In Search Of Her Own

“You want another doughnut, Miss Carlin?” asked Maude.

“No, thank you,” said Victoria. “But I will have more tea. It’s delicious.”

“It’s just tea bags I get at the grocery. They got all kinds of fancy stuff these days.”

Sam sat back and rubbed his large hand over the fine network of bluish veins in his forehead. The pouches under his eyes puffed slightly as he worked his mouth into a curious grin. “You an authoress, Miss Clarkin? The wife says you came here to write a book or something.”

“Not exactly a book,” said Victoria. “I’m a university instructor in American literature I’m working on my doctoral thesis.”

“That sounds pretty highfalutin to me,” he replied. “What you writing about?”

Victoria hesitated. Should she tell him or get by with an evasive answer? “I’m doing a comparison study,” she said.

“Whatcha comparing?”

“The lives and works of Flannery O’Connor and Sylvia Plath “

“Never heard of them,” he scoffed.

“They were American writers who died in the early sixties,” she explained patiently

“So why bother about them?”

She felt as if she were back in her lecture hall at the university. “They both wrote intensely and perceptively about the dark side of human emotion.”

“The dark side?” Maude echoed suspiciously. “Sounds like devil talk to me.”

Victoria shrugged. “I suppose you could put it that way Both women explored the dark, disturbed or evil side of human nature. I want to demonstrate how their God-consciousness, or, in one case, lack of it, influenced their lives and work.”

“God-consciousness?” Sam grunted, as if she had said something stupid.

“Yes,” replied Victoria, wishing she hadn’t pursued this very personal subject of her thesis with the Hewletts. Her thoughts and ideas were still in an embryonic stage, fragile, vulnerable. She didn’t want to damage them by exposing them to the Hewletts’ scorn or contempt. Still, she had begun this conversation; she might as well finish it. “O’Connor embraced God heartily,” she explained, “and her faith shows in her work just as it showed in her life. In spite of a long, debilitating illness, O’Connor managed to achieve a fulfilled, abundant life.”

“So?” snapped Maude. “What was she? Some saint? We all got our crosses to bear, you know “

Victoria cleared her throat imtably and pressed on. “Plath, on the other hand, desperately longed to believe in God, but ultimately she rejected Him In spite of career success, marriage to a famous poet and two healthy children, Plath succumbed to despair and committed suicide when she was thirty.”

“That don’t mean nothing,” said Sam. “Lots of people do that. What’s your point?”

“My point is,” persisted Victona, quelling her exasperation, “a person’s God-consciousness affects and, in fact, determines his or her earthly and eternal destiny.” She considered adding a word about Christ and redemption, but witnessing about her faith was still a new and terrifying prospect for Victoria. She had already said more than she intended. She didn’t want to come across as a pious prude or a bookish, intellectual boor

“It’s all a lot of hogwash, if you ask me “ Maude snorted. “The way I see it, the devil’s the one you gotta watch out for. I learned that at my mama’s knee “

Victoria managed a smile. She carefully pushed back her chair and said, “I’m really tired. I think I’d better get to bed.”

Maude stood, too. “Suit yourself, Miss Carlin I’ll show you the way “ She led Victoria down the hall to her room and opened the door. “Everything’s ready. There’s extra bedding in the closet. Sam plugged in an extension phone for you. Of course, you pay for any long-distance calls you make.” She looked around as if trying to recall something else, then added, “The bathroom next door is yours. You get fresh towels and sheets twice a week.”

Victoria gazed appreciatively around the neat, homespun room. How inviting the bed looked with its fluffy eiderdown quilt! “Thank you, Mrs. Hewlett. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.”

Maude nodded. “You should be. It’s a good, comfortable room. Belonged to my daughter when she lived at home.” She stepped back out of the doorway. “I’ll leave you be now. Breakfast is at seven sharp.”

As soon as Victoria shut the door, she sank down on the bed with delicious relief and let her aching muscles relax. If she wasn’t careful, she would fall asleep in her clothes. I promised to call Phillip when I arrived, she remembered suddenly. He’ll worry if he doesn’t hear from me tonight.

She sat up and reached for the phone on the night table. Phillip answered on the first ring. The sound of his voice sent a tickle of excitement through her She missed him already. “Were you sitting on the phone?” she inquired lightly.

“Just about,” he admitted. “Frankly, I was beginning to think I should have driven you, after all.”

“I was beginning to wish that, too.”

“The trip that bad?”

“That long.”

“I’m sorry. I really would like to have been with you.”

“Me, too. You have a way of making time pass more quickly.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but I’ll take it as one.” His voice lowered a notch as he asked, “Have you found out anything yet?”

