Shadows Gray

Chapter Nineteen



“Start talking,” Israel demands as we speed off down the dirt road. “Now.”

“Thank you for finding me, Is,” I whisper. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“Oh no, you’re not. Talk! What is going on? What happened to you?”

In my head I explain it all coherently, Israel understands, and we go home. But I cannot seem to make my lips work properly or form articulate sentences. I mumble something but I am not even sure what language I speak it in, if it’s a language at all and not just gibberish. I think it may be Spanish. Israel glances over at me in alarm.

“Just hang on then,” he says. “We’ll be home soon. Everyone is out looking for you, even Matthias and Harry. We’re all going on too little sleep. Just hang on until we can all be together, Sonnet. Don’t sleep without us. Don’t travel without us.”

I nod in obedience but my eyes are already shut fast and it would take an act of God to open them.

********************

“She’s only been asleep for ten minutes,” I faintly hear Israel say. My body has been pulled out of the car with very little care and ceremony – if I ever wake up fully I plan to correct Israel’s manhandling and lack of gentleness – and I feel several hands on me. One on my cheek, another on my wrist, one feels like a complete set of arms around my waist, as I lay like a sack of bones in Israel’s arms.

“Ten minutes is all she’s getting,” I hear Prue’s bark. “Get her in the bathtub.”

“Bath would be nice, but later, please,” I mumble.

My requests are ignored and when we get to the top of the stairs and through the narrow squeeze of the bathroom door, I am dumped awkwardly in the hard, cold porcelain tub.

“Ouch!” I rub my shins and sit up.

My finally open eyes are met with five other pairs, all staring at me. Prue looks so angry she makes Is look like a teddy bear, Dad looks like he has been awake even longer than I have, Matthias and Harry have clearly been crying.

“I’m very glad to see you,” I say, and then I promptly burst into tears.

“You had me worn to the bone with worry and grief, child,” Prue turns on the water. It is frosty cold and I yelp. The iciness stops my crying. “What did you mean going off and with the car? We had no way of knowin’ where you went, when you’d be back. We’ve been up all night waiting for you!”

I consider pointing out that I’ve been up for two nights and then some, but I think better of it. I sit meekly, watching the tub fill up around me, the water turning warm, the edges of my nightgown darkening and billowing out in the tiny pool. The water is already turning grimy and dirty.

“I was looking for Rose,” I say, stealing a glance at Dad as I say it. He does not react. “She was here. I thought I knew where she might have gone, so I found the car keys and went after her. I went to an old house where I thought she was staying but I got locked in. I couldn’t find a way out until this morning and then I started walking. I got lost.” I am too tired, too confused, to say anymore.

Prue doesn’t even appear to be listening; she is scrubbing my hands and elbows with a bar of soap. She turns off the water, lets it drain, me a bedraggled soggy mess, and then fills it back up again. It will take more than one bath to get me clean again, especially wearing this nightgown.

“Israel came and got us when you went missing and we came straight away,” says Harry. His lip quivers like a small boy who is trying to be brave and not cry. “We didn’t know where to look so we went to the soup kitchen, checked with your friends at the coffee shop. Just got back here a bit ago to check in. So relieved you’re back, honey.”

“Thanks, Harry. I’m sorry I messed up your travel plans.”

“Aw, you didn’t mess anything up.”

I feel my eyes closing again, but Prue splashes water on my face.

Really, as far as a rescue and welcome home committee, my family is not the top of the line.



********************

What feels like a torturous number of hours later, but is really less than one, I am clean, my hair shampooed, my nightgown thrown in the laundry although it may not be salvageable, I am wearing clean clothes, I have obediently eaten scrambled eggs and toast, and I am at last, in my bed. Emme has come over and embraced me ferociously (finally, someone who doesn’t yell at me in order to show they care) and left again. No one has forced more explanations from me, though Israel looks at me from underneath hooded, suspicious eyes. He holds his tongue for now, but I know instinctively that when we wake I am going to be drilled with questions.

Everyone is almost as exhausted as I am and they all are as happy to drop into their beds as I am, though Harry and Matthias leave for their new home first. It is not even twilight, but it no longer matters; as long as we all sleep together we don’t care what time of day or night it is. Dad tucks me in like a little girl and I am touched by the rarity of this demonstration of sentimentality.

“You scared me,” he says, from his perch on the side of my bed. “Don’t do that again. Please.”

“Yes, Dad,” I promise, and put my hand over his. His trembles just a bit. With his free hand, he reaches up and smoothes his eyebrow. Then he reaches over and smoothes my hair back from my forehead. I feel pleased and honored to be the recipient of his nervous habits somehow. “I just wanted to find Rose. Be together again. Like it used to be.”

