Don't Look Behind You Part 3

with fingernail scissors and Mother gathered it up and put it in the waste basket. Then we piled into Rita's car, a compact too small for five people, and sped back along the freeway toward the Richmond airport. The wind stroked the back of my neck with alien fingers, and despite the heat of the day, I found myself s.h.i.+vering.

During the drive Rita issued a string of admonishments about what we were to do once we arrived in Grove City. When we reached the airport, she pulled into a loading zone and kept the engine running while she distributed our plane tickets and handed Dad the folder of official doc.u.ments. Then she wished us luck and drove away quickly, leaving me with the feeling that she was grateful to be done with us.

Once inside the airport, we paired off and proceeded on to the gate as we had been instructed. Mother and I entered the metal detector through one doorway, and Dad and Bram through another, and we sat at opposite ends of the waiting area, counting the minutes until flight time and trying to behave as though we didn't know each other. When the boarding call came, Dad and Bram went first, jumping up from their chairs and hurrying to the front of the line. Bram was having one of his hyper spells, hanging on to Dad's hand and bouncing along excitedly like a rubber ball on the end of an elastic band.

Mother and I hung back and fell into line with some late-arriving pa.s.sengers. When we reached the door to the ramp we displayed our boarding pa.s.ses and waited while the attendant examinee them. He seemed to be taking a great deal longer than necessary, and I felt a sudden chill of apprehension. What would we do, I asked myself, if there was a problem with our tickets and we were asked to show identification? Although we were carrying doc.u.ments made out in two different names, neither of them correlated with the names on our plane tickets.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried, for there wasn't 64.

a problem. The attendant tore off the tops of our tickets and handed back the stubs."Enjoy your flight," he said with a friendly smile and waved us down the ramp and onto the plane.By the time we entered the cabin, Dad and Bram were nowhere in sight, having taken seats at the back of the aircraft. Mother's and my seat a.s.signments were toward the front, and we stashed our luggage in the overhead compartment and settled ourselves into the middle and window seats in the seventh row. Several more last-minute pa.s.sengers hurried on board, flushed and breathless as though they had just run a marathon, and then the doors were closed and the flight attendants cruised the aisles, checking to see that everyone was wearing a seat belt.A few minutes later Richmond lay far below us, a mosaic of rooftops, punctuated by brilliant blue swimming pools. The plane continued to climb until the city's highways had been reduced to a network of overlapping lines with black dots creeping along them like sluggish ants. Then, in an instant's time, the earth vanished completely, buried beneath a layer of marshmallow clouds, and we and our fellow pa.s.sengers were alone together in an infinite expanse of open sky.Mother reached over and gave my hand a squeeze."We've made it, honey," she whispered. "We're safe at last.""You really do believe that?" I returned the squeeze, momentarily forgetting that I was mad at her."Of course," she said rea.s.suringly. "And just think, we're going to Florida! What a wonderful place to take an extended maxi-vay!"She was making such an effort to act lighthearted that I tried my best to respond with the same sort of cheerfulness. "I wonder if it's like the TV commercials, beaches and palm trees and everybody gulping orange juice.""That sounds good," said Mother. "I wouldn't mind a 65.

gla.s.s right now. Here comes the girl with the drink cart, maybe she'll serve some."

When the stewardess reached us, Mother ordered her orange juice spiked with vodka, which was something I had never known her to do before. I asked for a c.o.ke, and the freckle-faced girl who sat next to me in the aisle seat ordered a Sprite.

"I like c.o.ke better," she confided, wrinkling her nose. "I'm scared, though, of what might happen if we hit rough air. My mother bought me this dress just to make the trip in, and c.o.ke's so hard to wash out if it spills on your clothes."

"I'm not wearing anything elegant enough to worry about," I said, having had no time to change out of my jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt.

"I see what you mean," said the girl, observing me critically. "My mother says people ought to dress up when they travel. That sure is a far-out haircut. Do you call it a s.h.a.g?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm Abby Keller. I'm going to visit my dad and his wife for the summer." Then she asked the inevitable question, "What's your name?"

I froze for a moment, unable to come up with an answer. Although I could no longer call myself April Corrigan, I was not yet Valerie Weber, the ident.i.ty I would a.s.sume once we landed in Florida.

"April Gross," I said finally, settling on a compromise. "Gross" was the surname printed on Mother's and my tickets.

"Oh, gross!" the girl exclaimed rudely and burst out laughing. "Do people tease you? I know my friends would tease me. Do they say, 'Oh, here comes that gross girl?''

