The Twelfth Child Page 19

  He smiled and having noticed the way Abigail had flung her body at him, asked, “I don’t suppose you’d be – ” Before he’d finished the question, she answered, saying that it would only take a few minutes for her to close up the library. “This early in the afternoon?” he asked, but by that time Abigail had already turned off the lights.

  “I’m John Langley,” he offered as they stepped out onto the street.

  “Abigail Lannigan,” she answered and hooked her arm through his.

  His car was parked at the corner of the block; he unlocked the door and she slid halfway across the seat to a spot that was closer to the driver than the door. When he climbed in and sat beside her, she could feel the rightness of it and started trying out the sound of Abigail Langley in her head.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Perhaps she wasn’t concentrating or perhaps it was because Abigail wanted to stretch this moment out for eternity, whichever, she directed him through every side street and roundabout route possible, and only after they’d circled through town twice, did they happen upon the spot. “This is it,” John said when he saw the sign that read: Hanerman Homes – Better living at an affordable price.

  The only thing Abigail saw was an endless stretch of wooden framework structures. “This is it?”

  “It will be. This is the first stage.” He parked the car on the side of a dirt road, got out, and started walking. She scrambled out behind him and followed along. “You may want to wait in the car,” he said, “it’s pretty messy back here.”

  “I was raised on a farm,” she answered, not wanting him to think her a limp lily, “Why, I’m capable of climbing the side of a mountain.”

  He laughed out loud, then reached back and took hold of her hand. “I didn’t mean to infer that you couldn’t, I was just thinking you might not want to get your shoes dirty.”

  As they walked, he counted the structures, one hundred and twelve in all. Three times he climbed up onto the flooring platform of a particular house and each time she went along. “See,” he’d say, pointing to a strip of framework, “that’s the living room wall and this here will be the bedroom.” Or, when they were standing in what would someday be the hallway he’d point out a tiny closet or the kitchen. Abigail thought for certain he was leading up to the part where one day they’d be living in one of these houses, which would be fine to start, but she was planning on three maybe four little ones, which meant they would eventually need a bigger house.

  Once he’d finished writing up his notes, John asked if he might take Abigail to dinner to repay her kindness. “Why, of course,” she answered but told him that they’d have to first stop by her apartment so she could change her muddy shoes.

  That evening they went to the Tivoli, a restaurant so fine the waiters were required to dress in silk tuxedos and carry dainty linen towels across their arm to scoop away a droplet of wine if it lingered on the lip of the bottle. The moment Abigail stepped across the threshold, she wished she’d taken the time to polish her fingernails, maybe freshen her make up and change her dress as well – it would have taken half-a-minute at most, yet she’d rushed out the door wearing a cotton frock that now seemed downright dowdy. “Oh dear,” she sighed.

  The waiter seated them side by side on a banquette, then brought a bottle of champagne and filled both glasses. Abigail had not had champagne since the close of Club Lucky, so it spiraled to her head and caused her to flirt in the most outrageous manner. While John was explaining how the Emigrant Bank lent money to developers all along the eastern seaboard, she hooked her foot around his ankle and as he elaborated on how this building of moderately priced homes was the wave of the future, she pressed her thigh against his. At the mere mention of the fact that he expected to be in Richmond on a regular basis, she smiled and tilted her face upward in such a way that it appeared a heartbeat shy of an invitation to press his lips to hers.

  Minutes later, he moved closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

  Abigail knew this was what she’d been waiting for, she knew just as Gloria had known the day Fred Bailey walked into ChickenCastle, and she shivered at the thought.

  “You chilly?” he asked

  “Not at all,” she answered, settling into the crook of his arm.

  At the end of the evening they kissed goodnight outside the apartment; the kiss, sweet and lingering, remained on Abigail’s lips long after she’d stepped inside and closed the door. It was the kind of kiss, she told herself, that only came about once you’d found your own true love. Squinting into the mirror as she washed her face, angling a glance at the reflection until it came back just the way she wanted, Abigail could imagine the silver slick of soap to be a bridal veil dropped down over her face.

  She slipped beneath the sheet, in a dreamlike state before her head hit the pillow; moments later she was fast asleep, floating on a heart-shaped cloud. She’d fallen into bed hoping to dream of the day she and John would be married, but that’s not what happened. Instead they were at a train station, she was waiting for him to bend and kiss her but a puff of black smoke rolled across his face and although she could sense he was there she could no longer see him.. Suddenly she spotted his figure moving toward the train; she grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and pleaded with him not to leave. For a moment he stopped and turned to her, then as the train started to move, he jumped aboard. You’ve always known I’m a traveling man, he shouted back, then he slid into a seat alongside a window and waved goodbye. Only then did she notice that every other window of the train was filled with babies, waving their chubby little hands and crying out goodbye, mama. Abigail heard herself scream as the train pulled away and left her standing on the platform with tears streaming down her face and a ripped off patch of tweed jacket in her hand.