“No, nothing. It’s too soon. I had a rather interesting chat with the Hewletts tonight, but I’m afraid I did most of the talking.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably not. But they asked me about my thesis. Once I get going on that, I—”

“Victoria,” Phillip interrupted.

“What is it?”

“That sound in the phone. Do you hear it? Sort of a hollow, airy echo.”

“I hear you fine, Phillip.”

There was a sudden click and the echo was gone.

“Someone was listening in, Victoria,” said Phillip.

“You mean someone here.the Hewletts?” asked Victoria incredulously.

“You bet. We’ve got to watch what we say. If you have something to tell me, go to a pay phone somewhere.”

“Are you saying the Hewletts suspect something?”

“Who knows? But we can’t take a chance. Everything you do and say must be above suspicion. That’s the only way I’ll let you stay there.”

“This was my decision, Phillip,” she reminded him gently. “And I alone will decide when I leave.”

“All right, Victoria,” he replied coolly. “But let me remind you, this isn’t a game you’re playing The stakes are very real. Your life could be in danger.”

Phillip’s warning played jarringly in Victoria’s mind later as she slipped into bed and pulled the covers up around her neck. Even though her body was exhausted, she wasn’t sure her mind would let her sleep She argued silently with herself. Surely Phillip doesn’t really believe my life is in danger. But how trustworthy are the Hewletts? They’re an odd sort, but certainly they wouldn’t harm me. Nor can I believe they would do anything to hurt their own grandchild. But then, where is Joshua? One thing for sure, he’s nowhere in this house, or Maude never would have rented me this room. But why does she claim he’s dead? Is he? she wondered. The idea was unbearable. After all these years, when Victoria had finally dared to reach out to her son—he couldn’t be dead!

She thought about the photograph in the living room of Joshua with his adoptive mother. She traced his features in her mind-his soft red hair, his little impish smile, the darling freckles on his upturned nose. She imagined herself holding him in her arms the way the woman in the picture held him. Then a wrenching thought gripped her. Who was comforting Joshua now that his adoptive mother was dead? Who was wiping his tears?

Dear God, please—where on earth is my son?

Victoria found that more than her anxieties over Joshua kept her awake. Being in a strange, new place made sleeping difficult, too. She heard peculiar noises—water running through the pipes, the constant scntch-scratch of a tree limb on her window and the chill wind creaking through the weathered timber of the old house.

At last she fell into an uneasy slumber punctuated by garish dreams and heart-pounding nightmares. Shortly after midnight she woke with a start and looked around wildly. The room was dark except for the green glowing hands of the alarm clock. She had heard a sound, something more than the steady ticking of the clock. Lying still, her body tensed, she listened, waiting, scarcely breathing.

There was nothing but the rhythmic scratching of the branch on the windowpane.

Just as she was about to sink back into her dreams, Victoria heard the sound that had yanked her bolt upright out of sleep. An agonized, ear-splitting scream.

Victoria jumped out of bed and flung on her robe. She crept silently across the dark room. Trembling, she opened her bedroom door and peered out into the hall. Nothing but silence, darkness.

What do I do now? she wondered.

As she stood in the doorway, she heard the scuffling of slippers from the far end of the house. The hall light went on and Victoria blinked against the brightness as her eyes gradually focused on Maude Hewlett.

The robed woman scowled at Victoria and snapped, “What’s the matter?”

“I—I heard something,” said Victoria. “It sounded like a scream.”

“Naw,” grunted Maude. “It was them cats in the backyard. When they get going they sound like a bunch of banshees. Don’t worry. I shooed them away.”

“I see,” said Victoria, hesitating.

“Go on back to sleep,” Maude ordered.

Victoria slipped back into her room and shut the door. Even as she lay back down, she couldn’t quell the alarm she felt. It wasn’t a cat she had heard. The sound hadn’t come from the backyard. The terrible, flesh-crawling scream had broken from somewhere in the very soul of the Hewlett house.

Chapter Seven

At breakfast Victoria waited to see whether the Hewletts would mention the scream she had heard last night Neither Maude nor Sam said a word. Victoria decided not to bring up the subject, either. “Is the library near here?” she inquired as she finished her coffee.

“Coupla miles.” Sam snorted “On Pine Avenue, north of here.”

“More scrambled eggs?” asked Maude, offering Victoria the bowl.

“No thanks,” said Victoria. “But everything was delicious “

“You don’t eat enough to keep a flea alive,” scoffed Maude. “Our Julia was like that. Always on a diet. Always afraid of putting on a few pounds.”

“You mean the girl in the photograph?” asked Victoria, perking up

Maude nodded “Yeah. Our daughter. I told you that before.” She handed the bowl of eggs to Sam. “Here, you finish these No sense them going to waste.”