"A name's just a name," I said shortly. "People get used to it." Except when it's a name like Valerie, I added silently.

"Where are you going?" asked Abby. "To Sarasota?"

I nodded, feeling progressively more and more uncomfortable.

66.

"I wish that's where I was going to be staying," said Abby. "It would be nice to live on the coast where the beaches are. My dad and his wife live in Dullsville. That's not really its name, of course, but that's what I call it. Can you believe the only movies they get there are so old you can already rent them as videos?"I glanced across at Mother and saw she had finished her drink and fallen asleep with her head propped against the window. Beyond the double pane of gla.s.s the clouds were the color of smoke, and the sky was beginning to dissolve into gentle darkness. Mother's face was illuminated by the overhead reading light, which accentuated the rounded curve of her cheek. With nothing to do but read and eat and watch television, she, too, had put on weight during our confinement. That, and the angle at which the shadows fell, blunted her features and gave her for the moment the look of a stranger. This was not the author Elizabeth Corrigan; the woman dozing beside me was Ellen Paul Weber.In the seat on my right, Abby continued to chatter."I bet Dad and Margaret don't even own a VCR. They probably don't even sell them in that hick town. If my folks had to get a divorce, you'd think the least my dad could have done would have been to move someplace exotic like Miami or West Palm Beach. But no, he moved to Dullsville to be with Margaret. Then after she got him to marry her, she didn't want to leave, because her daughter's got one more year of high school. Besides, Margaret's sister and her family live in Dullsville, and Margaret can't get along without all her relatives. Are your folks divorced? Is that why your dad's not with you?"I mumbled some sort of noncommittal reply. Then, to my relief, the stewardess who had come by with the drink cart reappeared with a cartload of dinners on plastic trays. They didn't look appetizing enough to wake Mother up for, but I accepted one for myself and was pleased when Abby did, too, as I hoped that meant she'd stop talking and concen- 67.

trate on eating. I underestimated my seatmate, however, for while I gnawed my way through a gummy chicken-noodle ca.s.serole, Abby continued to rattle along, undaunted by the food in her mouth, filling me in on every unpalatable detail of her parents' divorce and remarriages.

Finally, in self-defense, I gave up on dinner, put my seat into a reclining position, and closed my eyes. Incredibly, Abby finally took the hint and fell silent. I focused on the hypnotic roar of the engines, and the next thing I was aware of was a voice on the loudspeaker asking pa.s.sengers to fold up their tray tables and check their seat belts in readiness for our descent into the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport.

When I opened my eyes I saw that Mother was also awake and had hauled herself up into a sitting position. As soon as the plane had taxied to a stop at the gate, we collected our bags from the storage compartments over our seats and joined the line of pa.s.sengers leaving the aircraft. We emerged into warm, damp air filled with unfamiliar fragrances, descended a set of portable stairs to the ground, and crossed a short stretch of runway to the terminal, which was brightly lit and churning with activity. The door through which we entered opened into the baggage area, where a revolving belt was preparing to spew out luggage. Abby, who had popped out of her seat the moment the plane touched the ground, was there ahead of us with her mouth already in motion. With her stood a middle-aged couple whom I could only a.s.sume were her father and the detested Margaret.

Since we had not checked any luggage, Mother and I continued on across the lobby to a set of double doors at its far end. A few minutes later we were joined by Dad and Bram, who had left the plane through a door in the tail section. Bram seemed calmer, but his eyes were overly bright, and he did not show the slightest sign of drowsiness.

"You're not wearing your sungla.s.ses!" Mother said accusingly.

68.

"It's dark!" Bram protested. "You don't wear shades at night!""You'll have to until you get your contacts," said Mother."It's my fault," said Dad. "I s.p.a.ced it out. There's been so much else on my mind I forgot to make him put them on. A car is supposed to have been left for us in the long-term parking lot. Rita gave me the license number, so let's see if we can find it."We found the dented green Plymouth without much difficulty and made the drive to Grove City in just over an hour. Rather than the metropolis its name suggested, the "city" turned out to be a town with one main street that bisected a three-block business district. This downtown area was composed of small shops, a movie theater, a bank, a mom-and-pop grocery, and a J. C. Penney's. All the buildings were dark, and along each block, widely s.p.a.ced street lights mottled the sidewalks with alternating pockets of light and shadow. The only indication that the town had a nightlife was a cl.u.s.ter of cars a.s.sembled in a parking lot next to a neon-lit building called the Cabbage Palm Bar.According to the information in our folder, the house that had been purchased for us was on Lemon Lane, set back from the road with a mailbox in front that said "Jefferson." A hand-drawn map showed Lemon branching out from Orange, which intersected Main Street at Cypress Circle. We cruised back and forth along Main Street, looking for street signs, and finally somehow found ourselves on Orange Avenue. From that point on we faced even more of a challenge, for although there was a succession of tiny dirt trails leading off into underbrush, it was all but impossible to tell the roads from the driveways.Dad selected one of these at random for the simple reason that it matched the position of a road that was marked on our map. We inched our way along it, straining to make out the numbers on houses that were hidden at the back of heavily wooded lots. It was Bram who spotted the mailbox 69.

