

  Christie was surprised that Marty
was somewhat subdued by the high-ceilinged entrance and the silence that encompassed them. Or possibly by the huge crucifix placed high against the whitewashed wall and dominating the area. She nodded, then rang the small bell inside the door frame. The sound of the bell was soft and melodious in the vastness of the room.

  A young nun, red-cheeked and smiling, appeared from behind a door to their left. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m on the telephone.”

  Marty grabbed Christie’s arm. “Hey, how come she’s dressed like that? I thought, you know, nuns wear long black robes and things.”

  “I guess her order has adopted modern dress,” Christie told him.

  The young nun came out of the office and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Sister Veronica Matthew. You must be the detectives from New York.” She was taller than Christie and her handshake was firm. Her dress was light gray, knee length; a band of crisp white, almost like a headband but attached to a short gray veil, was placed on her thick auburn curls. “Mother Superior will be with you in about two minutes. I buzzed her that you were here. Why don’t you sit down over here”—she led them to a long dark wooden bench. “It’s out of the draft.”

  A buzzer sounded and the nun grinned. “She has radar. Right down the hall, please.”

  There was something almost boisterous about Sister Veronica Matthew. Her radiant good health was apparent from her clear eyes, her full red cheeks, her long, easy strides. It seemed she spoke softly with great effort, and when she tapped on the door of the Mother Superior’s office, her first knock was loud and hard. She grimaced at Christie, pulled her mouth down comically, shrugged her shoulders and tapped twice more, lightly. She pulled the door open but didn’t come into the room with them.

  “Reverend Mother, this is Detective Opara and Detective Ginsburg.”

  The woman sitting behind the massive mahogany desk was dressed in traditional black garb. She rose and the layers of black material moved as though blown by billows of wind. “Thank you, Sister. Please don’t”—the door slammed behind the departing nun—”slam the door,” she added softly.

  The Mother Superior was apparently a very busy woman. Her desk was piled with an assortment of file folders, correspondence, notebooks and textbooks. She indicated the chairs before her desk.

  “She takes my breath away—all that youth and vitality. Now then, Detective Opara, which one are you?”

  Christie smiled. “I am, Reverend Mother.”

  “Then that means you’re Detective Ginsburg.” Marty nodded.

  All that showed of the woman were two small thin restless white hands and an oval face. The face was long and narrow, marked by dark brows over light eyes which narrowed in concentration as she studied them briefly, each in turn. Her voice was crisp and precise and she spoke very rapidly.

  “Now, then. Let me see if I have this straight. You want to know what I can tell you about Elena Vargas? Well, what do you want to know?”

  Marty’s eyes slid irresistibly over the woman’s head, drawn by a crucifix identical to the one in the hallway. It was placed midway between the floor and the high ceiling and the Christ figure had a particularly realistic face.

  “Detective Ginsburg,” she said crisply, “does that crucifix puzzle you? If it’s going to distract you, let’s get it cleared up right now.”

  Marty blinked, glanced toward Christie, but he did not receive any signals from her. He was in foreign territory and wasn’t sure of his ground.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Holy Mother,” he said uncertainly, “I was wondering if all these crucifixes are strictly necessary.”

  The warm laugh was entirely unexpected. “You’ve elevated me to a station beyond my most immodest aspirations, Detective Ginsburg. Call me Reverend Mother, or Sister, if you’re more comfortable with that. As for the prevalence of crucifixes, well, it is a question some of us have been examining recently.” She paused for a moment, then her voice filled with the warmth her laughter had suggested. “As a matter of fact, last spring I took a course in Comparative Religious Symbolism at Union Theological Seminary given by Rabbi Alvin Winsimer and we discovered a great many interesting ...”

  “Al Winsimer? You got to be kidding!” Marty’s voice rose to its normal dimension. His aura of uneasiness disappeared completely.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Sister, I mean, Reverend Mother, Al Winsimer and me, well you might almost say we grew up together. As a matter of fact, well, when he was researching for his doctorate, well, he let me read some of his material. You see, like as a hobby, I do some studying of early Hebrew literature. Not religious literature, strictly, but I was interested in seeing how much of Hebrew literature could be classified as ‘folklore’ and how much as part of a more really religious tradition.”

  It was a side of Marty Ginsburg which Christie had never seen before. He carried on his share of the brief discussion with vigor and intelligence and a certain passion. He even realized when it was time to end the conversation and get on with their job.

