Yesternight (6 page)

I
examined two more seven-year-olds that afternoon: a sullen boy with the mental age of four and the little brunette whom I'd mistaken for Janie the day before. Not surprisingly, no one matched the mathematical acrobatics of Janie O'Daire.

“Most of the children I tested today seem to be operating within average IQ ranges,” I said to Miss Simpkin when we conferred at her desk after the children went home. “The pupil I'm most concerned about is Dale Gage. His IQ is fifty, which is more typical of a child of four, not seven.”

Miss Simpkin tutted over poor Dale, and we discussed the need for him to be placed on the list of students who would benefit from a class or school designed for subnormal children in the region. Unlike the previous afternoon, Miss Simpkin did not pull a cigarette out of her desk drawer, but she chewed on the end of a pencil as though hungering for a smoke. I discussed the color-blind boy and the girl with a lisp, both of whom demonstrated average mental abilities for their ages and grades, despite their particular impediments. Flames sputtered in the stove next to the desk, and a fresh
afternoon rainstorm jackhammered the roof and tossed about the pine branches outside the window.

“And what about Janie?” asked Miss Simpkin. She bit down on the pencil with a discernible
crunch
.

“Ah, yes, Janie.” I ran my index finger across the line on my records containing Janie's responses, quite certain that Miss Simpkin saw straight through my attempt to pretend I didn't immediately remember her niece's results. “I have to ask”—I glanced up at her—“who is Mr. Rook?”

She drew the pencil out of her mouth. “Mr. Rook?”

“Yes. Janie, as you probably know, demonstrated an astounding knack for mathematics. When I asked where she learned such impressive skills, she said a Mr. Rook had been the teacher who helped her discover her talent for numbers.”

Miss Simpkin shuddered. “That, Miss Lind, is a prime example of Janie's disquieting behavior.
I
am the only person who has ever been Janie's schoolteacher.”

“How interesting . . .” I crossed my legs. “Janie described the man as having a cleft chin and a distinctive pocket watch. Is there anyone she knows who meets those descriptions?”

“No one I can think of. There is no Mr. Rook in Gordon Bay. Even the name alone gives me the willies. I'm imagining a dark cloak made of feathers and beady little bird eyes.”

“Who
did
teach Janie advanced mathematics, then? How can a child of seven multiply fractions in her head without writing a single number down on paper?”

Miss Simpkin slid the pencil between her teeth again. “She's simply been good at numbers for as long as I can remember.”

“She calculated
fractions
, Miss Simpkin. You must know how miraculous a feat that is for a child as young as she.”

“I do, and none of us understands it. Her intelligence isn't the part that concerns me, however—unless Michael parades her around in front of men of science or newspaper journalists because of it.”

I arched my brows. “
Has
he gone to the newspapers?”

“He once lured reporters to Gordon Bay, not long before he and my sister separated. He claimed he wanted to use the papers to find other parents with children like Janie, but my sister sent the newsmen packing. She doesn't want any fuss or exposure—that's why we must be so careful about the way we approach all of this.” Miss Simpkin fumbled to open a lower drawer in her desk.

I tucked the record booklet into my briefcase. “I would like to speak to the girl's mother.”

“Rebecca won't speak to you.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. She's hoping Janie's eccentricities simply settle down and disappear.” Miss Simpkin gritted her teeth and continued tugging on the drawer, which sounded to be jammed. “We just want this to all go away, but I'm so frightened that it won't.”

“No, it won't, I'm afraid. If her father . . .” I peeked over my shoulder to ensure that Mr. O'Daire hadn't entered the schoolroom behind me. “If Mr. O'Daire is feeding the child these Violet Sunday stories, as you suggested yesterday, then there certainly can't be a resolution until someone speaks to him about his motives. On the other hand, if there's been a trauma—a near-drowning in Janie's past, for example—then her fears, I'm sorry to say, will continue to beleaguer her until someone helps her to cope with the tragedy.”

The drawer burst open, and Miss Simpkin jerked backward with a small cry. She then lunged toward the desk and fished out the box of cigarettes.