with the name Jefferson, and Dad turned the car into a driveway that bridged a drainage ditch and wound its way back through a maze of trees and bushes, ending at last at the edge of a rickety carport that leaned forlornly against a small frame building.

He shut off the engine, and quiet descended upon us.

"Well, here we are," he said, his voice unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. "This is home sweet home, so let's check it out."

We got out of the car and climbed the steps to the porch, boards creaking beneath our weight in outspoken protest. Dad fumbled around in the darkness hunting for a keyhole, and finally got the door open. A wave of heat came rolling out to meet us, thick with dampness and the faint, sickly odor of mildew. It made me think of a locker room at a sauna with soggy towels left souring too long in hampers.

Dad switched on the overhead light, and the living room of our new home sprang into being, narrow and uncarpeted and unfas.h.i.+onably furnished with a sagging sofa, mismatched coffee and end tables, and a couple of overstuffed, underhung nylon armchairs.

"Max is playing a joke," I speculated hopefully.

"It could be worse," said Mother. "At least, I suppose it could."

"I wish Porky was here," said Bram. "I bet he'd like it."

Then Mother started laughing, and the rest of us joined her, not because what my brother had said was funny, but because you either laughed or you had to cry. We stood in that awful room and howled till our sides hurt, imagining Porky's ecstasy at being allowed on the furniture, which was something Mother had never permitted back home. Then we walked through the house, flinging open doors and peering into bedrooms, joking and making rude comments until we were teetering on the edge of hysteria. There were six tiny rooms-the living room, a kitchen, three minute bedrooms, and a bathroom-and each was in some way 70.

worse than the room before it. Ceilings were cracked and stained, plaster was flaking and pipes were leaking, two bedroom windows were broken, and when we turned on the light in the kitchen an army of c.o.c.kroaches frantically scampered for cover."Who wants which bedroom?" asked Dad, and our laughter stopped."We're not really going to stay here, are we?" I asked him."We don't have a choice," said Dad. "The program's provided this. We're not in any position to make further demands of them.""George- ' Mother said and caught herself. "I mean Philip- ' The strange name seemed to reverberate through the room. "Philip," Mother repeated, trying out the sound of it. "It's going to take me a while to learn to call you that.""Ellen, dear," Dad said gently, putting his arms around her. "It doesn't make any difference what we call ourselves. We're still the same people we always were, isn't that right, kids?"Bram and I nodded in automatic agreement. We were the same people we always had been, weren't we? Still, in the instant before I fell asleep that night, I remembered a carefree girl who used to sleep in a room fit for royalty, secure in the knowledge that princesses live happily ever after.I missed that girl, and I desperately wanted her back.

8.

It was a miserable night.

To begin with, it was hot-overwhelmingly hot-the kind of hot that gives that word new meaning. Not that I was used to cool summers. Back home in Norwood we turned on the air conditioner at the beginning of June and kept it running nonstop until into September. There, at least, we'd had an air conditioner. Not only did our house in Grove City not have air-conditioning, it didn't even have fans to move the air around.

Besides that, the house had been closed up and baking in the sun for so long that it seemed to have absorbed the heat like a sponge and to now be radiating it back from walls, floors, and ceilings. My stifling bedroom had only one tiny window, and even when I cranked it all the way open, the heavy growth of trees and bushes along the side of the house cut off any breeze that might have existed.

