Cast a Pale Shadow

chapter Eleven

Nicholas measured the corner for the second time and came up with different figures. Gritting his pencil so tightly between his teeth the paint flecked off onto his tongue, he frowned and measured again. The new numbers matched the first set, so he jotted them down on a scrap of paper. Tomorrow while Trissa took her makeup exams, he would meet Jack Sanders down at a Wharf Street warehouse and find a chest of drawers to fit this corner among Jack's cache of secondhand treasures.

Trissa would be surprised with the new chest. It and her record player, secretly rehabilitated by Roger, would be her reward for all her long hours of study to prepare for her exams. They needed the space, too. Augusta seemed to sense the moment when Nicholas emptied another drawer of his belongings to make more space for Trissa's rapidly expanding trousseau and she redoubled her efforts to fill that one as well.

"It's like playing paper dolls," Trissa had said. "'Here, try this one on,' she says. 'Now this would go with that.' And 'won't this be perfect with your eyes and hair?'." Nicholas took the hangers with the altered garments from her one by one as she told him this. "And if I say 'no, I can't possibly take more from you, Augusta' she gets this wounded look in her eyes and I have to give in."

She wasn't really complaining. In the three days since her arrival, Nicholas had not once seen the wistful look on her face that had haunted her daily at the bus stop. And though her bruises had reached that awful black and green stage, the sparkle in her eyes more than stole the attention away from them.

She had made herself a space in this makeshift family. Roger had spent two afternoons coaching her in geometry, drawing little diagrams with arrows and boxes to help her understand the flow of her proofs. Beverly had quizzed her on her world history until she could rattle off dates, places, and people without a slip. Even Hattie had contributed to the effort by expounding on the relative merits of the poetry of Walt Whitman, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and helping Trissa develop an outline for an essay question she expected to have on her American Literature exam.

Each day, Trissa's anxiety about her postponed tests diminished. To ease her tension further, Augusta had called a halt to the studies after dinner to stage a ceremony to bestow upon Trissa the official title of chambermaid, presenting her with a feather duster with a gold-painted handle as a symbol of her honorary duties. Now, with a designated role on Augusta's house staff and the neighborhood covenants followed to the letter if not the spirit, she could legitimately call it her home.

Tonight, when Nicholas left her to come upstairs to measure, Trissa was once again bent over her books, this time with Augusta drilling her on the periodic table. Each day it became easier to forget that this had not always been her home and this odd assortment of people had not always been her family.

The only thing that was not becoming easier was sleeping with her, or rather trying to sleep in the same bed with her. He wondered if he should be measuring the alcove for a set of twin beds. A physical chasm between them might do more for his peace of mind than the gopher mound she erected with that silly rolled blanket each night.

Trissa was too close and the woolen wall was too flimsy. Nicholas would get more restful sleep on the lumpy, sagging sofa. It was not that she violated his territory in any way. On the contrary, she seemed able to crunch herself into a ball as tiny as a hedgehog to sleep. She didn't snore, or toss and turn and jiggle the bed, or steal away all the blankets. She didn't eat crackers in bed, or talk in her sleep, or get up several times in the night to go to the bathroom. In short, Trissa had the most courteous habits a bed partner could have.

Except that she was too damn close.

Long after she was asleep, Nicholas would lay awake thinking about her. He listened to her soft, wispy breathing. He could smell her toothpaste and the Ivory soap she used to scrub her face pink. He tried to focus his thoughts on her ugly, flannel pajamas and the ratty terry cloth scuffs she wore around the room at night, but that did nothing to blunt his desire for her. She had marked her blanket boundary, spoke of honor, and then tortured him by asking for a kiss.

She had gotten her kiss the second night, but he insisted that it take place while they stood on two feet, well away from the bed. It hadn't helped. Afterwards, Trissa had been able to hop under the covers and fall rapidly and soundly to sleep. Nicholas had been left to stare at the wall and curse honor and kisses and self-made promises to take things slowly.

Surrounded by all her proxy parents, Trissa seemed more the child than ever to him, and he was determined to give her time to be one. He guessed that she had had little of that while she was growing up. She needed time to forget a father whose perverted attention had driven her to desperation. Such trauma could have made her dread any man's touch. That it had not, that she seemed to relish his kiss, that each seemed to hold more promise than the one before gave him reason to hope. He could be patient. Something so magical always takes time.



*****



Dr. Lorenzo Fitapaldi received the letter in his afternoon mail. As she did with all his correspondence, Phyllis, his secretary, slit open the envelope and placed it face down on his desk. He did not like to form opinions about the contents by glancing at the return addresses or the handwriting beforehand. He was not a man to make snap judgments. The letter was scratched on a bedraggled piece of loose leaf paper that looked as if it had been crumpled then smoothed flat so it could be written on with a blunt, soft pencil.

