She had books of all kinds. Paperback romance novels. Crime thrillers. Classics of literature. On her dresser were several framed photographs: one of her as a teenager, sitting on the bluff; one of her as a child, holding the hand of a teenage boy who must have been my father; another of a mother nursing a baby while a young boy looks on. I had never seen photographs of my father’s family before. Oddly, I didn’t find any evidence of manly things, no boxer shorts or running shoes or even a second toothbrush.
I wanted to conduct a thorough investigation of all the details of Serena’s life, but I had a limited amount of time, so I had to focus. I went through the papers on her desk. Business stuff. Electric bills and such. Not what I needed. I checked under the bed. The upper shelf in the closet. Nothing.
Worried that they would be back soon, I decided to cut my search short. Serena must have tucked the power of attorney away in the safe, and that would prove nearly impossible to get at, unless Ben wanted to open it for me. Maybe. Before I left, I stood at the door and faced the center of the room. With all the mysteries of Riddell House, I found it hard to believe there wasn’t a mystery in Serena’s room. I wished for Ben to come help, but he was likely upset with me for betraying him; he didn’t seem to be on his way.
And then I noticed something very subtle. A slight ripple beneath the rug on the floor, as if the rug pad had a wrinkle in it and was causing the slightest ridge. I lifted up the corner of the rug and saw that my suspicion was correct. The old mesh rubber rug pad was creased. I gave the corner of the pad a tug to remove the crease and detected a dark spot on the floor underneath the pad. I peeled back the corner of the pad more and saw the outline of a trapdoor with a small metal ring, lying flush with the floor. There was a secret in Serena’s room after all.
Carefully, I rolled back the rug and the pad until they cleared the trapdoor. The door itself was two feet by three feet, I estimated, and it wasn’t hinged; the entire platform came up when I lifted it. Inside the shallow space was a wooden box nearly the size of the void. I lifted it out and set it on the floor. I opened it and found immediate gratification. The folder with the power of attorney was right on top. I took it. Beneath were envelopes, letters rubber-banded together, and an old magazine.
It was an issue of WoodenBoat from November 1979, and pictured on the cover was my father. I had seen it before, and still thought my father looked silly with long hair. I also found brightly colored brochures—a stack of them—for various cruise lines. Bingo. My pulse quickened. Catalogs and itineraries. One of them was like the one I had found in my bedroom. It featured the grande dame of all cruises—around the world on the Queen Elizabeth II. To complete the journey would take nine months. Nine months at sea. Climbing mountains to hidden temples in exotic ports of call. Enjoying formal dinners onboard. Dancing before an orchestra.
I removed a thick envelope that seemed more official. I opened it. It was a letter addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jones Riddell, Riddell House, The North Estate. “We at Cunard Line are delighted that you have reserved your around-the-world cruise with us. . . .”
Holy crap. Tickets. Serena wasn’t kidding when she told my father how she wanted to spend her share of the money. She had already spent it! Her plan was already in motion.
I took out the rubber-banded packet of letters and flipped through them. They were all in identical envelopes made of fancy linen paper with return addresses embossed on the back flaps: Riddell House, The North Estate, Seattle, WA. I pulled the first envelope from the bundle. It was addressed to Jones Riddell, though there was no address written beneath the name. It was not sealed. I removed the letter.
My Dearest Brother Jones,
As we danced together this evening, I felt an incredible swelling of joy inside me. It felt so right to be in your arms, as I have always imagined it would. Of course, I was nervous upon your arrival. Who wouldn’t be nervous? I’ve waited for so long, and so much has passed without us knowing each other, what if my instincts were wrong?
They weren’t, I now know, and I believe you know, too. You felt what I felt, your arms wrapped around me, your power and energy feeding my hungry soul.
Things will come together in the next few days. You will see my plan take shape. You needn’t worry about a thing; I have accounted for everything. You simply must stand with me and allow it to happen. In a few short weeks, our destiny will be fulfilled.
I have put down a deposit with the cruise line, reserving our room. I had to borrow money from Dickie, but he has been very generous with cash now that he sees my plan is coming to fruition. We will fly to New York for a New Year’s Eve sailing through New York Harbor, past the Statue of Liberty in all her glory, and then our journey will truly begin. I so look forward to spending the months with you, sailing all the oceans of the world, seeing such wonderful things. Merely the thought of you and me in our formal attire, dancing in the grand ballroom of the Queen Elizabeth, makes me quaver with delight.
I promise to clean up some of those old trunks in the barn for our trip. You know, those are valuable antiques and would fetch some money at auction, or so I’ve been told. Vintage steamer trunks crafted by Louis Vuitton? But we won’t sell them; we will use them, and our voyage will be filled with romance and charm, like the olden days.
In the meantime, there are details to which I must attend, so I must end this letter more abruptly than I care to. Still, know that I love you with all of my heart, and feel assured that I am dedicated to you with all of my being.
I knew you would return for me.
