Janice flinched. She remembered well the checkered gingham curtains which she had made from a magazine pattern just before Ivy’s birth. And the terry-cloth bedspread that Aunt Wilma had sent them, discarded years ago. And that awful drawer, second from the top, that still defied the strongest, most patient attempts to pry open.
Janice spoke for the first time. “How old was your daughter when she … died?”
“Audrey Rose was just five, Mrs. Templeton. She and her mother were driving to Harrisburg on the turnpike. They were in a storm. The road was slick. The car skidded and smashed into another car and went down a steep embankment.” Hoover’s eyes reflected the painful memory of the tragedy. “They died before help could get to them.”
Janice bit her lip in hesitation, before asking the next question: “When … did it happen?”
Hoover didn’t answer at once. For a long moment, his eyes probed across the table, first into Janice’s face, then Bill’s, measuring his audience, pacing himself with care, before softly replying, “August 4, 1964, a little after eight twenty in the morning, a few minutes before you gave birth to Ivy at New York Hospital.”
Janice remained sitting, immobile, locked in the grip of Hoover’s penetrating gaze. Bill coughed and rose to his feet.
“Well, Hoover, this is certainly a lot of information you’ve given us. Give us a couple of days to think about it.”
Elliot Hoover stood up, flustered, as he saw Bill clutch Janice’s arm and begin to assist her to her feet.
“Y-you do understand what I’ve told you, Mr. Templeton?” Hoover stammered, placing himself in their path in a futile attempt to delay their departure.
“Sure,” Bill replied genially. “Your daughter died and was reincarnated in our daughter. In effect, you are saying that our daughter, Ivy, is really your daughter, Audrey Rose.”
“Well … yes,” Hoover said, attempting to gauge Bill’s sincerity. “I think we should talk more and come to some kind of … understanding. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I know that legally there’s nothing I can do about this. And even if there were, I wouldn’t do that to you. I know what it is to lose someone you love.”
“Yeah, sure.” Bill steered Janice purposefully past Hoover toward the restaurant archway. “We’ll think about it, see if we can’t come up with some answers.”
“May I call you tomorrow?” Hoover directed his words at their backs as they moved rapidly away from him.
“Call my office,” Bill flung back over his shoulder; then, with a trace of sarcasm: “I think you know the number.”
Carole Federico, sitting at the dining-room table playing solitaire, rose to leave as Bill and Janice entered the apartment. Their parting exchanges were brief and friendly: Did they have an interesting evening? Ivy went to bed soon after they’d left; there were no phone calls, how about dinner with the Federicos Saturday a week?
After Carole left, Janice looked in on Ivy, while Bill prepared himself for bed. They hadn’t spoken of their meeting with Hoover, nor would they, Janice knew, until later, in the darkness of their bedroom.
Gazing down at the lovely blond innocence of her sleeping child, Janice felt suddenly chilled throughout by the terrible prescience. Incredibly, they had met the enemy, had estimated his forces, had learned of his objective—Ivy.
A soft, fretful moan from Ivy, a flinching, her sleep disturbed by some dream. A wave of dread swept through Janice as she recalled the year of the nightmares. Pray God they never return.… Janice felt her child’s head. Cool. Normal. A good sign.
The warmth of her own bed felt good as she slipped between the paisley-print sheets and geared her troubled mind to the silences of the night.
Soon Bill would join her, and they would talk.
Having removed his robe, Bill turned off the bed lamp and crawled into bed beside her. His hand groped for hers beneath the sheets. Janice waited to see which of them would speak first. But as the seconds ticked by and Bill’s breathing rhythm began to extend itself into even patterns, Janice realized that if she didn’t speak, he would soon be asleep.
“Bill, talk to me!”
“For God’s sake, Janice, relax.” Bill sighed deeply. “We’re in good shape. The man’s a nut. There are places for nuts. They’re called nut houses.”
“He knew you’d say he was crazy. He predicted it and was even willing to accept it.”
“Sure, because that’s how their twisted minds work. They tell you what you’re going to think in advance to put you off guard. They hook you that way, don’t you understand?”
“No, Bill, I don’t understand. I’m scared to death.”
“That’s reasonable. Nuts are scary people.”
“That’s not why I’m scared. I’m afraid he isn’t a … nut.”
“You believe his story? You buy his Karmas and auras?”
“He believes it.” Janice put all the force and feeling she could manage behind the quietly uttered phrase. “He believes what he said, sincerely. I could tell by the way he looked.…”
“How did he look? Pale face, weird, empty eyes—is that the look of a normal, healthy man?”
“But why would he do it? Why would he come to us with such a story?”
“The answer to that is locked up in his crazy brain, Janice, and I’m no mind reader.”
“I can see that you’ve decided not to answer any of my questions in a rational manner.”
“Tell me one question you’ve asked that I can answer rationally.”
“All right. What if he isn’t crazy? What then?”
Bill smothered a yawn. “If he isn’t crazy? Well, then”—Bill considered his choices—“it’s possible he’s doing it for money. He’s an extortionist. He’s come up with this elaborate scheme to get our money.”
“What money?”
“That’s not the point. The extortionist theory makes good sense to me.”
“You mean, he spent seven years traveling around the world just to come back here and take our money, which doesn’t exist?”
“How do you know he traveled anywhere? Because he told you so? I say he never went anywhere. He’s always lived in New York. He’s got a racket. He pulls names out of the phone book. He finds his marks and zeros in on them. Disprove it.”
“What about Who’s Who?”
“A borrowed identity. Can the real Elliot Suggins Hoover stand up and identify himself? No. Because he’s dead.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“No, Janice. The only thing I know for a fact is that he isn’t from the FBI, the CIA, or the IRS, and that takes a hell of a load off my mind. Anything else I can handle.”
Janice heard his final words dribble off into a deep yawn. He was edging off into unconsciousness.
“Bill?”
“Hmmm?”
“How are you going to handle this, Bill?”
“Depends,” Bill mumbled, half asleep. “I’ll talk to Harold Yates tomorrow. Whatever this guy is, psychotic or extortionist, Harry’ll know what to do.” Another yawn, followed by a barely audible “Night …”
“Good night,” Janice said, and thought to herself: But what if he’s neither?
For a long time, sleep eluded her.
The storm had passed over the city, leaving a clear, cold night in its wake. Tomorrow would be a beautiful autumn day.
7
And so it was.
Crisp, cold, bracing, a pollution-defeating gift from the northern reaches of Canada.
Bill and Ivy lucked in on a cruising cab at the corner of Sixty-seventh Street. As they drove down the broad, slushy avenue toward the Ethical Culture School, a fine spray of mud freckled the cab’s windows, drawing a somber gray curtain across the vivid day. Ivy loved cabbing it to school, even though the ride took less than a minute. It lent a note of elegance to the start of her day.