Nick gathered the ribbons of paper and shoved them in his pocket. I won’t go back, he said to himself. I can’t. If he just kept walking, he eventually could reach his own house, break a window, and hide out until his parents came back. But that would be the first place the Keenans would check. He could hide elsewhere, not outdoors, he’d never survive the cold, but in one of the vacation homes boarded up for the winter, it wouldn’t be too hard for a few days. The Mackintosh place was nearby, and he could make it there before anyone came looking for him. If someone stumbled upon him, Nick would say he was running away from a haunted house. But he knew that the Keenans would only come searching or call the cops. He could picture Mrs. Keenan worrying, frantic in the kitchen, and could feel how safe he had been in her embrace. She would know what to do, he decided. She would know what the picture meant. Hitching up his pants, he headed back to the house.
As he climbed the last rocks before reaching the Keenans’ waterfront, Nick noticed a soft spot in the sand, a mound just big enough to hide a body or two. He guessed the bone had been found there, and he could picture the whole skeleton at the bottom of the grave. The grinning skull, the birdcage ribs, the long leg bones, and the arm missing its radius. Nick ran the final forty yards to a safer place beneath the deck. Overturned and resting in the sand, a little wooden boat tempted him with a means of escape, but the hull would not budge. He screwed up his courage and went inside. For the rest of the morning, they circled each other, wary as two bears, Jack Peter suspicious and resentful that his friend had left him and Nick paranoid about the games his friend was playing. Mr. Keenan flitted around the edge, cleaning house and looking in on them, vaguely aware of the tension between the boys.
*
No one greeted them when they entered the house. She hung their coats by the door and called out that she was home, but no one answered. They went through the living room and into the kitchen, where Holly put the kettle on. Miss Tiramaku took a turn around the room, stopping at the refrigerator to admire Jack’s drawing affixed to the door with four magnets.
“Your son?” she asked.
“No,” Holly laughed. “That’s Nicholas in the picture, but Jack drew it. That’s his latest thing, one of many portraits, who knows how long it’ll last. He’s taken it up recently and has become something of a fiend for it. I bought him art supplies for Christmas, and he’s nearly gone through the whole sketch pad already. And poor Nicholas. I’m not sure he’s as interested, but that’s all they do. Draw, draw, draw.”
“He has a certain eye.”
“You think so? A mother can’t be objective.”
“You have a lovely home,” she said.
“Thank you. It’s a work in progress, even after all these years. I’ll give you the grand tour once our tea is ready. Can’t imagine where my husband’s gone off to.”
Overhead a loud clump on the floor let them know they were not alone after all. Holly hulloed again, and the boys came tumbling downstairs, Nick arriving first and Jack on his heels. They stopped in the threshold at the sight of Miss Tiramaku, wary of her strange presence. From his workroom below came Tim, his arms laden with the day’s laundry, ready for folding, in a green plastic basket.
“Where have you been hiding?” Holly asked. “This is a friend of mine. Miss Tiramaku, this is my husband, Tim, and the boy with no socks is our son, Jack, and the sensible one is Nicholas Weller.”
The males waved hello in their dopey shyness. Finding his manners, Tim came over to shake hands properly, but she bowed slightly instead, confusing him, and then they resorted to an awkward exchange of greetings.
“Where did you two meet?” Tim asked.
“Out and about,” Holly said.
“I work for Father Bolden,” Miss Tiramaku spoke over her. “At the Star of the Sea, and I met your wife there. How come I didn’t see you at Mass on Christmas eve?”
The scowl on his face came and went in an instant, but everyone noticed. “I don’t go to church. I don’t believe in such things. I only believe in what my senses tell me, what is real.”
“Spiritus est qui vivificat, Mr. Keenan. ‘It is the Spirit which gives us life.’”
Holly could see that he was growing annoyed, so she changed the subject. “Boys, Miss Tiramaku came all the way from Japan, clear on the other side of the world.”
“How did you end up all the way in Maine?” Tim asked. “At a Catholic church, no less.”
“I was an orphan raised by nuns,” she said. “Years later I came here as a young woman, intended for the religious life, but God had other plans for me. I keep house for the priest.”
The teakettle whistled, and Holly asked if anyone cared to join her in a cup. Tim crossed his arms and slouched against the back of his chair.
“It’s called tiger tea,” Miss Tiramaku said as she joined the boys at the table. “The secret ingredient is the stripes of a tiger.”
Jack giggled at her remark, but Nick rolled his eyes. They added teaspoons of sugar and a schlook of milk to their cups. Everyone sat up straight in their chairs, good posture, and Holly smiled to herself when she saw Jack mimic Miss Tiramaku’s grip on the handle, one dainty pinkie sticking out. Tim sulked at the end of the table, nursing his drink.
“You boys have a good Christmas?” Miss Tiramaku asked. “Santa Claus was generous this year?”