Love,
Serena
I flipped through the bundle of letters again, this time looking more closely. All of them were addressed to my father.
I was utterly creeped out. Serena was crazier than I had thought. In addition to the obvious intention on her part to engage in an incestuous relationship with my father, there was also the question of her sanity. I didn’t believe my father would go with Serena—I couldn’t believe he would, although maybe I was wrong about that, too. But with her having invested some twenty years of fantasy time, writing letters, and taking imaginary cruises, I saw that something could go terribly wrong. Her plan the whole time had included my father. That’s why selling off antiquities and rare pianos for cash didn’t satisfy her. Getting by wasn’t the point; getting Brother Jones was.
Worried that they would return and discover me, I returned the letter and the tickets to the box. Then I hesitated. I would need them as evidence; I had to tell my father about this. And yet, it was a dangerous game I was playing, for if Serena discovered things missing, she would surely come after me first. Still, I had to take the chance. I kept the tickets and the letter, and the power of attorney as well. I replaced the hatch lid and folded down the rug pad and the rug, trying to leave the same slight ripple that was there when I’d noticed it. I scanned the room to ensure I hadn’t left anything amiss; all seemed to be in order. I turned out the light and left. As I walked back to the main halls of the house, I felt chilled. Not because I was cold. Because I was scared shitless of what was to come.
– 37 –
A SUDDEN LIGHT
Later that afternoon, my father and Serena still hadn’t returned from the grocery store, which only added to my agitation. I could picture my father in Serena’s clutches for an extended shopping trip, and I didn’t like that image at all. I picked up the phone and dialed my grandparents’ number in England. It was nearly midnight Greenwich time, and I knew my mother would yell at me, but I didn’t care. She answered immediately, and I was glad of that; I didn’t want to have to go through any middlemen. At the same time, I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted from my mother. Reassurance. A steady hand on the tiller, a phrase she always used when talking about her relationship with my father: “I’m the steady hand on his tiller,” she would say. Maybe I just wanted a steady hand.
“Are you asleep?” I asked.
“I was reading,” she replied. Her voice was soft. Hushed. I liked it when
she was soft. “Everyone is asleep; I wanted to pick up before the ringer woke them.”
“Sorry to call so late.”
“Better that you call late my time than late your time. I’m sorry we haven’t spoken in a few days. Your father says you’ve been very busy investigating something. Delving. Probing into the history of Riddell House. It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
“You talked to him?” I asked.
“Of course. I’ve called a few times; you’ve always been away someplace. But that’s your personality. Since you were a boy, you would never let an injustice go unchallenged.”
I wondered about my personality. Was that the case?
“What injustice?” I asked.
“What happened to one of your forefathers. Your father told me. You’re outraged that an uncle of some level of greatness committed suicide because he was homosexual.”
“That’s not right—”
“Of course, it’s not right. But people were not as accepting in those days as they are now.”
“No, I mean, that’s not correct,” I said, feeling flustered by the apparent conversations my parents had been having without my knowledge. “Ben didn’t commit suicide, I don’t think. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t say that. I mean, he loved Harry. But he died of a broken heart. He didn’t commit suicide.”
“Your father mentioned an arranged marriage,” she said after a moment.
What could I say? My mother couldn’t possibly understand the subtlety of Ben’s life and death from her vantage point. Maybe he did commit suicide; I didn’t know. But I certainly wouldn’t have drawn that conclusion based on the evidence I had.
“I’m not sure exactly what happened,” I said firmly. “And anyway, that’s not why I called.”
“I’m sorry, love. I won’t make assumptions. Please tell me why you called.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“About the house.”
“Didn’t you already do it?” she asked. “Dad said you got your grandfather to sign over the house. Wasn’t that the goal?”
“It was someone’s goal.”
“So you’ve done it, sweetness. You’re all done.”
Not by a long shot, I thought.
“What am I supposed to do about Ben?”
“Ben?” she asked, sounding confused.
“My forefather. My uncle of some level of greatness. The spirit of Riddell House. He gives me dreams. He showed me how he died. How Harry died. He showed me in a dream.”
“A dream? So it was your imagination.”
“No, I dreamed it. And I dreamed it again. And I dreamed it again.”
“So therefore, it must have come from . . .”
“I’ve seen things, Mom,” I said with great force. “I’ve seen things! Tell me I didn’t see the truth.”
There was a long pause, in which I was convinced my mother was wondering if I’d completely lost it.
“I’m sure your father has told you some of this,” she said eventually, because she had to say something. “I’m sure you conjured an old memory. There’s a logical explanation. Did you eat something spicy before you went to bed?”
I sighed loudly and heavily, and I hoped it was heard by my mother, half a world away.
“So you still don’t believe in Ben?” I asked. “After all I’ve told you. You don’t believe he gives me dreams that let me see the past? You don’t believe I’ve seen him, do you?”
“I believe in Ben like I believe in Jesus Christ,” she replied. “He was a man. He lived some time ago. He was not the son of God.”