Although I was so exhausted I dropped off to sleep immediately, I tossed restlessly all night, and my sleep was rampant with dreaming. In one especially vivid dream I was 72.

playing tennis and Bobby Charo was acoss the net, lobbing b.a.l.l.s at me. We were playing with tennisb.a.l.l.s, and when I attempted to hit one it zoomed through my racket, leaving charred strings dangling like strands of blackened spaghetti and the handle searing my hand like acast-iron skillet left too long on a stove burner. So intense was the heat that I started to melt as though I were ice cream, with liquid running down my legs and dripping off myankles to form puddles on the hard clay surface of the cart. At that point I heard a cheer and glanced up to see that the bleachers on either side of us were filled with studets from Springside. Sherry was shrieking and waving and shouting encouragement, and Jodi was screaming instructions I couldn't understand. Steve was there too, cheering right along with them and looking spectacularly handsome in the red and white striped rugby s.h.i.+rt I'd given him for Valentine's Day.The fact that I now had an audience made me play harder, and the heat of exertion was added to that of the tennis b.a.l.l.s. The spectators seemed to grow more and more excited, but still I could not make out what it was they were shouting to me. Then, suddenly, a name rang out distinctly, and to my horror I realized that it wasn't my name. It was Bobby my friends were rooting for, because he was their cla.s.smate! To them I was just a visitor from Florida who was messing up their tennis court by melting all over it.I awakened from that dream feeling sick and shaken, as if my disillusionment had occurred in real life. It took me several minutes to cut loose from the nightmare and to remember where-and, particularly, who I was. When I did I drew a deep breath and opened my eyes to find that the pale light of dawn was seeping through the window and the first day of my life as "Valerie Weber"had started.I lay there watching the room grow steadily lighter until I could make out the watermarks on the ceiling and the starburst of cracks in the wall across from my bed. My hips and shoulders ached from the lumpy mattress, and my 73.

sweat-dampened skin felt uncomfortably clammy in the morning air. I knew that to fall back asleep again would be impossible, so I got out of bed, got dressed, and went out to face the morning.

Moving quietly past the open doors of the other two bedrooms, I went down the narrow hall to the front of the house. I had some sort of crazy idea that the magic of sunlight might have caused a transformation there. Of course, that hope was short-lived, as daylight did nothing to improve the appearance of the living room. At least at night, by the glow of an overhead bulb, we had not been able to see cobwebs nestled in corners of the ceiling or the greasy marks unwashed heads had stamped on the sofa cus.h.i.+ons. Now those were all too apparent, along with the little piles of mouse droppings littering the floorboards and the faded blue of the curtains drooping despondently at the windows.

Home sweet home, I thought wryly, and felt like crying.

Too depressed to continue, I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. In contrast to my experience in the living room, I was pleasantly surprised by the world outside. The air held the scents of blossoming trees and overripe fruit, and the bushes that lined the driveway and had appeared so mysterious and formidable in the dark were, in the light of morning, a lush green backdrop for brilliant orange flowers. A rabbit was hopping across the yard, squirrels skittered up and down tree trunks, and an invisible chorus of birds was singing l.u.s.tily in branches high above my head. Even the heavy underbrush that cut off the view of the road had a pleasant junglelike quality, like something out of a National Geographic travelogue.

Having nothing else to do until the others woke up, I descended the steps and walked down to the end of the driveway. Once there, I could see no reason not to go farther, and after considering a moment, I turned to my left and started back along Lemon Lane in the direction from which we had come the night before.

74.

As I walked I considered the reason for our out-of-the-way location. It was apparent to me now why we'd had such a hard time finding the house. Not only were there no intersections for street signs, but there were no curbs on which house numbers could be displayed. The only indication that there were houses back behind the undergrowth was an occasional mailbox positioned next to a driveway. Obviously we'd been placed where we were deliberately, in an attempt to make it difficult for people to locate us.The moment I reached Orange Avenue, everything changed, as though I had suddenly crossed some significant boundary line. Sidewalks abruptly materialized out of nowhere, and houses sat side by side on residential lots. I immediately felt more comfortable, like a traveler in a foreign country who discovers to her relief that the natives speak her language. Halfway down the first block I came upon a hospital, set in among the houses as though it was one of them, and two blocks farther I saw, on the opposite side of the street, a flat-roofed building with a sign that said GROVECITY SECONDARY SCHOOL.Secondary school? I thought, puzzled. What exactly did that mean? Was a "secondary school" a junior high or high school? I crossed the street and walked slowly along the pavement next to the building, trying to peer in and see what lay behind the windows. The rooms were dark and the gla.s.s was placed at an angle that permitted little view of anything but blackboards. The few clues I did find were oddly contradictory. On a windowsill there stood a row of geography books that looked as though they were geared to cla.s.ses in middle school, but the wall of another cla.s.sroom held a chart of symbols that seemed to be intended for a high school chemistry cla.s.s.Spurred on by my curiosity and beginning to enjoy the challenge, I rounded the corner of the building and continued on back to find out what lay behind it. I discovered a 75.

softball field and a small gymnasium, and back beyond that, a chain link fence enclosing tennis courts.