  Abigail woke with a start, her gown soaked with perspiration and her heart galloping at a thousand beats per minute. It took her a full minute to grab hold of herself and come to the realization that it had been nothing more than a dream. No, she thought, not a dream, a nightmare! But it was enough to set her thinking about the fact that John had kissed her, then turned and walked away, saying nothing about when they might be together again. Maybe he’d never come back, never even call. He’d have no further need of the city map now, so he’d move on to some other town, some other map, some other librarian.

  She sobbed and wailed until the sound of anguish filled the room and spilled out into the airshaft. A neighbor called across that he was trying to sleep and banged down his window, but Abigail continued to cry. When the wailing eased off to a steady flow of sniffles, she started to shiver like a person who’d been hauled up from a frozen lake. In the middle of July, on a night so warm that every window in the building was left open, she took a wool blanket and covered herself. She buried her face in the pillow and curled her body into a ball of desperation. “I should have changed my dress,” she sobbed, “worn something with glitter.” She told herself that she was the picture of plainness and it was no wonder he’d not fallen in love with her. She bolted to a sitting position and raised her hands in an airborne gesture, “No man can love a woman like me,” she shouted, “I’m a librarian!” Someone across the airway called out that it was three o’clock in the morning and two more windows slammed closed. Again drenched in perspiration, she threw off the covers and stripped away her gown. Before the sun peered over the horizon, Abigail had washed herself down with ice water twice, drank three cups of tea with honey, one cup of warm milk and a half glass of whiskey, but not once did she again close her eyes.

  By morning her eyes were swollen, dark as an overripe plum, and there was a red blotch of hives circling the side of her face. Even though the temperature was forecasted to hit ninety-five degrees by mid-afternoon, she pulled on a black dress with long sleeves and did not bother to add a single speck of jewelry. She drank a glass of water for breakfast, then stuck an apple in the pocket of her skirt and left for work. The desolate drag of her feet gave Abigail the look
of mourner as she shuffled along in the rising heat.

  Arriving at the library fifteen minutes after the scheduled opening time, she unlocked the door, then went and sat behind the circulation desk – not filing, or cataloguing, not stacking books or stamping overdue notices, but just sitting. Although her brow was slick with perspiration, she didn’t remember to turn on the fan until well after ten-thirty. And, even after she finally did turn on the fan, she neglected to turn on the overhead lights, so from the outside the library appeared to be closed.

  About one-thirty a boy of fourteen or so, poked open the door and called out, “Anybody here?”

  “I’m here,” Abigail answered in a weary voice. “You need a book?”

  “No ma’am, I got a delivery.” He pushed his way through the door with a large bouquet of red roses. “Miss Abigail Lannigan?”

  She nodded and he handed her the bouquet. “For me?” she exclaimed.

  “You’re Abigail Lannigan, right?”

  She reached out and took hold of the roses; in the center of the bouquet was a folded note. With the roses nestled in the crook of her arm, she started fishing through her purse. “Wait a minute,” she said, “I’ll get you a tip.”

  “The man already gave me fifty cents.”

  “What man?”

  “The man standing out there.” The boy pointed to the far corner of the street.

  Abigail stretched her neck and followed the line of the boy’s finger – she could see someone standing there, someone who looked to be the size and build of John Langley, but with the sun behind him she couldn’t for the life of her make out the face. “What did he say?” she asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Nothin’ much. Just I should bring these to you.”

  “Was he tall? Dark hair? Very handsome?”

  “I think he had brown hair,” the boy started backing away.

  “Very handsome?”

  “Handsome? He was old as my dad!” The boy inched further back.

  With a trembling hand Abigail pulled the note from the bouquet, by the time she started to read the boy had fled out the door.

  Dear Abigail,

  I hope you are not hiding out in a darkened library to avoid

  me. I greatly enjoyed your company last evening and would

  love it if you would join me for dinner again tonight.

  If the answer is yes, please turn on the light.

  Fondly yours,

  John Langley

  Abigail darted across the floor and clicked on the interior lights, every one of them, including the far back reference room which had been closed off for the past six months. After that she turned on the outside lights, despite the fact that the sun was shining bright enough to blister a person’s eyeball. Lastly, she switched on the flagpole light. “That should do it,” she sighed.

  When the glass door swung open Abigail caught sight of her reflection. “Oh no!” she screamed.

  “But,” John stuttered, “you did turn the lights on.”

  “Of course I turned them on, but look at me, I’m a fright.”

  “Not a fright,” he laughed, “a bit tired, maybe.”

  Abigail was not about to tell how she’d worried herself into a frenzy – a thing such as that would make her seem all the more pathetic – so, she said, “Someone in the apartment building kept carrying on all night long, the most God-awful noise, why I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

  “If you’re too tired, we could wait, have dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Me, tired?” Abigail saw him smile and for a moment she thought a star had dropped down from heaven. “I’d love to see you tonight – of course, I do have to go home first to freshen up.”

  That evening Abigail stepped out looking as she did in the days of Club Lucky.