“Besides,” I said, clearing my throat, “I should like to speak to Mrs. O'Daire about long-term plans for Janie's supernormal intelligence. We'll need to ensure that the child is being challenged. We may even need to arrange for her to attend a special school for advanced children in the near future.”

Miss Simpkin slid a pure white cigarette between her lips. “Rebecca would never send Janie away.”

“Well, we might be able to establish a school for above-average children in the coastal region, just as we would for the children who struggle to keep up with their peers.”

With a flick of her lighter, Miss Simpkin set the end of the cigarette aglow. “I think . . .” She paused to take a puff with the cigarette wedged between her teeth, forcing her to speak out of the left side of her mouth. “The first thing you need to do, Miss Lind, is to remove yourself from Michael O'Daire's hotel.”

I blinked. “I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“I'm not suggesting that anything untoward would happen between the two of you . . .” She gave me the once-over, prompting me to cross my arms over my chest. “But Rebecca isn't going to like hearing from Janie that she's being evaluated by a woman who's sleeping under Michael's roof. If you want my sister to trust you, if you want to have
any
hope of speaking to her”—she took another smoke, her eyes fixed upon me—“then please, immediately, stop letting her ex-husband pamper you.”

T
hat afternoon, I entered the hotel lobby with every intention of checking out and avoiding trouble. Unfortunately, no one else occupied the premises at the moment, or so it seemed. Halfhearted flames lapped at the fireplace logs, but the wood needed stirring, and the room lacked heat.

“Mr. O'Daire?” I called out.

No one responded. Rain tapped against the windowpanes, and a log slipped in the grate.

I ventured past the front desk and down the main hallway. To my immediate left, an open doorway led to a small closet outfitted with bookshelves and a few dozen cloth-bound novels, primarily sea-themed adventures—
Moby-Dick, Treasure Island, Two Years before the Mast,
etc. Ten Sherlock Holmes books, including my favorite,
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, added a dash of mystery to the collection. To the right of the shelves hid another door, within the closet, oddly enough, and it also stood ajar.

“Mr. O'Daire?” I asked again, in the direction of this mysterious second doorway. “Are you in?”

“Down here,” he called from somewhere deep in the bowels of the hotel's underbelly. “I'm just putting tonight's ham in the oven.”

“Ah, yes.” I smiled. “The ham.” I stepped into the closet and found a flight of stairs leading down to the shadows of the basement.

“Come down, if you'd like,” he called, still out of sight, still muffled.

I grabbed hold of a splintered rail and clambered down the wooden steps, each board whining and wheezing from the pressure of my feet. The farther I descended, the mustier and boozier the air smelled, as though I were lowering myself through the neck of a whiskey bottle.

Down in the basement, six round tables, surrounded by a hodgepodge of chairs, filled a dim room lit by smoky copper lamps that hung from thick beams crisscrossing a low ceiling.

Mr. O'Daire stuck his head through a square opening that separated the main room from an area that must have been a kitchen, for I heard a pot bubbling and caught a glimpse of a wooden icebox behind him.

“I see you survived your adventure of wading blindly through the fog this morning,” he said.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why wouldn't you allow me to drive you? I'm surprised you didn't get hit by a car.”

I turned my gaze to the glass-shaped rings marking up the wooden tabletops. “I didn't want to trouble you for a ride. And the walk did wonders for my legs after traveling for so many hours yesterday.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

I glanced back at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because someone telling the truth would never describe a walk through freezing fog as a ‘wonder.'” He smiled and pulled his head out of the opening.

I laid my briefcase on the nearest table and debated the best way to tell him I was checking out of the hotel, without causing offense.

“May I get you a drink?” he called, again out of sight.

“Mr. O'Daire . . .” I cleared my throat. “I can no longer be a guest in your hotel. I'll be spending the rest of my stay in Gordon Bay at the boardinghouse.”

He meandered around the corner, a glass in hand, his brow furrowed. “Why?”

“May I be honest?”

“Please do.”

“Miss Simpkin dislikes me staying here. I'll be collaborating quite closely with her over the course of the next week, and the last thing I want to do is to make her uncomfortable.”

He set the cup down on the table beside him. “Did she offer you a bed at her place?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes. “That's typical of her.”