Long before I caught sight of the courts themselves, my ears picked up the sound of a ball being smacked rhythmically back and forth by a pair of rackets. The court in my dream sprang to mind, and I could almost see the high stacks of bleachers and the rows of familiar faces gazing down at me. The memory lost its impact when I came opposite the fence and was able to get a look at the couple who were playing. They were young and blond and looked like brother and sister, the boy bearing no resemblance to Bobby Charo. While Bobby was dark and wiry, this boy was tow-headed and had a heavy-chested build more appropriate for a quarterback than for a tennis player.

I went in the gate and took a seat on the spectators' bench. The couple continued to play without interruption, but during a break between games the boy glanced over at me and acknowledged my presence with a nod and grin. He was by far the better of the two players, for the girl was slow on her feet and looked exhausted. It was easy to see that the boy was holding himself back in order to keep his opponent from becoming discouraged. He took the first game but let the girl take the second. Then, with a few strong serves, he nailed down the set.

Appearing more relieved than disappointed, the girl started scooping up b.a.l.l.s and putting them in the can.

"Hey, don't tell me you're calling it quits?" the boy called to her.

"Darned right I'm calling it quits! This is a farce!"

"Oh, come on, Kim, be a sport! You've just begun to fight!"

"You heard me-no I'm all fought out, and I mean it."

"What a copout!" The boy turned to at me. "h.e.l.lo, over there. I don't suppose you happen to be a tennis player?"

"I used to be," I answered, returning his smile. "I'm afraid right now I'm pretty out of condition."

76.

"How about hitting a couple of b.a.l.l.s for fun?""I'd like to," I said, "but I don't have my racket with me.""You can borrow Kim's since she doesn't want to play anymore." He turned back to the girl. "You wouldn't mind lending it, would you?"Kim pulled a kerchief out of the pocket of her shorts and wiped her face. She was perspiring heavily, and her hair was plastered to her head in tight, damp ringlets."Be my guest," she told me. "That is, if you're a glutton for punishment. I warn you, though, you'd better be prepared for the slaughter. My cousin Larry is captain of the tennis team. The rest of the guys are out of town or have full-time jobs, so he drags me here every morning so he can practice slamming b.a.l.l.s at me. I'm scared to death I'm going to get decapitated. If you've got a death wish, take my racket and go for it.""I'd like to give it a try," I said, trying to sound casual, although it was all I could do to keep from hugging her. It had been two months since I'd had a chance for exercise and every muscle in my body was screaming for action.When I first walked onto the court, Larry set me up with a few easy b.a.l.l.s to see if I could return them. It took only a couple of minutes of rallying for him to begin to realize that I was not the Sunday player he had expected."Hey, you're not bad for a girl!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Do you feel like playing for points? I promise to go easy."Not bad for a girll How I hated that condescending compliment! Steve would never have dreamed of making such a comment."Sure," I said. "Why not? Can you keep score? I'm afraid I haven't reached that chapter in the rule book."I served the next ball with all my strength and watched it go zinging past him like a bullet. He looked so astonished, I could hardly hold back my laughter.

77.

"Fifteen-love!" I called. "Are you ready for the next one?"

Larry moved back a few steps and squared his shoulders and suddenly started to play with true intensity. He was fast and strong and had a killer of a backhand, and when he pulled out all the stops he played like a maniac. After three close sets (I lost two but won the third) my heart was pounding in triple time and my legs were trembling, but I felt more alive than I had since leaving Norwood.

"You're good!" Kim said admiringly when I collapsed on the bench, as breathless and sweaty as she had been an hour earlier. "I'm Kim Stanfield, and my cousin is Larry Bush-nell. You can't be from around here, or I'm sure we'd know you."

"I'm Val Weber," I told her, impulsively creating a nickname for myself. "We just moved here from Durham, North Carolina." Rita had told us to say we came from a state that was near Virginia so our accents would seem appropriate for our fabricated background.

"Are you going to be going to school here?" Larry asked me. Although he was trying not to show it, he was winded also.

"For the fall semester," I said. "I don't know about after that. Does secondary school mean junior high or high school?"

"It's both," said Kim. "Grove City has only two schools, the elementary school and the secondary school. There aren't enough kids who live here to fill up a middle school, so the seventh and eighth grades are thrown in with the high school."

