No, I don’t think so, said the look on her face – smart kid – there had to be more to it than that.
„This judge,“ said Riker, „he’s a real old fart. Should’ve retired years ago. He remembers when this town was turned upside down looking for Red Winter, and he’s been waiting fifty-eight years for the end of that story.“
„You told him who Nedda was?“ Unspoken were the words You idiot.
Riker let this slide, still flush with the win of his warrant. He had pulled off the perfect marriage of Mallory’s love for money motives and his own bone-deep distrust of lawyers.
„Yeah, I told him everything – laid it all out, but don’t worry. This judge hates reporters more than cops. Now go back to the other day at the Harvard Club. You told Sheldon Smyth his daughter’s life was on the line, and he still wouldn’t give you a look at those trust documents. That was cold. Lawyers are almost human when it comes to their kids, but not old Sheldon. So today I got him smashed in his own backyard. Turns out he’s a flyweight drinker. I sort of accused his law firm of embezzlement. Now that should’ve pissed him off, right? But no. Drunk as he is, he says to me, ‘No warrant, no documents.’ And that’s when I know he’s got something to hide.“
Mallory’s eyes rolled up, searching the skies outside her window for winged pigs, flights of angels and other miracles. „And the judge thought that was enough for a warrant?“
„No. Can I finish my story now? So I’m in the judge’s chambers when he phones Sheldon Smyth. Figures it’s just a misunderstanding. Maybe we can settle this without a warrant. Well, the lawyer’s still drunk when he takes the judge’s call. His Honor never gets out a word about the trust fund. Something on Smyth’s end of the phone pissed him off. The judge says to him, ‘Suck your what?’ And that was enough for a warrant.“
„I recommend more rest,“ said Charles. „A nap in the middle of the day is the world’s most underrated pleasure.“
„You’re right. I haven’t had much sleep lately.“ Nedda lifted the pan so he could admire the golden brown texture of her omelet. „And tonight I plan to have it out with Cleo and Lionel.“
„Why the rush?“
„It’s time – long past time.“ She turned off the stove burner and carried her masterpiece to the kitchen table. „And I’ll have a better chance with them if we’re not sharing the same roof.“
Ah, back to her plan for apartment hunting – one of the most stressful activities in New York City. Nedda would fail to thrive in any solitary existence, for profound depression would surely follow such a move.
„Well, fortunately, I own this apartment building.“ He pulled down plates from the cupboard and laid them out on the kitchen table. „And I have a vacant apartment. I think you’d like it here. But take my guest room for a few days. If things work out well with Cleo and Lionel, you may not need a place of your own.“
When they were seated, Charles agreed that, yes, steak sauce was an interesting accent for the omelet. And Nedda asked if he had forgiven Bitty for that little shrine in her bedroom. „My favorite is the shot of your birthday party. You must’ve made quite an impression on her that day.“
„Yes and no,“ said Charles. „Bitty would’ve been ten when that picture was taken. She has obvious issues with self-esteem. So she picked the one person she might approach without fear of ridicule, someone so foolish in her eyes that she could be certain I wouldn’t reject her. Then, so as not to risk this certainty, she never even spoke to me that day. If she had, I would’ve remembered her.“
„Do you mind another theory? You were taller than all the other children in that picture. And even then you had the body of a young god. I think my niece latched onto the idea of you as a protector. And then, on the worst night of her life, you showed up. That must have been quite magical for Bitty. I saw you talking to her. It did her a world of good – your kindness. You were her hero that night. And this morning, you were mine.“
Before therapist and patient could complete this colossal blunder of trading places, Charles picked up his napkin and laid it on the table as his white flag.
Bitty Smyth had retired to her room. Hours had passed by since she had spoken to her aunt on the phone. The cockatiel entertained her by walking about in circles and reciting his entire vocabulary.
Rags only knew one word. „What?“
The bird had learned this from her. She rarely slept through the night, always rising at some point, sitting up in bed to say that word with each sound that roused her from sleep.
She knelt down beside the cage on the floor and filled the bird’s water cup. After pouring him some fresh seed, she realized that she was also hungry. Sensing no one at home anymore, Bitty ventured out to forage for food. She made her way down the stairs, creaking in all the places that made her believe the staircase was always only minutes from falling down.
The front door opened. Bitty grabbed the rail and held it white-knuckle tight.
Oh, it was only the housekeeper with her grocery bags. What was her name? There had been so many of them, none of them lasting for more than a week or so. The new hire tapped in the code to disable the security alarm, then proceeded across the wide front room.
Bitty called down her late lunch order. „And could you bring it upstairs?“
The woman scowled at this with good reason. It was a chore and a half just to climb to the second floor, and she had already made this trip too many times in one day.
Of late, Bitty had developed a backbone, and now she insisted that a meal be delivered to her room. She had no plans to be caught downstairs when her mother and uncle came home.
Retreating to her room, she passed the time with the old family albums retrieved from storage in the north attic. The bird clawed his way up the weave of the bedspread to join her in examining the photographs, tasting the pages and tearing off the corners. Bitty absently stroked the comb of yellow feathers, and Rags’s tiny eyes soon closed in sleep.
The photography had ended the year of the massacre. In the yearly portraits of the Winters and their brood, all the children were gathered on Nedda’s side of the photograph. Cleo clung to her eldest sister, and Lionel played with her hair. The others were seated at Nedda’s feet.
A loud knock on the door awakened the bird with a start. „What?“ Rags flapped his useless wings and dropped off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud. „What?“
Bitty rose to answer the heavy-handed knocking. This could only be the resentful housekeeper with her lunch. Upon opening the door, she was faced with her worst fear for the evening. Her mother pushed past her to enter the room.
„Why is Nedda staying with Dr. Butler? Tell me,“ Cleo demanded. „What happened at that police station?“
„Don’t be difficult,“ said Uncle Lionel, as he also entered into the bedroom uninvited.
„Aunt Nedda thought you didn’t want her here.“
Uncle Lionel was not surprised by this. „Did Neddy say why?“
„No, but she’ll be back around dinnertime.“
„I know that,“ said Lionel, holding up a folded piece of paper. „The housekeeper took a message from her. She asked if we could both stay at home this evening. She wants to talk to us. Do you know what this is about?“
Behind her uncle’s back, the bird was climbing up the lace curtain, his claws leaving holes and tatters in his wake. He gained a perch on the curtain rod, then spread his wings, stepped off into thin air – and dropped like a stone. Bitty watched the stunned creature stumble about in a circle. Lame for decades, old Rags persisted in the idea that he could fly.