“I'm sorry.” I removed my gloves. “That's simply how it is.”

He stepped closer, tucking his hands inside his pockets. “Did you talk to Janie today?”

“Yes, I examined her this morning.”

“Did you ask her about her earliest memories?”

I laid the gloves on top of my briefcase and smoothed down the wool until the fingers lay flat. “I know about Violet Sunday.”

“She told you about her?”

“Miss Simpkin prepared me for the situation, actually, and Janie . . .” I met his eyes. “Janie demonstrated her mathematical prowess to me. She also told me some stories that seem to correlate to the Violet Sunday tale.”

“It's not a tale.”

“
Who
is Violet Sunday, then?”

“She's Janie.” He looked straight at me without blinking. “She's who Janie was before she was born into this life.”

Keeping my own face stoic, I gauged the sincerity of his expression—the steadiness of his eyes, the stillness of his lips, the even pattern of his breathing, which neither accelerated nor slowed.

“Do you believe in past lives, Mr. O'Daire?” I asked.

“I didn't used to.”

“But you do now?”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

I fussed with my gloves on the table again. “What is it about Janie's story that has you so firmly convinced that this isn't a case of childish fantasy?”

“Janie's mother and I have kept a record of all of the details she's given about her previous life. Would you care to see it?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

“May I serve you a drink before I run up to my room to fetch it?”

I inhaled the sharp sting of alcohol in the air. “I'm an employee of the Department of Education. I'd lose my job if I purchased a glass of liquor.”

“I never said I sell liquor.”

“But, I clearly smell—”

“I wouldn't dream of offering you booze, Miss Lind. How about
a soft drink?” He smirked, and his eyes laughed, as though he knew full well what I smelled—as though he believed me to be too persnickety for bootlegged whiskey.

I shifted my weight and debated whether a glass of soda pop would meet Miss Simpkin's definition of being “pampered” by her former brother-in-law. I surveyed my surroundings—the unfinished planks of the dark walls, the weak haze of light exhaled as yellow steam from the bulbs of the copper lamps, the bare tabletops ringed in those octopus-tentacle-like suction marks from all the glasses and bottles of evenings past. Enjoying a carbonated beverage in a dank basement could hardly be described as “pampered,” one would think.

“All right,” I said. “A soft drink would be lovely. Thank you.”

He backed toward the kitchen, his hands still wedged inside his pockets. “Root beer? Orange Quench? LimeTone?”

“Orange Quench, please.”

“On the rocks?”

“Why not?”

“Coming right up.” He disappeared into the kitchen, but I could see him moving about through the opening in the wall. He wore a cornflower-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his back faced me, so I viewed the sturdy breadth of his shoulders and the bobbing movements of his elbows as he fetched a bottle from the icebox. His blond hair tapered to a sharp point above the nape of his neck. A slick black belt encircled his trim waist.

I heard the pop of a bottle cap and a contented sigh from the bottle as he poured a stream of liquid. He then strode back out to me with a glass bubbling with a neon-orange beverage that smelled of penny candy.

“Enjoy.” He set the drink next to my bag and gloves. “I'll be right back with the journal.”

“Thank you.” I sat down and watched him jog up the rickety old staircase, his black shoes thumping out of sight.

Up above my head, the ceiling soon creaked with the sounds of him hustling about somewhere on the ground floor, and I tried to envision what he was doing up there, pondering if he was just then opening a blank notebook and scribbling down this so-called “record” of Janie's previous life. And yet, I strove to remain open-minded. My job at the moment was to stay neutral and to collect any and all facts pertaining to the child in need.

Roughly two minutes later, Mr. O'Daire returned down the steps with a confident gallop, a book tucked beneath his right arm.

“In June 1921”—he walked up to my table—“Rebecca, my former wife, first started using this notebook to keep track of Janie's stories of the past. Janie was about to turn three at that point, but she'd already been speaking of her life as Violet for at least six months.”

On the table before me, he laid a brown leather notebook about the size of a paperback novel, but half as thick. The book reminded me of a travel journal that I carried with me whenever Bea and I took one of our excursions down to California, including the recent trip to that Winchester tourist attraction with the séance room and the tales of vengeful spirits.