"You'll like it here," said Larry. "This will probably surprise you, but we have the best high school tennis team in the state. We don't have enough big guys to make up a football team, so everybody who does anything plays tennis."

We sat on the bench for a while, resting and chatting, 78.

until I suddenly realized how high the sun was. The cool of dawn had given way to the heat of morning, and I could already tell that the day was going to be a scorcher."I've got to get going," I said. "I took off while my folks were still asleep, and I didn't leave a note for them.""I have to go too," Kim said without enthusiasm. "A relative's visiting, and I've been handed the job of entertaining her.""Do you want to play tennis again tomorrow?" Larry asked me. "I'm working part time this summer in my father's lumber yard, but early morning is the best time to play anyway. Any later than ten and the heat's too heavy."My heart gave a little jump of surprise and pleasure."That sounds great," I told him. "Let's meet here at seven."Suddenly the world seemed brighter than it had been. I'd still have given anything to be back in Norwood, but at least I'd met some people and lined up a tennis game. Knowing that tennis was a popular sport in Florida made the thought of spending a semester there more tolerable.When I got home another surprise awaited me. A second car was parked beside the Plymouth in the driveway, and when I entered the house I was greeted by the smell of coffee.I found my parents and brother at the table in the kitchen, eating a carryout breakfast imported from McDonald's. With them was a suntanned man in walking shorts who looked as though he'd just walked in off a golf course."So there you are!" exclaimed Dad, when I appeared in the doorway. "Tom, I'd like you to meet our daughter. Apr- " He caught himself. "Valerie, this is Tom Geist from Sarasota. He's our Florida contact with the U.S. Marshals Service."

9.

"The main thing you have to learn is to blend in with the scenery and avoid doing anything to attract attention," Tom told us as we sat like students in kindergarten, munching doughnuts and absorbing rules of survival. "Even your minor activities may be significant, such as three of you going together to apply for driver's licenses. There shouldn't be any problem with Valerie getting hers in Grove City, but the rest of you should take your tests somewhere else."

"You mean people notice things like that!" asked Mother.

"Small towns like this one are hotbeds of gossip," said Tom. "It's a common thing for a teenager to take a driver's test, but for a pair of adults it's more unusual. People might wonder why you've waited so long, especially since it's obvious you own a car.

"The same thing goes for getting Jason fitted for contacts. There's probably not an optometrist in Grove City, but if there is, it's better that you don't use him. We don't want word about Jason's eyes to start circulating. They're too distinctive and make him too easy to identify."

80.

"Tell us about this man Mike Vamp," said Dad. "I don't understand how he found my family in Richmond. Max guaranteed they'd be safe there. The fact that Vamp found them anyway must mean there was a foul-up.""Max said he can follow the scent of blood," I said. Just repeating the words was enough to make me shudder."That was only a figure of speech," said Tom. "The point he was trying to make was that Vamp is a pro. We've made every effort to cover your tracks to Florida. We think we've succeeded, but you can't afford to take chances. Did you leave behind any relatives in Virginia?""My mother," Mother said with a touch of bitterness. "Max offered her the chance to come with us, but she turned it down. I have to admit that hurts, but it doesn't surprise me. I know I was never the daughter Lorelei hoped for.""She hasn't forgiven you your choice of a husband," said Dad. "Your parents wanted you to marry a college graduate, someone who had your social and economic background.""It wasn't just that," said Mother. "I was always a disappointment to Lorelei. Eloping with you just put the seal on the package. She's never been able to accept that I'm not a joiner and haven't become the community leader she is. A person who spends her life putting words on paper is my mother's idea of some sort of weird recluse.""In your current situation, that's a blessing," said Tom. "The last thing you need right now is an active social life. Choose your acquaintances carefully and don't get too close to them. For the present, at least, leave the old tenant's name on the mailbox. Have a phone installed, and I'll give you my unlisted number, but it's better that you not call me except in an emergency. Once a family is functioning under new ident.i.ties, we find it's best to cut the ap.r.o.n strings quickly."

81.

Before he left, he handed Dad an envelope of money. He also gave him the key to his new place of business, a fast-photo processing shop on Main Street called Zip-Pic.

That afternoon our family went shopping at Penney's. My parents tried to make it seem like a game, and Mother kept saying, "It's like being newlyweds again." We worked our way from one department to another, buying everything from silverware to bed sheets. I even talked Dad into buying me a tennis racket, since my old one had been left behind in my gym locker. Then we went to the grocery store and stocked up on food. The woman at the checkout counter asked Mother if we were new in town. Mother said yes, we had moved there from North Carolina, and asked her the best insecticide to use on roaches.

