TIMOTHY BEAUJOLAIS
He was surprised when Evelyn offered to search with him and give him a tour of the trails. People on Azalea Court were more welcoming than he had expected, more openhearted than he had feared. Maybe not the woman next door looking to babysit only for white children, but everyone else.
Evelyn led him to the wooded path he remembered from the day before. This time Imani was awake, smiling and babbling at Evelyn.
“Do you have kids?” he asked.
Evelyn nodded. “A son in Brooklyn. Two grandchildren, grown out of the delightful baby years though. How old is she?”
“Almost four months. Her name is Imani.”
“Lovely. Does it mean something?”
Why did people always ask that? Does Susan mean something, or Robert? Well, maybe they do, but no one asks about it. He pushed his annoyance down as Winda had taught him. “It means faith in Swahili. It is her grandmother’s name. In Kenya children are named to honor the older generation.”
“Are you from Kenya?” Evelyn asked.
“My wife is. Winda.” He laughed. “That means warrior!”
Evelyn laughed too. “Thanks for the warning.”
She pointed to a trail forking to the right. “That goes to the college. If you cross the athletic fields, there’s a bridge and then you’re on campus. It’s the quickest way to get into town. But I’ve never seen Iris walk that way, so we’ll skip it.”
“Interesting. Winda starts teaching at the college in January, so maybe she can walk to work. In nice weather, anyway.”
“We use these trails year-round, to walk and ski and snowshoe. And that trail,” she pointed to a small path leading down to the river, “goes down along the riverbank. But it’s narrow and too steep for Iris.” She touched Timothy’s shoulder. “This is a really nice community. I hope your family is happy here.”
He pointed to the left, across the brown cornfields and grassy meadow. “Tell me about the state hospital. I saw the bench dedicated to people buried here but I didn’t have time to read the plaque before the rain. Why are people buried out in a field, with no stones or anything?”
“Those are patients with no family to claim their bodies,” she said. “Or too ashamed to claim them. There are several hundred people buried in that field. There’s a program tomorrow morning at the Memorial Garden, if you want to learn more about the state hospital. Lots of folks living here have old connections to the place, and memories.”
“What kind of memories?” Timothy asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Like Dr. Blum, the husband of the missing woman,” she said. “He was the head shrink and ran the place for the last forty years it was open.”
“He must have some stories to tell.”
Evelyn shook her head. “He doesn’t talk about it much, though I hear he’s writing a book. He’s supposed to speak at the Memorial tomorrow, but who knows if he will now, with Iris missing. And I guess you know that our little circle of houses was originally built as housing for hospital staff. My mother-in-law was an attendant at the hospital. She bought our house with money deducted from her paycheck every week. Of course, Dr. Blum was probably given his as part of the job.”
Timothy heard the resentment in her voice, hinting at a history he didn’t think he wanted to know about. He looked down at Imani, who had fallen asleep with her pinkie finger in her mouth, her comfort of choice if her mother’s breast wasn’t available. They climbed a steep hill along the burial ground and came to the small park with the plaque.
“I must rest, catch my breath for a minute,” Evelyn said, sitting on the stone bench.
Timothy looked across the fields. Their cluster of houses was visible on the hill beyond the mostly bare trees. Two women wearing shorts and tee shirts ran by them waving a greeting. He sat down next to Evelyn, who turned to face him.
Uh oh, he thought. He knew that look, when someone was going to share something you’d just as soon not know. Growing up in an oddball cult taught him early to keep his stories to himself and not judge others. He wished Winda were here. She was good with people, listening to their troubles and knowing just what to say to make them feel better. Still, this woman had been so kind to him.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Evelyn asked.
Totally not what he expected. “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. But Winda grew up in a culture in which people feel tied to their ancestors. Not ghosts, exactly. More like wise elders. They’re always around, kind of available when you need them.” He looked at Evelyn. “Why do you ask?”
“Since Iris went missing I’ve been feeling like this place—which I’ve never liked, for what it’s worth—is erupting and spewing memories I can’t get rid of. I can’t stop thinking about the people who lived here, the long-gone people buried out there.” She waved her hand across the frozen field.
“In my brain,” she said, “the dead patients are swarming around. And I can’t stop thinking about what happened to me. I was assaulted here, decades ago. It broke me, but I put it away. Now it’s all flooding back and choking me. It’s hard to breathe.”