A Watch of Nightingales

Chapter Three

THREE Mara thought she must have slept. She was lying on the couch, her shoes were off, the room was dark, though there was some uneasiness about the light at the edges of the window that suggested dawn, or the idea of it anyway. Phil had come back from Union Station a few hours before. Nothing, he said. Nobody saw her or talked to her or remembered selling her a ticket, but it would be hard, really, to know for sure. Mara sent him into the guest room to sleep, and he went willingly, exhausted. She made more coffee and stood drinking it, then walked from window to window, through the dining room, the downstairs study, past the front windows, the tall casement between the bathroom and the foot of the stairs. She circled twice through these rooms, watching and listening. The world seemed profoundly still and empty—blank, as if nothing, nothing, had ever happened . She felt a spike of fear rise along her breastbone, and recalled Overby’s voice on the telephone, a voice in a dream. She crossed quickly then, through the kitchen to the living room window, and opened the blinds. She stared across the street at the school, watched until she saw one of the custodians, Clive Fessenden, shoveling the snow. Old as he was, Mara was relieved to have him nearby. His heart, though. She would go over and tell him to stop, call for someone younger. The driveway needed a plow, not a shovel. She packed up a sandwich and the rest of the coffee, then put on her boots and coat and walked back through the living room to let herself out the front door. It wasn’t far from the front steps to where Clive stood. If need be, she could call out to him, run down into the street. Outside the air was clean and cold, kni‹ng down into her lungs. Clive was gone, but she could hear the scrape of a shovel from behind the chapel. Sounds seemed both muf›ed and magni‹ed: the turn of the key and the sliding of the bolt rang all the way down the street. A car ap78 ÷ proached and slowed. Mara could see a ‹gure at the wheel, hunched inside a dark coat. A man. He turned in his seat to look at her coming down the front walk, slowed almost to a stop, raised his right hand to wave. Then he gunned the engine, and the car ‹shtailed a little on the icy road. Mara could not tell who it was. She crossed the street and trudged her way through the snow on the driveway. Four inches, maybe six. She couldn’t remember the last time there was so much snow in Washington. She looked down at her boots, sinking and rising, and she thought she could be in any one of the snowy cities she knew: Pittsburgh, Ann Arbor, Salt Lake City, Oswestry. She had trudged through weather like this in Boston, with baby Rachel, moving slowly toward a different stone building, to visit John in his of‹ce. Time seemed to collapse and Mara felt dizzy. She looked up. Clive had ‹nished the pathway between the administration building and the chapel. She heard a motor behind her and turned to see a white truck struggling up the driveway. She walked back a ways and saw the name on the side panel: Capitol Florist. The wedding. Imagine being married today, in this weather. A white wedding, she thought, the joke John would have made. She waved to the driver of the truck and unlocked the glass doors to the main school building. The warm air from inside felt tropical. Six potted palms bore out the illusion. As she turned the key in the of‹ce door, she heard the telephone ringing, then the school’s message. There was a pause, followed by little gasping breaths. “Mom,” the voice said, tiny, far away. “It’s me, Mom. I’m OK. I’m sorry.” Mara grabbed at the receiver, fumbled, brought it to her ear. “Rachel! I’m here. I’m here. Don’t hang up. Where are you?” “With friends. I’m ‹ne.” “Where? In D.C.? I’ll come get you.” “No. It’s OK.” “Please, Rachel. I’ll come right now.” “I’m not ready. I just need to be . . . I just want to rest. Out of the house.” Rachel started to cry then. “I didn’t...