After our parents had left to drive home with our purchases, Jason and I explored the town, strolling along the sidewalks and looking in store windows. The "new" summer clothes in the stores were last year's fas.h.i.+ons, and the picture showing at the movie theater was Song of the South. Jason wanted to see it, so I bought us tickets, even though I'd seen it three times back in grade school. The years hadn't stripped the lovely old film of its magic, and Jason was just as enchanted as I had been at his age. All the way home he kept squealing, "Don't throw me in the briar patch!" and hopping along beside me as though he were a rabbit. The next day we drove to Sarasota, where Jason was fitted with brown contact lenses and my parents took their drivers' tests. That afternoon I took my own test in Grove City and got a license for Valerie Weber.

Those first two days in Florida, though they couldn't have been cla.s.sed as eventful, were nevertheless the activity peak of the month for us. After that life went on a downhill roll that made even our stint at the Mayflower seem exciting by comparison. I got up early each morning to play tennis with Larry, but aside from that there was nothing to do but 82.

vegetate, and in less than a week I was mired in self-pity and loneliness. Larry had to be at work by 9 A.M., and Kim had to entertain an out-of-town visitor, so the only two friends I had weren't available to do things. Mother spent her days scribbling in a notebook, while Dad spent his at Zip-Pic, going over the books and learning to run the equipment. I didn't even have my kid brother for company, for Jason made friends with two little boys down the road, and although he continued to complain about missing Chris, the three of them spent all of their time together.Another depressing part of our life was our finances. Back home I'd never thought of our family as wealthy, since most of my cla.s.smates at Springside had comparable lifestyles, but we'd lived in a comfortable home in an upper-middle-cla.s.s neighborhood, and if there was something I wanted, we could usually aflFord it. Now Dad wasn't even able to give me an allowance. The cash supply Tom had given us hadn't been replenished, and we couldn't withdraw money from our bank in Norwood. My parents kept talking about how challenging it was to "learn to make do," as though it were some sort of game and we ought to be enjoying it. Personally, I found nothing fun about scrimping, and I hated being unable to buy the things we needed. Despite Mother's efforts to spruce up the house, she couldn't get rid of the roaches, and we didn't have a garbage disposal or a dishwasher. Worst of all, we couldn't afford a television, something I considered more a necessity than a luxury.Three interminable weeks dragged by in that manner. Then my parents broke the monotony by having a fight. It started when Mother went down to pick up a typewriter that had turned up in a storage cabinet at Zip-Pic, and Dad told her he was too busy to bring it out to her. That typewriter had become a bone of contention between them. Every morning when Dad left for work, Mother reminded him 83.

to bring it home, and every evening he had some excuse for not having done so. First he said he had to order replacement parts for it. Then the repair shop didn't fix it right. After that he just kept "forgetting" about it, until Mother got fed up and went to get it herself."Too busy!" she exploded at dinner. "How could you say such a thing! Zip-Pic is hardly doing any business! This isn't a tourist town where people take vacation pictures and want them processed right away. You're lucky if you develop three rolls a day. How could you be too busy to look for the typewriter?""All right, so I wasn't too busy," Dad admitted. "The truth is, I was trying to postpone this very conversation. I knew that once you had access to the typewriter, you'd want to start working on your book again.""Well, of course," said Mother. "Why shouldn't I work on my book? I can write as well in Florida as I could in Virginia. I already have the first draft written in longhand, but I can't go any further until I can type it.""It isn't the writing itself that's the problem," Dad told her. "It's fine if you want to write for your own enjoyment. What I can't allow you to do is submit the ma.n.u.script. You can't do that without giving away where we are.""I'll swear my editor to secrecy," Mother a.s.sured him. "I'll explain what's happened and warn him not to tell anybody.""It will leak," Dad said. "You know that as well as I do. There are too many different departments that will need to be in touch with you. They'll be sending you galleys and copy for the jacket, and the publicity people will want to discuss promotion. There'll be no way you can keep our address secret.""I could write the book under a pen name," Mother suggested. "Or better still, I could write it as Ellen Weber, a person who has no connection with Elizabeth Corrigan.

84.