“Rose is gone, Sonnet. Your mother is gone. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you too.” I realize then that he is not slurring his speech and that his eyes are clear and focused on mine. Has my disappearance sobered him?

“Yes, Dad,” I repeat and blink the tears from my eyes. “I’m sorry. Do you feel it coming?”

I speak of traveling. That feeling that has been lingering in my mind and emotions for days now. To my surprise, he seems to know exactly what I’m referring to.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s coming.”

I sleep.

I sleep like the dead and it feels so lovely that when I feel strong hands shaking me awake hours later, I squeeze my eyes closed tighter and mutter a threat. The hands are persistent and I can’t ignore them much longer; I open my eyes and scowl at Dad.

Besides the look on his face – worried and nervous and drawn – the smell is the first thing that clues me in. An odor of cabbage and cold humidity wafts by my nostrils, like the smell of dank heavy fog mixed with old vegetables. The aromas, though not entirely pleasant, match my surroundings, and my surroundings are not my bedroom. It is not my house at all, it is not my town, and it is not the century I fell asleep in. There are cobblestones beneath me, hard and unyielding. I am curled up against a wall; on inspection it seems to be a very large building on a very English looking street. English, I’d wager, not because I am an expert on architecture or geography, but because of the frowning mustached man looming over me. He is quite obviously British, from his well trained mustache to his bowler hat to his walking cane. If that hadn’t been enough to tip me off, his accent certainly convinces me.

“Get up then, miss,” he pokes me with the tip of his cane. “There isn’t any loitering in this neighborhood. This is a respectable neighborhood, and I’ll thank you, sir,” he turns his attention to my father, “To stay out of it.”

Dad only blinks, touches his own mustache indifferently, and nods.

The man makes a humphing sound and continues his walk down the street. He tips his hat to a smartly dressed lady with a parasol as they pass, and the woman frowns at me, stepping farther away from my vicinity as she walks by.

Wonderful. Corsets. Just my luck. My ribs ache already at the very real memory of whale bone cutting into them. I stand with a sigh.

“Prue and Israel?” I ask Dad.

“Here,” he nods. “Been up a little bit. Went to find things out, thought we’d let you sleep as long as possible.”

“Thanks.” It’s very cold, there is slush on the street, and I jump from one foot to the other to keep warm. My head feels foggy, still not quite awake. I feel the encroaching thoughts of reality coming, and I ache to keep them at bay. I do not want to deal with them just yet. I do not want to think of the coffee shop, of Luke, of Emme and Bea and Joe, of Harry and Matthias, of Rose. I do not want to think of anything at all. I do not want to think. Though I am determined to stick my head in the sand, or the slush as it were, I am incapable and tiny images of the past wander through my head the way your whole life flashes before you when you die. In a way, I feel as though I am dead. I am certainly dead to Micki, to my customers, to Jim and everyone at the soup kitchen, to Luke. Although I have known him the least amount of time, my chest aches with a particular dullness when I think of Luke Dawes. The way he would show up uninvited at my house, our silly little date, the way he humored me by taking me to that old house to look for my invisible sister. The way he doctored up his black coffee until it was unrecognizable and then scowled at me over it. His big feet stretched out in front of him, lined up with mine as we sat together. If he truly believed my story, he will know I am not dead, but traveling. Will he miss me? I wonder.

Dad takes my arm and begins to steer me towards the street. Though the wind does not blow, the air is still and cold and I wrap my arms around myself, Dad’s hand in the crook of my elbow. I am wearing what I put on to go to sleep in last night – last night which was at least a hundred years in the future, judging by the fashions on the corseted lady – and I must look a sight in my second best nightgown. Of course my feet are bare, as are Dad’s, and they feel nearly frozen trudging through the slush as we cross the street. I feel strangely uncurious about our surroundings, about our new home here. I don’t care that it may be exciting to live in England so long ago, I don’t care that we could have landed somewhere much worse, I want instead, to pout and be sullen over the loss of my old life. The loss of Elvis Presley and Gladys and the Blue Beast and cheese in a can. Who wants to live in a century without frothed milk and art shows and Stevi Nicks? Not me. I refuse to look around me and admire the architecture or the local. Not yet anyway. It feels disloyal somehow.

We are headed in the vicinity of what I know now to be Prue. She is standing at the other end of the street, not alone, and as we approach I can tell she is arguing vehemently with the person. Home sweet home is my Prue, I think.

“It was bloody well your fault, boy, and you know it!” Prue berates a boy, maybe twelve or so, who looks quite terrified. He is hopping from one foot to the other, as though he is warming up his legs in order to take off at a moment’s notice. Either that, or his feet are as cold as mine, though I doubt it in his boots. I eye them longingly. It is usually Israel that begs, borrows, or steals clothes for us all in times like these and I mentally beseech him to hurry before frostbite kicks in.