Victoria waited, hoping Maude would continue talking about her daughter. I need all the information I can get, she reflected, but I don’t dare probe. Asking questions will only arouse suspicion. But if Sam and Maude are the closemouthed types they appear to be, how will I ever find out what happened to my son?

“You gonna go work on that book of yours?” queried Sam

“What?” Victoria asked absently

“The library—you going there to write your book?”

“My thesis? No, I’m still in the research stage. I need to check out books written by the two authors, plus whatever has been published about them by other writers.”

“Sounds like a heap of work,” said Sam, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

“Yes, it is,” Victoria agreed. “But I enjoy it” She stood and carefully replaced her chair. “I probably won’t be back until early this evening “

“Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude reminded her.

“I’ll be here,” said Victoria. She returned to her room for her briefcase and sweater. As she passed back through the living room, she paused The Hewletts were still in the kitchen. Quietly she walked over to the television set and picked up the photograph of Julia and Joshua. With Maude always in the room, Victoria had given the picture only a cursory glance before. Alone now, she stared hard at the photo, hungrily memorizing every feature and angle of her son’s soft, pliant face. He was beautiful, with dreamy, vulnerable eyes and a gentle, trusting expression. Unruly, reddish-blond hair fell over his forehead and curled around his ears just as Victoria’s had done when she was a child. He had the same button nose, round, chipmunk cheeks and finely carved mouth she had at five There was no doubt about it: This was her son.

Sudden tears filled her eyes and a painful lump formed in her throat. All of the unspoken yearnings of seven long years threatened to surface. Victoria blinked quickly and replaced the photograph, but not before her eye caught a glimpse of Maude in the kitchen doorway. The woman’s expression was cold, cryptic, severe; her lips remained tightly pursed.

“I was just looking at your daughter’s portrait,” Victoria stammered as she moved awkwardly toward the door.

“Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude answered, her tone unmistakably menacing.

Victoria was grateful for the vast anonymity of the public library. Here she could relax and be herself, without being on guard for every deed or word. For her, research was always an invigorating mental exercise. It did for her mind what she imagined jogging accomplished physically for Phillip, who had once mentioned he loved to run.

If Victoria admitted it, delving into the lives of Flannery O’Connor and Sylvia Plath gave her an opportunity to forget herself and her own problems. Their very different, difficult lives reminded Victoria she had no room for complaint about her own lot.

Victoria’s hours of study passed quickly. At five she returned to the Hewlett home with an armload of books. Sam opened the door to her and whistled appraisingly. “You actually going to read all those, Miss Clarkin?”

“Victoria,” she puffed. “Please call me Victoria.”

“Long as you call me Sam.”

“I’d be pleased to, Sam.” She adjusted her load. “I’m going to put these in my room and freshen up a little. Then I’ll help Mrs. Hewlett with dinner.”

“Don’t bother,” said Sam. “She don’t like no one else puttering in her kitchen. Just be at the table at six—”

“Sharp,” Victoria finished with an amused smile.

Sam flashed a crooked grin. “You learn fast, girl.” He followed her to her room and opened the door for her.

“Thanks.” She sighed and closed the door behind her. She dropped her bundle of books on the dresser, then sank down wearily on her bed. Aloud she murmured, “Even if I never find my son, this little adventure is forcing me to dig into my thesis and get it done. Whatever happens, the summer won’t be wasted.”

She returned to the dresser, removed her pendant necklace and gently laid it in the velvet jewelry box her mother had given her. She looked again curiously. Her jewelry was in disarray. Was I in that much of a hurry this morning? she wondered. Usually I keep everything so neat.

An uneasy feeling crept over her. She opened her dresser drawers, one after another, surveying each one. Nothing seemed to be missing, but somehow she sensed that things weren’t exactly as she had left them.

Someone’s been in this room, she thought with a shudder. There’s no lock on the door, no way of keeping the Hewletts out. But what were they looking for? And what did they find?

She thought suddenly of her journal. If they read that, they would know everything! She ran to her bed and reached under the mattress where she had tucked the journal after writing in it this morning. Thank heavens, it was still there—and she had remembered to lock it. She reached for her purse and checked her key chain. The key was still there. But from now on she would have to keep her journal with her. She tucked it into her roomy handbag.

By the time Victoria had showered and changed into a comfortable slacks outfit, she had nearly convinced herself that she was mistaken about someone searching her room. My nerves are on edge and my imagination is playing havoc with me, she decided as she took her place at the dinner table.

“You get a lot of work done?” Maude questioned as she set a platter of ham and fried potatoes on the table.