“When Rebecca began jotting down her notes,” said Mr. O'Daire, “I had been back from the army for over two years. I left for Camp Lewis a little over a month after Janie was born, but since my return in March 1919, I've witnessed everything Janie did with my own eyes. I can corroborate all of the incidents Rebecca chronicled, except for the ones that occurred when I was here at work.”

I pulled the notebook closer. “Where is your mother right now?”

“At her house, in town. She only helps now and then during the non-summer season. Her back isn't as good as it used to be. Why?”

“I want to ensure that we're speaking in confidence right now. I want you to be able to talk as openly and honestly as possible about the contents of this journal. About Janie.”

“Of course.” He lowered himself down in a chair across from me. “I want to get to the crux of what's happening with my daughter, Miss Lind. I've been going out of my mind with worry about her. How do you help a girl who insists she's homesick for a place she's never even visited? How do you calm a small child who screams out in terror about the horrors of drowning, when she's barely ever dunked her head underwater?”

“She's suffering, then?”

“Oh, God, yes.” He gestured toward the notebook with his head. “Read our notes. You'll see what I mean.”

My eyes shifted back down to the scuffed brown leather of the journal's cover. The lower-right-hand corner had worn away to the palest shade of tan, almost white, as though the book spent a great deal of time sliding in and out of bookshelves and getting gripped by a firm thumb. I took a breath and opened to the first page.

An entry written in an elegant cursive hand awaited.

    
June 7, 1921

       
I fear what may come of describing on paper the curious goings-on with our daughter, Janie O'Daire, but it's the only thing I can think to do to sort out her peculiarities. I am planning to use this journal as a map; a means of navi
gating my way around Janie's stories and nightmares—around her very head—so that we might see if there are any inconsistencies, or any possible truths, to her stories.

       
Here is what happened just this morning. Janie was playing with her Victorian dollhouse that my parents gave to her last Christmas. I brought a basket of clean laundry into her bedroom to put away, and she turned around and peered at me with the strangest mournful expression.

       
“I want to go home,” she said.

       
“You are home,” I told her, but she burst into tears and said, “No, my other home. Not the one with the man in it, but my real home. The pretty one with red flowers on the wallpaper.”

       
When I told her she has never lived in such a place, she threw one of the chairs from her dollhouse across the room.

       
“The Kansas home!” she cried out. “My real home. Why must I live here instead of there?”

       
Janie is not yet even three years old. Her birthday is in a couple of weeks. She has never lived in Kansas. She has never traveled any farther east than the foot of the Coast Range right here in Gordon Bay, Oregon. The little toy chair made a dent in the wall, she was so vexed when she threw it. Why does she insist on saying she used to live somewhere else? She has been fabricating these tales for as long as she could first string words together to make sentences.

       
Why?

I turned to the next page. Across from me, Mr. O'Daire folded his hands on the tabletop and breathed without a sound.

    
June 8, 1921

       
Another bad nightmare. Janie woke up, screaming, “Drowning! Drowning! Drowning! Too cold! Too cold!”

       
When I asked her about the dream in the morning, she said she could not remember what she had been dreaming about, but an hour or so after breakfast she wandered into the kitchen behind me and said, quite eloquently, “Do you think someday we ought to go to Friendly, Kansas?”

       
“Where?” I asked her.

       
“Friendly,” she repeated. “I want to go back to Friendly. That's where my pretty house is. I don't mean the one with the man in it.”

       
“And where is the house with the man in it?” I asked with a smile. “In Mean, Kansas?”

       
Her face darkened, and she balled her hands into fists. “It isn't a joke!” she cried out, and she stormed out of the room. I then heard her sobbing upstairs.

       
Fifteen minutes later, she skipped back into the kitchen and asked about lunch, seemingly forgetting all about “Friendly, Kansas” and the house “with the man in it.”

I chewed on the fingernail of my left pinkie, debating whether the child might be suffering from a multiple personality, as her sudden switches from one persona to the other suggested. Or perhaps paramnesia, a condition in which a person remembered events that never actually occurred, more commonly seen in elderly, senile patients, not children.