Dr. Fitapaldi:


I am writing to inform you of my new address should you need to get in touch with me about my father. Though I realize he is no longer in your care, I seem to have forgotten the name and location of the hospital where he resides. I hope you will not mind forwarding this information to the proper place. I am not certain how long it has been since I have seen him. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps I am. The day has grown so dark that I can barely see.





Cole Baker


The words marched with rigid precision across the page, each block letter printed heavily, but they ended without completing Cole's stated purpose. He had not included his address.

Fitapaldi turned the paper over. The backside was filled with math problems, the numbers scribbled at all angles, somebody's scratch paper. The handwriting did not match the front. He lay the letter aside and took up the envelope. The printed return address had been blacked out with heavy strokes from the same pencil that had been used to write the note. Only Fitapaldi's address, hand printed by Cole, was legible.

Holding it under the strong bulb of his desk lamp, Fitapaldi inspected the return address. He could make out a few letters. Carefully, he rubbed over the pencil marks with an eraser, lightly so as not want to wear away the printing underneath. Squinting at it again, he was able to read "St. Andrew's Hos--" then something, something, " -- ghway Blvd." and on the next line, "St. Lou--" The rest was obliterated but it was enough. He pressed the button of his intercom and called for Phyllis.

An hour later he had some of the information he needed. Phyllis had called the state hospital and found that Duncan Brewer's condition was unchanged and that he had not had a visitor in over six months. She then called St. Andrew's Hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. No, the hospital did not have a recent patient named Baker, but yes, there was a Brewer who was released on Tuesday, a Trissa Brewer, Mrs. Nicholas Brewer. Phyllis had had no luck cajoling them into providing an address, so Fitapaldi had called an old classmate from the University of Michigan who had worked at St. Andrew's for years, Richard Poe.

What Poe had to tell him was helpful but alarming. He remembered that particular case because he had been called in to consult. The attending physician suspected that the young woman's injuries were not accidental as she and her husband insisted. Poe had advised that the case be turned over to Social Services, and, apparently, the resident was mistaken because the woman was released without delay. Poe had not seen the woman or her husband, so he could not describe them. He promised to have the Social Services caseworker call him with the address of the patient.

Fitapaldi had nothing to do then but wait. It was just as well. He had two patients in crisis and could not leave town. This letter from Brewer, or Baker as he sometimes called himself, was puzzling but he could not allow it to override his responsibilities to his actual patients. Brewer had refused his help in the past. Maybe this plea was no more than it professed to be, a request for a clerical service, nothing more.

It was not terribly surprising that Cole would forget to provide the address. The man was so engaged in erasing the horrors of his past that the trivial details of the present sometimes slipped away from him. What did surprise him was that Cole would marry. He had always been a zealous isolate. Fitapaldi scanned the notes in Brewer's file to find the exact answer Cole had given him on his last visit when he had asked if there weren't anyone in his life who might care to see that he got help.



"Don't worry. No one ever gets close enough for that. I make sure of it. The victims of Duncan Brewer have ended with me. It is just that I haven't reached the convenience of being buried and forgotten like the rest. But that will come. Eventually."





Fitapaldi rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand and plucked at his bristly eyebrows. He reread Cole's note then dropped it in the file. The possibility he had married was difficult to imagine. The suspicion he might have beaten his wife was unfathomable. He had never considered Cole a danger to anyone but himself. When he had warned him of that self-directed danger, Cole had answered "The danger is as minimal as the victim is meaningless."

Suicidal, maybe. But homicidal, never! Cole Brewer was not his father. Fitapaldi would stake his reputation on that. He tossed the file into the tray and called for his next patient. As soon as he got the address and as soon as he could get away, he would check on Cole Brewer. There was nothing that could be done until then.



*****



Trissa woke first on Saturday. Despite all her preparation and all the boarders' help, she was anxious about her exams. And she was nervous about going back to school looking like she did. If anything, the bruises were uglier than ever, like rainbows from hell. Even though no one would be there but Miss Royal who Nicholas had charmed into agreeing to come in on a Saturday to proctor her makeup tests, she feared the advisor's reaction. If she looked repulsed or disgusted, Trissa was not sure she would be able to concentrate on her work. Though Nicholas had coached her thoroughly in the story he had told at school, Trissa was sure she would say or do something that would arouse Miss Royal's suspicions.