“I didn’t, mum, not exactly!” he wheedles. “I didn’t mean to knock into you like that, I didn’t! It’s just now I’ve lost them veg and if I don’t bring something back to show for my trouble, my employer is going to have my hide! It was your fault as well as mine, mum. You gotta help me by paying for your share!”

Although I don’t know what this boy is blathering on about, I have to give him respect for taking on the likes of Prue. He’s either remarkably brave or extraordinarily stupid.

“That’s a laugh, boy, you came runnin into me! Me, an old lady! Now you want to exploit me for the damages!” Prue snorts and humphs and makes a general show of her displeasure. I haven’t figured out her game, but she’s playing at something, I’d bet on it. “Do I look like I have any money?” She gestures to her nightgown, with her favorite apron tied on top. The boy reddens up and looks away.

“Well, I can’t go back empty handed,” he mumbled. “Gotta have some story at least for why I lost all the veg. Can’t just admit I knocked it in the river, can I? Cook will kill me if the master doesn’t beat her to it.” He looks quite miserable. Even his feet quit their incessant dancing and he holds still morosely, staring at the river to his left as though willing his missing vegetables to bob to the dirty surface. It must be the River Thames and it looks like nothing so much as slow moving sludge, as thick as cake batter and dark as chocolate in places.

“Cook, eh?” Prue narrows her black eyes. “A good cook, is she?”

It’s the boy’s turn to snort. “Who? Gertie? She’s real good, mum, real good if you like the taste of coal!” He bursts out laughing and slaps his knee at his own joke.

“And why doesn’t your employer hire someone better for his meals then, eh?” She pressures. Ah, I’m beginning to comprehend her wheeling and dealing now.

“Like who?” The boy looks suspicious. This small talk was not solving his problem and his feet begin hopping again.

“Like this poor woman you ran down and accosted,” I cut in, adopting a strong British accent without even thinking. I join him in the feet dance in order to get my blood flowing and stay warm.

The boy widens his eyes. “You must be joking, miss. I can’t just bring her back to the house!”

“Why not? You practically injured this poor old woman and now you’re refusing her care and attention? Why, it’s the least you can do! I witnessed the whole thing and I’m sure there’s a policeman nearby who would be quite interested in the story. In fact, I’d wager that missing vegetables is the least of your criminal worries, young sir.” I feel a little bad for him, but the lies drip easily off my tongue and I am freezing and not going to let a chance of sitting by a fire somewhere pass by me without a fight.

The boy swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he weighs his options. “Right then, mum. Miss,” he bows my way. He even offers his arm gallantly to Prue.

“Oh, I don’t think so, young man,” I continue my stern voice. “I will personally accompany you, along with my father, to assure this unfortunate woman meets no other calamity at your hand.” I hold my head high and wish I had a long skirt to swish majestically or a parasol to rap him on the head with. It is difficult to assume the identity of a snobbish gentlewoman with bare feet and all the wrong clothes. My manner seems to have the desired effect however; the boy sighs but nods and we begin to walk together. Youth is no match for arrogant patronization no matter how confident the youth in question.

“Israel?” I whisper to Dad as we walk.

“Always go back to the beginning,” he replies. A Lost rule if there ever was one: if you get separated after traveling, continue checking in at the spot where you woke up. I picture Israel wandering the streets of London in his pajamas and have to stifle a giggle. Dad’s sleeping outfit is nondescript and doesn’t seem too out of place wherever we go: a goal that most Lost women try to emulate with their white nightgowns. His dark pants and white button down shirt are surprisingly timeless; although very unfinished they could seem as though he was simply interrupted while dressing and didn’t get to finish, thereby neglecting a coat, shoes, and hat. I groan when I think of my soiled and tattered nightgown back home…I have been in this century before and surely had coins and money of value sewn into the hem. What a comfort they would be to me now and the things they could buy: hot bread and butter, lodging, shoes.

As we walk, the sun continues to rise, the river continues to give off that cabbage-y smell I noticed before, and the city comes to life. People begin to emerge from their homes and businesses fling open their doors. I feel conspicuous in my cold feet and silly clothing, but other than a few odd looks, reminiscent of the corseted lady from earlier, I am ignored. The boy – Oliver, he says – walks at a steady, brisk pace; whether to keep his body warm or to get to his destination, I don’t know. He certainly goes to great lengths for his employer, I think; it is quite a jaunt for a vegetable supply. Perhaps Gertie of coal cooking fame is particular with her groceries.