Later on, a new edition can be brought out under my real name.""Stop talking like an idiot," Dad said impatiently in a tone I had never heard him use with Mother. "You've done enough reading to know how 'missing people' are located. They're usually found because they can't resist the temptation to incorporate parts of their old lives into their new lives. The bowler joins a bowling league; the bridge player joins a bridge club; the skier vacations at Crested b.u.t.te or Aspen. Do you really think you're going to bring out a book with your regular publisher, and n.o.body's going to catch on to who it is who wrote it? Suddenly this brand-new author surfaces who writes exactly like the missing Elizabeth Corrigan, and n.o.body even questions it? Come on, get real!""My work makes me real!" snapped Mother. "I've spent my whole adult life establis.h.i.+ng myself as an author. You can't expect me to give up everything I've worked for. By the time all this is behind us and we're back home again, I'll have to start my career all over from scratch!"Dad turned to Jason and me. "If you kids are through eating, why don't you go play cards in one of the bedrooms? Your mother and I have things we need to discuss, and I think it would be better if we did it in private."So Jason and I went into my room and played gin rummy, while our parents continued to battle it out in the kitchen. By the following day they appeared to have reached a truce, but the air between them was chilled with icy hostility. At Mother's insistence Dad did bring home the typewriter. From that point on, she typed, just filling up paper, because, she said, it kept her from going stir-crazy. The pounding of the rusty old keys was deafening, and there was no place in the house to escape from the clatter. The noise level was increased by Jason and his cronies, who discovered trapdoors in the ceilings of all our closets and established a "secret hideout" up in the attic. They b.u.mped and thumped around until I thought the ceiling would fall 85.

through, and by the end of the day my head felt ready to explode.

On the other hand, at night there was too much silence, for the road in front of our house was void of traffic, and we were not close enough to neighboring houses to have any sense of contact with other people. I would ease myself into sleep by thinking about home with the same sort of hungry longing that Dorothy felt for Kansas. I would picture our house as I had last seen it, framed by the window of Max's car, with the yard filled with flowers and my grandmother standing in the driveway. It won't be long, I would tell myself rea.s.suringly. If there's going to be a new hearing, it will have to be soon. People can handle anything if it's temporary. By Christmas, at least, this nightmare is bound to be over.

One evening while we were at dinner the telephone rang with the first call we'd received since our phone had been installed. We all exchanged startled glances, and n.o.body moved.

Finally Dad nodded at Jason and said, "You get it. Your voice is the one least likely to be recognized. If it's somebody asking for 'George Corrigan,' say he has the wrong number. If he's asking for 'Philip Weber,' call me to the phone."

Jason went over and gingerly lifted the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said. He paused. "You want whol Oh, sure." He turned to me. "It's some guy asking for Vair My heart leapt into my throat, and my mind screamed, Steve! Ridiculous as it sounds, I felt sure he had found me, spurred on by the power of love to accomplish the impossible.

I jumped up from the table and grabbed the receiver from Jason.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said eagerly.

"Hi," said Larry. "How's everything going? Feel like living it up and taking in a movie?"

86.

Disappointment descended upon me with a sickening thud."Thanks," I said, "but I really don't think I'll be able to. I promised my parents I'd spend the evening at home tonight." I knew I sounded ungracious, but I couldn't help it. It was one thing to have a platonic male friend to play tennis with, but another thing entirely to go out in the evening with him. I was still Steve's girlfriend even if we had to be apart for a while, and I wasn't about to cheat on him by dating someone else."Come on, Val," coaxed Larry. "Kim needs you more than they do. She's stuck with taking her stepsister to see The Lost Boys tonight. The kid's a brat, and she's driving poor Kim up the walls. I thought you and I could give her some moral support."That threw a different light on the situation. A group of four was not the same as a twosome. Besides, with the current atmosphere at home so unpleasant, the thought of an evening away from the house was enticing."All right," I said. "I guess we can't let Kim down. Do you want to meet at the theater, or do you have wheels?""Kim's stepdad's letting her take the car," Larry told me. "The show starts at eight, so we'll pick you up around seven thirty. Where do you live? Information won't give out people's addresses.""We're on Lemon Lane," I told him. "It's not easy to find. The house is set back in the trees and can't be seen from the road. It'll be on your right, and the mailbox in front says 'Jefferson.''"I know the place," said Larry. "I've been there to parties. Kim used to date Pete Jefferson before the family moved to Tampa. We'll be by for you in about half an hour."I had not realized it was already so late. Hurriedly I excused myself from the table to take a quick shower and change from shorts into jeans. By the time I had combed 87.

my hair and applied some lipstick, Kim's car had pulled into the driveway, and its headlights were staring in through our living-room window like a pair of dragon eyes.