As quietly as possible, Trissa tiptoed about washing up and getting dressed. Nicholas seemed dead to the world. His head was buried beneath his pillow and his fingertips were the only part of his body visible above the tartan coverlet. His muffled snoring made her picture him as a great Scottish dragon under the plaid, which she dare not awaken if she valued her life.

She had chosen a red wool skirt and turtleneck to wear from among Augusta's donations. The strong color made her seem a bit pale but, at least, the high collar covered up the most telltale of her injuries. While Nicholas' coffeepot percolated, she sat down at the desk gathering the books and supplies she would need to take with her. She thought it might be a good idea to bring a couple of extra pencils and a spare pen so she shuffled through Nicholas' desk drawers looking for some. A brown accordion folder was wedged in one drawer and it refused to budge. She poked about with her fingers trying to unjam it and snagged the string loose from the folder. It fell open when the drawer finally pulled free and its contents spilled to the floor. She dropped to her hands and knees to gather them.

They were photographs, a large collection of black and white shots that sparkled with light and clarity. Kneeling on the floor next to the desk, she spread them in a circle around her. There were still lifes and landscapes, farm animals and pets. There was an amusing sequence of three old women, in floppy hats and sagging halter tops, searching for shells on a beach. At least a dozen pictured an indignant, spotted pony with an assortment of costumed children on its back. The children were cute, but Nicholas' camera seemed to make a character sketch of the pony, capturing a tilt of the head or a flip of the tail that signaled its displeasure with its role in life.

Trissa shuffled quickly through the portraits of young women, each of them prettier than the one before, and all of them prettier than she was, with large eyes that seemed to mock her. Or maybe it was the little inscriptions on the backs that dismayed her: "To Nicky with love," "Forever is too short a time," "Love and more than kisses." She didn't want to know that Nicholas had a life before now that included beautiful women. She preferred her little fantasy that he was sent for her alone.

"Oh, jeez, what time is it?" Nicholas groaned from the bed. "I can't believe I overslept like this."

"It's okay. It's still early. I was too nervous to sleep, that's all." Embarrassed to be caught snooping, Trissa gathered the photos with guilty haste. She saw the futility of covering up when several slipped out of her grasp to the floor again. "I'm sorry. I was looking for a pencil. The drawer got stuck and these fell out. I didn't mean to go prying through your things."

Nicholas rubbed his hands over his stubbly chin and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids to wipe them awake. "Don't worry about it. Just dump them on the desk. I'll sort them out later."

When she had them all off the floor, the pile of photos mounded over the desk blotter, and she realized she would never have gotten them back in order correctly. "There are so many of them. And wonderful. They're so full of life, Nicholas. I love the landscapes, especially the ones at the lake. And the pony pictures."

"Daisy. The pony's name is Daisy." Nicholas cinched the sash of his robe and came over to the desk. He pulled a spiral notebook from the open desk drawer and leafed through it. He jabbed his finger at a block printed entry. "See, 'Daisy, Grand Rapids, March.' It's my life they're full of, I suppose. Not so wonderful as it might seem. I'd better shave." He shrugged and limped off to the bathroom.

She was puzzled by his mood. He was probably angry with her for invading his privacy, but was too polite to show it. It seemed to her suddenly that he had treated her with cool politeness for the past two mornings. She had thought it was just the peculiarity of their situation, two strangers forced to live together and get to know each other at the same time.

But now with the evidence of his preferences in women revealed to her in the photographs, she thought she knew what his aloofness really meant. He was stuck with her, plain and battered, and he was not happy. She smoothed the bed and folded the rolled blanket, plumped up the pillows and put away her pajamas.

It would be best if she stayed out of his way as much as possible, she decided. She poured him a cup of coffee and set it to cool on the dry sink. "I guess I'll go on down to breakfast," she said, wishing he'd hear her and tell her not to go. She might have said it too softly, or he might have chosen to ignore her. She sighed, collected her supplies, and left him alone.



*****



Nicholas studied his clean-shaven face in the mirror and frowned. She liked the landscapes and the pony pictures. Cole's, not his. She'd never understand that, how he came into possession of the artifacts of another man's life, and, for convenience and temporary sanity, passed them off as his own. He didn't understand it himself, or didn't want to understand it.

They were a part of his madness, the only proof that he continued to exist in the shadows when reality no longer existed. A pile of photographs and a spiral notebook that said there was a summer that year, after Janey, and it took place in Myrtle Beach.

God, how he wished he knew what normal was and how to be it. For her. For himself. He would not survive if he lost her as he had lost Janey. He splashed his face with Aqua Velva, slapping his cheeks hard to be sure it was Nicholas Brewer who stared back at him in the mirror and not some ghost who stole his memory, who stole his life. He squared his shoulders and stepped out of the room. Somehow, he was not surprised to find that she had deserted him.