I was ready to cry. I had called my mother for support, because she told me she would always be there to support me. She wasn’t there.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Where are you going, Trevor? Are you all right?”
I hesitated before I replied.
“Are you and Dad getting divorced?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“There’s no easy answer to that question, I’m afraid,” she said finally.
“I need to know. And I need to know now.”
“I don’t know, Trevor. There’s a lot of work to be done. A lot.”
“But if you get the work done.”
“I believe, deep in my heart, that our love for each other is strong enough to survive this, yes. Dad has been very conciliatory of late. I believe the stress of losing everything took an awful toll on him, and, now that everything’s gone, he’s reassessing. I like to think that my forcing him to return to Riddell House with you is something that’s helped him a great deal.”
“You forced him?” I asked. “I thought he forced you to let him take me.”
She paused.
“There was no alternative. He had to go. He said he only would feel safe if he could take you. So in that sense, I suppose we agreed it was the only option available.”
“I need to know one more thing,” I said. “If Dad suddenly had money, would that change things?”
“No, Trevor,” she replied without hesitation. “It’s not about money. Really.”
“So if he was still poor, you would take him back?”
“There’s more work—”
“Assuming he does the work.”
“You’re growing up,” she said. “You should learn this now—don’t worry, I’ll remind you again as needed: if money affects who you love, then it isn’t really love.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I said after a moment. Because I really didn’t know. But I was thankful for something.
We hung up then. I retrieved the manila folder from under my mattress and brought it to the kitchen. There were some things I was in control of, and other things I wasn’t. This particular thing, I was.
I removed the notarized power of attorney from the folder and held it over a cast-iron frying pan on the stove. I took a match from the blue and red box, struck it, and held it under the center of the paper, but I blew out the match before the paper caught fire. Destroying it wouldn’t do anything; they would just get another somehow. No. I had to hide it. I had to keep it safe. If I could somehow turn my father, it might be a useful weapon to have; I still believed that I might be able to get my father to change his mind, stop the subdivision, and allow the property to return to wild forest. I believed my father could be redeemed. So I put the document in the one place I knew was safe from Serena’s prying eyes—Elijah’s secret room.
* * *
After I had hidden the envelope away in the secret room and descended the stairway to the dark vestibule above the linen closet, I heard something: a brush of fabric or something. Slight, but deliberate. In the dark chamber where I had first seen the specter of Ben, I pulled the ever-present box of matches from my pocket, took out a matchstick, and struck it. In the sudden burst of light, I saw someone. Two people, actually. A woman, and a boy nearly my age. They sat against the wall at the top of the stairs, whispering to each other.
They paid no attention to me at all, so I crept closer. The match burned down and I shook it out. I quickly lit another. They were still there. I crouched down before them.
She was not old. Not much older than Serena, probably, and she was so beautiful and kind looking. And the boy, with his dark eyes and his firm jaw. I knew immediately he was my father.
“I’m sick, Jonesy,” she whispered to him. “And one day I will die. But I promise I will come back to visit you, like our friend comes to visit us.”
“But then you’ll be a ghost,” my young father whispered to her in reply. “I don’t want you to be stuck.”
“I won’t be stuck, sweetness. Spirits can visit, too. Whenever they like. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
My match burned out. I lit another, and Isobel, my grandmother, who was still there with my father, looked up at me as if she could see me. And maybe she could.
She reached out and touched my cheek,
which felt like a feather brushing against my skin.
“Faith,” she said, and she blew out my match.
– 38 –
THE HAUNTING
I woke up with a start. Had I dreamed it? No.
It happened before I went to sleep. I had seen Isobel and my young father in the corridor above the linen closet. I’d felt dazed afterward, because seeing them brought everything into focus. My father did believe. He did have faith. Isobel had promised to visit him, but she never could because my father changed after he had been sent away by Grandpa Samuel. My father became dark and cynical, and then lost everything. He was forced to return to Riddell House having lost his faith.
But things were not as expected at Riddell House. Grandpa Samuel spoke of dancing footsteps, and my father heard them, too. So he went to the ballroom to look for his mother. He came back to Riddell House because he thought she might be here. Of course he did.
I felt sick to my stomach. Not the bad feeling I sometimes got when I knew I’d done something wrong, which would have made sense and which I would have accepted. I felt an intense nausea, like I had been poisoned. I didn’t have to vomit, but I wished I did. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, almost staggering from my queasiness; I paused a couple of times to brace myself against the wall as I swooned with vertigo. Was it the leftover pizza I’d eaten for breakfast? Did I have food poisoning? Or was I being punished for having betrayed Ben?
I reached the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water on my face several times, then glanced in the mirror and was so startled I gasped: Ben stood behind me—only for a moment; then he was gone.
I whipped around, wrenching my neck and feeling a stabbing pain. No one was there. I turned back to the sink and felt my forehead. Did I have a fever? Was I seeing things?