“No. You are her sister, and you were the only one left.”
ALONE AT THE kitchen table, Norah drew intricate scenes of hunting cats, leopards in the shadows, tigers pouncing, a pride of lionesses gang-tackling a zebra. Filtered through the walls, the adult conversation flowed like the murmur of a faraway stream, and she listened to the music of their voices in three parts, daughter echoing mother, sisters in counterpart, bursts of laughter in harmony. Once, in her solitude, she thought she heard someone at the back door, but when she pressed her nose against the glass, sheer darkness prevented her from seeing beyond the panes. Whatever had been was no longer there. The symphony of voices changed measures and tone. Every so often the word “Norah” floated from the living room, but nothing would tempt her to eavesdrop. They would have to remember eventually that they had left her alone.
At half past nine, Erica came into the kitchen, filled the teakettle, all the while sneaking glances at Norah, who kept her pencil moving, intent on her drawing. “What have we here?” Erica asked, and took the chair across from her to consider the pictures one by one. “Those are really good.”
“Thank you.” She continued her line till the end and then laid down the pencil.
“Pleased to meet you, Norah. I'm Erica, but you already know that. You must call me Mary. Especially in front of your friends. Do you think you can pretend that I'm Mary Gavin? Here for a visit. It will keep us all out of trouble.”
“Don't worry. I can pretend.”
“I'm sure that you can.” She studied the child's face, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Once upon a time, I met a girl like you. She even looked like you, same glasses and eyes, same hair. Her name was Una, and she had no mother or father, just like you, and she lived in a cottage all alone in the woods with her grandmother.”
“What happened to her mom and dad?”
Pressing the pads of her fingers against the table, Erica retrieved a few stray crumbs. “We don't really know. They may have run away. May have been in an accident. In any case, they left her there in her grandmother's house and never returned.”
“That's a sad story,” Norah said. “Was she lonely?”
“A little. But she was smart, like you, and had a vivid imagination. Una was good at pretending too.”
Behind her glasses, Norah blinked several times in rapid succession, her efforts magnified by the thick lenses. She wavered slightly like an object gone temporarily out of focus. Lost in her thoughts, she offered a curt smile, and then considered her unfinished drawing. “Are you going to send me away right now?”
“Of course not. My mother and I need some time to sort out things.”
“Where do I sleep tonight?”
“In your own bed. We'll talk more later. Why don't you run and kiss the ladies now, before you go to sleep?”
“Goodnight, Mary.”
The name put a smile on her face, and then patting the child's hand, she rose to answer the singing kettle.
20
The mothers came to save their children, to reel in the long strings, the kites and balloons threatening to float away forever. They were resolved to rescue their sons and daughters from the bridge, to leap into the waters far below, if necessary, and scour the bottom if any chance remained to hand them out of trouble, panting and gasping, back into sensibleness. All weekend, telephones relayed the news of the police, the children on the bridge, the little danger living among them—not only at their school but in the community itself. Norah Quinn put in peril their unspoken shared values and the order they insisted upon for their children. By late Sunday night, the protest had been planned. The mothers would marshal to speak to those in authority, to give a piece of their minds to the unguarded listener, to root out and remove the virus spreading from family to family. In the breaking light of Monday morning, the posse gathered outside the school, hands gripping the shoulders of their beloved charges, waiting to ambush Taylor—for the respect of “principal” and even “mister” had been abandoned—to make him do something to ensure that this talk of angels among them would be scrubbed like obscene graffiti marring the school walls.
Taylor did not know what to do with the phalanx of mothers and children gathered on the front lawn beneath the flagpole, and the mere sight of the women deflated his already sunken spirits. He was driving his sister's Volkswagen, mourning the loss of his sports car, and swore at the group from the parking lot, muttering foulness till he met Mrs. Ford, coiled with anger, halfway up the walk. The boy pinched under her arm was white with terror and shame.
“You have to do something about that Quinn girl.” Froth gathered in the corners of Mrs. Ford's mouth when she spoke.