  “Now, then. Let’s hear from you, Detective Opara. Elena Vargas ... what do you want to know?” As she spoke, the woman reached for a file folder, opened it and rested her hand on a collection of papers. “It’s all here, her records, her background, her school grades. All down in black and white. What will all this tell you about Elena?”

  She was sharp and direct and that made it easier for Christie to discard the usual routine preliminaries. “Reverend Mother, I am trying to find out what kind of girl Elena was. I realize that she was here a long time ago and that you’ve had hundreds of children through the Good Shepherd before and after Elena, but I thought you might possibly remember something about her.”

  The white hands closed the folder and rested flatly on its surface. “Hundreds and hundreds, but only one Elena. I’ll tell you a little secret. We all say that we are impartial, that one child is as valuable and as precious to us as any other child. And of course, that is true. But we are human, and if it is a fault to have a special feeling for one particular child, then so be it.” One hand turned, palm up, an acceptance of guilt. “Elena Vargas came to us when she was two years old, the youngest of seven children. She spoke no English and very little Spanish because apparently no one had found it necessary to bother teaching her. She was undersized, undernourished, underdeveloped for her age.” The Mother Superior’s hand moved through the air. “As most of them are. But Elena. There was a light burning in that child—a glow. A need, out of the ordinary. She was reading by the time she was four years old. Self-taught, mind you. The books were available to her, and while we did not particularly encourage her, neither did we discourage her at that tender age. Sometimes things like that—some special ability—evens out, the child catches up with herself chronologically when formal schooling begins. But Elena was years ahead, as though she could not hold back the excitement of a world unfolding before her. We kept her close to her own age group in school but gave her extra work, to keep her mind alert, to let her continue her self-exploration. She was a beautiful child, modest, not aware of her own intellectual capacity. She was more concerned by all the things there were to know than by what she was learning.”

  “A little girl like that,” Marty ventured, “couldn’t she have been placed up for adoption?”

  The Mother Superior held up her fingers. “Two things were against her.” She bent her index finger. “One, her mother was alive when the children were placed with us. She died about four or five years later. For whatever reason, maybe hope that some day she could provide a home for them, she wouldn’t discuss relinquishing any of her children for adoption. As for the second reason”—the middle finger bent—”the second reason was all-encompassing, Detective Ginsburg. Elena Vargas was a beautiful, brilliant child of Puerto Rican birth and the color of her skin was the color of God’s own pure earth. There are not many adoptive parents on the lookout for a bright, delicately featured child with dark skin.” She moved her hand to indicate Christie. “Now, Det
ective Opara, at age two or four, with hair about two shades lighter than it is now, and green ... or are they gray ... eyes. Well, we would have had lists to choose from.”

  The dark face, the bright slanted eyes appeared before Christie. She blinked rapidly, dismissed the image. “Reverend Mother, from what I’ve gathered, Elena was placed with the Fenley family when she finished high school.”

  “From what I gather, you know what happened to Elena at the Fenleys’, more or less.” The thin white face leaned forward, light eyes intent on Christie. “You have a very expressive face. Is that good for a detective? It would be disastrous for a nun.”

  Christie felt her face grow warm. “It’s not too good for a detective, either,” she admitted softly. “I was at the Fenleys’ yesterday.”

  “And you wonder why in the world Elena was placed there.” There was no apology offered, just a straightforward explanation of fact. “Elena was sixteen years old and finished with all high school requirements. She had never been in the outside world. She had lived in this”—she indicated not just the vast room, but the entire, enclosed world of the protectorate—”this highly unrealistic little universe for all of her growing years. She wanted to continue her education, of course, and of course I wanted her to. She had so much to offer. But there are realities to face. In order for Elena to attend college, she needed a complete scholarship. Not just for her tuition, but for her living expenses. She was offered several partial scholarships but they were just not enough.” The Mother Superior’s face went hard, just for one moment of memory. “I went to the Bishop. I brought Elena’s records.” She touched the folder lightly. “But there were too many other children. Too many other absolute necessities. Someone from the Bishop’s office was in touch with me within a few days of my visit. They had come up with the Fenleys and evening business college.” The tone of her voice never changed. It was brisk, businesslike, matter-of-fact. “And from your expression, Detective Opara, you know what Elena’s life was like at the Fenleys’. She stayed for nearly a year. And then she came back to me.” Christie hadn’t known that. “What happened when she came back here? I thought she went directly to her sister’s.”