I keep my eyes searching for Israel as we walk, but we reach our end at a large house without having seen him, and enter through the back. Oliver leaves us in the kitchen where a large, rawboned woman – presumably Gertie herself- eyes us suspiciously and stirs a spoon around a pot. Oliver had scurried out with nary an explanation for our manifestation in her kitchen and when it seems that the anticipation has gotten to her so that she cannot bear it another second, she whirls around and brandishes her spoon.

“What’s this all about then? You that brat’s family? You expectin’ me to feed you, are you?”

“On the contrary,” I reply, rising as gracefully as I can considering my frozen muscles which had only just begun to thaw out by the kitchen fire. “We are unrelated to the boy, but we do expect a hot meal and hospitality, as I’m sure the lord of the house will no doubt, concur. My father and I have surrendered our modesty and dignity to see this dear lady to safety after your kitchen boy nearly ran her down. We have been through a frightful adventure this morning and would like tea, please. Immediately.” My words are not only for Gertie; I have heard Oliver’s footsteps returning and have seen a large shadow fallen across the hallway floor. My words are for the ears of the master of the house.

Gertie eyes me thoughtfully before lowering her spoon. Whether or not she believes my ridiculous impersonation of a genteel lady caught in an unsavory episode is hardly my concern. What would Oliver’s employer think? His retort answers my unspoken question.

“Gertie, hot tea. Madame, if you’ll permit me?” A tall, willowy thin man steps into the kitchen and offers Prue his arm. “I have rung for the doctor but in the meantime I must ask you to lie down and rest. Please forgive my impetuous Oliver; what his manners lack he makes up for in energy. As far as you go, Sir, Miss,” he nods the way of me and Dad, “I shall return shortly to sort this out. Oliver is bringing blankets to warm you and do not hesitate to ask Gertie of any nourishment you may require.” He escorts Prue out of the room, bowing a bit as he does so, his heels clicking together as he dips his head.

When they are gone, Dad and I accept tea from a grudging Gertie and blankets from Oliver. My shivers subside and the tea feels like molten lava running down my throat. It’s heavenly. Real English tea; Israel will be so happy.

“Who is your employer?” I ask Oliver in hushed tones as he settles by the fire near me.

“That’s Sir Halloway, Reginald Halloway. It’s just him who lives here in this big old house. Has a son but he don’t live here anymore. He’s a ne’er do well,” Oliver leans in to whisper this bit.

“Ah. And what exactly is a ne’er do well?”

“Oh you know,” he waves his hand, “He’s a scoundrel is what he is. Gambles away Daddy’s money and spends it on the horses and booze and the ladies.” Oliver wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at me and I have to turn my laugh into a ladylike cough.

“Sounds frightful,” I reply, sipping the last of my tea. “I will be sure to avoid him at all costs. Thank you for warning me, Oliver. You’re a good lad.”

“You could certainly say so to Sir Halloway,” he suggest earnestly, scooting closer. “You know I didn’t mean to run down that old woman, don’t you? She about came outta nowhere and plowed me down, that’s what she did!”

I bet she did, I think. And probably threw the vegetables in the Thames for good measure. Thanks to Prue’s ingenuity I have a belly full of tea, a warm blanket, and a hot fire. No matter that it may not last; I will take the gifts as they come, one at a time. I fully expect Prue to weave a story that will worm her way somehow into this house, but I don’t expect Dad and me to be quite so lucky. Like Cinderella, our magic will wear off soon enough and we will be exposed for the frauds we are. If we can secure Prue a position though…and buy enough time for Israel to find clothing and shelter…well, our time here will be well spent.

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” I promise. “Whatever good it may do.”

He smiles a smile that is full of sunshine and good humor and at least a couple of missing teeth. “I like you. You make me think of Lady Halloway. She was tall like you and had dark hair too.”

“And what happened to Lady Halloway?”

“She ran off with the livery man ,” Oliver explains, matter of factly. “Terrible scandal it was.”

“Oh lovely,” I retort, sarcastically. “I remind you of a scandalous trollop, is that right?”

Oliver chokes on his tea. “No, no, miss! Course not! I just meant she looked like you is all. Bout your size and coloring, that’s it, miss. Begging your pardon, miss.”

“No harm done, Oliver,” I smile. I reach over and pinch Dad hard on his leg. He has been sitting, sipping tea – probably wishing for something stronger – and not listening. “Did you hear that, Father? I’m the same size as Lady Trollop, I mean, Halloway. Isn’t that interesting?” I turn my attention back to Oliver. “I suppose Sir Halloway was dreadfully angry and gave away all her things?”

“No, it’s the opposite, miss. Why, he kept everything! Keeps her room a shrine to her, he does! Housekeeper tries to convince him to clean it all out, but no, he says. It’s a shame, it is.”

As imperceptivity as possible, I nod towards the door that Prue had been escorted out, my eyes on Dad.

‘A dress,’ I mouth.

And hold the corset, I add in my head.