*****



At the breakfast table, May and Beverly discussed their Saturday plans with Augusta. All three women were going down to LaSalle Street, the wholesale flower district, to window shop for floral arrangements to decorate the parlors and music room for May's upcoming student recital. Of course, this was to be an expedition for ideas only. The actual flowers would be acquired much cheaper than wholesale. Beverly would rescue what was needed from discarded funeral arrangements at work, and Augusta would transform them into fantastic displays that would rival anything they could get on LaSalle.

Trissa listened to the morning chatter, wishing her plans for the day were as pleasant. When she heard Nicholas coming down the stairs, she turned her attention to her cereal bowl, as if it were vitally important to know the exact number of Cheerios that remained afloat in the milk. Even so occupied, she could not help but notice that he wore a red pullover almost the exact color as hers, except that his heightened his natural coloring while hers washed her out. Next to him, she decided, she'd seem pasty and garish, like a white-faced clown. She plopped the spoon into her bowl with such force that the milk splashed over the side.

"Good morning, Augusta, Ladies," Nicholas said, grabbing an orange from the green glass bowl in the center of the table and taking it to the sink to peel. "You're up bright and early for a Saturday."

"The flower safari is today, remember? No, I guess you missed dinner the night we planned it. May's musicale is coming up, and we have to decorate," Augusta said. "You two make a pretty pair today, all in red."

"Do we?" Nicholas looked down at his sweater, as if just noticing its color.

Trissa winced at his question, sure that it was her inclusion in the compliment that caused it to be asked. She sighed and took her bowl and glass to the counter. "I think we better go, Nicholas."

"I'm ready if you are." He broke off a section of his peeled orange and popped it into his mouth while Trissa put on her coat. She peeked up to see him frown as he turned to apologize to the women. "She's anxious about her tests. I guess I'll have to say goodbye for both of us."

He pushed two more sections of orange into his mouth and wrapped the rest in a twist of waxed paper to take along. Trissa, bundled in her coat, banged out the back door. Leaning against the locked door of his car, she let her head droop forward while a blustery wind tossed her hair so that it covered her face. She brushed her coat sleeve across her eyes.

She did not really look at him when she shuffled out of the way to let him unlock the car door and open it for her, "If I were in charge, I'd give an A+ just for one of your smiles," he said.

"Don't tease. I'm not in the mood." She whisked past him into the car, while she tried to muffle a sniffle by pulling her collar up around her face. He knelt down on the pavement so they were at eye level with each other, but she refused to turn her head toward him. He touched her sleeve. "Maybe Augusta has a little room upstairs I can have," she said, looking down at his hand.

"Why, Trissa?"

"I'm just in your way. You shouldn't be punished for your heroism by having to put up with me."

"Punished?" She clutched her backpack against her chest and she held her eyes squeezed shut. "God, Trissa, how could you think that?

"The photographs. Those women are all so pretty and I am just--"

"The punishment would be if you left me," Nicholas said in a strained whisper.

"What?"

"You don't understand at all, do you? It wasn't chance, my so-called heroism. I found you that night because I was looking for you. I'd been looking for you for so many nights. Maybe all my life."

"That's crazy," she said. "You didn't even know I existed." She finally turned to study him.

"You're only partly wrong." He leaned back on his heels and his hands were clenched in tight fists against his thighs. "It may be crazy, and I may frighten you with this confession, but I did know you. From your bus stop. I work at the camera shop on the corner where you transfer busses. I saw you every day at that bus stop."

"But.."

"I knew your name because I heard one of the others call out to you. I followed you. I walked the streets every night, all the streets the bus passed, and all the streets that connected to those streets. I walked until almost dawn some nights, listening on the wind for your voice, gazing at the swatches of light in the windows that I passed, hoping for a glimpse of your face. Something drove me. Something told me you needed me. And I knew I needed you."

The shock she felt and her failure to compose it out of her face set him reeling back. He rose unsteadily to his feet, nodding his head. Without speaking again, he shut her door and pivoted toward the house.

"Nicholas!" she called after him.

"I'll get Augusta. I'm sure she'll drive you to school," he said without turning.

"No! Stop!" She bolted from the car and ran after him. She tackled him and tugged at his sleeves until she forced him to turn, then she wrapped him in a fierce hug, her face buried against his chest. "You were sent, don't you see? I prayed and prayed. I wished for an angel, or magic, or anything to save me. And it was you. Oh, God, Nicholas it was you!"

He circled her with his arms, rested his cheek against the top of her head, and held her until her shuddering sobs were spent.