“Yes, I did,” said Victoria. “Did you and Mr. Hewlett have a nice day?”

“Same as usual,” said Maude, sitting down. “Sam fixed a broken shutter out back. I worked on my soap crafts and watched my game shows on TV.”

“Are you retired, Mr. Hew—I mean, Sam?” Victoria asked politely.

“You bet. I worked nearly forty years for Brownlin Utensils on the east side of town. Retired three years ago Since then I done some part-time work—carpentry, manual labor—till my back gave out this spring.”

“He worked in that awful factory, same job all those years,” Maude said bitterly. “He shoulda been a supervisor, a foreman, but no, he set back and let the young fellas snatch up all the promotions.”

Sam cleared his throat irritably. “I was happy doing my job, Maude. I didn’t wanna be no boss of nobody, making decisions about this or that. I liked things fine the way they was.”

“No backbone, that was your trouble,” she snapped. “You got the backbone of a jellyfish.” Maude looked narrowly at Victoria. “You find yourself a man who can stand up for what he wants, not some spineless fella who lets everybody walk all over him.”

“Miss Clarkin ain’t interested in your opinion, Maude,” snapped Sam. “Specially of me.”

There was an uneasy silence until Victoria, grasping for a safe topic of conversation, said, “You mentioned doing soap crafts, Mrs. Hewlett. Just what are they?”

Maude brightened immediately. “Oh, you probably already seen them around the house—in your bathroom and on my knickknack shelves. They’re bars of soap inside crocheted turtles and fish. I’ve made them for years. Sold a lot, too. The novelty shop downtown carries them for me. So does the little boutique up north, near our summer cabin. For years I’ve taken them a supply every time we go up there on vacation, haven’t I, Sam?”

“Sure have. No one makes them things quite like Maude. They’re pretty enough for rich folks’ fancy houses.”

“I’d like to see them,” said Victoria. “Did you do all the paintings in your living room, too?”

Maude’s complexion blanched. She looked away.

“No, our daughter, Julia, did them,” replied Sam quickly. “She was the artist in the family She could make anything look beautiful.”

“She woulda been a famous artist if she’d lived,” muttered Maude. “If that blasted drunk driver hadn’t killed her. It was murder, plain and simple.” She shook her head mournfully. “My beautiful little girl, gone just like that, no warning, nothing.”

“It must have been terrible for you,” murmured Victoria.

“I’ll never get over it, never!” said Maude under her breath. “She had so much promise. She shoulda been the one to live.”

“Didn’t you say her husband was killed in the accident, too?” ventured Victoria.

“The whole family, wiped out in one fatal blow. Killed instantly. They never knew what hit them.”

No, that isn’t true! Victoria wanted to scream out. My son’s alive! The hospital records showed that he survived. But she forced her voice to remain calm as she inquired, “Your grandson died, too?”

“They all died, that’s what I said,” replied Maude, her eyes narrowing. “Sam and I lost everything that mattered to us. It’s been over six months, but it seems like yesterday.”

“It’ll always seem like yesterday,” agreed Sam quietly.

“I blame it on the devil,” declared Maude. “The devil and his devil water!”

“The fella that hit our Julia was soused on whiskey. Don’t even remember what he did.” Sam’s voice cracked. “He walked away from the accident without so much as a scratch.”

“It seems it always happens that way,” observed Victoria, holding her emotions in check. She couldn’t let the Hewletts see how shaken she was by talk of the accident. She poked idly at her potatoes. Somewhere during the course of their conversation, she had lost her appetite.

After dinner, in spite of Maude’s protests, Victoria helped clear the table. As she returned the salt and pepper shakers to the pantry, Victoria spotted a basket of toys on the bottom shelf. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized they were undoubtedly Joshua’s toys. She stooped down and examined them lovingly—miniature race cars, plastic building blocks, action figures and a worn brown teddy bear with a single button eye. Impulsively she picked up one of the little cars and tucked it into her pocket. I just want to hold it and look at it for a while, she told herself. It’s something Joshua played with. I’ll put it back later.

“What’re you doing?” growled Maude. She was suddenly hovering over Victoria, her beefy hands on her enormous hips.

Victoria stood guiltily, her hand covering her pocket. “I just noticed the toys. I suppose they belonged to your grandson.”

Maude promptly shut the pantry door. “They were Joshua’s, all right. I never had the heart to get rid of them.”

Victoria nodded. “I’d feel that way, too,” she said softly. “It must make him seem nearer, having something special that belonged to him”

Maude looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

“I felt that way when my mother died this past year,” said Victoria. “I felt better just having a few of her favorite possessions nearby—books, jewelry, photo albums “

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