  The vase of roses sent by John Langley sat on the front shelf of the circulation desk until the leaves turned brown and fluttered to the floor. Wilbur Atkins, a man who was considered legally blind and seldom said anything more than good morning, squinted at the vase and told Abigail he thought those flowers were dead. “Not quite,” she answered, with a breathy sigh that sent several petals cascading to the floor.

  “Not dead, huh?” Wilbur cleaned his glasses and took another look.

  Two days later, Bunny Pence, offered to cart the flowers out to the garbage can if Abigail was busy. “Why, I’m not the least bit busy.” Abigail answered, then explained that she simply wanted to continue enjoying the flowers. “I adore the smell of roses,” she exclaimed as Bunny stood there looking bewildered.

  When there was just one rose petal left, Abigail plucked it from the stem and pressed it into a book of Elizabeth Browning’s poetry. She then wrapped the bare stems and a dry sprig of baby’s breath in pink tissue paper and placed the package on a shelf usually used for overdue notices. That entire summer, not one person in all of Richmond received an overdue notice. There was frost on the ground when Amelia Cooper remembered to return a book on the planting of daffodils, but Abigail told her to just forget about the fine.

  Every other week John Langley spent two days in Richmond and on those nights he courted Abigail as she had never been courted before. They ate in the finest restaurants, danced at the rooftop pavilion, saw movies, went to the opera, walked in the park and kissed. When they were alone, John whispered words of love into her ear and kissed her so ardently that Abigail truly believed her body would burst into flames. Her happiness would have been complete were it not for the fact that John always left. “I’ll be back,” he said, and after a while Abigail came to understand that he was true to his word.

  It was easy to know when John was in town, for Abigail’s feet never touched the ground. She’d float into the library looking radiant as a movie star and click on the radio, despite the Silence Please sign she’d put there herself. Old men got tickled behind their beards and boys were told how handsome they were growing to be. Bouquets of flowers appeared at the reading tables and there were dishes of chocolates set out on the circulation counter even though Halloween was almost two months off. Abigail’s cheeks blushed scarlet, not only while John was in town, but for a week afterward.

  “You’re in love!” Gloria said and Abigail nodded. “But,” Gloria stammered, “you don’t know a thing about this guy.”

  “I know he makes me happy,” Abigail answered. “Just, look at me!”

  Gloria had to admit she’d never before seen Abigail looking so good – her cheeks were blossoming, the curve of her face full and round, her mouth upturned and tinkling with the sound of laughter. “Does he feel the same about you?” she asked.

  “Of course!” Abigail giggled. “He said I make his head spin.”

  “Yes, but did he say he loves you?”

  “Maybe not that exact word. He said he’s crazy about me.”

  Gloria, a skeptic to start with, frowned and left it at that. After all, it had only been a few months. Abigail was surely smart enough to insist on a commitment when the time was right.

  Abigail never knew a summer to fly by as that one did. One morning she noticed Wilbur Atkins wearing a wooly sweater instead of his straw hat, which prompted her to check the date on the calendar. Much to her surprise, both Labor Day and Halloween had slipped by without notice. She didn’t want such a thing to happen with Thanksgiving, so then and there Abigail decided to fix a roast turkey for John; she planned on sausage stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and a raspberry trifle – he could bring a bottle of wine. Two nights later, she told him of her idea; but he heaved the saddest sort of sigh and said he’d be up in New York that week. When her face fell into a look of disappointment, he suggested that they have their own Thanksgiving celebration a week early – which is exactly what happened. On November seventeenth, a Tuesday, Abigail hired a substitute librarian and stayed at home to cook.

  Although she’d not had much luck with the trifle and had at the last minute rushed out and bought an apple pie, the dinner, John claimed, was wonderful. Afterward,
he gave her a cameo locket to commemorate their first holiday together, even though it wasn’t really the actual holiday. After he fastened the chain around her neck, John kissed Abigail clear down to her bosom all the while whispering how he was absolutely crazy about her. With his mouth suckling the hollow of her throat, Abigail swooned into his arms and when she finally came to her senses, she was lying on the bed.

  “You fainted,” he explained.

  “Oh,” Abigail sighed, locked into the pleasure of his face hovering above her.

  On Thanksgiving Day, Abigail anticipated a call from him – John did things like that; telephone at odd times, send flowers when she least expected it, poke his head in the door on Tuesday when he wasn’t due back ‘till Thursday – so she got up early and sat beside the telephone. She waited for seven hours, but the telephone never rang. At three o’clock she began to think there was something wrong with her line, but just as she started downstairs to inquire about a repairman, the phone rang.

  “Hi,” Gloria said and Abigail’s heart slid down past her knees. “Can you come over?” Gloria asked. “We’ve got something special to tell you.”

  “Well, actually, I’m expecting John to call.” Abigail answered, trying to hide the greatness of her disappointment. “Tell me on the phone.”

  “That would spoil everything. Come on over. Please?”

  Abigail, still hoping John would call, said she’d be there a bit later. She hung up, waited another five hours then went to Gloria’s apartment.